Chapter Text
Harley didn’t look up when Peter shifted on the couch. He was used to the way Peter moved now; half fidget, half feline stretch, elbows and knees all sharp angles until they weren’t. The weight beside him barely registered anymore. Sometimes Peter laid across the back cushions like a cat draped in sunlight. Sometimes he curled in tight beside Harley like he was trying to disappear under the blanket they shared. And sometimes, like now, he started to squirm with no warning, drawing Harley’s attention by default.
Harley was scrolling through his phone - Reddit, probably, or maybe he was reading a review of some niche battery mod he’d been eyeing. Whatever it was, it wasn’t important. Not compared to the very sudden pressure of Peter flopping onto his chest.
Harley blinked down at him, startled. “Dude,” he muttered, shifting his phone so he didn’t drop it on Peter’s head. “Give me a warning.”
Peter didn’t answer at first. He was just… there, all limbs and impossible warmth, folded across Harley like he belonged there. His cheek rested against Harley’s sternum, his fingers curling into the fabric of Harley’s hoodie. He was heavier than he looked - not in a bad way, but in the comforting way that reminded Harley that Peter wasn’t as fragile as he sometimes seemed.
“I want to go out,” Peter said, voice muffled.
Harley blinked again, fingers tightening instinctively around his phone. “Out where?”
Peter shifted, turning his head to look up at him with those stupid wide eyes that always made Harley feel like someone had punched him in the sternum. “Just out. A walk.”
Harley stared down at him, trying to make sense of the words. “Like. Out. Out-out? Outside out?”
Peter nodded, grinning now. His teeth flashed in the low light of the room, the TV casting flickering color across his face. “Yeah. Like… sneak out. Little covert op.”
“That’s a terrible idea,” Harley said immediately, voice flat.
Peter grinned wider and didn’t move from his spot. In fact, he went even more boneless, settling his full weight against Harley. “Just for a walk,” he said again, softer this time, not quite wheedling but almost. “Just for a little bit. I’m allowed out now.”
Harley’s heart did something dumb and anxious. “Just for a walk,” he echoed, eyes narrowing.
Peter’s gaze flicked across his face. He smiled again, gentler now, and Harley hated that he was already giving in. It’d been a long few months. Peter had smiled plenty, sure, but they were mostly the careful, quiet kind. The thank you for this blanket, I’m not gonna cry in front of you kind. Not the I want to do something stupid and maybe illegal kind. Harley didn’t think he realized how much he’d missed that version of Peter until it showed up again, draped across his chest, asking to just… go out for a bit.
“You know if you get caught, Tony’s gonna re-install like six extra lockdown protocols,” Harley warned, even as he reached up to card a hand through Peter’s hair.
Peter didn’t flinch. He leaned into it, eyes closing for a second, a quiet noise in the back of his throat. Harley didn’t know if it was a hum or a sigh, but it made his hand still anyway.
“Only if you tell him,” Peter murmured.
Harley snorted. “What, and lie to him and the rest of the super spies in this place? Yeah, no thanks.”
“We won’t get caught,” Peter insisted, voice too innocent. He nuzzled in a little closer, curling a hand against Harley’s collarbone. “We’ll be quick. We won’t go far. Just... I want to move. I want to be outside and not have it mean anything.”
Harley hesitated. He could feel Peter’s heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt. It wasn’t racing; if anything, it was weirdly steady. Calmer than Harley felt, at least. And that was kind of the problem. Peter sounded too calm about it, like he’d already thought this through and landed on okay.
“Why now?” Harley asked quietly, fingers still idly threading through Peter’s curls.
Peter shrugged, head shifting against his chest. “Dunno. Just feels like… the right kind of night.” He glanced up again, eyes flicking toward the tall windows of the living room. It was dark outside. “We’ve been cooped up. I’m not saying we go downtown and hit up Times Square. Just... to the nearest 7/11 or bodega or whatever. Just for a walk.”
Harley let out a low breath, phone forgotten and limp in his hand. He looked down at Peter, at the way he’d draped himself over him.
