Lalys🔆

Jason Todd x Peter Parker

[it will come back by Hozier]

But the whole thing is Jason's being a stray dog that keeps coming back to peter because Peter's warm, Peter cares, Peter's easy.

//

When Peter finishes wrapping his side, Jason doesn’t move away. Instead, he leans forward until Peter’s back hits the sink.

Foreheads almost touch.

“You want me gone?”

It’s teasing. It’s not teasing at all.

Peter’s voice drops, barely above breath.

“I want you to stop acting like this is nothing.”

Jason looks at his mouth.

“Maybe it’s not. Maybe that’s the problem.”

They hover there—breathing each other’s air—until Jason finally kisses him, slow but desperate, like he’s been holding it back for weeks and it’s leaking through cracks.

Peter fists a hand in his hair.

“You can't keep coming back like this.”

Jason kisses him again, bruising this time.

“Then stop opening the door.”

Peter laughs, breathless against his lips.

“You know I won’t.”

Jason exhales like it hurts.

Forehead pressed to Peter’s.

So no biggie, but, my debut poetry book is officially out!! If you love my stories and my poetry please consider looking into my book, all funds are going towards my bachelor's in English!!

I added the link to where you can get my book, and it will also be up at Barnes and nobles this Thursday!!

[ and were done! I hope you guys enjoyed this fic as much as I enjoyed stressing about it. I have some plans for the next fic, but I live in the line between "no" and uncertainty. Anyway, don't be afraid to tag me in stuff you want fics for!]

The front door creaked open, and the quiet hum of the apartment gave way to hurried footsteps.

“Peter?”

Sam’s voice cracked through the air before Peter had even crossed the threshold. The second he saw him, Sam rushed forward, hands immediately skimming over Peter’s arms, his shoulders, his face — checking for bruises, cuts, blood, anything.

“You okay? You hurt? Jesus, kid, you had us out of our minds—” Sam didn’t even finish. His voice broke halfway through, and instead of another frantic question, he just pulled Peter into a tight embrace.

Peter froze for a beat, startled. Then he melted, sagging against Sam’s chest, his hands clutching at the back of Sam’s shirt like he was terrified to let go. Sam held him close, solid and warm and steady in a way Peter hadn’t realized he needed until right then.

Bucky closed the door behind them, quiet, giving them that space. When Sam finally eased back, he kept his hands on Peter’s shoulders, studying his face.

“You scared the hell out of us,” Sam said, softer now.

Peter’s throat worked, but he couldn’t make the words come.

“Come on,” Bucky said gently, tilting his head toward the kitchen. “Let’s sit down.”

The three of them ended up at the table, Peter in the middle, Sam on one side, Bucky on the other. The adoption papers sat folded neatly on the counter, forgotten for the moment.

For a while, nobody spoke. The air was heavy with everything unsaid. Peter stared at the wood grain on the table, fingers twisting together, his chest tight. His heart pounded in his ears.

Finally, he exhaled, shaky, and whispered, “I should start from the beginning.”

Both men nodded. Neither pushed.

So Peter did.

He started small, but the words tumbled faster as soon as they left his lips. He told them about Ned — his first friend, his guy in the chair, the one who’d known from the start and made the whole hero thing feel less impossible. He told them about MJ — sharp, stubborn, brilliant MJ, who saw right through him and loved him anyway. His voice cracked when he said her name, and Sam slid a hand over, covering Peter’s with quiet steadiness.

Then he talked about May. About the night everything shattered, about holding her hand while her breaths grew shallow, about the words she’d managed to say before she was gone. His face crumpled, and the sobs came again, ripping out of him raw.

Neither Bucky nor Sam said a word. Bucky’s hand pressed against his back, firm, grounding. Sam’s stayed over his own, squeezing gently whenever Peter’s voice wavered too much to go on.

And then, haltingly, he told them about Tony.

How Tony had swooped in, larger than life, frustrating and brilliant, and somehow become his mentor, his father, his whole damn anchor. How he’d been taken under Tony’s wing so fast it had felt like a dream — and how just as quickly, it had been ripped away. His voice broke when he admitted how badly he still wanted Tony’s guidance, Tony’s laugh, Tony’s stubborn faith in him.

By the time Peter ran out of words, his throat was raw and his body shook like he’d run a marathon. But something inside him felt different — lighter, like the mountain he’d been carrying had finally cracked and begun to slide off.

He turned then, eyes bloodshot and brimming, toward Bucky.

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispered, and the guilt laced in those words made Bucky’s stomach twist.

“For what, kid?”

“For—” Peter’s breath hitched, and his words tumbled out in a rush. “For using your trauma. For filling you with this—this weird, twisted feelings. It wasn’t my intention, I swear, I just— I just didn’t want to be alone anymore.”

The last word broke, and then Peter broke with it. His sobs tore free like floodgates had burst, years of pain and fear and silence crashing through all at once.

“I didn’t want to be alone,” he repeated, over and over, until it was barely words, just desperate sounds.

Sam pulled his chair closer, wrapping an arm around Peter’s shoulders, tugging him against his chest again. “You’re not,” he murmured, firm but gentle. “You’re not alone, not anymore.”

Bucky leaned forward, voice low and steady. “Hey. Listen to me, kid. You didn’t use me. You didn’t twist anything. You needed someone, and we should’ve seen that sooner. You’re just a kid. You’re allowed to need.”

Peter shook his head violently, tears streaking down his cheeks. “I’m supposed to be strong, I’m supposed to handle—”

“Bullshit,” Sam cut in, his tone sharp enough to make Peter flinch. Then it softened again. “You’ve been carrying more than anyone your age should, and you’ve been doing it alone. That’s not strength, that’s survival. And you don’t have to survive alone anymore. You hear me?”

Peter hiccuped, gasping, and then let out another sob. He pressed his face against Sam’s shoulder, clinging like he was afraid they’d vanish if he let go.

He cried like he hadn’t let himself cry in years — ugly, gasping sobs that shook his whole body.

He cried for May, for Ned and MJ, for Tony, for all the futures he’d never get back.

He cried for every night he’d gone home to an empty apartment, for every meal eaten alone, for every bruise and scar he’d hidden.

He cried until he was hiccupping, until his voice was raw, until it felt like there was nothing left in him but exhaustion.

And through all of it, Sam and Bucky stayed with him.

Bucky reached out, his metal hand brushing Peter’s other shoulder. “You’re strong, yeah. But you’re also human. You’re allowed to be weak, and needy, and sad, and messy. That doesn’t make you less, it makes you ours. And we’re not letting you go.”

Peter cried harder, but this time it wasn’t all despair. It was release. It was years of bottled-up grief and guilt finally spilling into hands that caught him instead of letting him fall.

For the first time in so long, Peter let himself believe it — that someone wanted him, not for Spider-Man, not for what he could do, but just for being Peter.

And god, he was just a kid. A kid who needed someone to care, to look for him, to love him and never let him go.

Time didn’t heal everything, but it helped.

The nightmares still came, of course. Peter still woke up some nights with his heart racing, sweat damp on his hairline, May’s last words or Titan’s battlefield ringing in his ears. But now, when it happened, he didn’t curl up and suffer through it alone.

Now, he called out “dad!”— and Bucky came.

Sometimes Bucky just sat on the edge of his bed, saying nothing, one warm hand resting on Peter’s shoulder until his breathing steadied. Other times, he’d lie down next to him and talk him through it, voice low and even, telling Peter about the nightmares that still haunted him, about how he’d learned to keep breathing through them.

And on the really bad nights — the nights when Peter couldn’t stop crying or shaking — Bucky just held him, tight and solid, rocking him slightly until exhaustion pulled him back under.

Peter had never had that before. No one to wake up with after the nightmare. No one to remind him he wasn’t alone.

And Sam? Sam became the quiet, steady force in his daylight hours. He helped Peter with schoolwork, coached him through every GED subject until Peter could practically recite the answers in his sleep. When Peter’s frustration hit hard and he slammed the books shut, muttering that he wasn’t smart enough for this, Sam just looked at him and said, “You fought an alien warlord on another planet. You can do algebra, kid.”

They had schedules now. Normalcy. Sam made sure Peter ate regular meals, and Bucky kept him on a sleep schedule (or as close as they could get). They checked in when he looked quiet for too long, they noticed when he retreated into himself, and they never let him stay there too long.

Slowly, the house started to feel like home again.

One morning, Peter found himself sitting at the table, staring down at his cereal as Sam and Bucky bickered softly over who made the better coffee. The sunlight streamed through the window, warm on the back of his neck, and Peter realized — he wasn’t bracing for the day to go wrong.

He wasn’t waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It was… safe.

He blinked down at his cereal and felt something twist in his chest, sharp and almost painful.

Maybe if he had come clean earlier, everything would have been different.

Maybe he wouldn’t have wasted so much time running from the very people who were willing to stay, who would’ve stayed no matter what.

But he couldn’t change the past. And maybe he didn’t want to, because the road that had hurt so much had still led him here. And here?

Here was bliss.

Not the flashy, storybook kind — not a fairytale ending. Just quiet mornings, shared meals, late-night talks when he needed them. A roof over his head. A team who had his back, always.

A home.

When Peter stumbled, they were there to catch him. When he needed a break, they stepped in. When he failed, they reminded him that failure didn’t make him a failure. And every time, every single time, they stayed.

It was the thing Peter had wanted more than anything — more than fixing the world, more than taking back the past. He just wanted someone to stay.

And they had.

Bucky seemed lighter these days too. Like being Peter’s dad, even unofficially, was patching something deep in him. There was a new steadiness in the way he carried himself, a quiet confidence that hadn’t been there before.

One night, Peter overheard him talking to Sam in the kitchen.

“Never thought I’d get to do this,” Bucky admitted, his voice low. “Be somebody’s dad. I thought that chance died a long time ago.”

Sam had smiled, soft and a little sad. “Yeah, well. Life threw you a curveball. You caught it.”

Bucky huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Guess I did.”

And Sam — Sam had this glow about him now, like looking after Peter reminded him why he fought so hard in the first place. He teased Peter about everything, sure, but there was pride behind it, a warmth Peter had started to crave.

Sometimes, when the house was quiet and he was sure no one could hear him, Peter whispered thank yous into the dark — to May, to Tony, to whoever was listening.

Because somehow, through everything, he’d landed here.

And here?

Here was enough.

Peter was still healing, but so were Bucky and Sam.

And maybe that was the point. Maybe they were supposed to heal together.

Peter wasn’t sure what the future held — but for the first time in years, he wasn’t scared of it. Not as long as he had them in his corner.

And maybe, in some strange, unexpected way, they completed each other.

The pen felt heavier than it should.

Peter sat at the kitchen table — their kitchen table — staring down at the stack of papers in front of him. Sam and Bucky sat across from him, quiet, letting him take his time.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about this moment before. He’d thought about it a lot, actually — on long nights when sleep wouldn’t come, when the house felt too quiet. He’d wondered what it would feel like to be theirs in a way that was permanent, official.

But now that it was here, it felt… unreal.

His hand shook a little as he picked up the pen.

“This is really happening,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

Bucky leaned forward, his elbows on the table, smiling softly. “Only if you want it to, kid. No pressure. We can always wait.”

Peter shook his head, a sharp little motion. “No. No, I… I want this.”

And he did. More than anything.

He pressed the pen to paper, scrawling his name in slightly messy handwriting. The final line. The final choice.

When he was done, he set the pen down, his breath shaky, and looked up.

Bucky’s eyes were glassy, and Sam was grinning, proud and warm and steady as always.

“That’s it,” Sam said quietly, like they were in a church. “It’s official. You’re stuck with us now.”

Peter let out a watery laugh and scrubbed at his face with the heel of his hand. “God, you guys are gonna make me cry again.”

Bucky came around the table and crouched beside him, one hand warm on the back of his neck. “Cry all you want, son. You earned this one.”

Peter’s chest ached, but it was a good ache. A soft, warm one.

Maybe this was what coming home really meant.

He’d spent so long running— from himself, from the past, from the guilt and grief that clung to him like shadows. He’d been a ghost in Brooklyn, drifting through life, half-present, half-gone.

But maybe that was the real ghost — the part of him that hadn’t believed he deserved to be happy.

And now, sitting here with a signed paper in front of him and two dads who loved him enough to move mountains, Peter finally felt like he’d come back to life.

Maybe the ghost wasn’t him anymore.

Maybe he wasn’t a ghost at all.

He was Peter.

He was loved.

The second the door slammed shut, Bucky knew.

It wasn’t just a hunch. It was bone-deep, a cold certainty that settled into the pit of his stomach. He knew the sound of running feet, the way Peter’s voice cracked when he tried to get words out but couldn’t.

He knew because once, a long time ago, he was the one running.

Bucky shot to his feet so fast his chair nearly toppled over. His hands—both of them—shook. He pressed his flesh palm into the wood of the kitchen table, trying to keep himself steady, but the sight of Peter’s box, his journal, his suit laid bare like a crime scene—it was too much.

“Sam,” Bucky rasped.

Sam was frozen, still staring at the journal pages they hadn’t gotten to, his face pale, his mouth half open.

“Sam!” Bucky barked, sharper this time. His voice cracked on it.

Sam blinked, snapping back. “He—he just ran—”

“I know!” Bucky snapped again, raking his metal hand through his hair. His whole body buzzed with the urge to move, to chase, to find.

But chasing Peter wasn’t the same as finding him.

Peter was fast. Peter was clever. Peter didn’t want to be found right now.

Bucky’s chest tightened like a vice. His pulse wouldn’t settle.

“We’re gonna do this the right way,” Bucky muttered, pacing hard across the kitchen, boots loud against the floorboards. “The right way, Sam. We’re not letting this go. He’s—he has to come back. He’s gotta.”

Sam just sat there, stunned. For once, words seemed to fail him.

Bucky slammed his palm flat on the counter, rattling a mug. “Say it.”

Sam’s eyes flicked up to him, wide.

“Say he’s coming back.”

“…He’s coming back,” Sam said, slow, uncertain, almost like he wasn’t sure if he believed it himself.

But Bucky grabbed onto the words like they were gospel. He nodded, muttering under his breath, “Yeah. Yeah. He’s coming back. He has to.”

It didn’t matter that Peter had bolted like a scared animal, that he’d left everything behind. That box was still on the table. His journal, his suit, his phone, his whole life—left behind. That meant something.

Sam finally exhaled, long and shaky. He closed the journal gently and stood. “Alright. Here’s what we’re gonna do. I’ll head to the courthouse first thing. File the paperwork. We’re gonna do this the right way—make it official. And you…” He hesitated. “…You do what you do best. You find him.”

Bucky’s jaw set, tight enough it hurt.

He didn’t need to be told twice.

He started with the obvious places.

The street corner where they first met—the one where Peter had slammed in to him, too thin, too tired, hiding behind sarcasm and shadows. Bucky lingered there, scanning every passerby, every alley. He asked the shopkeeper on the corner, the old woman sweeping her stoop. Nobody had seen him.

Next, the old apartment building.

Bucky climbed the steps two at a time, his heart pounding with every door he passed. But when he got to the right number, a stranger answered. A middle-aged man in a bathrobe, squinting at him like he was crazy.

“Kid? Nah, no kid lives here,” the man grunted before shutting the door in his face.

Bucky stood there for a long second, fists clenching and unclenching. Then he turned and stormed down the stairs.

The diner.

The park.

The grocery store where Peter insisted on getting his own snacks, the mall where Sam dragged them for clothes, the bench by the river Peter liked to sit at when he thought no one was watching.

Nothing.

Nobody.

It was like Peter had blinked out of existence.

By the third hour, Bucky’s hands wouldn’t stop trembling. His mind kept flashing back to the way Peter had looked at the doorway—frozen, eyes wide, like an animal ready to bolt. The sound of his voice cracking when he tried to explain.

My fault, Bucky thought viciously, raking his hands through his hair again. I pushed too hard. I should’ve given him time. Should’ve told him we loved him first, not cornered him with questions. Stupid. Stupid.

But underneath the guilt was a darker fear, a colder whisper.

What if Peter didn’t want to be found?

Bucky shoved the thought down so hard it hurt. No. He refused.

This kid was his. His to protect. His to keep safe.

No matter what.

By sunset, he was desperate.

He called in favors, old contacts, people who owed him things from missions past. A quiet word here, a cash slip there. “You seen a kid? Brown hair, too thin, eyes too big for his face. About this tall.”

Most shook their heads. Some shrugged. A few gave vague maybes, but nothing concrete.

It was like Peter had learned how to be invisible again.

By the time Bucky staggered back to the house, the sun was long gone, and his chest felt hollow. He found Sam sitting on the couch, paperwork scattered across the coffee table.

Sam looked up. “Anything?”

Bucky shook his head once, sharp. His jaw locked.

Sam’s face fell. He scrubbed a hand over his beard, sighing. “Court papers are in motion. That’s something.”

But Bucky wasn’t listening. His eyes had landed on the box, still sitting where Peter left it. The suit, the journal, the phone. Proof that Peter hadn’t wanted to leave forever. It had to mean that.

Bucky sat down heavily, his metal hand clanging against the table as he leaned forward, head in his flesh palm.

He didn’t cry. He couldn’t. But his chest ached so badly it felt close.

“We’re not losing him,” Bucky muttered, voice low, fierce. “Not him. Not my kid.”

Sam looked at him quietly, something sad flickering across his face.

“What if—” Sam started, then stopped. He shook his head. “Never mind.”

Bucky’s head shot up, eyes narrowing. “What if what?”

Sam hesitated, then sighed. “What if he doesn’t come back?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. His whole body went rigid.

“That’s not an option,” he said, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. “He’s coming home. End of story.”

Sam didn’t argue. He just nodded once, slowly.

And that night, Bucky made the call.

Pulled one more string.

Filed the missing person report.

Peter Parker. Seventeen. Last seen today.

The description went out. The photo went up.

Because Bucky would make damn sure the world knew he was looking for his kid.

Because Peter wasn’t just gone.

He was coming home.

Bucky would see to it.

Bucky tore through Peter’s room one more time before storming back into the kitchen. His boots scraped against the floor as he stalked back and forth, frustrated. He had already checked the corner, the apartment, the park, the diner, the entire neighborhood. Peter was just… gone.

He dragged both hands over his face, trying to think, to breathe. That’s when he saw it.

On the floor, right by the kitchen doorway—where Peter had stood before he bolted—was a crumpled sheet of paper.

Bucky crouched, his heart lurching.

He smoothed it out, his stomach knotting as he read. An address. Some numbers. Row, aisle.

It hit him like a punch to the chest.

A cemetery.

“May,” Bucky whispered to no one, his throat thick.

He didn’t stop to tell Sam where he was going. He just grabbed his jacket and left.

The cemetery was quiet when he arrived, the kind of stillness that pressed in on you. Bucky pushed open the gates, his boots crunching on the gravel path.

