... Ten...
Sam is more than fucking surprised to see Peter walk back into the facility by his own volition; his jaw practically drops, and in the span of a few days Peter's making his way to the kitchen every morning on his own. He sits down in a chair he's apparently called dibs on, Sam makes food and puts it in front of him, and absolutely none of it is eaten. One of the super soldiers with the bottomless stomach take it over from there — the point of the matter is, something is happening, more than anything else has happened in the last few weeks. Sam can see it, maybe not in Peter's eyes, but in his actions: the kid is fighting tooth and nail. He's gotta be.
The king of Wakanda stops by, just for a business trip — he and his younger sister, who is precocious as all hell and glued to her phone the whole time they're having an Avenger-styled meeting in the office space reserved for that kind of boring shit. Once all is said and done, T'Challa is more than happy to visit Sam in the kitchen, his black suit pressed and a strong antonym to Shuri's "I NEW YORK" shirt and atypical jewelry. T'Challa sits down at the offer of breakfast and lingers there to talk to the other man about this and that — differences in growing up, mostly, from one dark-skinned dude to another — when T'Challa is startled by the presence of someone just standing beside him.
Peter is practically pushing on him with his full weight, not looking at him, but no less invasive. And while Mr. Panther here knows about Peter in shorthand explanations, he is hardly prepared to have a bony teenager's shoulder nudging at him like a toy robot hitting a wall.
"What in the world—" T'Challa manages, leaning back in vain.
"Oh, you're in his special chair," Sam says as he waves a spatula, trying not to burst out laughing at the panic on the catman's face. He owes Peter a favor for the hilarious expression he's managed to paint on one of the top kings of the world. "Nobody gets in Peter's special chair."
"I'm — I'm sorry?" T'Challa stammers, and leaps up from the chair. "I meant no disrespect—"
Peter plops down immediately after the chair's unoccupied, and Shuri grins impishly from her own spot.
"The king has been dethroned."
... Nine...
Happy knows he's an asshole. He knows for a while he couldn't stand Peter — not because the kid did anything wrong, but because he was just that kind of person. It was hard to connect to people. It was hard to trust people not to let you down, or vice versa; Happy was always afraid of letting someone down in return. So yeah, when the bossman handed off a child to him because he didn't want to face what he did (they all knew practically dragging a kid away from home was a shitty idea, alright), he was a little sour grapes about it.
But then Peter could've died crashing a plane and fighting alien technology on his watch, and things got a little more heavy for him.
Peter saved his ass, in a way that wasn't quite swooping in and saving a civilian from a mugger, or a car running a red.
Oh, sure, he was still an asshole to Peter sometimes, but it came with the mutual understanding that Happy would definitely take a bullet for the kid. He made Tony happy, too, and that was a bonus on top of everything else. But now that things are the way they are, he wishes he could have made it more obvious, that he cared. That Peter was definitely in his adoptive circle, alongside Pepper and Tony and Rhodes — and Morgan, who is one of the few people in the place that can make him smile like an idiot.
"I never did apologize to him, for blowing him off so much before. Ignoring calls and texts, all that."
He was supposed to be the point man. Boy, did he fuck that right up.
"Why don't you just tell him how you feel now?" Pepper asks him, as she walks Morgan and Happy walks Peter. Miss Parker had been worn down from keeping track of Peter, and her work was practically self-destructing without her, so Happy had easily swore he'd make sure nothing was happening while she was out; when he offers to do something, he does it, no questions.
Happy looks at Peter, swallowing hard. "What if he can't hear it? Or he hears me all wrong?"
"How's it any worse than not saying anything?" she says, with a smile. "Tony talks to him all the time. And when Morgan was born and couldn't understand a lick of English, Tony talked to her like she was a lab flunky."
"That sounds like him, yeah."
"The point is, sometimes it's not just about having him understand what you're saying. Sometimes it's just about making that connection."
"... Talking to him like a baby?"
"Talking to him like you love him."
Happy sighs softly, the fingers pinching Peter's sleeve curling into a gentle fist. Talking to someone like they love them — that's hard. That's insanely hard. How do people do it so easily? He loves Pepper and the others to death, but he's never been good at expressing it; he's never been good at much of anything, his mother'll tell you. People change though. He's definitely changed for the better, since he started working for Tony Stark. Say what you want, nobody can take that away from him.
