"I can't believe we left it this long," Bucky mutters.

Steve rolls his eyes but doesn't hide his amusement either. "I can't believe we let him go outside this morning before we did this. I should've done it then."

Both men's eyes shift to Peter, sitting in his wheelchair by the window. They call it his favourite spot but of course they can't be sure. That's just where his eyes land eighty percent of the time.

They're alone this evening. Bruce had kept Peter out there almost until lunch time before Tony found them.

Now the two men are off studying charts of Peter's spine and Natasha and Clint are debriefing in Washington, to answer for their breach of contract.

The sky grows dark outside, silhouetted against Peter's pale features and the hands resting listlessly in his lap.

Steve's chest clenches at how small he looks.

"Guess it's down to me," he says, because if he follows that line of thinking any further, he'll be of no use to anyone. "What do you think, Peter? Want to get some of that grime off?"

Peter's eyes remain out the window, not responding to the use of his name.

Steve's face falls, though this has happened hundreds of times already. It's just as disturbing as when it first occurred.

"Hey, Eeyore." Bucky throws a mini pretzel at Steve to get his attention. "Stop moping and give the kid a bath already."

"Right." Steve blinks. Shakes himself. "Right, I can do that."

There's a huge en-suite upstairs in Peter's room but Steve fills the tub in the medical suite bathroom. He runs his hand through the water in a figure eight pattern. Faint steam curls off the top.

Steve then glances at the doorway. It's small, not even wide enough for Peter's wheelchair. That doesn't end up being a problem.

Steve crouches in front of Peter. "Ready, bud?"

Peter's eyes shift from the window to Steve's extended arms. Steve goes slow, his left forearm sliding under Peter's knees and the right around his back. His arm is so much longer than Peter's shoulders that he can notch the right side of Peter's ribs in his elbow and pat Peter's belly with his hand.

He lifts him like Tony did earlier, a graceful, smooth motion as Peter's already weak right now and probably dizzy, even if he can't voice this.

Steve checks, but Peter's eyes remain in the middle distance.

It's the first time Steve has held the boy since the bunker, since their lives became a quiet kind of purgatory, a stasis worse than any torture. He savours the warm weight and the powdered smell of the teen's hair. Steve doesn't realize he's swaying in a dance like pattern until Bucky throws him a fond look.

"You're good with him," he notes, muted.

Steve's eyes flare with something knowing. "Takes one to know one. It's been seventy years but you're still a pro."

"Pfft. Get lost."

Steve takes his time walking to the bathroom. Peter is woefully light, made worse by the fact they've had to feed him through a stomach pump since he woke up. His ribs press against Steve's diaphragm, then relax as he exhales, like prison bars.

"Here we go, Peter. Time to get you clean."

Steve kneels and sets Peter down on the toilet lid. "Helen sponged you down but it's not quite the same thing, huh? It's just you and me for tonight so I stole some of Tony's fancy stuff."

Steve tries out a wink on Peter, but he doesn't react.

"The water's still pretty warm, Frodo."

Steve hesitates. Sensations are the only thing Peter is aware of right now. It could help or it could upset in this context.

He takes Peter's fingers and guides them down into the tub. The instant Peter's skin touches the steaming water, he blinks. His other limbs twitch.

"See? Not so bad."

Steve smiles, love seeping from his gaze, and gently tugs Peter's shirt over his head. He strips him down of all but his boxers, wanting Peter to have some dignity, especially considering he can't speak for himself.

He tapes a bag over the pump in Peter's stomach.

"In we go, that's it." Steve keeps up a steady chatter while lowering Peter into the water. He rests Peter's head on an inflatable bath pillow suctioned to the slope at the head of the bathtub. "I'm going to wash your hair first, okay? That way it has time to air dry while we do the rest."

There's a plastic cup on the side of the tub and Steve uses it to rinse Peter's hair rather than dunking him under. Steve lathers the shampoo in his hands and sets them onto Peter's damp hair.

And then…then Steve goes very quiet. A perfect hush falls over the bathroom, the world.

He carefully works the shampoo through Peter's wavy locks, affection swirling inside his gut at the way strands curl around the bubbles. Peter watches suds drain into the water. His normally bright eyes are dull but Steve takes what he can get.

Steve thinks of the night he came home from the Middle East to find Peter asleep in his bed, the first time he'd sought refuge in one of their rooms at night.

His hands of the past and his hands of the present marry in perfect synchronization as he massages Peter's scalp.

He's so tiny. Steve can hold more than half of Peter's head in one hand. He has to use his fingertips or his palm would cover Peter's eyes. How did something so small get entrusted to someone so big?

Steve thinks of himself at sixteen—scrawny, ill…angry.

So angry.

He'd been ready to fight the world if it looked at him the wrong way. And it always did.

Peter is nothing like Steve and yet somehow a carbon copy all at once.

Peter buys them flowers just because. He aced a science quiz and the first thing he did was call Tony to thank him for the study help. He cries at Hallmark commercials, keeps dog treats in his backpack for any they meet in the Park.

Or…he used to.

He'll never do any of that again. We lost our boy the moment I dropped him off at school.

Steve fights it, he really does.

"You know what, Peter?" Steve's eyes get shiny while he scrubs the body wash along Peter's arms. "I miss you. You're still you but I miss your hugs. And the way you make Tony and Nat soft. Your salsa—amazing salsa. The weird board games you teach me. Your…your smile."

Steve has to stop when his throat tightens.

He's washed all the way to Peter's knees but he pauses, head bowed. This is too much all of a sudden. This isn't normal. This isn't the way life is supposed to go.

Peter watches Steve with that blank expression.

There's a bit of soap caught in his eyelashes and it paints his skin when he blinks. Overhead light reflects off the suds in prismatic, miniature rainbows. Always that slow blinking…

His body isn't that dirty but Steve washes even Peter's feet, just to be sure. He's tender and cautious with the thin limbs. Scars have begun to form along Peter's neck and wrists, where the metal bit into his skin. They'll fade with time but they're horrible to fathom now.

Steve's tears plink off the water, the only sound for a long time.

Then there comes a strange pressure, no heavier than an angel wing, along the bulb of Steve's nose. He ignores it at first, trying desperately to see through the blur of an oncoming weeping fit.

Steve is angry again. An old, leathery anger that doesn't respect time or what size he is now.

Angry at himself, angry at the useless tears, angry that they let Peter be taken a second time—while they were all in the same room. Angry that life won't let him have anything without it being taken away. That everyone he loves is lost, eventually.

Angry for daring to have hope.

Life made the choice for him, wouldn't let him have Bucky and Peter. It took away one and gave him another without so much as a chance to defend the right to have both. Maybe he doesn't deserve such a privilege after all.

The pressure increases, just a touch.

Steve startles. "Peter?"

For that's what it is—the fingers of Peter's right hand fluttering over Steve's nose, just like the day this all went to hell.

Steve stares at his son, mesmerized. No hypnotist has the power of this twiggy boy, eyes absent but hand sure where it explores Steve's face, like Peter is trying to figure it out. He taps on Steve's cheek with his palm, then his chest, hand imitating a pumping heart beat.

Steve lets out a hoarse sound, not quite a laugh but filled with wonder. Warmth explodes through him.

"That's me, Pete, my heart. At least we know your super senses are still intact." He laughs, more tears raining down on Peter's face, and kisses the boy's forehead. "I'm right here. I've got you."

It's a poignant moment—right up until Peter's mouth begins to move. His eyes sharpen, distressed.

He flails in the water. "H…H…el…p."

And then Steve panics.

"Bucky, get in here! I think he's having a seizure!"