And yeah… Harley could say no. He probably should, really, but Peter’s weight against his chest was nice. His voice was calm, and his body was relaxed, and Harley had seen him when he wasn’t relaxed. He’d seen him strung tight and silent, half-hiding under blankets or flinching at the sound of the elevator chime. So if Peter said he wanted to try this, and wanted to do something as normal and rebellious as sneaking out of the Tower for a walk?
Maybe Harley could trust him on it. Just this once.
“Just for a walk,” Harley repeated slowly, brow furrowed slightly as he looked up from his phone. Peter was stretched across him like a weighted blanket, limbs draped over Harley’s lap, his chin resting on Harley’s chest. His hair was a mess. He hadn’t moved since he’d settled down.
Harley blinked down at him.
Peter grinned. It was one of those shit-eating, dimple-cut smirks he had when he knew he was going to get his way and was being smug about it. Harley knew better than to say no to that look.
So he didn’t.
He sighed and rolled his eyes and started searching for Steve’s contact in his phone with Peter still draped over him. “You’re gonna get me yelled at,” Harley muttered, thumbs tapping.
Peter snorted against his hoodie. “They can’t yell at you if we’re already gone.”
“Great logic. Definitely what I wanna say to Captain America.”
He sent the text anyway.
Steve replied before he could even lock the screen.
Steve: Leave your location on. Not far. Be safe.
Harley showed the message to Peter, who just nodded and pressed a quick kiss against Harley’s sternum before rolling off of him in a gangly sprawl. “Let’s go,” he said, already standing.
A text from Bucky popped up a second later:
Bucky: If you lose the kid, Steve will cry and I’ll kill you.
It was so stupid. It was reckless, pointless, probably against at least three SHIELD recommendations - Peter still got disoriented sometimes, still didn’t sleep right, still was a little cautious and jumpy anywhere other than the couple floors he floated between, but Harley found himself grabbing his jacket without protest. Because Peter wanted to go for a walk. Because Peter hadn’t wanted to do anything a couple weeks ago.
The elevator down from the Tower was silent except for Peter humming under his breath. He leaned his head on Harley’s shoulder during the descent, cheek pressed into the fabric of Harley’s hoodie, and didn’t budge even when the doors opened.
“You’re gonna trip,” Harley warned.
Peter didn’t move.
Harley walked forward anyway, shoulder nudging him into motion, and Peter followed like a sleepy dog being herded, leaning a little more of his weight on Harley than was strictly necessary. His arm wound around Harley’s waist, and Peter’s head tucked against his upper arm.
The air outside was cooler than expected.
There was a light breeze cutting between buildings, and it wasn’t cold, exactly, but it was the kind of weather that made Harley glad he’d insisted on bringing his jacket, even if Peter was still just wearing one to cover the extra limbs that tucked themselves away under his clothes.
They didn’t talk much as they walked. Peter’s hand found Harley’s somewhere around the first street corner and didn’t let go. They passed a few people, a few cars, a cab that honked too loudly for no reason. Peter twitched at the sound, his fingers tightening slightly, but he didn’t stop. Harley glanced at him, searching his face.
Peter didn’t look scared. Just jumpy.
“You good?” Harley asked quietly.
Peter nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Feels weird.”
“Weird good or weird bad?”
Peter was quiet for a beat. “Weird good,” he said finally. “It’s just been a long time since I’ve done this.”
“Walking?”
Peter huffed a laugh. “Being outside just… like a normal person. I went out with Steve and Bucky, but they’re like… big scary guard dogs. It felt like I was being shepharded, even if it was nice to just get out for a bit.”
That felt like a kick to the gut.
Harley didn’t say anything else. He just squeezed his hand and kept walking.
The bodega was a tiny thing on the corner of a block two streets over from the Tower. The fluorescent lights inside were aggressive, the kind that buzzed faintly and made everything look a little too sharp. A cat was curled up in a plastic bin near the window, totally unbothered by the two boys as they walked in. Harley scratched its head on the way past.