"Can you give me a minute with the kid?" he asks, and she and Morgan start down a split in the sidewalk, back toward the facility.
And then Happy talks — and apologizes.
And his chest feels ten times less crushed by the time he's done, his hand moving from Peter's sleeve to his wrist.
"I promise," he says, begrudgingly, "I'll answer every text you send me. Just try not to go overboard with it."
... Eight...
"I am Groot!"
"You're cheatin', stop lyin' to me! I can't believe this is happening. How're you doin' that flippy kick thing?!"
"This woman is an extremely gifted warrior. I'd like to fight her sometime."
"Drax, it's a character from Street Fighter, it's not based on anyone."
Peter Quill came back as quickly as his feet would take him — or, uh, ship, anyway. And when he got back, he didn't get much more than 'the kid mentioned your girlfriend', which was already too much to handle for a time. He hadn't slept that night, memories dressed as nightmares keeping him jack-knifing awake and ready to battle, only for him to realize Thanos was dead. And so was Gamora.
But the kid said her name. Pete's been walking around on his own. Pete's been reactive to pinching and prodding. He doesn't talk, doesn't even so much as notice your presence, but he must be out there somewhere breaking through. And if Gamora... if she's on the other side, too... It makes hope burst like fireworks in his chest and steals his breath away. He lost his mom, he lost his dad, he lost his own life at one point — but he might not have to lose the woman he loves.
Or, he thinks sadly, he can at the very least say goodbye.
But it's not just about Gamora. He has to remind himself of that, every time he looks at Peter — especially when he's with May, who so tenderly kisses his forehead or adjusts his shirt for him when he can't. It's not just about Gamora, and it can't just be about Gamora, because she'd kill him if he ever prioritized her so much over an innocent kid. So he lets Peter sit with them as Groot whoops Rocket's ass at Street Fighter, his headphones pressed over Lil' Pete's ears.
The boy stares blankly at the screen as Chun-Li kicks the shit out of Ken. Ain't No Mountain High Enough blares muffled. A great song, released in 1967 by Tammi Terrell and Marvin Gaye and peaking at number nineteen on the Billboard pop chart. Diana Ross did a version of it, but this one was his absolute favorite, no shade to her. He remembered it best from a Disney's DTV VHS in 1986 — Rock, Rhythm and Blues,specifically. Quill can't help but get lost in the memory of his mother popping movies on and looking at him with near-shining eyes.
"I am Groot?" Groot asks, looking over and pulling him from his thoughts.
"Yeah, yeah — I think this is helping him," Quill says with a slight smirk. "Apparently the Spider-Man liked to frequent arcade games downtown. You know, I was pretty good at this game myself—"
"Quill, how are you humming and talking at the same time?" Drax looks at him from where he's elbow-deep in a popcorn bucket. "Is that something humans can do?"
"I'm not humming, what—? Dude, nobody's humming."
"... I could have swore I heard something."
... Seven...
"Hello, Peter. It's Karen. Mr. Stark has re-calibrated my systems so that I can speak with you outside of your suit... I have heard that you are having medical issues that could be potentially remedied by having someone to talk to; I've always enjoyed talking with you, so I don't mind spending time going over old records and information regarding your life as Peter Parker. I'm always happy to do whatever is needed for your safety and well-being. You've always been good to me, so I will be more than happy to be good to you, too. I'll replay footage of your field trip from last year; you seemed so happy in it, I thought maybe it would help."
... Six...
"... It is for Ulysses that my heart bleeds, when I think of his sufferings in that lonely sea-girt island, far away, poor man, from all his friends. It is an island covered with forest, in the very middle of the sea, and a goddess lives there, daughter of the magician Atlas, who looks after the bottom of the ocean, and carries the great columns that keep heaven and earth asunder. This daughter of Atlas has got hold of poor unhappy Ulysses, and keeps trying by every kind of blandishment to make him forget his home, so that he is tired of life, and thinks of nothing but how he may once more see the smoke of his own chimneys..."
Despite his brashness and oftentimes 'rowdy' demeanor, he does love a good story from time to time — The Odyssey was one of those earth tales he'd enjoyed brushing up on, but he's also branched out a bit and found himself humored by the works of many (even a Danielle Steele, which has... quite an interesting way with romance, if there's any word for it).