He walked slowly at first, his eyes scanning for the numbers scrawled on the paper. Row 17. Aisle 4.

Each step felt heavier.

When he finally turned the last corner, he froze.

There he was.

Peter.

Curled up against a headstone, knees tucked to his chest, his shoulders shaking like he’d been crying for hours.

Bucky’s chest ached. He had to swallow hard against the lump in his throat.

For a long moment, he just stood there, taking him in—this kid who had been gone less than a day but felt like he’d been ripped out of Bucky’s life.

Slowly, carefully, Bucky stepped closer.

“Peter?”

The voice was soft, careful.

Peter’s head shot up, his heart stumbling over itself.

Bucky stood a few feet away, clutching the crumpled slip of paper—the paper Peter had written the cemetery’s address on, the one he must have dropped in the kitchen before leaving.

He looked exhausted, like he’d been running all day.

Peter’s breath hitched.

Bucky didn’t move closer.

He just stood there, his metal hand tight around the paper, his expression caught somewhere between relief and heartbreak.

“Hey,” Bucky said, quiet, almost unsure. “I found you.”

Peter couldn’t answer.

Bucky’s eyes softened, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The cemetery was silent around them, the last of the light fading into purple shadows.

Peter’s fingers dug into the grass. His breathing was uneven, ragged, but he didn’t look away.

And Bucky… Bucky just stayed there, not pushing, not demanding.

Bucky stood for a long moment, just watching him — this kid who had been through hell and somehow kept standing. This kid who was sitting there like the weight of the whole damn universe had finally gotten too heavy.

Finally, he moved.

Slowly, deliberately, Bucky crossed the few feet between them and lowered himself to the ground, sitting on the opposite side of May’s headstone. His knees bent, boots digging into the soft earth. He didn’t look at Peter right away, just let the silence sit there, the kind of silence that wasn’t heavy so much as patient.

When he spoke, his voice was soft, rough with exhaustion but steady in the way Bucky Barnes had learned to make himself steady for someone else’s sake.

“You’ve got quite the kid, May,” Bucky murmured, his gaze fixed on the engraved name on the stone. His lips curved into the smallest of smiles.

Peter’s head snapped toward him, startled.

“He’s smart,” Bucky continued, like he was talking to May, but also very much talking to Peter. “Brilliant, really. Sweet, too. The sweetest kid I’ve ever met. Brave. Too brave for his own good.”

Peter swallowed hard, but he didn’t interrupt.

“You know,” Bucky said after a pause, voice even quieter now, “I really had my hopes up that he was mine.”

Peter blinked rapidly, his throat tightening.

Bucky turned his head then, meeting Peter’s wide, tear-reddened eyes. There was no accusation there, no anger, no disappointment — just that quiet kind of grief Bucky carried like a second skin, mixed with something fierce and warm.

“But I’d welcome him home with open arms,” Bucky went on, his tone certain. “As if he were mine. And I’ll take care of him for you. I’ll be on his ass about school, make sure he graduates college if it kills me. I’ll make sure he knows how loved he is, every damn day.”

Peter’s breath hitched, and he looked away, staring down at the grass.

Bucky stopped then, looking down at his hands for a long moment before continuing. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter — shaky, but full of something Peter couldn’t name.

“Peter,” he said. “Kid. Son?”

Peter’s head jerked up at the word.

Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose.

“We don’t care,” Bucky said, and this time his voice was steady as steel. “We don’t care what you were, who you are, what you’ve done. You’ve stolen me and Sam’s affection and love — you’re ours, whether you like it or not.”

And then, from the inside of his jacket, he pulled out a folded stack of papers and held them out with his flesh hand.

Peter blinked, confused, before recognizing the top page.

An adoption form.

Bucky’s voice cracked as he added, “Come home, kid. Please.”

For a moment, Peter just stared at the paper, everything inside him screaming and wailing and spinning. His breath came in short, shaky pulls, his chest tightening until he thought he might break in half.

Then a sob ripped out of him, raw and unrestrained, and he lunged across the grass and the space between them, colliding with Bucky in a desperate, bone-deep hug.

Bucky caught him, one arm — the metal one — wrapping around Peter’s back, the other clutching the papers tight as he held on for dear life.

Peter buried his face against Bucky’s shoulder, sobbing so hard his whole body shook.

“I’m sorry,” Peter mumbled, again and again, the words half-choked, half-broken. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean— I didn’t—”

“Shhh,” Bucky murmured, his chin resting on top of Peter’s head. “I know, kid. I know. You’re okay.”

Peter shook his head against him, the words spilling out faster now, messy and panicked. “I lied— about everything— I didn’t want you to hate me— I didn’t want to be alone again, I just—”

Bucky hushed him again, rubbing a hand along Peter’s back in slow, steady strokes. “You’re not alone. Not anymore. We’re not going anywhere, you hear me? Not me, not Sam. You’re stuck with us now.”

Peter’s sobs hiccuped, turned into smaller, quieter ones, but he didn’t let go.

The sky above them had darkened into deep violet, the first stars peeking through, and still neither of them moved.

Finally, when Peter’s breathing had evened out enough that it wasn’t all gasps and hiccups, Bucky pulled back just enough to look at him.

“You don’t have to sign anything today,” Bucky said softly, tipping his head toward the papers still clutched in his hand. “But I meant what I said. We want you. All of you. Even the parts you think we wouldn’t.”

Peter blinked at him, fresh tears spilling down his face, but this time they weren’t panicked. They were just… quiet.

“I don’t—” Peter started, then stopped, his throat tight. “I don’t deserve—”

“Yeah,” Bucky cut him off, voice firm. “You do. You deserve to be safe. You deserve to be loved. And we’re gonna make damn sure you get both.”

Peter’s lip wobbled, and he pressed his forehead against Bucky’s shoulder again.

They sat there like that for a long time, until the stars were bright overhead and the chill started to settle in.

When Peter finally pulled back, his face blotchy and tear-streaked, Bucky stood and offered him a hand.

“Let’s go home,” Bucky said simply.

Peter froze the second he saw it.

The box.

His box.

Sitting right there, dead center on the kitchen table, like it was waiting for him. The suit folded neatly on top, the journal open just enough to see the familiar curl of his handwriting, the phone resting like an artifact beside it.

It felt like the air was sucked out of the room.

His heart slammed so hard he swore it might split his ribs. His hands went clammy, his throat dry. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t even think.

He was still standing in the doorway when he heard footsteps — one set light, quick; the other heavy, measured.

Bucky appeared first, stepping out of the hall, wiping his hands on a rag that he immediately tossed aside. His expression shifted the instant he saw Peter — some mix of relief and grief, like he’d been waiting for this moment and dreading it at the same time.

Sam came from the living room a beat later, his face tight, cautious.

Peter’s legs went stiff. His body screamed at him to move, to bolt. He could make it out the door, he thought frantically. If he ran hard enough, if he swung fast enough, he could make it all the way back to Queens before either of them caught up.

But he didn’t move.

Bucky was the first to speak. His voice was so soft Peter almost missed it.

“…Why?”

Just one word, but it hit Peter like a fist.

His throat closed.

“Pete,” Sam tried carefully, holding a hand out like he was approaching a scared animal. “We’re not mad. We just—”

“No.” Peter’s voice cracked hard, too loud, too sharp. His chest heaved. “No, no, no—”

He staggered back a step, his shoulder hitting the doorframe.

“Kid,” Bucky said, taking one slow step forward, his tone desperate now. “We’re just—We just want to understand.”

Peter’s stomach twisted so hard he thought he might throw up. “You—” His eyes darted to the table, to the journal. “You read it?”

Silence.

Bucky’s jaw flexed. Sam didn’t speak.

That silence was the answer.

Peter’s vision blurred.

“You had no right!” His voice cracked, raw and panicked, so loud it made both of them flinch. “You—you can’t just—That was mine! That was—”

“Peter—” Sam started, but Peter cut him off, the words tumbling too fast, too sharp.

“You don’t get it! You don’t—You don’t know what you just—You think you know me now? You think you know everything because you read a few pages?!” His chest heaved so hard he could barely get air in.

“Hey, hey—slow down—” Sam tried again, but Peter couldn’t stop.

“No! You—You read everything! You read May! You read Tony! You—You read me!” His voice broke so violently it almost sounded like a sob. “That was the only place—The only place I could put it down and not fall apart—”

His hands were shaking so hard he had to ball them into fists.

“Pete,” Bucky said again, taking another cautious step forward. His voice was barely above a whisper now. “You’ve been carrying this alone. We just—We just want to help.”

Peter laughed, short and harsh and ugly, and wiped at his eyes even as tears burned hot. “Help? You call this help? You—you stole from me! You took the only safe thing I had left and you just—spread it all out on the table!”

“Peter—”

“No!”

The word ripped out of him, raw, too big for the room.

Bucky froze mid-step.

Peter’s breath came in ragged gasps. His head was spinning. “I can’t—You weren’t supposed to see it. You weren’t supposed to know. It was—it was mine. My mess, my life, my… my everything—”

His voice cracked hard, and the tears finally spilled over, hot and fast.

Sam’s chest ached just watching him. He’d seen soldiers break under pressure before, seen men sob in the dirt with blood on their hands — but this? This was worse. This was a kid unraveling.

“Peter,” Sam said softly, carefully, like every word might set him off. “We didn’t read it to hurt you. We read it because we needed to understand you. We love you, man. We just—we wanted to know how to keep you safe.”

“Safe?” Peter’s head snapped up, eyes wide and wet. His voice shook like glass about to shatter. “You think I’m safe now? You think I feel safe knowing everything—everything I’ve tried to hide is just—just out there?”

Bucky’s throat worked. “We’re not the enemy, Pete.”

Peter let out a wet, broken laugh. “Then why does it feel like you are right now?”

The words cut deep. Bucky flinched like he’d been hit.

Peter swiped at his face again, his breath hitching. “You weren’t supposed to know about the spell, or the snap, or—God, May—” His knees buckled and he grabbed the doorframe for balance.

“Kid,” Bucky said, voice cracking. “You don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

Peter’s face twisted, pain sharp enough to bleed. “But I wasn’t alone. I had me. That was enough. That had to be enough because if I let anyone in, they just—they just leave or die or forget—”

His voice cracked again, collapsing under its own weight.

Bucky’s hand twitched at his side. He wanted to go to him, to grab him and hold him and promise him he’d never be alone again, but the look on Peter’s face stopped him cold.

Peter took a step back toward the door.

“Pete,” Sam said quickly, moving a step forward. “Don’t.”

Peter’s breathing hitched, sharp.

“You don’t have to run,” Sam said, softer now. “Not from us.”

But Peter’s body was already coiled tight, ready to spring. “You don’t get it,” he said, voice low, broken. “If I stay, I won’t survive this. I can’t—”

And then he turned.

And ran.

Out the door, down the steps, fast enough that Sam barely had time to curse before he was gone.

The kitchen went quiet except for the sound of Bucky’s metal fist clenching tight enough to creak.

“Damn it,” Sam muttered, dragging both hands over his face.

Bucky’s chest felt hollow, like someone had scooped him out from the inside.

“We broke him,” Bucky said finally, voice like gravel.

Sam exhaled slowly, his jaw tight. “We found him, Buck. We just… didn’t do it right.”

Bucky’s shoulders slumped. He stared at the empty doorway. “Then we go get him. And this time, we do it right.”

Peter didn’t look back.

Couldn’t.

The world blurred into streaks of color as he bolted down the street, sneakers pounding pavement so hard the sound echoed in his head. His chest burned, his throat raw from sucking in air too fast, too shallow, but he didn’t care. He had to keep moving. He had to get away from the table, from the suit, from the journal lying open like his insides had been carved out and left for them to pick apart.

His lungs screamed for him to stop, but fear was louder. Fear of their voices, of their eyes full of pity or worse—disappointment. Fear of the truth being out there, not folded away in a box but dragged out into the light, dissected and known.

He didn’t deserve to be known.

He didn’t deserve to be loved.

So he ran until his legs felt like they might give, until the tightness in his chest became unbearable. He staggered finally into the shadow of a half-empty parking lot, doubling over, hands braced on his knees, trying to catch a breath that wouldn’t come.

The world tilted, pulsed at the edges of his vision.

Breathe. Just breathe.

It took him longer than it should have to realize he wasn’t running anymore.

And that was when the panic shifted.

He straightened slowly, his breath ragged, and patted at his pockets like maybe he’d find something to anchor him. His phone was still there, hot from the run, and that was it. Just his phone and the clothes clinging damp to his skin.

No backpack. No money. No plan.

He jammed his hands in his hoodie pocket and felt nothing but lint. His fingers curled tight, nails digging crescents into his palms.

That was when it hit him.

The paper.

The cemetery address.

Gone.

His heart stuttered painfully, and for a second he thought he might throw up. He must’ve dropped it back at home—no, not home, not anymore. That word lodged sharp in his throat.

It wasn’t home.

Not after this.

The thought gutted him.

He sank down hard on the edge of the cracked sidewalk, shoving his hood up even though there was no one around to see him, and pressed his shaking hands to his face. Not home.

The words kept echoing.

It had almost felt like one. The dinners, the soft rules, the dumb allowance Bucky insisted on giving him, Sam sitting down to help him with GED work like it mattered. The glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling, the way Sam teased him into laughing when he didn’t want to, the way Bucky had looked at him like—like he was his.

He’d almost let himself believe it.

But it was all built on lies.

And now the lies had collapsed, crushing him underneath.

Peter dragged in a shaky breath, pressing his palms harder into his eyes until stars bloomed behind his lids.

He couldn’t go back. Not now. Not when every thought, every mistake, every heartbreak was spread out in ink and paper for them to read. He could feel it like a weight pressing down on his chest—the journal screaming his secrets into the silence of that house.

He was suffocating.

He tugged at the drawstrings of his hoodie like it might somehow hold him together, but it didn’t stop the shaking. His breaths came short and sharp, little gasps that burned his throat.

He couldn’t go back.

He couldn’t go forward.

He couldn’t—

The world felt too tight, too loud, too bright all at once.

He pulled his knees up to his chest and curled forward on the concrete, trying to make himself smaller, tighter, invisible like he used to be. If no one could see him, maybe he wouldn’t have to exist in this mess he’d made.

Maybe he wouldn’t have to feel the crushing weight of being Peter Parker anymore.

Peter didn’t even realize he was crying until his vision blurred, hot tears slipping down his cheeks and dropping onto his knees. He buried his face in his hoodie sleeve, but it didn’t stop the shaking.

“May,” he choked out, the name ripping from his throat before he could stop it. His voice cracked hard, loud enough to echo off the concrete and startle him.

“May, please—” He dragged his hands through his hair, gripping until it hurt. “Please just tell me what to do. I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t—”

His words broke off into a sob.

“God, I’m so stupid. I’m so stupid.”

He shoved himself to his feet and paced a tight circle, breathing hard. His voice kept spilling out, hoarse and frantic, like if he didn’t let it out he’d explode.

“Why’d you leave me here?” he yelled, his voice cracking again. “Why’d you leave me in this messed-up world? I tried, May, I tried to do what you said, I tried to help, I tried to keep going, but it’s all—” He gestured wildly, chest heaving. “It’s all broken now!”

His throat hurt, but he couldn’t stop.

“Tony!” His voice was raw now, ripped straight from his chest. “You were supposed to be the genius! You were supposed to have a plan! Where’s the plan now, huh? You said I was your kid! That I was the one you were proud of! Well, congratulations, Mr. Stark, you’d be so proud of me now!”

His laugh was sharp and broken, almost hysterical.

“I lied, Tony! I lied and I lied and I lied until I almost believed it myself! I let him—” His voice cracked. He pressed both hands over his mouth, but the words slipped through his fingers anyway.

“I let him think I was his. I let him look at me like I was his son, like I was worth—worth anything, and now I ruined it. I ruined everything.”

His knees gave out, and he dropped hard onto the asphalt, the impact jarring but distant.

“Bucky,” he whispered now, the name almost too quiet to hear. His breath hitched, his chest burning like it might cave in. “God, Bucky—he called me ‘kid.’ He called me his kid. And I liked it. I liked it so much I let him think it was true. I let myself believe it.”

His hands curled into fists against the ground, nails scraping concrete.

“And now he knows,” Peter said, his voice sharp with panic and grief. “He knows it’s all fake, that I’m fake. He knows I don’t belong there, that I was just—just filling the space, pretending I could be something I’m not.”

The words started to tumble out faster, all the things he hadn’t said, all the things he’d stuffed into that journal until there was no more room.

“I don’t know who I am anymore! I don’t know what I’m doing! I don’t know what’s left of me after all this lying! I don’t know how to fix it—”

He broke off, sobbing into his hands, his whole body shaking with the force of it.

And then came the anger.

At himself.

At the world.

At everyone who had left him behind.

He slammed his fist down onto the asphalt, the concrete cracking under the blow.

“Why didn’t you stay?” he shouted at no one, at everyone. “Why didn’t you stay and tell me how to do this? Why’d you leave me to figure it out alone? I can’t—I can’t do it anymore!”

The parking lot swallowed his voice, but it didn’t make it stop.

He stayed there, hunched and shaking, tears dripping onto the cracked ground, until the sobs turned quiet and sharp, leaving him hollow and exhausted.

All he could see when he closed his eyes was the kitchen table with the suit, the journal, his whole life spread open. All he could hear was Bucky’s soft, broken why, and it tore something open in his chest all over again.

He’d ruined it.

Ruined them.

Ruined everything good he’d been given.

And for what?

To pretend?

Peter wiped his face on his sleeve and sat back, staring up at the too-bright sky until the sun blurred into a smear of light through his tears.

He didn’t know what to do.

Didn’t know where to go.

Didn’t know if he even deserved to go back.

But he couldn’t stay here forever.

And that thought scared him most of all.

Peter had lost track of time.

By the time he’d cried himself quiet, his hoodie was damp from tears, his throat burned raw, and his head pounded like he’d been slammed into a wall. The sun was lower now, slipping toward the horizon, throwing long shadows over the cracked parking lot.

He scrubbed at his face and forced himself to sit up. He couldn’t stay here forever, hiding like some lost kid. He had to move.

He needed a plan. Okay. Step one: job. He’d done it before—dishes, deliveries, whatever he could find that didn’t ask too many questions. Step two: somewhere to sleep. An apartment would take too long to get, so maybe a hostel, maybe some crummy little motel until he figured out the rest. Anything was better than going back.

Better than walking into that house and seeing Bucky’s face again.

Better than facing the kitchen table and all the truths he’d buried now spread out like an autopsy report.

Peter shoved his hands into his pockets and stood, forcing himself to start walking. His legs felt stiff, sore from sitting so long, but he kept moving.

His phone was still warm from being gripped too tight. He unlocked it and opened Maps, searching for the cemetery’s address again. It felt safer, almost—like if he could just get to May, he could talk to her and she’d tell him what to do next.