Peter went silent the moment they stepped through the door. Not like bad silent, but a kind of intense hyperfocus Harley recognized by now. He drifted toward the shelves, squinting a little at the brightness of the fluorescents, and beelining for the snack aisle with laser focus. Harley stayed back, leaning against the counter and nodding at the guy behind the register, who gave him a bored look and went back to scrolling on his phone.
Peter returned a few minutes later with his arms full. Chips, candy, two different flavors of jerky, a small bottle of neon blue energy drink Harley was positive Peter wasn’t allowed to have. It was all dropped into a scattering pile onto the counter in a loud cascade of crinkling plastic and thumps.
The cashier blinked.
Peter blinked back.
Then slowly turned and looked at Harley with the most innocent, wide-eyed expression Harley had ever seen on him, like he wasn’t the one who’d just raided half the snack section with no money. Harley groaned and pulled out his wallet.
“You are so lucky you’re cute,” he muttered, handing over his card.
Peter grinned again.
The walk back was slower. Harley carried the plastic bag of snacks while Peter mauled a strip of beef jerky like a feral animal. He’d torn it open with his teeth and now was chewing on it, his hair curling slightly at the edges from the breeze.
“You’re such a freak,” Harley said fondly.
Peter turned, mouth full, and raised an eyebrow. “Mm?”
“You’re chewing it like a dog. It’s kinda gross.”
Peter grinned at him, still chewing, and bumped their shoulders together as they walked. “You love it,” he said thickly around the jerky.
“Debatable.”
Peter leaned against him harder, warm and solid and steady, then pressed a quick kiss to Harley’s temple before turning back to the road ahead. Harley flushed.
They reached the Tower without incident, the front doors sliding open on their own as they approached. Once they were back on Harley’s floor, Peter dumped the remaining snacks on the coffee table, flopped back onto the couch, and opened a bag of sour candy with his teeth. Harley watched him for a second.
Then he toed off his shoes and climbed up next to him.
Peter didn’t hesitate. He just shifted until Harley could sit with his legs up and Peter could curl against his side, one hand on Harley’s thigh and the other busy opening another strip of jerky. Harley let his head tip back against the couch cushion. Peter chewed. Swallowed. Pressed his cheek against Harley’s shoulder.
“You sure it was okay we went out?” he asked softly, after a while.
Harley didn’t open his eyes. “Yeah. Steve was cool about it. We didn’t go far.”
“I just… I dunno. It felt like I needed to.”
Harley opened his eyes and looked at him. Peter’s expression was relaxed, but his brow was slightly furrowed like there was something he wanted to say, but didn’t have the words for.
“You don’t have to explain it,” Harley said. “Seriously. You wanted to walk. So we walked.”
Peter nodded, slow. His hair was starting to dry weird from the breeze, messy and soft. “I felt… normal. Kinda. Just for a little bit.”
Harley reached over and dragged a hand through his hair gently, combing his fingers through the tangles. Peter leaned into it immediately, eyes dropping to something half-lidded. “You are normal,” Harley said. “Just… not boring.”
Peter snorted again and elbowed him. “You’re such a nerd.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Peter grinned and curled up closer, his hand resting just above Harley’s knee now, like he didn’t want to let go, and Harley let him stay there as he reached for the remote to flip the TV back on. Peter had always been tactile, but lately it felt like he was starved for contact - any touch, any pressure. Harley didn’t mind. He was used to it now.
He kinda liked it.
Peter reached for another candy, popped it into his mouth, and then promptly dropped the bag between them, letting his head loll to the side.
“I’m gonna crash so hard later,” he said, muffled.
“You say that like it’s a surprise.”
Peter made a noise that was almost a laugh and nudged his forehead against Harley’s shoulder again. “You’ll wake me up?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll stay?”
Harley looked down at him, all curled up and warm, still chewing on whatever sour thing he’d grabbed, and didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll stay.”
Peter smiled and shut his eyes.