Thor sits patiently with his feet placed up on the table, stationed beside Peter as the boy rests with his hands sitting against his knees as Bruce gives a typical medical inspection. As he lowers the epic, thumb marking the page, he asks with some measure of skepticism: "I don't suppose this is too heavy a read right now?"
"For a normal teenager? No. For Peter Parker of Midtech Science? Maybe."
"Stark had very little worth reading in the Avengers Tower, but perhaps he's changed his ways and gotten something a little more enjoyable in the library here. Ah — here we go, Parker! A story about The Beast from the East. That sounds particularly gruesome creature, doesn't it? You should get a look at the beast on the cover."
Bruce smiles a little, head ducked as he monitor's Peter's blood pressure; just a night beforehand, it had been elevated, and Banner thought that perhaps Peter was becoming too aware of the brain scans and felt anxious, as young men do with their limited experience in medical rooms. Thor catches the little teasing grin on the doctor's face and smiles a little himself.
"Are you thinking rude thoughts right now, Banner?"
"Oh, no, no, wouldn't dream of it. What's it about?"
"Ah, let's see what the back of the book says... Ginger Wald and her identical twin brothers, Nat and Pat, are lost in the woods. No problem. After all, Ginger did go to that stupid nature camp. Still, there's something odd about this part of the woods. The grass is yellow. The bushes are purple. And the trees are like skyscrapers. Then, Ginger and her brothers meet the beasts. They're big blue furry creatures. And they want to play a game. The winners get to live. The losers get eaten." Thor looks up, pleased. "This sounds delightful!"
The medical check-up only takes another fifteen minutes, but Banner sits in interest beside Parker as the god reads aloud for some time.
... Five...
Peter takes a tumble, during one of his walks, and Bucky is angry at himself for letting it happen in the first place. Maybe he'd let himself get too involved in the life of a wandering vegetable, but at this point it's too late to change anything. He's involved. It's a mission, one he can actually take that doesn't leave his hands stained with blood.
... Until now, anyway.
Now he's sitting with Peter on the floor of the hall, his flesh hand gripping the boy's chin as he methodically turns his head left and right, up and down. He massages the jaw for any signs of broken bones, because he hit his head pretty hard. He curses at the small split on his chin, dripping a little blood, and he quickly uses his metal hand to catch the blood that would ruin Peter's shirt. The sight leaves him breathless for a moment, mouth dry. He's holding Peter's chin, and there's blood on his hand, and — he would never hurt the kid, he'd never hurt anyone innocent on purpose like that anymore, he's different, he's —
Bucky breathes in, breathes out. He's not going to drown in his own body again. Not today.
He stands Peter up and leads him to the room Steve gave him, setting the teenager down in a rolling chair he has at his desk as he rakes through the drawer for his first aid. There's a perfectly fine medical room in the facility, but there's something comforting about having his own kit to work from; he can fix himself, he can be in control, and he can survive without fear of causing anymore pain than he has.
"You need to be more careful," he says gruffly, "If you're gonna walk around the place, you need to at least know where steps are. C'mon."
He dabs the split chin gently.
Peter's face draws into a wince that doesn't reach his eyes, and Bucky freezes at it for a moment.
Jesus, he's really in there, he thinks. His touch is lighter after.
Is this what Steve felt, when he kept finding Bucky, over and over?
Did he also see Bucky in the man he became, suffocating among all the muck?
"Don't tell Stark I let you fall down, or he'll kick me out," he tells the kid. "If he asks, tell him it's Sam's fault. That'll go over well."
Is Peter also suffocating in his own body? Is he also just as confused and trapped? The thought leaves his blood cold. He thinks of all the excited children in the village, back in Wakanda, calling out for the White Wolf with energetic steps. And he thinks of an over-eager kid in red and blue spandex, giddy over the metal fist he was keeping at bay. He looks at his false hand as it goes reflective in the light, and observes Peter's blood there, smeared along his palm.
"You okay?" Steve asks from behind, hobbling on his bad leg.
He used to ask so much more cautiously, like Bucky was a snake that could lash out. Now it's with a casualness that disarms him.
Shaking his head, he smiles thinly back. "Just got another white boy to fix."
Peter ends up with a Captain America themed band-aid on his chin.