He didn’t notice the people at first.

A woman standing near a bus stop glanced at him and then away, her brow furrowed like she was trying to place him.

A man leaning on a bike slowed as he passed, turning his head just slightly too long to watch him walk by.

Peter brushed it off. Just New York being New York. But then there was a pair of teenagers whispering to each other, one of them pulling out their phone and holding it just low enough to look like they weren’t filming but Peter knew.

His stomach flipped.

Another glance—an older man muttering into a phone, eyes locked on Peter as if describing him.

His steps quickened.

No, no, no. Not again. Not this. He shoved his phone back in his pocket and kept walking, head down, hoodie pulled tighter around him, trying to make himself smaller. His breath came faster, shallow, and he could feel his heart slam against his ribs.

It felt like it did that first day, when everyone in the world suddenly knew who Peter Parker was.

When the whispers became shouts, when the pointing fingers turned into accusations, when the city he’d been protecting suddenly became a courtroom.

Peter ducked down the next side street, almost at a jog now.

The whispers didn’t stop.

Were they following him? Were they calling someone?

His brain wouldn’t shut up.

Had the spell broken?

Was everyone remembering again?

Was this it—was this the day the entire nightmare started over?

Peter’s hands were shaking as he checked over his shoulder. Just a couple of random pedestrians, but they were looking at him. Staring just a little too long.

He needed to get somewhere—anywhere—out of sight.

His breaths came quick and shallow now, panic clawing up his throat. He cut down another street, into a narrow alley, his sneakers slapping against wet pavement. His mind was spinning, flashes of memory mixing with reality—cameras shoved in his face, J. Jonah Jameson’s voice roaring out of every screen, the way people had shouted at him, cursed at him, the way they’d called him a murderer.

Peter’s back hit the wall of the alley and he slid down it, clutching his hoodie like he could pull it tighter over his whole body, hide from all of it.

This wasn’t happening.

It couldn’t be happening.

But it felt real. Too real.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, a sound so sharp he nearly flinched out of his skin. He didn’t check it. Didn’t want to see who it was.

He pressed his fists against his eyes until colors bloomed behind them.

If the spell had broken, if everyone remembered, then all of this—Bucky, Sam, the house, the meals, the safety—was about to go up in smoke.

And if it hadn’t broken, then why was everyone staring like they knew something he didn’t?

Peter felt sick.

He pulled himself up, wiping his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. His breath still came too fast, but he had to keep moving. He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t be a sitting duck.

So he walked.

And every time someone looked at him, he walked faster.

Every whisper made him flinch.

Every ringing phone sounded like an alarm calling someone to come get him.

By the time the cemetery gates came into view, Peter was trembling, exhausted, his nerves so frayed he felt like he might fly apart.

And deep down, in the pit of his stomach, that guilt still sat there, heavy and quiet, whispering that maybe this was what he deserved.

Peter hadn’t meant to sit down.

One minute he was walking, stumbling really, through the cemetery gates, and the next his knees just buckled and he let himself sink down into the grass.

The earth here smelled damp, cold. The air was quiet, just the distant hum of traffic and the occasional caw of a crow. It should have been peaceful, but Peter’s heart still felt like it was hammering its way out of his chest.

He leaned back against the familiar headstone, May’s headstone, pressing the back of his head to the cool stone until it grounded him enough to breathe.

He didn’t talk this time.

Usually he did. Usually he filled the silence with chatter, told her about the small victories, the tiny triumphs. He told her about his GED work, about the new recipes Sam tried, about the ridiculous things Bucky grumbled at the TV about. Sometimes he even laughed, just a little.

But today?

There was nothing in him but noise.

And none of it felt like words.

His hoodie was still damp from earlier tears, but somehow his eyes were burning again. He pressed his palms into them, trying to push it all back.

It didn’t work.

Finally, with hands that still shook, he pulled out his phone.

The screen lit his face, bright and too sharp in the dusky light. His notifications were stacked—missed calls, texts—Sam’s name, Bucky’s name, over and over.

He hesitated before opening them.

The first one was simple.

Sam: You okay, kid? You’ve been gone a while.

Then—

Bucky: Where are you?

Sam: Peter?

Bucky: Please just tell us you’re safe.

By the fifth message, Bucky’s words were uneven, scattered, desperate.

Peter. You’re scaring us. Please come home. Please just talk to me. We’ll figure it out, I promise.

Peter’s throat tightened, something hot rushing up behind his eyes.

He scrolled further, scrolling past his own reflection faintly staring back at him in the darkened screen, until he saw it—

A picture of himself.

Not Spider-Man. Not a blurry video of him swinging between buildings or holding a mask. Just… him.

A missing person notice.

Bucky had reported him missing.

The picture must have been one Sam had taken a few weeks back, Peter laughing with a mug of coffee in hand. His hair was messy, his hoodie hanging off one shoulder.

And the caption underneath just said:

Missing. Last seen today. Please contact if found.

Peter stared at it so long the screen dimmed.

And for some reason—he couldn’t explain why—he felt… lighter.

Because even after everything, even after the journal and the box and the lies…

They were looking for him.

Not Spider-Man.

Not the masked hero or the kid who ruined the airport in Germany.

Not the murderer J. Jonah Jameson turned him into on every TV screen.

Just him.

Peter.

Somehow that made it harder to breathe, but not in a bad way. His chest felt tight, but full.

He curled forward, his arms around his knees, forehead pressed into them.

They were looking for him.

For him.

Maybe—just maybe—he hadn’t ruined everything.

Not yet.

But he couldn’t go home.

Not now.

Not with his whole body still vibrating from panic and fear, not with every nerve still screaming run, run, run.

He needed time.

He needed to figure out what to say, how to explain without breaking apart.

He was still curled there when he heard it.

“Peter?”

The voice was soft, careful.

Peter’s head shot up, his heart stumbling over itself.

Bucky stood a few feet away, clutching a crumpled slip of paper—the paper Peter had written the cemetery’s address on, the one he must have dropped in the kitchen before leaving.

He looked exhausted, like he’d been running all day.

Peter’s breath hitched. His body locked, frozen between fight and flight.

Bucky didn’t move closer.

He just stood there, his metal hand tight around the paper, his expression caught somewhere between relief and heartbreak.

“Hey,” Bucky said, quiet, almost unsure. “I found you.”

Peter couldn’t answer. His throat felt like it was closing up.

Everything inside him screamed to run, to bolt, to swing away and disappear for good. But his legs wouldn’t move.

And somehow, that scared him even more.

Bucky’s eyes softened, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The cemetery was silent around them, the last of the light fading into purple shadows.

Peter’s fingers dug into the grass. His breathing was uneven, ragged, but he didn’t look away.

The journal hid where no one would look. Deep inside the box, tucked under the folded red-and-blue fabric Peter pretended didn’t exist. His suit, his words, his life—buried. A graveyard under his bed. A place even he didn’t want to touch too often.

The journal was the only thing that knew him. The real him. Not the Hydra experiment. Not the lost, broken kid who lucked into a second chance with two men who kept calling him son. Just Peter. And if anyone found it? If Sam or Bucky opened that cover and read the truth scrawled inside? Catastrophe. That was the word that always pulsed through his head when he thought about it. The journal didn’t just hold lies; it held conversations that never happened, memories no one but him remembered, the parts of his story that never fit into the neat Hydra box he had built for them.

It was his vault. His confessional. His undoing.

And on November 13th, the pages had felt heavier than ever.

He woke up knowing what day it was before he even checked his phone. It clung to his skin, the same way it always did—like grief had seeped into his blood, rerouting every nerve. May. His May. Gone.

Her death day.

Peter needed to go. He had to. Fresh flowers, clean ground, maybe just a few minutes where he could sit and talk to her. Pretend she was listening. Pretend someone in the world still knew him.

But he couldn’t tell Sam and Bucky that. They’d ask questions. They’d want to come. They’d want to know who she was. And then he’d have to build another lie on top of the ones already rotting inside his chest.

So he lied differently.

At breakfast, with Sam sipping his coffee and Bucky stealing bites off his plate like the overgrown child he sometimes was, Peter pushed his chair back and said carefully, “I need to go pick up something for my GED assignments.”

Sam raised a brow immediately. “What is it? I’ll grab it after work.”

Peter’s chest tightened. He forced a small smile. “It’s fine. I can do it. Just… want to feel grown, y’know?” He hoped the lightness in his voice didn’t sound forced.

Sam studied him, head tilted. Then, after a pause, he smiled softly. “Alright, grown man. Don’t be out too long.”

Bucky grunted, still chewing. “Text when you get there.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

And that was it. The lie settled, easy and sharp, the way they always did.

That afternoon, Peter scribbled May’s cemetery address onto a scrap of paper and tucked it in his pocket. Plugged it into maps. Walked out of the house with his hoodie pulled up, headphones in, a lump lodged so deep in his throat he could barely swallow.

He stopped at the flower shop first. Yellow. He didn’t even need to think. He bought a bunch, the brightest ones they had. May’s color. May’s warmth.

The cemetery was quiet when he got there, the air brittle with November chill. He found her spot like his body already knew the path, like grief had carved it into his bones.

The ground was scattered with leaves. He crouched, brushing them away, laying the flowers gently across the headstone.

“Hi, May,” he whispered, and his voice cracked.

And then he talked.

He told her about the house, about Sam’s laugh and Bucky’s quiet eyes. About the way it felt to have a room that was his, a door he could shut, a bed that didn’t feel like a stranger’s.

“I think you’d like them,” he said, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “They’re… good. They’re safe. They—” His breath hitched. “They care, May. Like, really care. It’s scary. It feels too good. Like I don’t deserve it.”

He laughed weakly, even though it came out strangled. “You’d tell me to shut up. You’d tell me I deserved the world. God, I miss that. I miss you telling me I’m not as much of a screw-up as I feel like I am.”

Tears burned hot in his eyes. He let them fall.

“I lied to them,” he confessed, voice small. “I lie all the time. I don’t know how to stop. I told them Hydra did this to me. That Hydra made me what I am. They believed me, May. They just—looked at me like I was still worth loving. And I let them. I keep letting them.”

He pressed a trembling hand to the cold stone.

“I’m so tired of lying. But if I tell the truth, I lose everything again. I can’t—I can’t do that. Not after losing you. Not after losing Ned. MJ. Everyone.”

The words broke into sobs, muffled by the sleeve he dragged across his face.

He stayed until the sun started sinking, the flowers glowing gold in the fading light.

When he finally stood, his legs felt weak. He touched the stone one last time. “I’ll come back. I promise.”

And then he walked away, hoodie pulled tight, the weight of his lies pressing heavier against his chest.

Peter was gone. Out on his “GED errand,” hoodie up, headphones in, trying to play at being older than he was. Bucky had watched him leave with that same wary sense that always prickled in his chest when the kid went out alone. It was protective, yes, but there was something else underneath. Something gnawing.

The suit.

The damn suit he knew he’d seen.

For two weeks, Bucky had sat on it. Let Sam talk him down. Tried to ignore the crawling itch in his brain that told him Peter was hiding something bigger than Hydra scars. He’d told himself it was respect. That if Peter wanted to open up, he would. But the truth was, it wasn’t patience—it was fear.

But now Peter was gone. And the silence of the house wrapped too tight. And Bucky’s hands were already moving before his mind had caught up.

He went to Peter’s room. Shut the door quietly behind him.

And then he started tearing the place apart.

He looked in the dresser again, drawer by drawer. Under the bedframe. Behind the closet door. Through every pile of clothes, every corner. He checked the vent cover, the hamper, even under the mattress.

Nothing.

Frustration clawed through him, sharp and hot. He knew what he saw. He knew it hadn’t been some fever-dream hallucination. Spiderman’s suit had been here. And then—he saw it.

A box. Shoved deep beneath the bed, tucked so far back he had to crouch and reach until his shoulder ached. He dragged it out and set it on the carpet.

It was small. Beat up. Ordinary. But the weight of it hit him in the chest.

He lifted the lid.

And there it was.

The suit. Folded, hidden away like something shameful.

But that wasn’t all.

Next to it, an old phone—screen cracked, casing scuffed, like it had been carried through hell and dropped a hundred times. And a journal.

Bucky froze. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew it was private. He knew this was Peter’s space, Peter’s mind spilled on paper. He shouldn’t pry.

But something told him to.

His hand was already moving. Fingers opening the cover.

And then—he was reading.

It started with the spider bite.

Messy handwriting, rushed words like Peter had been afraid to lose the memory if he didn’t get it down fast enough. Notes about field trips, about feeling sick, about waking up stronger, faster, different.

Then: the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.

Page after page, Bucky’s breath went tight. This wasn’t Hydra. This wasn’t a lab experiment, a file, a weapon. This was a kid. A kid who’d stumbled into powers and tried—God help him—to do good with them.

Tony Stark. Mentorship. The “internship” cover story. New York. Brooklyn.

Then Germany. The airport. Fighting Steve. Fighting him. The guilt in the words, even when Peter had just been following orders.

Homecoming. The Vulture. Almost drowning. Wanting to prove himself, to be enough for Tony.

The next entries blurred Bucky’s vision. Titan. Thanos. The snap. I don’t feel so good, Mr. Stark.

Five years gone. Waking up in chaos. Tony’s funeral. I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t save anyone.

And then—the avalanche. His identity revealed. The world turning on him. May’s death. The spell.

Bucky’s hands shook as he turned the pages, faster and faster, desperate and horrified.

Every lie Peter had told them, catalogued. A ledger of guilt. An itemized list of the stories he had spun to survive.

And between the lies—pain. Page after page of it. Guilt. Anger. Loneliness. Anxiety that bled through the ink. Words written like screams pressed into silence. By the time he closed the journal, Bucky couldn’t breathe.

His son wasn’t Hydra’s. His son wasn’t theirs at all, not the way he thought. His son was Spider-Man. Tony’s protégé. A boy who had carried the weight of the universe and somehow still came home to them, asking for allowance money and moving queen-sized beds like it was nothing.

And Bucky had no idea how to carry this truth alone.

So he picked up the box. His hands were stiff, trembling, but steady enough to hold it. And he carried it to Sam.

Sam was in the kitchen, going through mail, when Bucky dropped the box onto the table. The sound made him look up, brow furrowing.

“What’s this?”

Bucky sat down hard, like his knees had given out. He pressed his metal hand to his forehead. “I found it.”

Sam blinked. “Found what?”

Bucky shoved the lid open.

Sam’s eyes fell on the suit first. His lips parted.

“Holy shit.”

Bucky didn’t answer. His throat was raw.

Sam reached in, fingertips grazing the fabric like he couldn’t quite believe it was real. Then he looked at Bucky. “Is that—?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure it’s not—”

“I read it.” The words came out strangled. “The journal. Everything. Sam—” His voice broke. “It’s him. He’s Spider-Man. It wasn’t Hydra. It was—Christ, Sam, it was never Hydra.”

Sam stared, stunned. His mouth opened, shut, opened again. “Spider-Man.”

Bucky nodded, harsh and quick. “He wrote it all down. The bite. The war. Stark. The snap. May—” His breath hitched. “May’s gone, Sam. She’s gone. And Strange—he—no one remembers him. That’s why— That’s why he lies. Why he—” Bucky’s voice cracked. He dragged a hand down his face.

Sam’s expression softened, shock melting into something else. Horror. Compassion. Heartache.

“He’s just a kid,” Sam whispered.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. His eyes burned. “Hes still our kid, right?.”

They sat there in silence, the box between them, the weight of Peter’s hidden life finally laid bare.

And Peter hadn’t even come home yet.

The box sat heavy on the kitchen table, like it carried more than cloth and paper and metal and glass. Like it carried lives.

Sam and Bucky sat across from each other, shoulders hunched, forearms braced on the table’s edge. Neither spoke for a long while. The silence was thick, pressing, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator.

Finally, Sam reached forward. Slowly, carefully, he lifted the journal. His fingers brushed the worn spine. He glanced at Bucky, whose expression was stone but whose eyes burned raw.

“You already read it?” Sam asked softly.

Bucky nodded once. “All of it.” His voice was rough, low. “But… I couldn’t—couldn’t do it alone. Not anymore.”

So they read.

Together.

Sam opened the journal, and the handwriting spilled across the pages in uneven lines, messy where Peter’s hand had raced, pressed harder where his heart had. They read about the spider bite, the sudden strength, the shock of realizing he wasn’t normal anymore.

Sam’s mouth tightened. Bucky looked away, his jaw working.

Then the early days. The “internship.” The suit Tony had built for him. The desperate need to prove himself. The way Peter had looked at Stark like the sun itself.

Sam exhaled, long and slow. “Stark really took him under his wing, huh.”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s voice cracked. “And then he died. And Peter…” He shook his head. “He was just a kid.”

Page after page. The airport in Germany. Fighting Steve. Fighting Bucky. Sam’s chest tightened as he read Peter’s guilt—how much he had hated hurting “good men” when all he’d wanted was to do right.

Then: the Vulture. Near drowning. The ferry. Almost losing everything.

Sam’s hands trembled as he turned the pages.

Then Titan. Thanos. The snap.

Sam froze, throat locking. His eyes skimmed the words: I don’t feel so good.

His breath hitched. He shut the journal for a moment, palm pressing against the cover. “God.”

Bucky stared at his hands. He remembered Titan. He remembered dust. He remembered waking up five years later with nothing but the echo of it in his bones. His voice rasped, “He was seventeen. And he died.”

Sam opened the book again. His lips pressed into a line, his eyes burning. “And then he came back. And Stark—” His words broke. He swallowed hard. “No wonder he writes like this. No wonder it feels like he’s carrying ghosts.”

They read on. Tony’s funeral. Peter’s guilt. May’s smile. Her death.

Sam had to stop more than once, blinking rapidly, dragging a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ. He watched everyone he loved either die or forget him.”

Bucky’s grip tightened on the table. His knuckles went white. “Not anymore. Not on my watch.”

Sam’s eyes flicked up, studying him.

Bucky met his gaze, voice shaking but fierce. “I’m not leaving him alone. Not after this. Not after knowing what he’s carried. He’s my kid, Sam. I don’t give a damn what the world says.”

Sam swallowed, throat thick. He looked back down at the journal, and for a while, they just kept reading.

The catalog of lies. The neat lists Peter had made—what I told them today, what I can’t slip up on, what I can’t let them know.

Sam’s stomach twisted. “He was keeping track. Like… like it was mission reports.”

“He’s been surviving,” Bucky muttered. His voice cracked. “Not living. Surviving. And he’s seventeen.”

Sam flipped to another entry. Guilt. Anger. Loneliness. Words written like blood, pressed hard into the page.

“God, Buck,” Sam whispered. “This isn’t just trauma. This is—this is a kid clawing for air.”

Bucky pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, metal fingers curling against the table. He forced his voice low, steady. “Then we make sure he breathes.”

Sam’s breath shook out.

They read until their eyes blurred. Then they set the journal aside.