—
Peter was warm.
That was the first thing he knew when the dream began - not the room, not the bed, not the air against his skin, but the heat. It was a thick, slow kind of warmth that settled into his bones and softened his edges. It was the kind of warmth he’d learned to both crave and dread, because it never lasted.
When the weight pressed against his stomach, his mind didn’t immediately scream. His body didn’t jolt or fight. He just lay there, eyes half-closed, the fog of sleep still clinging stubbornly to his thoughts. The pressure was familiar; a broad palm, steady, and not urgent but firm - just enough that he could feel each finger spread across him.
Something in him curled up tight, even as his body stayed loose. He blinked up, vision blurry, the shape above him just a shadow against darker shadows. The hand stayed on him, unmoving.
Then there was the brush of hair against his cheek.
Not a tickle, not a graze-an intentional, slow drag, the way someone would lean down to breathe close to him. The smell hit next. Soap, faint and cheap. Beneath it, the ghost of something sharper; metal and old leather and cigarette smoke.
The voice followed, low and quiet enough that it might’ve been a thought in his own head over the thick pound of his own heartbeat.
Peter stiffened.
He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to react, didn’t want to give the dream anything to work with - but his chest tightened and his breath caught anyway. His eyes opened wider, adjusting to the dark, and the silhouette came into sharper focus. He knew it wasn’t real. He knew it. His mind said the words over and over again: Not real. Not real. Not real.
Rostov was dead.
He’d been dead for months. Peter had been there when it happened - had felt the way the man’s pulse faltered under his hands, had seen the moment his chest rose for the last time before never rising again. The memory was burned into him with the same permanence as his scars.
And still - God, still - he missed him.
Something ached at seeing the man’s figure leaning over the top of him; thick with hurt and fear and wanting. It wasn’t the kind of absence that could be wrapped up in longing and nostalgia. It was jagged and sour. He missed the familiarity, the steadiness, the attention - but all of it tangled in a knot of hatred so tight he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
The hand shifted slightly on his stomach.
Peter’s breath stuttered, his own muscles caught somewhere between flinch and lean. He hated himself for it - hated the quiet part of him that wanted to stay in the dream, that wanted to keep the warmth and the weight and the sound of that voice, even knowing everything it came with.
When the hand moved again, it wasn’t to tighten or dig in. It slid lower, down to his forearm, fingers curling lightly around it - not squeezing, just holding.
He blinked.
And when his eyes opened again, the shadow above him wasn’t broad-shouldered and solid. The hand wasn’t heavy and sure. It was narrower, paler, and the grip was feather-light. The hair falling toward his face was messy in a way that had nothing to do with neat control - it was just sleep-mussed and stubborn, sticking out in directions that looked like it had dried funny or been pressed to a pillow for the last several hours.
Harley.
Peter’s throat went tight, breath catching for an entirely different reason.
Harley was blinking down at him, bleary-eyed and faintly frowning, as if Peter had made some sound in his sleep and it had woken him. His hand was still on Peter’s arm, warm and uncertain, like he wasn’t sure if he should pull away or keep holding on.
Peter stared back through watery eyes with the ghost of Rostov’s voice still clinging to the edges of his hearing. He didn’t move. Couldn’t, really. His body felt heavy in a way that had nothing to do with sleep, and his chest ached with something sharp and raw.
The hand on his arm gave the smallest squeeze; barely there, but firm enough that the dream began to recede. The room around them took shape, and Peter swallowed, but his voice stayed buried somewhere in his chest. All he could do was hold Harley’s gaze and try to convince himself - again, again - that the man in his dream was gone.
Harley.
Peter’s breath caught without his permission, his gaze dragging up to meet the pale blue eyes looking down at him through the dimness. Harley was still bleary-eyed and tired, lids low, his expression caught between confusion and worry. His hand stayed on Peter’s arm, warm and steady, thumb brushing once over his skin like he was testing to see if Peter would jolt away.