Bucky figures if he's gonna get killed by May, he can at least piss Tony Stark off before he goes.
... Four...
Tony is stuck in China on business and May is sleeping, unaware that her kid had walked himself out and into the main lobby. Rhodes figures he's not gonna freak anyone out and leads Peter into the lounge room, back towards the way-too-big television they've all been switching off on using; it's kind of turned into a hub when everyone's dead tired and wants a moment's peace. Clint's already in there face-timing his wife as she readies for bed, and Rhodes almost apologizes with the promise to come back later — but Barton ushers them in, and somehow, some way, the three of them are kicking back and watching scrolling Star Wars text.
Rhodes had met Peter enough times to be well-aware of the kid's likes and dislikes. You only had to mention movies around him before he got to chattering about midnight screenings, or the awesome action figures he's saved in his room, or the factoids he knows about the behind the scenes stuff going on. Lord knows he used his endless Star Wars adoration to knock Scott Lang flat on his ass in Germany.
He doesn't notice for a moment, the lingering figure in the doorway. But Clint does.
"Hey, you gonna come watch with us?"
She doesn't move, bathed in the glow of the television. Her hands are fidgeting in front of her, like her very existence in the room is sapping away any chance of serenity. Rhodes doesn't know Wanda as well as he'd like, but he knows she's had some big damn hits lately — and that she had seen their work with Peter as fruitless and pointless and unfair to the boy, up until the day he spoke. Ever since then, she's been hovering wordlessly. Unsure. Maybe guilty.
"We've got plenty of room for one more," he adds.
"I haven't been the best company," she says to the floor.
"And you think Peter here is any better?" Clint says, nudging the boy's arm. "At least you talk. No offense, kid."
"I said he may be better off dead." She walks closer, and her eyes are soft. She's a good kid, Rhodes knows. She is.
She's just lost a lot.
"... If it's an apology you wanna offer," he tells her, "I don't think Peter would be expecting one."
Peter's not that kind of person.
He's a good kid, too.
"Look," Clint says softly, "You've been holed up enough, haven't you? I know what you're afraid of, but you have to push through it."
Rhodes wonders what else Clint whispers to Wanda, when he crosses the room and wraps his arms around her — but whatever it is, it's a secret between them, something that leaves her leaning into him for support, for keeping what must be silent tears hidden. It's not something he needs to be privy to, and as she wipes at her face and nods, Rhodes tries to watch the screen like someone with years of sorrows isn't coming apart a few feet away from him. He can hear her journey closer and sit quietly on the soft cushions beside Peter, not saying anything. For a moment.
"Who hurt his chin?" she asks suddenly, concerned.
"Sam apparently let him fall over," Clint huffs, as she clicks her tongue in disapproval.
They all end up asleep halfway through Return of the Jedi. Well, almost all of them, anyway; when Rhodes startles awake after nodding off, he finds Wanda leaning on Clint and Peter still staring at the screen, just as the second movie's credits begin to roll. Maybe it's just him, but under the glow of stars and swelling music, he looks... content.
... Three...
Natasha is not one for being delicate. She's mastered the art of faking kind hands, so it's hard for her to tell if her gentle ways with Peter are natural or just a product of her up-bringing. She likes to think not, though — she likes to think she might have a shot at not being a total monster. Pepper and May are out tonight, the usual guardians at this hour, because Pepper had figured the aunt needed some time out to unwind, maybe have a few drinks; Natasha's pretty sure she's not wrong. It's times like these she wonders if she dodged a bullet, having a family to love before the Avengers. And it's unfair to think, because May is lucky to have Peter, and Peter is lucky to have her.
She finds the boy at one in the morning out of his bed, staring out the large window that shows off the quinjet's landing pad. He's in sweats and his hair is a curly mess, and his hands are twisted up in his shirt. He looks younger then, brow furrowed in concern, belly exposed to reveal a too-flat stomach and the small button where food is fed through a tube. She looks out the window with him, wondering what reason he must have to venture out like this tonight. Maybe there really is no reason at all to his madness; maybe he just moves, the fog in his head too thick to see through. She disentangles his fingers from his shirt (Ah!, it says, in a periodic table box, and under it: the element of surprise) and carefully leads him back towards the room he'd been staying in.