Next came the phone.

Sam thumbed the screen awake. The lock was gone, cracked open long ago. He pulled up the gallery.

Photos.

Peter and May, laughing in the kitchen. Peter and Ned, covered in Lego bricks. Peter and MJ, shoulders pressed together, her smile brighter than sunlight. Stark’s hand on Peter’s shoulder, Peter grinning wide like the world was his.

Videos. Peter laughing behind the camera while May tried to cook. Ned holding up some kind of gadget, Peter heckling him. MJ rolling her eyes and shoving the phone out of her face. Stark teaching Peter how to upgrade his web-shooters, voice gentle in a way Sam hadn’t heard before.

Sam pressed his fist against his mouth. His eyes stung. “He saved all this. Kept it like—like proof they existed. Proof he existed with them.”

Bucky leaned over, staring at the screen, every muscle in his body tight. He whispered, almost reverent, “He’s not just Spider-Man. He’s… he’s Peter. And we almost lost that.”

Sam set the phone down gently, like it might shatter.

The suit lay folded in the box, still untouched. Sam’s gaze lingered on it, then shifted to Bucky.

“You’re right,” Sam said softly. “He’s not Hydra’s. He’s not theirs. But Buck—he’s not ours either.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. His voice was low, raw. “But he is mine. Now.”

Sam didn’t argue. Not really. He just sighed, heavy and aching.

They sat in silence again. Two men with a box of ghosts, holding the truth of a boy who had nearly drowned under it.

Finally, Bucky spoke, voice hoarse. “I keep thinking… what would Stark say, if he saw him like this? Or Steve. Hell, even May. They’d—” He swallowed hard. “They’d want him safe. Loved. Home. That’s what we give him.”

Sam looked at him for a long time, then nodded. His voice was soft, breaking. “Then we give him that. No questions asked.”

They leaned back in their chairs, the box between them, the weight of Peter’s hidden world finally bared.

Sam prided himself on being observant. Years in the Air Force, years as the Falcon, years standing at Steve Rogers’ side—he’d learned to notice the little things. Patterns. Oddities. Things people tried to hide.

So when it came to Peter, Sam was the first to see it.

It started small.

The way the kid sidestepped people in the grocery store before they even came close. The way he caught a plate slipping off the counter without even looking at it. Reflexes sharper than anyone had a right to.

Then came the stars.

Sam had gone to check on him one evening and opened the door to find Peter standing on the bed, hands pressed flat against the ceiling as he stuck glow-in-the-dark stars into place. Except—Sam swore he hadn’t heard the creak of the mattress before. And the way Peter dropped back down—it wasn’t a jump. It looked like he’d climbed down from the ceiling itself.

Sam froze in the doorway, blinking.

Peter turned, startled, then gave a nervous little smile. “Uh—hey. Just… decorating.”

“Right,” Sam said slowly. He let it go, but the image stuck with him.

And then there was the strength.

One Saturday, Sam walked past the kid’s room and stopped dead. Peter was dragging his entire dresser across the floor, the heavy oak scraping like it weighed nothing. He caught Sam watching and flushed. “It’s fine! Just moving stuff around!”

Sam only raised a brow and kept walking. But his mind churned.

And then, of course, there was the brain. The kid blew through his GED assignments like they were nothing, muttering about formulas and theories Sam had to look up just to follow. He picked apart broken electronics from the garage, rewired them, fixed them better than new.

All of it together was… strange. More than strange. It was impossible.

Sam tried to pin it on Hydra. On whatever experiments they’d forced Peter through. That made sense, at least on the surface.

Except—Peter never talked about Hydra. Not once.

Sam noticed that too.

Whenever Bucky hinted at it, even gently, Peter shifted the conversation. Whenever Sam himself offered an opening—“must’ve been hell, what they did to you”—Peter only nodded and changed the subject.

At first, Sam chalked it up to trauma. Who would want to relive something like that?

But the more he thought about it, the more something gnawed at him.

Because Peter didn’t just avoid talking about Hydra. He avoided acknowledging it altogether. Like the memories weren’t just painful—they weren’t there at all. And Sam couldn’t ignore how wrong that felt.

Still, he kept his mouth shut.

Because at the end of the day, proof didn’t matter.

What mattered was the heaviness he’d seen in Peter’s eyes that first night. The weight of a thousand things a seventeen-year-old shouldn’t have carried. The way his shoulders curled in like he was used to being invisible. The way his laughter came slowly, carefully, like he was relearning how.

Sam didn’t need files or records to know this kid had been through hell. He could see it. He could feel it.

And then there was Bucky.

Sam had known the man for years. He’d seen him broken, haunted, angry. He’d seen him retreat into himself, too scared to believe he deserved a future.

But with Peter…

Sam saw something new.

Bucky hovered, sure, always checking if the kid ate enough, if he slept enough, if he was happy enough. But it wasn’t just worry. It was softness. The kind of quiet tenderness Sam hadn’t believed Bucky was capable of anymore.

The way Bucky folded blankets at the foot of Peter’s bed without being asked. The way he stopped mid-sentence to listen when Peter spoke. The way his eyes lit, just slightly, when Peter laughed.

Sam reeled in it.

Because he loved Bucky, more than he’d ever expected to. And seeing him this way—soft, paternal, happy—it did something warm to his chest.

He loved it.

He loved the kid for bringing that side out of him.

For bringing them into this strange, accidental family.

Sam didn’t need to solve the puzzle to know the truth that mattered: Peter belonged here.

And as Sam leaned against the doorway one evening, watching Bucky and Peter argue over the right way to fold fitted sheets, laughter bubbling between them, he smiled softly to himself.

Because what made sense, more than any theory about Hydra or experiments, was this.

Bucky. Peter. Home.

And Sam wasn’t about to question that.

Bucky wasn’t blind either.

He’d seen the same things Sam had—Peter’s reflexes, his strength, his too-sharp brain. He saw the way the kid moved, too light on his feet, too fast when startled. He saw the way Peter looked at doors and windows like he was cataloging exits. He saw the way he froze when touched unexpectedly, then recovered like it hadn’t happened.

But here was the difference:

Sam’s brain filed it all away, trying to make sense of it.

Bucky’s didn’t care.

This was his kid.

Point-blank, no discussion.

In Bucky’s mind, Peter was his baby. Didn’t matter what anyone else said. Didn’t matter if it made sense or not. Didn’t matter that half the world didn’t even know this boy existed.

He knew.

And that was enough.

Anyone who looked at Peter wrong? Anyone who even thought about hurting him? Bucky would make sure they never looked at anything again. He’d lived too long, lost too much, bled too often to let anyone take this from him.

That was how deep the love ran.

So deep it scared him sometimes.

So deep he almost forgot to breathe when Peter smiled, because God, it felt like something he’d never thought he’d get again.

But then came the suit.

He hadn’t been snooping. He swore he hadn’t.

Sam and Peter had gone for a run that morning, leaving Bucky behind to deal with the mountain of laundry that somehow nobody wanted to claim. (It was Peter’s turn. Bucky knew it was Peter’s turn. But the kid had perfected those wide, tired eyes, and Bucky had caved faster than he cared to admit.)

He carried a stack of folded shirts into Peter’s room, humming under his breath. The place already looked lived in—posters tacked to the walls, sheets rumpled from sleep, a pile of Legos on the desk that Sam had sworn he’d stepped on twice. It smelled faintly like laundry soap and something sweet Peter had hidden under the bed.

Bucky smiled faintly as he pulled open the dresser drawer.

And froze.

Red and blue.

Mask folded neatly beside it.

The Spider-Man suit, tucked in the bottom drawer like it was nothing more than a sweatshirt. Peter hadn't moved it yet.

Bucky’s chest went tight. His hands went slack, letting the folded clothes fall onto the bed without care. He shut the drawer with slow, mechanical precision.

Then he walked out of the room, down the hall, and into the kitchen.

He sat at the table, elbows braced, head in his hand.

And he thought.

Thought until his mind ached.

Did he tell Peter he knew? Should he?

He should. He really should.

Because this wasn’t small. This wasn’t just quirks or oddities. This was Spider-Man.

And Bucky knew damn well what that meant.

It meant Peter was the same kid who’d once beaten his and Sam’s asses in Germany. The same one who swung through New York in the middle of the night, saving people like it was second nature. The same one who’d stood beside Tony Stark, like a son at his shoulder.

Tony’s kid.

At least—Bucky thought so.

But if that was true… then why here? Why now? Why them?

And if it wasn’t true—if Peter wasn’t Tony’s, not really—then what the hell was he?

Was he Hydra’s?

Bucky’s stomach churned.

Because if Peter was Spider-Man, and Peter had been with Hydra… then what did that mean?

A chill crept into his bones.

It meant Hydra had taken a bright, brilliant boy and carved him into a weapon. It meant Hydra had stolen a child and shoved him into the dark until all that light was sharpened into something lethal.

It meant Peter had been theirs.

And that thought—that single, poisonous thought—made Bucky’s hands curl into fists on the table.

Because no.

No.

Hydra didn’t get to keep him.

Not anymore.

This kid wasn’t theirs.

This kid was his.

Bucky pressed his palms against his eyes, exhaling slowly, forcing himself to breathe.

He wasn’t going to pry. Not yet. He wasn’t going to storm into Peter’s room demanding answers.

Because the truth was, Bucky didn’t care about Spider-Man.

He cared about Peter.

The boy who rearranged his room three times in one week. The boy who left Lego pieces in the carpet. The boy who smiled, just barely, when Sam called him “kid” in that affectionate drawl.

Spider-Man was the mask.

Peter was the son.

And Bucky wasn’t about to lose him.

So he sat there, silent, head in his hand, and decided something he never thought he’d decide again:

He’d wait.

He’d wait until Peter trusted him enough to tell the truth.

He’d wait until the boy looked him in the eye and said it himself.

And until then—Bucky would protect him, fight for him, love him.

Because Peter was his.

End of conversation.

And God help anyone who tried to say otherwise.

It slipped out before Bucky could stop it.

It was late, the house dark and quiet. Peter had gone to bed hours ago, tucked behind his closed door. Sam had been flipping through the channels, one hand resting lazily on the arm of the couch, the other holding a glass of water.

And Bucky just… said it.

“I found something in Peter’s room.”

Sam muted the TV, turned slowly. “…What kind of something?”

Bucky hesitated, thumb rubbing over the scarred edge of his palm. His voice came out low, heavy. “A suit. His suit. Spider-Man’s.”

Sam blinked, leaned forward like he hadn’t heard right. “…I’m sorry. The what?”

“The Spider-Man suit.” Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Red and blue. Mask and everything. Bottom drawer of his dresser. Just… sitting there, like it was nothing.”

Sam stared at him, completely floored. “You’re serious.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. “Dead serious.”

Silence. Heavy, weighted.

Sam set the glass down carefully. “…You’re telling me that scrawny little teenager in there is Spider-Man.”

Bucky’s chest pulled tight. “I’m telling you the suit’s in his drawer.”

“Or.” Sam dragged the word out, voice sharp. “Or maybe you mistook some Halloween costume, or a hoodie, or hell, some weird cosplay thing these kids are into now. You sure you weren’t—”

“I wasn’t hallucinating, Sam.” Bucky’s voice cracked sharp. “I know what I saw. I’m sane. Don’t do that to me.”

Sam shut his mouth. He knew that tone. The razor-edge of a man who’d been doubted before, dismissed before, gaslit into believing his mind couldn’t be trusted. He didn’t push.

“…Okay,” Sam said finally. “Okay. Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say it is the suit. What’s your theory?”

Bucky leaned back, rubbing his face with his hand. His brain had been turning over this question for days, running down every twisted alley it could find.

“It makes sense,” he muttered. “Too much sense. Hydra. They made him. Just like they made me. They wanted stronger soldiers, faster, smarter. That’s where Spider-Man comes from. That’s why he came out of nowhere, why nobody could figure him out. They created him—and he turned on them. Put on a mask, used what they gave him. Took control back.”

Sam blinked. “That’s a hell of a leap, Buck.”

“It fits.” Bucky’s eyes were hard, desperate. “Every piece fits. The reflexes, the strength, the way he looks at shadows like he’s been there before. Hell, even how he beat both of us bloody that day in Germany—remember that? He wasn’t some random kid. He was trained. Built. Hydra.”

Sam’s stomach turned. Because damn it, the way Bucky laid it out—it almost did make sense. Too much sense.

But Sam wasn’t convinced. “So what, you think Hydra cooked up a spider-boy in a lab and then lost track of him?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time they lost track of one of us.”

The words landed heavy.

Sam sighed, dragging a hand over his face. “Alright. Say you’re right. That still doesn’t explain why he’d have the suit just folded away in his drawer like an old sweater. If he’s Spider-Man, he’s Spider-Man. You don’t just retire at seventeen.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because the part of him that loved Peter—the part that saw the boy, not the mask—hoped desperately that Peter had retired. That he’d given it up, walked away, found a new life in their house.

But the soldier in Bucky… the soldier knew masks were never put away for long.

Sam broke the silence first. “We can’t snoop while he’s home. That’s invasion of privacy.”

Bucky bit back the urge to argue. He wanted to barge in, shake the truth out of Peter, demand to know who he was. But Sam’s voice had that no-nonsense tone, the one that kept Bucky tethered to reason. So he nodded.

“We wait,” Sam said firmly.

And so they waited.

Two weeks.

Two long, dragging weeks of forced patience. Two weeks of watching Peter drift in and out of rooms, smiling faintly, eating their food, living under their roof. Two weeks of Bucky’s nerves burning hot beneath his skin every time Peter stretched his arms too casually or caught a falling glass before it shattered.

And then, finally, the chance came.

Bucky offered to take Peter grocery shopping. (“C’mon, kid. You’re picking the snacks this time.”) Peter agreed, tugging on his hoodie, shoving his wallet into his pocket.

Before they left, Bucky gave Sam one quiet instruction: “Bottom drawer. You’ll find it.”

Sam waited. Waited until the door shut, until the sound of the car drifted off.

Then he stood.

Walked to Peter’s room.

And opened the drawer.

Empty.

No red. No blue. No mask.

Gone.

Sam shut it slowly, unease crawling over his skin.

When Bucky came back, bags in hand and Peter trailing behind him with a sack of chips, Sam caught his eye. Waited until Peter was out of earshot, carrying groceries into the kitchen.

Then he said it.

“It’s not there.”

Bucky froze. “…What?”

“The suit. Drawer’s empty. Nothing there.”

The color drained from Bucky’s face. He set the grocery bag down too hard, cans clattering inside.

“No,” he muttered. “No, I saw it. I know I saw it.”

Sam lifted his hands carefully. “Buck. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was a—”

“It wasn’t nothing!” Bucky snapped, louder than he meant to. He dropped his voice instantly, glancing toward the kitchen. “…It wasn’t. Don’t you dare tell me I imagined this.”

Sam studied him. The tight set of his jaw. The haunted gleam in his eyes. The way his hands trembled just slightly, clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Quietly, Sam said, “Then maybe he moved it.”

Bucky went still.

The thought hit him like a gut punch. If Peter had moved it, it meant he knew. It meant he was hiding it, hiding himself, because he didn’t trust them with the truth.

And that—that broke something in Bucky’s chest.

He spiraled, but silently. Quiet panic, quiet hurt. Sitting at the table again, head in his hand, just like the night he first found it.

Sam reached out, hand steady on his shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. Don’t lose yourself over this.”

But Bucky couldn’t shake it.

Because in his mind, every puzzle piece lined up. Hydra. Spider-Man. Peter.

And if he was right, then the boy asleep under their roof wasn’t just his son.

He was Hydra’s creation.

And God help them all if Hydra ever came looking.

The sun was low, sliding down behind the rooftops, bleeding orange light into the streets. Brooklyn glowed warm for once, not so sharp around the edges. Bucky liked this time of day—quiet enough that the sidewalks emptied out, noisy enough that you didn’t feel exposed.

Peter walked at his side, hoodie zipped, hands jammed into his pockets. He always did that when they went out. Tucked himself in small, even though Bucky knew damn well the kid wasn’t small at all. Not where it counted.

They’d been walking for twenty minutes in silence, the grocery bags long since dropped off at home, the errand just an excuse. Bucky had been chewing on the words the whole way, tasting the bitterness of them, the risk.

Finally, he just let them out.

“You move too fast.”

Peter blinked, turned his head. “…Huh?”

“You move too fast,” Bucky repeated. “The way you dodge people, catch things before they hit the ground. Like you’re wired for it. Like me.”

Peter’s shoulders tensed under the hoodie. He kept his eyes ahead. “…I’m just… quick, I guess.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

The words cut sharper than Bucky meant them to. He softened his tone. “I’ve been watching. You’re not just quick. You’ve got… something else going on.”

Peter stayed quiet, shoving his hands deeper in his pockets.

Bucky pressed. “How long have you had them?”

Peter swallowed. “Couple years.”

“How many?”

“…Since I was fourteen.”

Bucky stopped walking. The kid’s words hit him like a hammer. Fourteen. Hydra. The timeline slid into place too perfectly. He’d seen it before—kids dragged young, bodies twisted into things they didn’t choose.

Peter slowed, glanced back at him nervously. “What?”

Bucky’s throat worked. “Hydra did it, didn’t they?”

Peter’s chest tightened. He could feel the truth pushing against his teeth, begging to spill out. But he couldn’t—not without unraveling everything. Not without losing this fragile, dangerous safety.

So he lied. Again.

“…Yeah,” Peter said softly. “Hydra.”

The air between them shifted, heavy with confirmation that wasn’t real. Bucky closed his eyes for a moment, fighting the swell of anger and pity. “Fourteen. Christ.” He started walking again, jaw tight. “They don’t waste time, do they? Ripping kids apart.”

Peter followed, head low. “Guess not.”

Bucky’s mind spiraled. Every reflex, every twitch he’d noticed—explained. Every strange glance Peter cast at shadows—explained. Even the haunted look in his eyes, too old for seventeen—explained.

It all lined up.

And it killed him.

He raked his hand through his hair. “Did it hurt?”

Peter blinked. “…What?”

“When they gave you the abilities.” Bucky’s voice was low, careful, like stepping on glass. “Did it hurt?”

Peter’s chest squeezed. He thought of the spider bite, the fever, the spinning dizziness. Not Hydra. Just an accident. A miracle. But he kept his voice flat. “…Yeah. A lot.”

Bucky cursed under his breath, fists clenching at his sides. “Bastards.”

Peter stared at the sidewalk. The lie burned on his tongue, but he let it settle.

Bucky couldn’t stop. The floodgates were open.

“Did they train you right after? Or did they wait?”

Peter’s mouth went dry. “After.”

“Did they put you in a program? Isolation? What was it?”

Peter’s mind scrambled. “Both. Little bit of both.”

“Did you… did you fight?”

“…Sometimes.”