Peter didn’t move. Couldn’t. His chest still felt thick with the whatever was left over of the dream, and his throat worked uselessly as the words he should be saying were buried somewhere beneath the lead weight in his ribs.
Harley blinked slowly, a little more awake now, and said quietly, “You were having a nightmare.”
Peter swallowed hard. His voice came out low, scratchy, as if he’d been yelling, though he didn’t remember making a sound.
“You shouldn’t have woken me up,” Peter said hoarsely. His hand twitched faintly against the sheets. “I could’ve hurt you.”
Something flickered in Harley’s face that almost looked like exasperated sort of softness, like Peter had said something both ridiculous and predictable. “You didn’t look like you were gonna hurt me,” Harley said. His voice was matter-of-fact, and he squeezed Peter’s arm again. “You looked like you were in pain.”
Peter frowned faintly, unsure what to do with that.
“And sometimes,” Harley went on, his thumb brushing again over Peter’s arm like he hadn’t even realised he was doing it, “you do this thing. Where you curl up and wrap your arms and legs around me. Or you curl up into yourself.”
Peter blinked at him.
“That’s not an attack thing,” Harley clarified, his mouth twitching in the faintest almost-smile. “You just… do it. It’s like - it looks like spiders do when they die, and you weren’t-” He hesitated, eyes flicking briefly over Peter’s face. “You didn’t look dangerous tonight. Just more upset than anything.”
Peter didn’t know what to say to that, either.
“You’re crying,” Harley said suddenly, like it had only just clicked for him.
Peter blinked again. The skin beneath his eyes felt hot, his lashes damp, but he hadn’t noticed. Before he could think to move, Harley’s hand shifted from his arm to his cheek. The touch was slow, deliberate, the pad of his thumb brushing over the wetness beneath Peter’s eye. Peter’s breath stuttered at the contact, because it was so incredibly achingly gentle, and without meaning to, he leaned into it.
The warmth of Harley’s palm was nice, and Peter’s eyes closed for a second as his breathing evening out. When his eyes opened again, Harley was still watching him.
Peter didn’t think about it. He leaned forward, closing the space between them, pressing his mouth to Harley’s in a kiss that was soft enough to feel fragile. Harley didn’t pull back; he just let him, his hand still cupping Peter’s cheek like it belonged there.
Peter’s other hand came up to the back of Harley’s neck, pulling him closer. He wanted him here. Solid and warm and real, and he shifted, pulling Harley fully down onto the bed with him, tucking him close until there was no space left between them.
His arms wrapped around Harley’s back, legs hooking lazily around his own until Peter could press himself against every point of contact. He buried his face into the curve of Harley’s throat, breathing him in until the scent was all he could smell.
Harley didn’t say anything else.
And Peter didn’t need him to.
—
Peter sat curled up on the Tower couch, hoodie sleeves shoved past his wrists. He picked at the fabric with restless fingers, trying not to look like he’d been vibrating in place all morning.
Today wasn’t just any day.
Ned and MJ were coming over again.
Finally.
The elevator dinged, and Harley’s voice carried down the hall. “I’m home!”
Peter stood too fast, nearly tripped over his own foot, then tried to play it cool. His heart was still slamming when Ned and MJ walked in. Peter’s throat went dry. “Hey,” he managed.
Ned didn’t bother with words. He barreled forward, arms locking Peter into a hug that knocked the breath right out of him. Peter froze, then wrapped his arms back slowly, slumping into the hold. Ned pulled back, grinning. “I heard you exist again!”
Peter laughed, startled. “Yeah. Apparently.”
MJ tipped her head, smirking. “Congrats on not being dead.”
“Thanks,” Peter said wryly. “Mr. Stark filed some paperwork. Birth certificate, social security, all that. I’m back in the system. It’s… a little bit illegal,” Peter admitted.
“He’s fine,” MJ deadpanned, already tossing her bag on the couch. “If Stark did it, it counts.”
Peter couldn’t help grinning. Ned flopped onto the rug like it was his own living room. “So what now? Back to school? Tower homeschooling? Superhero private tutoring?”