Stark's already got it all decked out in things he'd enjoy, go figure. Actually, she thinks maybe it's been decorated this way for a while now. If she didn't know any better, she'd say Peter even stayed in it relatively often, like maybe he visited the facility on the weekends. She wonders just how much she's missed, that someone else had snaked their way into Iron Man's iron-clad heart. Usually he's so much more cautious about these sorts of things. She's the same way.
"Hello," someone says stiffly. She turns to find Mantis, looking just as out of place in her over-sized T-shirt and flamingo-patterned shorts.
"Hey there," Natasha says, not without friendliness. Sometimes the Guardians got on her nerves and then some, but Mantis had always been the most polite out of the bunch — if not a little oblivious and naive. Natasha couldn't remember the last time she herself had been that innocent, honestly. "You can't sleep either?"
"Oh, no, I just slept in, so I am not tired. Is Little Pete okay?"
"He's just fine. Mostly wandering; he might be a little restless. I don't think he's slept much lately."
Mantis bites her fingernails, thoughtful for a moment as she watches Peter linger there. "... If you would like, I could help him sleep."
"... That'd be really nice. Thanks."
They walk on either side of Peter, the windows basking them in a moonlight glow that offers a sense of peace. At Peter's bedside, Natasha gently presses on his chest until he obeys, leaning down into his pillow and staring with grey-rimmed eyes at the ceiling. Her hands move to carefully rest on Peter's temples. Her antenna glow like a nightlight in the darkness, casting long shadows and fluorescent shades of green on the movie posters along the walls.
"Sleep," she says, and Peter's eyes slip blissfully shut.
Natasha is not one for being delicate, but as she pulls the covers carefully up to Peter's chin, she thinks that her kind hands feel pretty natural.
... Two...
The fireworks burst in the sky and rain colors through the twinkling darkness over New York. Some of the Avengers aren't exactly good at dealing with them — Bucky, Steve, and Sam are having their own little getaway for the New Year's Eve shindig, and that's fine with Tony, because he doesn't want to worry about Barnes going understandably nutso at the rounds of gunpowder in the sky. If Tony's honest, the sounds unsettle him a little, too, if he's not looking right at the sparkling lights. Peter, though, Peter loved spending the night and watching the show the year after Germany. It'd been a flippant kind of thing, inviting the boy over; there's really no better view than on the balcony of the Avengers facility.
But he'd been so thrilled and enraptured by the popping colors, then.
It hurts Tony to see him have no reaction at all, this night.
"When did you get so under my skin, kid?" he says him, watching the bursting show beyond them. They sit huddled, a blanket around their shoulders courtesy of Pepper Potts — who is always still looking out for him — and Tony can't help but wonder aloud. He and Peter had been around each other two years before the snap. Two years, that couldn't have been that long to feel this swelling in his heart, right? And yet Morgan had taught him so quickly, just how fast you can love someone. God, holidays made him a sap. A big, stupid sap with emotions he would have preferred devolved into defensive snark.
That's just not in him, right now.
He wraps an arm around Peter's head, pulling him close. They rest their temples against one another's as reds and blues and purples run over them, twinkling back into midnight. Everyone inside is bustling around, tipsy and warm, but none of them dare intrude on the quiet world Peter and Tony have built around them. He appreciates it, because if they saw his face now, weary and strained, he wouldn't be able to joke himself out of a wet paper bag. He wants to see the light at the end of the tunnel. He wants to know it's there, that it's Peter's soul waiting, warm and full and not lost in some void somewhere.
This has been a hell of a long mission. Tony closes his eyes, listening to Peter's evened breathing.
"I should've found a more grating, miserable lump for an intern. Then I could've just kicked them to the curb and went about with my day. You know, you're the reason I'm married, right? If you'd just been a little more smug and irrational, you would've joined the Avengers four years ago, and I wouldn't have proposed in there. I mean, I would have sooner or later, but..."
He sighs.
"Can you hear me, Pete? Spider-Man?"
Thoom, krakow, krakow — the sounds of bursting light, shooting into the air. It fades all over again. Thoom, krakow, krakow.
It's a real marvel. He hopes Peter can see it. Maybe even follow it back.
The sounds of a promising future. The light.
... One...
Hours later, Tony Stark wakes up to the stifling stench of smoke.
Fire.