Bucky’s breath hitched. He could picture it so clearly—another child soldier in another cold Hydra room, fists too small for the gloves they gave him. He felt sick.

Peter’s stomach twisted. He hated how easily the lies came now, how naturally they rolled off his tongue. But at the same time, there was comfort in Bucky’s anger—comfort in being believed.

They walked in silence for a stretch, the city’s hum filling the gaps.

Then Bucky spoke again, softer this time. “You remind me of me.”

Peter glanced sideways. “What do you mean?”

“The way you move. The way you look at people. You don’t trust anything, not even air.” Bucky’s mouth pulled tight. “That’s Hydra. That’s what they did to us. Made us weapons, then left us to figure out how to be people again.”

Peter’s throat burned. He wanted to say no, it’s not like that. He wanted to say I wasn’t Hydra’s, I was May’s, I was Tony’s, I was just a stupid kid who got bit by a spider.

But he couldn’t.

So he nodded. “…Yeah.”

Bucky stopped again, turning to face him. His eyes were sharp, but soft underneath. “They don’t get to keep you, you hear me? You’re not theirs anymore.”

Peter’s chest cracked. He swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in his eyes. “…I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Bucky stepped closer, resting his metal hand lightly on Peter’s shoulder. “You’re mine now. Mine and Sam’s. That’s it. Hydra doesn’t get you. Ever again.”

The words landed like a promise, heavy and solid. Peter’s knees almost buckled under it. He hated himself for how much he wanted it to be true, even built on a lie.

“…Okay,” Peter whispered.

Bucky gave his shoulder a squeeze, then let go, starting forward again.

Peter followed, each step heavier with guilt and relief.

He hated lying. He hated burying the truth deeper and deeper.

But God—he needed this. He needed Bucky’s belief, his anger, his protection. He needed someone to claim him.

Even if it meant letting Bucky believe Hydra made Spider-Man.

Even if it meant rewriting his whole story.

Because the way Bucky looked at him just then—like he was worth something, like he wasn’t broken—Peter couldn’t give that up. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

When they got back to the house, Peter didn’t linger. He slipped past the kitchen, past the couch, past Sam’s raised eyebrows.

“I’m just… tired,” he mumbled. “Gonna write some stuff down and crash.”

Bucky let him go. He always let him go. The kid needed his space.

The door to Peter’s room clicked shut.

Behind it, Peter pulled the journal from under his bed, flipping to the next empty page. His hand shook around the pen, but the words came steady anyway:

Another lie. I said Hydra gave me these powers. Fourteen years old. That’s when the spider bit me, so I guess it wasn’t even that hard to make it sound real. He believed me. Of course he did. He wanted to. He wants me to fit into the story he already has in his head. And I’m letting him. I’m letting him believe Hydra made me.

He paused, stared at the ink bleeding into the page. His chest felt heavy, but not with panic this time. With exhaustion. With the weight of carrying it all.

He looked at me like I wasn’t broken. Like I was his. Like I was safe. God, I wanted it. I still do. But it’s built on sand. It’ll collapse. And I’ll be under it when it does.

Peter set the pen down, shoved the journal away, and crawled into bed. His eyes closed before his head hit the pillow.

Bucky and Sam’s room sat at the end of the hall. It wasn’t extravagant—Sam hated anything that felt too showy, and Bucky didn’t care as long as the bed was firm and the door locked. It was theirs, though. Their one corner of the world.

Bucky shut the door softly behind him. Sam was already sitting at the edge of the bed, unlacing his boots. He didn’t look up.

“So?” Sam asked, casual but not casual.

Bucky leaned against the dresser, crossing his arms. “…He told me.”

Sam stilled, one boot halfway off. “…Told you what?”

“That Hydra did it. Gave him his abilities. Fourteen years old.”

Sam tugged the boot free slowly. “…He said that?”

Bucky nodded once, sharp. “Yeah.”

Sam sat back, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “…Damn. That… makes sense, doesn’t it?”

Bucky’s mouth twisted. “Too much sense.”

“Yeah,” Sam said quietly. He dropped the other boot with a soft thud, leaned his elbows on his knees. “It explains the reflexes. The strength. The way he—hell, the way he doesn’t even move like a kid. Explains why he flinches at shadows. Explains… everything.”

Bucky stepped forward, voice tight. “See? I’m not crazy.”

“I never said you were,” Sam said evenly.

“You didn’t have to. You looked at me like—”

“Buck.” Sam’s voice was calm, steady. “I believe you. Alright? I do. Hydra did it. It fits.”

Bucky exhaled, shoulders easing, just a little.

“But.” Sam’s brow furrowed. “…Something still doesn’t feel right.”

Bucky froze. “…What do you mean?”

Sam looked up finally, meeting his eyes. “I’ve been watching him. Closely. Kid’s got tells. The way he talks about Hydra? It’s like he’s saying it from the outside, not the inside. Like he’s reciting something he thinks we’ll believe.”

Bucky’s stomach tightened. “You think he’s lying.”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t want to think that. But something’s off. I can’t pin it, but… I feel it.”

Bucky turned away, pacing a step. His chest ached. “Don’t do this, Sam. Don’t tear it apart. He’s ours. That’s all that matters.”

Sam’s voice softened. “I know he’s ours. I want him here as much as you do. But if he’s hiding something… don’t you think we deserve to know? Don’t you think he deserves to be able to tell it?”

Bucky clenched his fists, metal fingers creaking. “…He’ll tell us. When he’s ready.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then we don’t push.” Bucky’s voice cracked. He turned, eyes wet, raw. “Sam, he trusted me enough to say Hydra made him. Do you know what that means? It means he gave me the ugliest part of himself and let me hold it. That’s more than I thought I’d ever get.”

Sam’s chest softened, gaze heavy with something like grief. He stood, crossed the room, rested a hand on Bucky’s arm.

“You just want him safe,” Sam murmured.

Bucky’s jaw worked. “I just want him mine.”

Sam pulled him into a loose embrace, forehead resting against his. “He is. One way or another, Buck. He’s ours. Doesn’t matter where the powers came from. Doesn’t matter what the story is. Kid’s under our roof, in our family. That’s it.”

Bucky exhaled shakily, some of the tension bleeding out of him. He let himself fold into Sam’s steadiness, let himself believe it for tonight.

Outside their door, Peter shifted in his sleep, mumbling softly. The journal under his bed held the truth, sealed tight in ink.

But for now, the lie lived louder.

[I just want to say, thank you all for all the attention you've brought to this little project of mine. If you have any ideas or prompts you'd love to see come true, go ahead and send them my way!!]

The kitchen glowed golden with morning light, streaming through half-open blinds. Peter lingered in the doorway, the smell of food curling around him like smoke.

Sam flipped eggs with practiced ease, humming under his breath, while Bucky moved quietly around him—pouring juice, setting plates, reaching for forks. They didn’t bump into each other, not really; every step, every pass, every shift was seamless.

It didn’t look choreographed. It just looked natural.

Peter froze where he stood, the threshold suddenly too heavy to cross.

Because this… this wasn’t just a kitchen. It wasn’t just brunch. This was home.

The clatter of pans, the low murmur of voices, the warmth of food on the stove—it all pressed down on him, sharp and soft at the same time. He hadn’t realized how much he missed this until it was right in front of him. Not the Avengers tower, not May’s kitchen, not even Stark’s lab fridge always stocked with soda. Just… this. The ordinary miracle of people moving around each other like they belonged.

His throat tightened, eyes stinging. He clenched his jaw, trying to hold it in.

Then Bucky’s head lifted. His sharp eyes caught Peter in the doorway, frozen like a kid sneaking into someone else’s house.

Bucky’s face softened.

“Hey, kid,” he said, voice low, inviting. “C’mon. Sit.”

Peter startled like he’d been caught, but nodded quickly, stepping forward, sliding into a chair at the table.

The table wobbled slightly under his elbows as he leaned on it. His stomach growled, loud enough that he felt his ears burn.

Bucky chuckled, setting a glass of juice in front of him. “Good timing.”

Sam plated eggs and slid them onto the table, followed by toast, fruit, and a small stack of pancakes. Slowly, the table filled. Slowly, Peter’s chest loosened.

Sam finally sat with them, shoulders relaxing as he exhaled. “There. That’s better.”

Peter stared down at the food, the steam rising. His fork hovered awkwardly in his hand until Bucky nudged him.

“Eat, kid. Don’t wait on us.”

He did. He ate fast at first, like someone might take it away, but slowed when Sam and Bucky started chatting around him.

Bucky cracked a dry joke about Sam burning eggs the first time he tried cooking here. Sam fired back about Bucky putting sugar instead of salt in pasta water. They laughed, easy and familiar.

And somewhere between bites, Peter laughed too. Quiet at first. Then louder.

The warmth spread through him like sunlight.

Halfway through the meal, Sam leaned back in his chair, fork resting on his plate. His gaze settled on Peter, thoughtful.

“So,” he began slowly, “we should talk about school.”

Peter froze mid-bite, fork halfway to his mouth. “School?”

“Yeah,” Sam said gently. “Or something like it. GED, maybe. We don’t really know what kind of… uh… education Hydra gave you.” His voice dipped slightly on the word, but he didn’t linger.

Peter’s heart skipped. The lie. Always the lie.

He forced a shrug. “Right. Yeah. Hydra… wasn’t really big on, uh, math tests.” He laughed weakly, hoping it passed.

Bucky’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t push.

Sam nodded, thoughtful. “A GED program could be good. Flexible, gets you the diploma, then we’ll figure out what you want after that. College, trade, whatever.”

“Okay,” Peter said quickly. Too quickly. But Sam didn’t press.

“Alright,” Sam said, voice smoothing into warmth again. “We’ll look into it.”

The conversation shifted.

Bucky leaned forward, elbows on the table. “So, kid. What do you like? Hobbies. Food. Music. Anything. We gotta get to know our son.”

The word—our son—lodged deep in Peter’s chest, aching in a way he didn’t have words for.

He fiddled with his fork, eyes darting between them. “Uh… I like science. Engineering stuff. Taking things apart. Building stuff.”

Sam grinned. “Smart kid.”

Peter shrugged, flushing. “I, uh, like photography too. Used to do it a lot. Haven’t in a while.”

Bucky nodded. “We’ll get you a camera.”

Peter’s head snapped up. “What? No—you don’t have to—”

“Not about ‘have to,’” Bucky said, firm but gentle. “You like it. You should have it.”

Peter’s chest tightened. He ducked his head, biting back the sting in his eyes.

Sam leaned in, voice soft. “What about food? Favorite meal?”

Peter hesitated. “Uh… anything that’s not ramen?”

They laughed, and Peter found himself laughing too.

Piece by piece, question by question, the table filled with small truths and smaller lies. Favorite colors, least favorite chores, music that got stuck in his head. Some answers were real, some were bent to fit the lie, but the warmth stayed the same.

The plates were half-empty now, syrup smeared across Peter’s fork, toast crumbs scattered. The kitchen smelled like butter and sugar, like coffee Sam had brewed strong enough to wake the dead.

It was warm. Not just in the room, but in Peter’s chest. Too warm, almost—like if he breathed too deep, he’d crack open.

Sam leaned back in his chair, eyeing him. “Alright, Parker. Favorite color. Go.”

Peter blinked, caught off guard. “Color?”

“Yeah,” Sam said with a grin. “Basic question. Everybody’s got one.”

Peter fiddled with the edge of his napkin. “I dunno. It’s kind of stupid.”

“Nothing stupid about it,” Sam said. “C’mon. Spill.”

Peter hesitated. He almost said blue. Easy, safe, forgettable. But the truth pressed up against his ribs until it slipped out anyway.

“...Yellow.”

Sam raised his brows. “Yellow, huh?”

Bucky tilted his head, curious. “Why yellow?”

Peter shifted in his chair, embarrassed. His throat tightened around the answer.

“Because it’s… I don’t know. It’s warm. The sun. Sunsets. It just feels… good. Like…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “It’s dumb.”

Sam shook his head firmly. “Not dumb at all.”

Peter forced a shrug, eyes dropping to his plate.

But inside—inside, the truth burned.

Yellow wasn’t just sunshine or sunsets. It was Ned’s ridiculous mustard-colored polo shirt, the one Peter teased him about every time he wore it, even though secretly, he loved how bright it was. It was the way MJ’s laugh felt like a ray of sun breaking through clouds, how her smile lit up her whole face. It was May’s favorite color—yellow throw pillows, yellow coffee mugs, the sunflower apron she wore when she made pancakes.

Yellow was family. Friends. Love.

Everything he couldn’t say. Everything erased.

So he swallowed it down, the lie sticking in his throat. “I just… like the sun, I guess.”

Sam smiled, easy and warm. “Kid after my own heart. I’m more of a blue guy myself, but I get it.”

Peter nodded quickly, hiding behind another bite of toast.

Across the table, Bucky stayed quiet. He was watching Peter—not with suspicion, but with something sharper. Something gentler.

Bucky knew.

Not the truth, not really—not Ned or MJ or May. But he knew what kind of weight hid behind a simple answer. He knew the way trauma twisted even the lightest questions into landmines.

And he knew what cold felt like. What it meant to live years in the dark, locked away, starved of sunlight until you forgot what warmth even was.

Bucky thought about saying it. About telling Peter, I get it. Hydra kept me in the dark too. That’s why the sun feels like freedom.

But he didn’t.

Because Peter wasn’t ready.

Because sometimes, the worst thing you could do was force someone to say out loud what hurt them.

So instead, Bucky leaned back, letting Sam steer the conversation into safer waters—music, favorite foods, movies Peter hadn’t seen but pretended he had.

But the thought stayed, lodged under Bucky’s ribs: he likes yellow because he’s lived too long without the sun.

And the ache stayed too, the bone-deep knowing that the kid sitting across from him carried the same shadows Bucky did.

The same cold.

The same dark.

The plates clinked into the sink, warm water running over them. Peter rolled up the sleeves of his hoodie and reached for the sponge before either Sam or Bucky could argue.

“I got it,” he said quickly. “You cooked. I’ll clean.”

Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Bucky nudged him with an elbow. “Let him.”

Peter caught the exchange out of the corner of his eye but didn’t comment. The suds foamed over his fingers, the scent of dish soap strangely grounding. He worked through the stack of plates, one by one, until the sink was empty and the counter wiped down.

It wasn’t much, but it felt good to contribute. To do something that mattered in this new, unfamiliar place.

When he was done, he dried his hands on the dish towel and muttered a quick “thanks for breakfast” before retreating down the hall.

He shut the door of his room behind him.

The word still felt foreign. Heavy. His.

The bed sat too perfectly centered, the desk stiff in the corner, the dresser aligned like it belonged in a catalog. It was neat. Too neat. Like it wasn’t his yet.

So Peter went to work.

First, the bed. He crouched low, slid his fingers under the frame, and with a sharp inhale, lifted. The queen-sized bed rose off the floor like it was nothing, his arms steady under the weight. He turned, shifted, and set it down against the far wall, where the morning light would fall across it.

Next, the desk. He dragged it to the opposite corner, angling it toward the window. The dresser followed, moved against the wall closest to the bathroom.

Piece by piece, the room began to take shape—not as a guest room, but as his room.

He wiped sweat from his forehead, standing back to admire the new layout. For the first time in months, maybe longer, he felt like he had control over something. This space wasn’t temporary. It wasn’t survival. It was his.

The thought made his chest ache.

A soft knock at the door startled him.

“Kid? You decent?”

Peter turned, hastily tugging his hoodie straight. “Yeah, come in.”

The door cracked open, and Bucky stepped inside. He stopped almost immediately, eyebrows climbing as he took in the rearranged furniture.

The bed now rested flush against the opposite wall. The desk angled toward the sunlight. The room looked lived in already—claimed.

Bucky’s eyes flicked to Peter, then back to the bed.

“You moved this?” he asked, voice low.

Peter’s heart skipped. He forced a shrug, trying to look casual. “Yeah. I didn’t like where it was.”

“That’s a queen-sized bed,” Bucky said, like Peter hadn’t noticed.

“Yeah,” Peter said again, swallowing. “It’s fine. Not that heavy.”

Bucky’s gaze sharpened, his head tilting slightly. The kid was skinny, maybe five-seven, wiry at best. He shouldn’t have been able to budge that bed an inch, let alone lift it.

But Bucky remembered the way Peter had dodged in the diner, the way he moved too fast for a normal kid. The puzzle pieces slid closer, though Bucky didn’t force them together.

Instead, he let out a low whistle. “Huh.”

Peter shifted awkwardly, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pocket. “Guess Hydra left me with a few… perks.” He tried to make it sound like a joke, but the words sat heavy in the air.

Bucky’s face softened. He didn’t call him on it. He didn’t press.

“Looks good,” he said simply, nodding at the new layout. “Better than before.”

Peter blinked, caught off guard by the approval. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “You made it yours.”

The words hit Peter square in the chest. He ducked his head quickly, pretending to straighten the sheets.

Bucky lingered a moment longer, then stepped back toward the door. “We’ll be in the living room if you need anything.”

“Okay,” Peter said softly.

The door clicked shut, leaving him alone again.

Peter sat on the edge of the bed, the frame steady under his weight. He let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair.

Time passed in strange ways in the Barnes-Wilson house. Some days stretched out long and lazy, soft with warmth. Others flew by in a blur of noise and laughter and quiet dinners around the table.

And Peter—slowly, carefully—settled into it.

Bucky gave him an allowance, pressed a few folded bills into his hand every week with a gruff, “Don’t spend it all on junk.” He gave him a curfew too, which Peter thought was ridiculous at first, until he realized he didn’t mind. There was something grounding about it, the gentle structure of knowing someone cared enough to set rules.

With his allowance, Peter started shaping his room.

He bought posters—some superhero stuff, some space photos, one of New York’s skyline at night. He stuck glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, arranging constellations until his neck hurt from craning up. He picked out sheets with a bold, cool design—blue with lightning bolts—that made the room feel more his.

And once, on a whim, he bought a Star Wars Lego set.

The box sat on his desk for two days before he touched it. He’d bought it because it reminded him of being a kid with Ned, spending hours building ridiculous ships, laughing when pieces got stuck to the wrong sections.

Now, staring at the unopened box, the ache hollowed his chest. Ned would’ve loved it. Ned should’ve been here.

Peter almost put it away, but then Sam wandered in, saw the box, and grinned. “You kidding me? You think I’m letting you build that without me?”

Peter blinked, startled. “You… like Legos?”

“Who doesn’t like Legos?” Sam scoffed. “Move over.”

They ended up hunched on the floor for hours, sorting pieces by color, Sam’s big hands fumbling with the smaller bricks while Peter snickered at him. By the time the ship was finished, it was slightly crooked, but Peter didn’t care. He grinned so wide his cheeks hurt.

The ache never fully left, but it dulled.

School crept back into his life too, though not the way it used to be.

Sam helped him set up the GED program—online classes, assignments, tests he could take from the desk in his room. “No excuses,” Sam had said firmly, arms crossed. “You’re too smart to waste that brain.”