Peter hesitated. His throat felt tight. He lowered himself onto the floor near Ned, shoulder brushing Harley’s knee where Harley had sunk onto the couch. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Everyone thinks I’m dead. Or worse. Just showing up again would be…” He trailed off.
“Possible,” Ned said. “If you want to.”
“Maybe,” Peter said, softer now. “It’d just be one more year. But… I don’t know if I’m ready.”
Harley spoke from above him, voice casual. “No rush.”
Peter tilted his head back against Harley’s knee. Harley didn’t move.
“Yeah,” Peter echoed. “No rush.”
MJ stretched out on the opposite couch like this was just another Saturday and not Avengers Tower. “We can visit here until you want to.”
Peter blinked. “If you want to?”
Ned stared. “Dude. You think we don’t want to hang out at Avengers Tower?”
“Yeah,” MJ said dryly. “We hate your giant robot house.”
Peter laughed, and Harley shifted, letting Peter lean more fully against him. Peter curled closer without thinking, temple resting just above Harley’s hip. Harley’s hand drifted through his curls once, then settled on his shoulder. It felt… normal.
Harley’s hand gave a quick squeeze at his hip, and Peter didn’t move away.
—
It was supposed to be a jog.
That was the plan, at least - the whole point of getting Peter out of the Tower and into Central Park was to burn some of that leftover energy Bucky swore the kid had compressed, because he was tapping and play-fighting like a little feral animal. Tony had suggested it, and Steve had backed him up, which meant Bucky had gotten gently roped into playing chaperone. He hadn’t minded. Not really. Peter was easy company; quiet, and still shockingly polite about everything.
So yeah. It was supposed to be a jog.
They hadn’t jogged a damn step.
They’d made it about half a block before Peter had slowed to a stroll, and Bucky had just mirrored him. It was a clear morning, too late for the dog walkers and too early for the tourists. It was still not quite summer, not quite spring, and the trees threw long shadows over the walking trail. Bucky could smell the fresh-cut grass from where someone had mowed near the reservoir. Someone else was playing music faintly from a speaker strapped to their bike.
Peter hadn’t said much at first. He just walked. His hoodie sleeves were pushed to his elbows, hands buried in the front pocket, steps lazy but loose, like the tension had been bled out of his limbs and replaced with something softer. Something uncoiled. Every so often he’d glance up at the sky, or across at the people passing by, and Bucky had decided pretty quickly that the walk wasn’t a failure.
It was good. It was something.
Peter finally spoke around the halfway point. Not where the trail looped, but where it narrowed near the big fountain with the weird statues Bucky had never liked.
“I like being out.”
Bucky nodded, hands in his own jacket pockets. “Yeah. You look like you do.”
Peter kicked a stray pebble into the grass. “I think I forgot how loud everything is.”
He didn’t sound upset. Just thoughtful. Bucky thought about that, then shrugged. “Probably good for you, though. To be out.”
“Yeah,” Peter said again, slower. “It’s better. I think.” They lapsed into quiet again. Bucky didn’t push. He didn’t have to. They kept walking. A pigeon exploded out of a bush nearby, startling a jogger into cursing. Peter snorted. “You usually run this route?” he asked, tilting his head toward him, hoodie tugged low like it made him feel smaller.
“Mm,” Bucky grunted. “Every few mornings.”
Peter nodded like that made sense. “You like it?”
“Not really. But it’s routine. Familiar.” He glanced sideways at Peter. “It helps.”
Peter made a small sound, almost a hum, but didn’t answer. They walked a few more minutes before he said, “I feel weird being this low down.”
Bucky blinked. “What?”
Peter looked sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean… on the ground. Just, like, walking around. Everything feels different when you’re stuck on the ground. I forgot how weird it feels you know?”
Bucky huffed a breath that was half a laugh. “You mean with the webs?”
Peter nodded. “Yeah. It just feels weird now.”
Bucky raised a brow. “You wanna climb something, don’t you.”