Peter agreed quickly. It was easier to lie about Hydra’s “education” if he was actually doing the work. And secretly, part of him was glad. It gave him something to focus on besides the gnawing quiet at night.

For a while, the comfort sat steady in his chest. The guilt and pain faded to whispers. He laughed more, ate well, slept easy.

Until the nightmares started.

They didn’t come every night. Just enough to sink their claws in.

He dreamed of May’s face, pale and broken under the harsh hospital lights. He dreamed of MJ’s confused eyes, her voice flat with the absence of recognition. He dreamed of walking the streets alone, unseen, invisible, forgotten.

He’d wake with his heart pounding, sweat soaking his shirt, the glow-in-the-dark stars overhead blurring through his tears.

It didn’t matter that he was in his room. It didn’t matter that the hall light sometimes stayed on because Bucky always left it that way. He was alone again. Always alone.

Until one morning, Bucky caught him at the kitchen table, head in his hands, eyes bloodshot from another night without rest.

“You okay, kid?” Bucky asked, voice low.

Peter jolted, sitting up straighter. “I’m fine.”

Bucky gave him a look that said he didn’t believe a word. He sat across from him, the chair creaking under his weight.

“You get nightmares,” Bucky said—not a question, just fact.

Peter froze.

“I get ‘em too,” Bucky continued, eyes distant for a moment. “Used to tear me apart. Still do, sometimes.” He flexed his left hand unconsciously, the metal catching the light. “What helped was writing. Just… putting it down. Didn’t matter what. Dreams. Feelings. Bullshit I couldn’t say out loud. Got it out of my head, at least.”

Peter swallowed hard, throat thick.

“Doesn’t fix it,” Bucky said, softer now. “But it helps.”

Peter nodded slowly.

That night, he dug out an old notebook from the back of his closet. The cover was blank, the pages crisp. He sat at his desk under the weak glow of his lamp, pen trembling in his hand.

At first, he didn’t know what to write.

Then the words tumbled out.

He started with May. How much he missed her. How he still smelled her cooking sometimes, like it clung to him. How he’d give anything to hear her laugh again.

Then Tony. How he wished he could show him what he’d built. How the man would’ve been furious if he knew the kid he’d taken under his wing was living off ramen in a shoebox apartment.

Then MJ. Ned. Their names burned onto the page. How MJ’s smile felt like sunlight. How Ned’s laugh filled a room. How both of them looked through him now, strangers.

He wrote about the lies. Every lie he’d told Sam and Bucky, tracked like tally marks. He didn’t want to lose count. He couldn’t afford to.

He wrote about Strange’s spell. About being erased. About how it hollowed him out, left him invisible. About how heavy it was to carry all the memories alone.

Page after page, he bled out onto the paper, ink staining his fingers.

When he finally stopped, the room was quiet except for his uneven breaths. The notebook lay open, filled with everything he couldn’t say out loud.

And for the first time in weeks, when he lay down under the stars on his ceiling, sleep came without a fight.

Peter had gotten used to the rhythm of the house.

The smell of coffee in the mornings, Sam humming while he cooked, Bucky clattering weights in the garage when he thought no one was listening. The glow of the television in the evenings, the low rumble of their bickering, the laughter that followed.

The rhythm of family.

And Peter—God help him—had become content. So much so that, for weeks, he almost forgot about the blue and red suit tucked away in a duffle bag, buried deep in the bottom drawer of his dresser.

It wasn’t intentional. He hadn’t meant to forget. But life here filled the cracks in ways he didn’t expect. The GED assignments kept him busy, Sam’s steady encouragement kept him grounded, and Bucky’s quiet check-ins kept him… safe.

Spider-Man slipped out of his thoughts.

Until one lazy Sunday afternoon, hunting for a hoodie, Peter tugged open the drawer and his fingers brushed nylon.

He froze.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled the duffle free and unzipped it.

There it was. The suit.

The colors were duller than he remembered, the fabric creased from weeks of being stuffed away. The mask’s white lenses stared back at him like eyes, accusing.

Peter sat heavily on the edge of his bed, suit pooled in his lap.

For a long moment, he just stared. Memories crowded fast and sharp—the feel of wind rushing past his ears, the sharp ache of webbing pulling taut, the heat of a fight, the screams, the sirens. May’s voice telling him he had a gift. Tony’s voice telling him he had a responsibility.

And then—silence. The apartment. The ramen cups. The empty fridge.

And now… this house. This warmth. This home.

His hands tightened around the fabric.

He didn’t need the suit anymore.

Not here. Not in this house.

For the first time since the bite, he didn’t feel like Spider-Man. He didn’t feel like he had to be. With Sam and Bucky, he was just Peter. Just a kid.

And that felt… good.

It felt dangerous too, in ways he didn’t want to think about.

With careful fingers, Peter folded the suit. Not haphazardly—neatly, like it deserved respect even if he couldn’t wear it. He smoothed the wrinkles, tucked the mask inside the chest piece, and pressed it flat.

Then he slid it into a plain cardboard box.

The journal followed—heavy with secrets and lies, ink that couldn’t be erased. He tucked it beneath the suit, sealing them together.

He crouched, lifted the bed frame, and shoved the box into the shadows underneath.

Gone.

Out of sight.

Peter sat back on his heels, breath shuddering out of him. His chest ached, but lighter too.

The suit was still there, but he didn’t need it. Not anymore. Not in this home.

For the first time in years, Peter Parker didn’t need Spider-Man to survive.

[Alright! New chapter, anyway. I might come back to rewrite this one; I'm not entirely satisfied with what it's giving. Nonetheless, it fits. So I hope you guys enjoy today's upload :3]

Saying yes had been the easy part.

It was when Peter pushed himself off the bed, when his feet actually carried him toward the bathroom, that it sank in. His hands shook as he opened the closet door, staring at the sad little pile of belongings that made up his “life.”

A duffle bag. A few clothes, threadbare from too many washes. A toothbrush. A hairbrush with missing bristles. His Spider-Man suit, shoved into the far corner under a stack of laundry, the mask balled up like it was just another t-shirt. He hesitated at that—staring at the red and blue fabric like it was staring back at him—but shoved it into the bag before he could think too hard.

The zipper groaned as he pulled it shut. That was it. Everything he owned in one bag.

When he stepped back into the living room, his stomach dropped.

Sam and Bucky weren’t just waiting. They weren’t just standing around. They were clearing the place out.

The few books Peter had stacked by the bed—gone, packed neatly into a bag. The blanket Bucky had bought him—the one that still smelled like the store—folded and tucked away. The extra clothes Bucky had grabbed in the middle of the night, stuffed into another duffle. Even the groceries, the cans and cereal boxes, stacked into reusable bags like they’d planned this for weeks.

They weren’t just talking about taking him. They were doing it.

Peter froze in the doorway, bag hanging heavy from his shoulder. His throat went dry.

It felt like erasing himself all over again. Like Strange’s spell made flesh—his name, his life, his little space in the world wiped clean in minutes.

Except—no. This wasn’t erasure. This wasn’t vanishing.

This was starting new.

That’s what he told himself, anyway, as his pulse raced and his chest tightened.

“Got your stuff?” Sam asked without looking up, sliding a stack of paperbacks into the last bag.

Peter nodded stiffly. His voice cracked when he said, “Yeah.”

Bucky stepped past him, grabbing the duffle off his shoulder like it weighed nothing. “C’mon, kid. Let’s go.”

Peter didn’t move at first. He stared at the room—the peeling wallpaper, the crooked blinds, the bed that was more springs than cushion. It looked emptier now than when he’d first moved in. Hollow. Like he’d never been there at all.

His chest clenched. I’m erasing myself again.

But then Sam clapped a hand on his back, gentle but firm, steering him toward the door. “Let’s roll, kid. No looking back.”

The hallway was dim and smelled faintly of mildew. Usually, when he left the apartment, he kept his head down, shoulders hunched, moving fast so nobody looked at him too long.

But now—Sam was on one side, Bucky on the other. Their footsteps matched his. Their bags swung heavy at their sides.

He didn’t feel invisible.

Peter wasn’t walking alone anymore

The guilt didn’t hit yet. Not really. Not in words, not in any way he could name.

It was just a quiet ache, buried deep under the relief, under the shaky warmth of being flanked, guarded, wanted.

A seed planted. Small. Silent.

One day, he’d feel it. He’d feel it gnawing at him—that he’d lied, that he’d let them believe a story that wasn’t true. That he’d traded honesty for comfort.

But not yet.

Not now.

Now, Peter stepped out of the building with them, the weight of his duffle on his shoulder and the weight of something else—something heavier, something bigger—lifting off his chest.

Now, for the first time since the spell, he didn’t feel like a ghost.

He felt like a kid walking home with his dads.

Even if he knew, deep down, that ghosts never really stayed gone.

The car hummed low beneath them, headlights cutting through the wet Brooklyn streets. Rain hadn’t fallen, not really, but the asphalt still gleamed like it remembered.

Peter sat in the back, duffle bag on the seat beside him, staring out at the blur of neon signs and shuttered bodegas. Normally, car rides like this made him restless, trapped in silence too heavy to carry. But now… there was something different.

It was comfortable.

Not loud, not crowded with conversation or laughter. Just—comfortable. Like there was a soft thread stretched between the three of them, tying them together.

He leaned his temple against the cool window glass, letting the hum of the engine soothe his nerves. In the front, Sam drove steady, one hand on the wheel, the other draped casually on the armrest. Bucky sat in the passenger seat, his posture deceptively stiff, but every so often his hand twitched—fingers brushing against Sam’s armrest, too close to be accidental.

And every time, Sam’s pinky would nudge back, just barely, a tiny acknowledgment no one was supposed to see.

Peter saw it.

He was good at noticing. It came with being invisible half the time—you learned to read people without them realizing. When no one paid you attention, you became the master of paying attention to everyone else.

So he noticed. The subtle glances Sam and Bucky traded when they thought the other wasn’t looking. The ghost of a smile tugging at Bucky’s mouth when Sam adjusted the mirror. The way Sam’s jaw softened, only slightly, when Bucky muttered something under his breath.

They didn’t say it out loud. They didn’t have to. Peter knew.

And he wasn’t going to ask. God, no. That was a whole different level of personal. He wasn’t going to poke at whatever this was between them. He wasn’t going to risk shattering that quiet thread of comfort with questions that weren’t his to ask.

So instead, he asked something else. Something safer.

“How’d you guys meet?”

The words slipped out before he could second-guess them. His voice was quiet, half-lost in the hum of the car.

Sam’s eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror. “Me and him?”

Peter shrugged, feigning casual. “Yeah. I mean, you guys seem… close.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Bucky huffed softly, almost a laugh but not quite.

“Long story,” he muttered.

Sam smirked. “We’ll give you the short version.”

Peter tilted his head, waiting.

Sam adjusted his grip on the wheel. “War. Chaos. A whole mess of bad ideas. He was brainwashed. I was trying not to get killed. You know—standard superhero meet-cute.”

Peter snorted, unable to help it. “That’s… one way to put it.”

Bucky shot Sam a look, but there was no heat in it. “You make it sound like a sitcom.”

Sam grinned. “Sometimes it feels like one.”

Peter smiled faintly, sinking back into the seat. The banter was easy, familiar, like they’d done this dance a thousand times. And maybe they had.

He thought about how different they were—Sam, all warmth and reason, Bucky, all sharp edges and quiet weight. And yet, in the way they filled the car together, in the way their presences overlapped, Peter could tell. They fit.

His chest ached with something he didn’t have words for.

He wanted to fit somewhere like that.

So he asked another question. “So… you guys live together?”

“Yeah,” Sam said.

“Sometimes,” Bucky corrected.

Sam rolled his eyes. “All the time,” he countered. “He just doesn’t like admitting it.”

Peter’s lips twitched. “Sounds complicated.”

“Everything with him is complicated,” Sam said, jerking his chin at Bucky.

“Not everything,” Bucky muttered, staring out the window.

The words were soft, but Peter caught them. He always caught things people didn’t mean to say out loud.

The car fell quiet again, but not heavy. Just… easy. Peter’s duffle shifted with the motion of a turn, pressing into his side, a reminder that he was really doing this. That he was leaving one life behind and driving toward another.

His chest tightened. Panic whispered at the edges of his mind—you’re erasing yourself, you’re disappearing again, you’re going to regret this—but it was quieter now. Softer. Almost drowned out by the warmth radiating from the front seats.

He let his eyes slip closed, just for a moment. The hum of the engine, the muted voices of Sam and Bucky trading quiet words, the steady rhythm of the road beneath them—it lulled him.

The car crunched over the gravel drive, and when the engine cut off, silence rushed in.

Peter blinked awake, the kind of half-sleep where the world blurred but his nerves never really let him rest. His head felt heavy against the glass, and when he sat up, the sight before him knocked the breath out of his chest.

The house.

It wasn’t a mansion, nothing Stark-sized or billionaire-shiny. But it was big. Solid. Two stories tall with a wide porch and clean windows that caught the early sunlight. The siding was a soft blue-gray, the shutters white, the lawn neat but not overly manicured. It looked lived in. Loved.

Peter swallowed, gripping the duffle tighter in his lap.

This is it, he thought. The house. The one I’m supposed to call home now.

Sam had already stepped out, popping the trunk. Bucky lingered at the passenger door, glancing back. “You coming, kid?”

Peter nodded quickly, forcing his legs to move. The gravel shifted under his sneakers as he followed them up the front steps. The porch creaked just slightly beneath their weight, the kind of sound that told you it had stories.

When Sam unlocked the door and pushed it open, warmth spilled out. Not just literal warmth, though the air inside was soft and cozy compared to the damp outside. It was the kind of warmth that came from people living here, moving here, being here.

The entryway opened into a living room, with a couch that looked just this side of too-worn, a coffee table littered with coasters, and a shelf lined with mismatched books and framed photos. A blanket, probably Sam’s, was tossed over the back of the couch. Bucky’s boots sat by the door.

Peter’s chest tightened. He wasn’t used to homes that felt like this anymore.

Bucky stepped in first, setting the duffle down. “Alright. Tour time.”

Peter followed him down the hallway while Sam trailed behind, chiming in with commentary.

“That thermostat there?” Sam said, pointing at the wall. “Don’t touch it unless you want me yelling at you. Barnes runs cold. I don’t.”

Bucky rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

They moved into the kitchen—bright, with wide counters, a fridge plastered with magnets and grocery lists, and a stack of clean dishes drying by the sink. Sam tapped the fridge. “Help yourself to anything in here. But label your leftovers, or Bucky’ll eat ‘em and pretend he didn’t.”

“Hey,” Bucky muttered.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

Bucky grumbled something under his breath, and Peter smiled despite himself.

They moved past the dining room, the office, the laundry tucked neatly in a closet, until finally, Bucky pushed open a door at the end of the hall.

“This one’s yours.”

Peter stepped inside.

The guest room wasn’t huge, but it was more space than Peter had had in months. A queen-sized bed, neatly made with crisp sheets. A dresser. A desk by the window, sunlight spilling across it. The attached bathroom door was open, revealing a clean shower, a small sink, folded towels.

It wasn’t fancy. But it was his.

Sam leaned against the doorframe. “We figured this’d be best for you. Bathroom attached. Privacy. You can set it up however you want. Posters, furniture, whatever.”

Bucky crossed his arms but his voice was softer than usual. “You’ve got total control here. Move the bed around if you want. Paint the walls. Doesn’t matter. It’s your room now.”

Control.

The word hit Peter like a punch.

He nodded quickly, throat too tight to answer.

Sam clapped his shoulder gently. “We’ll let you unpack. Take your time.”

And with that, they slipped out, the door clicking shut behind them.

The silence pressed in.

Peter dropped the duffle onto the bed and sat beside it, the mattress sinking beneath his weight. He stared at the room, at the neat corners of the sheets, the soft hum of the vent overhead.

My room.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he had a space he could control. Not just a studio he could barely afford, not a pull-out couch pretending to be a bed. A room. His room.

His hands shook.

Peter buried his face in them, shoulders hunching forward. His chest hitched, not with loud sobs, but with the quiet, exhausted kind. The kind that sat low, deep, rattling around where no one could hear.

Because this—this was the kind of love he thought he’d lost for good.

He thought of May’s house, her voice floating down the hall telling him dinner was ready. He thought of Tony’s tower, stocked with tech and laughter and food. He thought of all the places he’d called home, one by one, stripped from him until he had nothing left but an empty apartment and a fridge that mocked him.

And now—this.

A room. A home. A chance.

His hands stayed pressed to his face as his shoulders shook. Quiet. Always quiet.

Meanwhile, down the hall, the kitchen filled with the quiet clatter of movement.

Sam stood at the stove, pulling pans from the cabinet, eggs from the fridge. Bucky shuffled around him, pulling down plates, setting utensils on the counter. They moved easily, without thought, like gears in the same machine.

“Eggs or pancakes?” Sam asked.

“Both,” Bucky said.

“You’re not the one cooking.”

“You’re not the one cleaning.”

Sam smirked. “We’ll see.”

Bucky brushed past him to grab the orange juice from the fridge. His hand settled briefly on Sam’s waist as he squeezed by, steadying himself in the small space. Sam didn’t flinch. He didn’t even react, just shifted slightly to make room, smile tugging at his mouth.

It was the kind of choreography you only got with time, with familiarity. With something more than friendship.

They didn’t talk about it. They didn’t have to.

Bucky poured juice while Sam flipped eggs, their conversation dropping to quiet, domestic things. Groceries. Repairs. A leaky faucet in the upstairs bathroom.

“Should’ve called someone weeks ago,” Sam muttered, shaking his head.

“You like fixing stuff,” Bucky said.

“Doesn’t mean I got time for it.”

“You’ll make time.”

Sam shot him a look but didn’t argue.

The smell of food filled the air, warm and heavy. The kind of smell that seeped into walls, into fabric, into memory.

And when Peter finally stepped into the doorway, drawn by the scent, he froze.

Because it didn’t look like two superheroes cooking. It didn’t look like two men bound by war or trauma or circumstance.

[Literally cried as I wrote this one, my dears, prepare yourselves, also I can't stop writing, expect more tomorrow afternoon.]

“He can’t stay here,” Bucky said again, sharp as the edge of his knife.

Sam crossed his arms, planting his feet. “And I said—we’re not just taking him. You don’t get to snatch a kid out of his apartment and decide you’re dad of the year.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “And you don’t get to leave him in a dump where he’s one busted lock away from getting killed.”

“Don’t twist my words, man. I’m saying we handle this right.” Sam jabbed a finger at Bucky’s chest. “Paperwork. Legal guardianship. Something solid. Not your half-baked idea of just—” He mimicked Bucky’s gruff voice, “‘C’mon, kid, pack your bags, you live with me now.’”

Bucky’s metal arm flexed with a sharp whirr. “If that’s what it takes, then yeah!”

Sam’s voice rose. “Do you even hear yourself? That’s kidnapping!”

Bucky snapped back, “It’s protection!”

Their voices climbed higher, volleying like grenades across the cramped studio.

“You don’t just claim a kid because you feel guilty!”

“And you don’t abandon him to rot just because you’re scared of bending the rules!”

“You think the system is gonna let you walk in and say, ‘Yeah hi, I’m a reformed Hydra assassin and this is my son now’?!”

“It’s not about me, it’s about him!”

Peter stood frozen in the middle of the room, backpack slung over one shoulder. He’d only managed to get one word in—“uh”—before the shouting swallowed him.

“Uh, guys—”

But they didn’t stop.

“You think you know best because you’ve got a shiny government title now?”

“You think you know best because you’ve got a metal arm and a martyr complex?”

Peter raised his voice. “Hey, I just—”

“Not now, kid,” Sam barked, without looking.

Bucky rounded on Sam again. “At least I’m not willing to stand here and watch him waste away in a shoebox!”

Peter tried again, louder. “I just need to get to work—”

“NO.”

The word cracked through the air in perfect sync, both men snapping their heads toward him with identical glares.

Peter froze, wide-eyed. “Did you just—did you just say no? Both of you? At the same time?!”

“Yes!” they snapped in unison again.

Peter blinked, horrified and—God help him—slightly amused. It was like watching a custody battle scene on TV, except he was the kid in the middle, backpack clutched like a shield.

Sam turned back to Bucky, throwing his hands up. “See? This is exactly why we can’t just bulldoze our way through this. He’s got a life. A job. He’s not a stray puppy you just pick up off the street.”

Bucky scowled, unyielding. “And what kind of job pays him enough to live in this hellhole? Don’t tell me it’s anything good.”

Peter winced. “…a waiter.”

Both men swiveled back to him, dead silent.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh my God.”

Bucky’s scowl deepened. “Absolutely not. Not happening.”

Peter threw his hands in the air. “I need the job! How else am I supposed to pay rent? Or food? Or—”

“You’ve got us now,” Bucky cut in, firm.

Sam groaned. “See, this is what I’m talking about. You can’t just promise him things you can’t back up!”

“I can back it up!” Bucky snapped. “I’ve got contacts, resources—”

“You’ve got trauma and a murder record!”

Peter’s eyes went wide. “Okay, wow, this is escalating—”

The shouting rolled over him again, relentless.

“You think I can’t take care of him?”

“I think you don’t know the first thing about being a parent!”

Peter’s head whipped between them, his heart pounding. He should’ve been terrified. He should’ve run. But instead, he stood rooted, horrified and… intrigued.

The yelling tapered off eventually, like a storm running out of thunder. Sam sat down at the table, rubbing his temples. Bucky stood by the fridge, arms crossed, breathing like he’d just gone a round in the ring.

And Peter… Peter sat on the edge of his pull-out couch, backpack still on his shoulders, staring at the floor like it might give him answers.

He wasn’t going to work. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Maybe not ever again. Because apparently this was his life now: two men yelling about custody while he sat quietly, waiting for a verdict.

Part of him wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. The other part wanted to curl up and never move again.

I’ve got two dads now, he thought, bitter and fond at the same time. One wants to sort of kidnap me, and the other wants to file paperwork first. Lucky me.

He let the backpack slide off his shoulders with a dull thud. His fingers twisted in the blanket Bucky had brought, knuckles white.

He wanted to say something. He wanted to tell them he couldn’t just leave, not when this studio was the only thing left with his name on it. His crappy, empty fridge. His sad excuse of a bed. His rent payments scraped together from late-night shifts. It was nothing. But it was his nothing.

And he was terrified of losing it. Terrified of losing everything again.

His chest ached. His mind dragged him back—MJ’s smile, Ned’s laugh, May’s warm hug in the kitchen, Happy’s awkward dad energy, Tony’s sharp voice that always softened just a little for him.

He pictured May walking into this apartment, seeing the peeling paint, the broken lock, the fridge stocked with nothing but dust. She’d cry. Not because of the place, but because of him. Because he let it get this bad. May would’ve given a kidney, her whole heart, anything, just to make sure he had stability. She would’ve worked three jobs if she had to.

And Tony—God. Tony would’ve been furious. Furious at himself. At Peter. At the world. He would’ve seen this mess and snapped his fingers, bought out the whole damn building just so Peter could have the top floor. He would’ve looked at Bucky and, without hesitation, said, take care of him, soldier. Don’t let him end up like this.

Peter swallowed hard. His throat burned.

He could almost hear them all in his head, voices overlapping. May, Ned, MJ, Happy, Tony. Telling him he deserved more. Telling him this wasn’t good enough.

And maybe they were right. Maybe this wasn’t stability. Maybe this wasn’t living.

But the thought of leaving—of letting go of the last scrap of his name, his independence, his paper-thin disguise of normalcy—made him want to vomit.

Bucky’s voice cut through the fog. Low. Gentle, but unrelenting.

“Come with me.”

Peter looked up.

Bucky’s blue eyes pinned him in place. There wasn’t any pity there. Just stubborn certainty. “You don’t belong here, kid. Not in this hole. You need more than this, and I can give it to you. Food. Safety. A real bed.”

Peter’s hands trembled against the blanket. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to leap at it, to let himself fall into the comfort of being taken care of. To let someone else hold the weight for a while.

But his voice cracked when it came out. “I… I can’t. If I leave, I lose everything I’ve got left. And I know it’s not much, but—it’s mine. And if I let it go, then… then I’ve got nothing. Again.”

Bucky took a step closer, crouching so he was eye level. His voice was steady, his expression soft but carved from steel. “You won’t have nothing. You’ll have me.” Peter’s breath hitched.

“And him,” Bucky added, jerking his head toward Sam, who was watching the whole thing with that thoughtful, wary look he always wore. “We won’t let you slip through the cracks. Not again. So come with me, Come with us. Trust me.”

Peter squeezed his eyes shut. He trusted Bucky—of course he did. That was the problem. He trusted him enough that this stupid lie was becoming harder and harder to keep straight. He trusted him enough to want to say yes.

But what if something happened? What if the second he let go, it all disappeared again?

He didn’t know which was worse: leaving, or staying. Telling the truth, or keeping the lie alive.

All he knew was that the choice was going to break him.

Peter hadn’t answered yet.

Bucky’s words hung heavy in the air — You’ll have me. — and Peter’s chest still felt too tight, too hot, too raw. He couldn’t look away from him, but he couldn’t say yes either. Not yet.

That’s when Sam finally pushed himself up from the table and crossed the room. His steps were steady, his voice calm, but there was an undercurrent there — gentle steel.

“Alright, Barnes,” Sam said, his gaze flicking between Bucky and Peter. “You made your pitch. Now let me make mine.”

Bucky bristled, like Sam was about to tear him down again, but Sam just shook his head. “Relax. I’m not telling you you’re wrong. I’m telling you the kid has to want this. Otherwise, it’s not worth a damn.”

Peter blinked, startled, and Sam crouched down beside him, just close enough that Peter couldn’t ignore the sincerity in his face.

“Look, kid. I’m not gonna sugarcoat it. This place?” Sam gestured around the sad little studio — the couch-bed, the bare fridge, the peeling walls. “It’s not cutting it. You deserve better. And if you come with us, you’ll be safe. Nobody’s gonna find you, nobody’s gonna hurt you. You won’t have to run yourself ragged waiting on tables or scraping by.”

Peter swallowed, fingers tugging at the blanket in his lap.

Sam kept going, softer now. “You can go back to school. Study whatever you want. Engineering, medicine, art history — hell, basket weaving if that’s your thing. Point is, you’ll get to choose. You’ll get those years Hydra stole from you back. You’ll get to be a teenager. A real one. No labs, no experiments, no missions. Just life.”

Peter’s breath caught.

It was everything he wanted. Everything he missed. Everything he thought was gone forever.

But it was too much. Too good.

Sam’s eyes stayed locked on his. “We can’t make this choice for you. But you should know… whatever you decide, you won’t be alone anymore. You’ve got us. Both of us. And we’re not going anywhere.”

Bucky’s hand landed heavy but steady on Peter’s shoulder, grounding him. “It’s your call, kid. But I meant what I said. You don’t belong here.”

Peter’s mind spun. Sam’s words pressed against every raw nerve, every hidden want. No work. School. Safety. The years he’d lost.

He thought of May’s warm voice. Go back to school, Peter. You’re too smart for anything less.

He thought of Tony’s sharp grin. You’re my prodigy, kid. Don’t waste it.

His throat burned. He wanted to say yes. God, he wanted to say yes.

But what if it all vanished? What if the second he trusted them, it was ripped away again?

His heart pounded, torn between the life he had and the life they were dangling in front of him. Between the lie and the truth.

The room went still.

Sam’s words lingered in the air like the echo of a hymn. Peter sat frozen on the edge of the couch-bed, his heart pounding too loud in his ears. Bucky’s hand was still on his shoulder, heavy and steady, grounding him in place.

He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t move. Every muscle in his body trembled with the war between what he wanted and what he feared.

The silence grew heavy, oppressive.

Then, barely audible, Bucky whispered:

“Please.”

It wasn’t the sharp command of a soldier. It wasn’t the clipped bark of a man used to orders. It was soft. Raw. So quiet Peter almost thought he imagined it.

Peter looked up, startled. Bucky’s face was turned away, his jaw tight, his eyes shadowed. Vulnerable in a way Peter had never seen.

That single word cracked something open.

Bucky wasn’t just trying to protect him. He wasn’t just trying to fix a situation Hydra had left broken. He wanted this too. He wanted someone. Someone to guide, someone to keep, someone to prove he could be more than what Hydra made him.

Someone to call his.

And Peter—God, Peter wanted that. Wanted to be wanted. Wanted to be cared for, claimed, chosen.

His throat tightened. The weight of his apartment pressed down on him: the peeling paint, the empty fridge, the sad excuse for a bed. It wasn’t a home. It was a cage he’d convinced himself was freedom.

He wanted out. He wanted more. He wanted them.

So quietly—hesitant, but not really—he nodded.

“…Okay.”

Bucky’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide, like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Sam’s shoulders loosened, a long breath slipping out of him.

Peter swallowed hard, his voice cracking. “I’ll come. I—I need to. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep losing everything and pretending I’m fine. So… yeah. I’ll go.”

Bucky’s hand squeezed his shoulder, firm but careful, like he was afraid Peter might shatter. His voice was rough, but gentle. “Good. That’s good, kid.”

Sam crouched down again, catching Peter’s eye. His smile was soft, steady. “We’ll take care of you. You won’t have to go through this alone anymore. You’ve got us now.”

Peter blinked hard, fighting the sting in his eyes. He wanted to laugh, to crack a joke, to brush it all off. But all he could manage was a broken whisper.

“…Okay.”

God.

God, Peter was so stupid.

He was so goddamn stupid.

This was by far the stupidest, most idiotic, reckless, self-destructive thing Peter Parker had ever done in his short seventeen years of life. And that was saying something, because the list of idiotic things Peter Parker had done was longer than the Brooklyn Bridge.

But this—this wasn’t sneaking into a Stark internship. This wasn’t running around Queens in a red hoodie thinking he was ready to save the world. This wasn’t even standing on Titan and thinking he could take down Thanos.

This was worse.

Because this was him knowing, knowing, that he was walking into heartbreak.

He could see it already, clear as day, laid out in front of him like two roads.

Option one: this ended horribly.

Of course it would. Of course he’d become attached, let himself believe he could stay, and then it would unravel like everything else in his life. The lie he’d spun would collapse, Bucky and Sam would realize he wasn’t their Hydra experiment, wasn’t their son, wasn’t anyone worth keeping. And then he’d be back to square one—alone, invisible, a ghost on the streets of Brooklyn again. Head down, shoulders hunched, pretending he didn’t exist.

It would be heartbreak. Not the sharp stab of losing May, not the crushing silence of losing Tony, but its own brand of devastation. Because this time, he would’ve chosen it. He would’ve walked into it with his eyes wide open.

And when it broke—because of course it would—he’d have no one to blame but himself.

That would be heartbreak number three. And he wasn’t sure he could survive a third.

But then there was option two.

Option two was worse.

Because what if it didn’t end?

What if—for once in his cursed, spiraling, unlucky little life—things actually worked?

What if Bucky kept looking at him with that steady, too-blue gaze, and Sam kept talking to him like he mattered, and he wasn’t just tolerated but wanted? What if he had a home again? Not an apartment, not a rented box, but a home.

What if there was food in the fridge he didn’t have to ration? What if there were blankets that smelled like detergent instead of dust? What if there was laughter in the room, arguments about who got the last cup of coffee, complaints about laundry, warmth in the walls that didn’t come from a busted radiator?

What if he wasn’t just Spider-Man, wasn’t just the kid who lost everything, but Peter?

What if, in their own fractured, sideways way, Bucky and Sam became his family?

God, he could see it. He could see dinners at a real table, Sam nagging him about homework, Bucky glaring at him for smart-mouthing but smuggling him candy bars anyway. He could see movie nights, grocery runs, inside jokes. He could see himself—really see himself—smiling without faking it.

He could let it all go. The grief, the isolation, the lie. He could breathe for the first time since Strange wiped his name from the world.

He could start new.

Here.

With them.

And that thought terrified him more than the heartbreak.

Because Peter Parker didn’t get happy endings. He didn’t get stability. He didn’t get family without losing them, one by one, until he was the only one left.

If he let himself believe this—if he let himself hope—then what?

What happened when it was ripped away? When the lie collapsed? When the universe reminded him that nothing good ever lasted?

He could already feel it. The phantom ache of losing them. The ghost of a heartbreak that hadn’t even happened yet.

And yet—

God, he wanted it.

He wanted to believe.

He wanted to let Bucky set his heavy, grounding hand on his shoulder and not feel like a fraud. He wanted to hear Sam’s voice in the kitchen telling him he didn’t have to go to work anymore. He wanted to crawl into a bed that wasn’t falling apart and fall asleep knowing someone was there, watching, protecting.

He wanted it so bad his chest hurt.

Maybe that was the real stupidity. Not that he’d said yes. Not that he was following them into something that could break him.

But that he wanted it anyway.

That he needed it.

That even knowing this could be heartbreak number three, even knowing he could end up a ghost in the streets again, he still wanted to reach out. Still wanted to take what was being offered. Still wanted to let himself belong.

Because deep down, under the bruises and scars, under the lies and the fear, Peter Parker wanted to be someone’s kid again.

And for the first time since May’s funeral, since Strange’s spell, since the universe turned its back on him—he finally felt like he could be.

God.

God, he was so stupid.

The bell above the diner door jingled again.

Peter looked up from his third cup of coffee—he’d been nervously chugging it while Bucky was outside making his mysterious call—and froze.

Sam Wilson strode in, looking every bit the exasperated adult who had been dragged out of bed by a stubborn friend. His eyes scanned the diner until they landed on Peter, the only scrawny teenager in the room.

And then Sam’s gaze slid to Bucky, who had just reentered and was now heading toward the booth with that same stone-faced determination.

“This him?” Sam asked, voice pitched somewhere between disbelief and resignation.

Bucky nodded once, settling into the booth beside Peter like this was the most natural thing in the world. “Yeah. This is him.”

Sam blinked at Peter, then back at Bucky. “Bucky. He doesn’t look anything like you.”

Peter stiffened. His fingers tightened around his mug.

But Bucky didn’t miss a beat. “He’s got my eyes.”

Sam squinted. “...Maybe. A little. And the chin, maybe. But otherwise—nope. Nothing. You don’t get to just… show me some random kid and say he’s yours.”

Peter’s pulse was hammering. He should have said something. He should have ended it here. But Bucky’s metal arm rested casually along the back of the booth, a silent you’re safe, and for once, Peter didn’t want to run.

So he shrugged, offering a half-smile. “Guess I got my mom’s everything else.”

Sam turned back to him, startled by the sudden sass in his voice.

Bucky smirked faintly, sipping his own coffee like this was perfectly normal.

Sam blinked again. Then shook his head. “Damn. He’s your level of smart-mouthed already. Great. Just what the world needed—another one of you.”

Peter bit back a laugh, but it slipped out anyway, quick and warm. He hadn’t realized how badly he’d missed this—banter, back-and-forth, being allowed to be himself without explaining.

Bucky’s smirk softened. “He’s our kid now.”

Sam choked on his coffee. “Our kid?”

Bucky just raised an eyebrow, deadpan. “You heard me.”

Peter’s cheeks burned, and his chest ached all at once. The ridiculousness of it should’ve made him burst out laughing. Instead, it made something sharp and warm curl in his stomach.

Sam stared at them both, muttering, “Lord give me strength,” before finally sliding into the booth across from them.

The conversation unraveled from there like a thread tugged too far.

Sam asked the questions this time, skepticism coloring every word. “So. You’re telling me you grew up in Hydra’s little horror show, and you just happened to bump into Bucky Barnes on the street?”

Peter shifted uncomfortably, forcing a nervous laugh. “Funny coincidence, right?”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “And you’re okay with this guy claiming you as his long-lost son?”

Peter hesitated. “Well… it’s not like I’ve got anyone else.” The lie slid out smoother than he expected, and his chest clenched at how true it still felt.

Sam frowned, his expression softening against his better judgment. “Damn.”

Peter leaned back, crossing his arms like he wasn’t unraveling inside. “Besides, he’s not that bad. A little intense, sure, but… he hasn’t tried to kill me yet. So that’s, like, a win.”

Bucky shot him a look, half-offended, half-proud. “You’re mouthier than I was at your age.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “He’s exactly as mouthy as you were. Don’t act like you weren’t mouthing off to Steve every five minutes.”

Bucky smirked, unbothered. “Still our kid.”

Peter’s face heated again, but he didn’t correct him. He found himself leaning into it, telling more watered-down lies when Sam pressed for details. Hydra experiments became “tests.” Tony became “a scientist who helped me once.” Queens became “a safehouse I escaped to.”

And somehow, impossibly, the lies wove into laughter. Sam teased Bucky about being a terrible role model. Peter teased Sam about his “dad energy.” Bucky sat there in the middle of it, quiet but content, like a man guarding treasure he didn’t intend to give up.

At one point, Sam shook his head, exasperated. “You’re telling me this kid, who looks like he weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet, is yours. Really.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. “Doesn’t matter how he looks. He’s ours. And you’d have to rip him from my cold, dead hands.”

Peter stared at him, throat tight. His eyes burned, but he blinked quickly and covered it with another smirk. “Guess I’m stuck with you, huh?”

Bucky’s lips twitched. “Guess so.”

Sam leaned back, sighing like he was already regretting all of this. “Congratulations. I’ve been tricked into a custody arrangement with a ghost of Hydra past.”

Peter snorted. “You don’t sound mad about it.”

Sam pointed at him. “Don’t push your luck, kid.”

But his smile gave him away.

The food had gone lukewarm, but Peter didn’t care. He was still eating, slow but steady, like someone who hadn’t had a hot meal in weeks. Every time the waitress topped off their coffee, he muttered a shy thank-you before ducking back into his plate.

Sam noticed.

He noticed the way Peter’s shoulders curled inward, like he was braced for someone to tell him he was taking up too much space. He noticed the creak in the kid’s neck when he turned his head, the subtle stiffness of someone who’d been sleeping on floors or rooftops, not beds. He noticed how Peter inhaled every scrap of food, like he didn’t trust there’d be more later.

Sam had seen that before. On Bucky.

Fresh out of Wakanda, fresh out of the haze. Bucky had flinched at every sound, wolfed down food like it might disappear, stiffened when anyone touched him without warning. It had taken months to unlearn the instincts Hydra had carved into him.

And now Sam was staring at it again, but in a teenager.

Sam leaned back, arms folded, but his eyes softened.

Bucky, meanwhile, was watching Peter with a strange, quiet intensity. The suspicion was gone now, replaced by something else. Something almost gentle.

“You sure we’ve never met before?” Bucky asked suddenly.

Peter froze mid-bite. “Uh—what?”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know. There’s something about you. The way you move. The way you look at me, like you… recognize me. Maybe I saw you in training. Maybe…” His voice dipped, quieter. “Maybe I was there when you were born. I don’t remember everything. But it feels like I should know you.”

Peter’s throat tightened. He shoved another bite of food in his mouth to keep from saying something—anything—that would give away the truth.

Sam glanced between them, frowning. “You really think you might’ve known him?”

Bucky shrugged, but it wasn’t casual. “I don’t know. Hydra had me everywhere. Missions, facilities… I could’ve crossed paths with him. Maybe more than once.”

Peter shifted in his seat, guilt pressing down heavy. Because he had known them. He’d fought beside them, bled beside them, laughed beside them. And now he was sitting here pretending to be a stranger while they tried to piece together a puzzle that was right in front of them.

But God—it felt good. It felt good to be wanted.

Sam finally sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Alright. I’ll admit it. Something’s off here. But…” He looked at Peter again, really looked, and his voice softened. “You’ve been on your own a long time, haven’t you?”

Peter swallowed hard, his eyes darting down to his plate. “Does it show that much?”

Sam didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to.

Instead, he said gently, “I’ve seen those eyes before. Fresh out of a nightmare. Trying to figure out if the world’s safe, if you’re safe. It’s not an easy look to carry.” His gaze flicked to Bucky, then back. “But you don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”

Peter blinked quickly, pretending to focus on his food. His chest ached with the effort of not breaking down right there in a booth.

Bucky shifted closer, his metal arm resting across the back of the seat again. A quiet shield. A claim. “Sam’s right. You’re ours now. No matter what Hydra tried to do to you.” Peter let out a shaky breath, hiding behind another sip of coffee. The lie was growing, tangling around him like a net, but he couldn’t let it go. Not when it felt like family. Not when it felt like home.

And across the table, Sam and Bucky exchanged a look. Neither could pin the familiarity, the strange sense that they’d known this boy before. But both knew one thing for certain:

They weren’t letting him go.

Peter pushed the last bite of food around his plate, stalling. The warmth of the diner was starting to lull him—safe light, safe company, safe conversation. But safety was fragile, and he knew how quickly it shattered.

“So,” Sam said suddenly, breaking the quiet. “Where are you staying, kid?”

Peter’s fork stilled. His mind scrambled. He could feel both pairs of eyes on him—sharp, concerned, searching.

“I’ve got… a place,” Peter said carefully, forcing a smile. “It’s nothing fancy. Just a little apartment. Cozy. Habitable.”

Sam’s brows shot up. “‘Habitable’? That’s your selling point?”

Peter laughed nervously, scratching at the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. Rent’s cheap. I, uh… make it work.”

Bucky leaned in, eyes narrowing. “You live alone?”

Peter hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Just me. It’s fine, though. I like the quiet.”

Sam hummed, unconvinced. He’d been watching Peter all night, cataloguing the subtle signs—the too-quick way he ate, the stiffness in his posture, the worn shoes he tried to hide under the table. Nothing about this kid screamed cozy apartment.

“You sound like you’re describing a bunker, not a home,” Sam said flatly.

Peter shrugged, offering another small, practiced grin. “Guess I’m not much of an interior decorator.”

Bucky’s gaze softened despite himself. He’d heard those same words in his own voice, years ago—brushing off concern, pretending scraps were enough, convincing himself loneliness was a choice.

Sam sighed, leaning back. “You know, I’ve been in a lot of apartments. If you’re calling yours ‘habitable,’ then I already know it’s not as good as you’re making it sound.” Peter’s smile faltered, but he pushed through. “It’s not that bad.”

Bucky tilted his head, studying him. “You don’t have to pretend with us, kid.”

Peter’s chest tightened. He wanted so badly to tell the truth—that he didn’t really have anyone, that he’d been patching himself together with spiderwebs and stubbornness since Doctor Strange’s spell. But then what? They’d look at him differently. They’d see the cracks. They’d pity him.

So instead, he kept lying. Kept weaving the comfort. “Really. It’s fine. Cozy. You’ll see.”

Sam frowned, catching that slip. “We’ll see?”

Peter’s face heated. “I mean—uh, if you ever… I don’t know. Stopped by.”

Bucky leaned back, smirking faintly. “Sounds like an invitation.”

Peter groaned, shoving his hands in his hoodie pocket. “It’s not. Don’t get excited.”

Sam chuckled low, shaking his head. “Kid, I don’t know what kind of life you’ve been living, but if this is you trying to sell us on how okay you are? You need better lies.”

Peter looked down at his empty plate, a crooked smile tugging at his lips despite the knot in his throat. “Guess I’ll work on that.”

And for a moment, with Sam’s soft concern and Bucky’s steady presence hemming him in on either side, Peter felt… wanted.

Peter should’ve known they wouldn’t let it go.

The moment the check was paid (Bucky threw a couple bills down before Peter could protest), Sam leaned forward across the booth, arms crossed like a teacher about to assign detention.

“Alright, kid. Show us this ‘cozy little apartment’ of yours.”

Peter blinked. “What?”

Bucky slid out of the booth, already grabbing his jacket. “You heard him. We’ll walk you back. Make sure you’re safe.”

Peter scrambled after them. “No, no, no. You don’t need to do that. It’s late, you guys have, like—hero things, right? Big missions, bad guys, exploding aircraft carriers?”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Nice try. You think we’re just letting you wander off into the night? Not happening.”

Peter groaned. “You’re not coming over.”

“Yes, we are,” Bucky said flatly, holding the diner door open for him.

Peter scowled as he slipped past. “You don’t even know where I live.”

“Then lead the way,” Bucky said.

Sam smirked. “Yeah, kid. Unless you’re about to admit you don’t have an apartment.”

Peter’s jaw worked. He couldn’t admit that. Not when he’d already spun so many lies. So he shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket and muttered, “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The walk was quiet, New York’s streets buzzing faintly with traffic and the occasional shout from a window. Bucky kept pace at Peter’s left, Sam at his right, like guards escorting someone precious. Peter tried not to think about how good it felt—safe, bracketed, claimed.

When they reached the old brick building, Peter hesitated on the stoop. His stomach twisted, dread pooling low. He glanced at them, half-hoping they’d back out.

They didn’t.

With a resigned sigh, he unlocked the door and led them up the narrow stairs to the second floor. His apartment door stuck before giving way with a reluctant groan.

“Home sweet home,” Peter said, forcing brightness into his voice.

Sam stepped inside first. His face didn’t move, but his eyes did, scanning everything in one sweep: the pull-out couch that doubled as a bed, the single rickety table and mismatched chair, the peeling paint around the bathroom door, the ancient stovetop that looked like it hadn’t worked right in years.

Bucky lingered by the kitchenette, opening the humming mini-fridge. Empty shelves stared back at him.

Peter’s face flushed. He shrugged, trying for nonchalance. “It’s… cozy. Affordable. And it’s mine.”

Bucky shut the fridge, metal arm gleaming under the cheap light. He turned to Peter, unimpressed. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Peter bristled. “Hey, I am not! I’m an amazing liar. The best. Like, Hall of Fame liar.”

Sam snorted. “Kid, if this is your A-game, you’re never making varsity.”

Peter crossed his arms, trying to salvage dignity. “Well, whatever. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s fine. I don’t need much.”

Bucky’s gaze softened, but his voice stayed blunt. “You need more than this.”

Peter’s throat tightened, but he forced another grin. “Yeah, well. It’s mine. That’s enough.”

Sam exchanged a look with Bucky over the kid’s head—an unspoken conversation in a single glance. Both saw the truth: this wasn’t an apartment. It was survival. Barely.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, and he muttered, almost to himself, “Not anymore. Not while it’s our kid in here.”

Peter had never been more embarrassed in his life.

Sam and Bucky didn’t just stand in the middle of the studio and nod politely like he hoped they would. No, they did what adults do. They inspected. They hovered. They took in every cracked tile, every drafty window, every sad attempt at a home.

Sam opened the bathroom door and muttered under his breath. “Jesus. This shower’s smaller than an airline stall.”

Peter scrambled after him. “It works! I mean, most of the time. Sometimes the water goes cold out of nowhere, but hey—that’s character, right?”

Sam gave him a flat look before shutting the door. “That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

Meanwhile, Bucky was crouched in front of the fridge again, staring at the empty shelves like they personally offended him. He shut it with a metallic clunk and turned to Peter. “When’s the last time you bought groceries?”

Peter blinked, mouth opening and closing. “Uh… last week?”

“Kid.” “…Okay, maybe two weeks. But I’ve been busy. Y’know. Life. Stuff.”

Bucky just folded his arms, unimpressed.

Sam moved to the window, tugging at the warped frame. “This doesn’t even lock right.” He rattled it once and it shuddered in its pane. “Anyone with half a brain and a crowbar could walk right in here.”

Peter groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Why are you both acting like home inspectors? It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Sam gave him a look over his shoulder. “You don’t call a drafty window, no food, and a couch-bed ‘fine.’ That’s not fine, kid. That’s barely hanging on.”

“It’s affordable!” Peter blurted, hands flailing as he tried to defend himself. “And it’s mine. Nobody bothers me here. It’s… cozy.”

Bucky snorted, low and humorless. “You keep saying that word like if you repeat it enough, it’ll be true.”

Peter threw his hands up. “It is true! Look, I don’t need much. I don’t need some big place with a TV in every room. I just need…” He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. “I just need something that’s mine. That’s all.”

The room went quiet for a moment.

Bucky’s expression softened, the edge of his usual scowl blunting. He knew that feeling. That desperate clinging to scraps, because scraps were better than nothing. Because scraps were still yours.

Sam sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Alright. Look. I get it. You want independence, pride, all that. But you’re still a kid, and this?” He gestured around the room. “This isn’t living. This is survival. And survival isn’t enough.”

Peter crossed his arms stubbornly, but his voice wavered. “It’s enough for me.”

Bucky straightened, stepping closer. “No, it’s not. Not when it’s you.”

Peter’s throat tightened. He looked away, trying to mask it with a shaky laugh. “You guys are acting like I live in a cardboard box or something.”

Sam gave him a long look. “Kid, I’ve seen cardboard boxes more lived-in than this place.”

Peter snorted despite himself. “Wow, thanks. Really boosting my confidence here.”

Sam smirked faintly. “Hey, you wanted honesty.”

Bucky, meanwhile, wasn’t smirking. He was moving with purpose, tugging at the sheets on the pull-out couch, checking for tears. He frowned at the sagging mattress, the springs that squeaked with the slightest touch.

“Buck, what are you doing?” Sam asked.

“Assessing,” Bucky said simply.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Assessing what? His bed? His couch?”

“His situation.” Bucky straightened, metal arm gleaming under the flickering ceiling light. His gaze cut to Peter, sharp and certain. “This isn’t good enough. He can’t stay here.”

Peter’s heart lurched. “What? No—hey, you don’t get to just—this is my place! You can’t just come in here and—”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “It’s not safe. It’s not healthy. You don’t belong in a place like this.”

Peter bristled, caught between fury and panic. “Well, sorry I don’t live in Avengers Tower or Wakanda or wherever you think I should be. This is all I’ve got.”

Bucky’s voice softened, but it didn’t lose its edge. “Then you’ll have more. Because I’m not letting my kid rot away in a shoebox with no food and no lock on the window.”

Peter froze. His breath caught at those words—my kid. His kid. He should have corrected him. He should have ended the lie. But instead, the warmth in his chest swelled, painful and bright.

Sam stepped forward, putting himself between them, palms out. “Alright, hang on. We’re not just dragging him out of here, Buck. That’s not how this works.”

Bucky’s glare flicked to him. “You’d rather leave him here?”

“I’d rather do it the right way,” Sam shot back. “You think we just storm in, scoop him up, and drop him in some new bed like nothing happened? No. That’s not how you take care of a kid. That’s how you spook him into never trusting you again.”

Peter’s gaze darted between them, his heart pounding. They weren’t talking to him anymore—they were talking about him, like he was caught in the middle of some heated custody dispute.

And weirdly… terrifyingly… it felt good.

It felt like they wanted him.

Like he wasn’t invisible anymore.

Bucky’s fists clenched, his metal hand whirring softly. “We don’t have time to play it safe, Sam. He needs help now.”

Sam’s voice was calmer, but firm. “Then we help him the right way. Together. Not by ripping him out of the only thing he thinks he’s got left.”

The two men stared each other down, silent but unyielding.

Peter sat down on his sagging couch-bed, staring at the floor, his chest aching. He wanted to tell them to stop, to drop it, to leave him alone.

But he also wanted to let them keep fighting over him forever.

Because no one had fought for Peter Parker in a long, long time.

Peter didn’t think they’d actually stay.

Sure, they’d bickered like divorced parents in his living room for an hour, but he figured eventually they’d get tired, throw him a warning, and leave. That’s how it usually went with adults: they passed through, gave advice he couldn’t use, and disappeared.

But when he crawled into his sad excuse of a pull-out bed that night, Bucky was still there. Sitting in the rickety chair by the door like he was standing guard. Sam had dragged the other chair closer to the window and leaned back with his arms crossed, eyes half-closed like he was on watch duty.

Peter lay stiff under his thin blanket, staring at the ceiling. “You guys aren’t really staying.”

“Yeah, we are,” Sam mumbled, already drifting.

Bucky didn’t even look up from the little notebook he’d pulled out of his pocket. “Go to sleep, kid.”

Peter snorted softly. “You’re both insane.”

But secretly? He smiled into his pillow.

Somewhere around three in the morning, the sound of Bucky’s voice woke him. Low, gruff, but insistent.

“No, don’t argue. I need it tonight.” A pause. “Cash, if you can swing it. I’ll pay you back.”

Peter blinked, rolling over just enough to see Bucky with his phone pressed to his ear, pacing the length of the tiny apartment.

“Yeah, whatever you’ve got. Blankets. Sheets. Clothes. He’s smaller than me—don’t make me explain it. Just guess.” Another pause. “No, I don’t care if it’s weird. You owe me.” Peter pulled the blanket over his head, equal parts mortified and… touched.

Half an hour later, Bucky slipped out. Peter heard the soft click of the lock. By the time he returned, the sky outside had gone pale with early dawn. His arms were full—two overstuffed bags, the kind you get when you bully a bodega owner into a midnight shopping spree.

He set them down quietly and started unpacking: folded sheets, thick blankets, socks, sweatpants, hoodies that still had tags. A few bags of groceries—cereal, canned soup, ramen, fruit that looked like it had been picked at random. Even toiletries.

Peter sat up, rubbing his eyes. “What the hell…”

Bucky glanced at him, then looked away quickly, almost sheepish. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d… make the place less of a dump.”

Peter’s throat tightened. “You didn’t have to—”

“Yeah, I did.” Bucky cut him off, firm but quiet. He shook out a blanket, spreading it over Peter like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Go back to sleep.”

Peter did. Wrapped in warmth that wasn’t his but suddenly felt like it could be.

By morning, Sam had taken Bucky’s place in the chair by the door. He looked exhausted, but when Peter stirred, Sam grinned. “Your other dad went for round two.”

Peter squinted. “My what?”

Sam smirked wider. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

An hour later, the door creaked open again. Bucky slipped inside with a bag under one arm. Sam stood, stretching, and muttered, “My turn.” He snagged the bag on his way out.

Peter sat up, hair a mess. “What’s happening right now?”

Bucky was already pulling the new sheets taut across the pull-out mattress. “Upgrading. Sit tight.”

When Sam returned, it was with actual tools. He set them on the wobbly table with a thud, rolling his shoulders.

“Alright, kid,” Sam said, striding toward the window. “I can’t sleep in a place with a window that doesn’t lock, so guess what? We’re fixing it.”

Peter blinked. “You’re—you’re fixing my window?”

“Damn right I am.” Sam jiggled it once, grimaced, and got to work. “Next time some creep tries to break in, he’s gonna find himself fighting me instead.”

Bucky gave Peter a pointed look as he stacked groceries into the fridge. “And next time you get hungry, you’re not gonna starve.”

Peter’s face heated. “I wasn’t starving.”

Bucky arched a brow. “Bad liar.”

Peter groaned, dropping back onto the bed. “This is insane. You guys are insane.”

Sam snorted from the bathroom, where he’d moved on to patching the leaky faucet. “Welcome to having parents, kid. One of us cleans, one of us yells, and both of us won’t leave you alone.”

Peter covered his face with his hands, laughter slipping out between his fingers. He didn’t remember the last time his apartment had been this alive—with voices, with warmth, with people who stayed.

By the time the sun was high, his fridge wasn’t empty anymore. His bed was layered with soft blankets. His window locked. His bathroom sink didn’t drip like a broken heartbeat.

And Peter Parker—forgotten, erased, invisible—sat in the middle of it all, watching two men bicker over whether his cutlery drawer needed replacing. He couldn’t say it out loud, but in that moment, the crappy little studio finally felt like home.

Bucky, however, wasn’t convinced. He sat down heavily at the table, glaring at the bare walls, the sagging ceiling, the shadows creeping through cracks. “He can’t stay here.”

Peter looked up sharply. “Wait—what?”

Sam set the wrench down with a sigh. “Here we go.”

“I mean it,” Bucky pressed. “This place isn’t fit for him. Not now, not ever. He deserves better.”

Sam rubbed a hand over his face. “We’re not just hauling him out of here like a sack of potatoes. That’s not how this works.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “So what? Leave him here?”

“I’m saying,” Sam shot back, “we do this right. Paperwork, arrangements, something stable. We don’t bulldoze the one thing he’s clinging to.”

Peter sat frozen on the couch, caught in the crossfire, his chest aching. He wanted to scream at them to stop.