Peter smiled, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe.”
Bucky stared at the tree, then looked back at Peter.
“If I have to scale a tree to pull your ass down, I’m throwing you back into containment,” Bucky warned. That earned a snort. A real one, short and surprised and slightly wheezy. It made Bucky feel like maybe he was doing okay, for someone who still fumbled conversations half the time. “I’m serious,” Bucky said, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Peter shoved his arm lightly. “You wouldn’t even make it past the first branch.”
“I’m pretty spry for an old man,” Bucky shot back, then paused. “Why do you want to climb a tree?”
Peter shrugged. “Just… feels like I should be higher. It’s not claustrophobic exactly, but I feel - I don’t know - boxed in.” Bucky didn’t laugh this time. He just nodded, slow and understanding. Peter, beside him, tugged his hood further up, like the act made him feel a little less seen. “I don’t want to web-swing or anything, I’m not, like, trying to sneak out with the suit. I just miss looking down at stuff. Even something stupid. Fire escapes. Birds. I don’t know.”
Bucky kicked a stray leaf off the path. “You could probably ask Tony.”
Peter wrinkled his nose. “It’s not that simple.”
Bucky didn’t say anything.
They walked another few minutes. The trail curved near a row of benches, and Peter slowed until they came to one of the stone ones under a canopy of trees. He looked at it like he was thinking too hard about sitting, and Bucky took the decision out of his hands by flopping down first. His knees cracked. He didn’t pretend they didn’t.
Peter hesitated a second longer, then sat down beside him, their shoulders brushing lightly.
The silence that followed was different. Not uncomfortable. Just quiet.
Bucky didn’t try to fill it. He’d learned, by now, that Peter would say what he wanted when he wanted. He was getting better at it. Slowly. Patiently. So when Peter eventually leaned against him, Bucky just let him. It wasn’t heavy - barely even pressure, really. Just a touch, a quiet lean of his upper arm, as if checking whether Bucky would shift away. Bucky didn’t. He stayed perfectly still, and Peter exhaled.
“You miss it,” Bucky said, voice low. Not a question. Just a truth.
Peter nodded without lifting his head. “Yeah.”
He didn’t clarify. He didn’t have to.
Bucky looked down at their shoes. The kid’s sneakers were worn through at the heel. He made a mental note to bug Stark about that.
“I used to take a lot of laps,” Peter said. “At night, mostly. Just around the city. No one ever really noticed me when I wasn’t, like… crime-fighting. Sometimes I’d stop to watch movies from fire escapes. Or listen to radios. Or sit on rooftops for hours. It was-” He paused. “Nice.”
Bucky didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.
Peter kept going. “I used to know the city so well. Like… every alley. Every shortcut. Places I could hide. Places I could help.” His fingers twitched in the pocket of his hoodie. “I think about that a lot. The helping. The stopping bad guys. The cats in trees. That kind of thing.”
He didn’t say I miss it again. He didn’t need to.
Bucky shifted slightly, angling his shoulder so Peter could lean into him more fully. He felt the weight shift - a careful, cautious fold of Peter’s frame into his side - and Bucky let it happen, breathing slow and steady.
“I don’t know if they’d let me,” Peter murmured, barely audible. “Go back to it. Be him again.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer.
“I get it,” Peter added. “It’s not like I - well. I get it.”
Bucky turned just enough to catch Peter’s expression. It was vague in that way Peter had when he didn’t want anyone to look too closely; eyes soft, but a little distant, like he was watching memories instead of the park.
“I think you’re still him,” Bucky said, quiet. Peter looked up. “Spider-Man,” Bucky clarified. “I - you were a punk when I met you. You’re a punk now. You still want to help people. That hasn’t changed.”
Peter didn’t say anything, but his shoulders loosened a little. They sat there a while. Eventually, Peter’s head tipped against Bucky’s shoulder, and Bucky reached up and tapped the back of his knuckles gently against the side of the kid’s head.
“You think they’ll let me?” he asked. “Eventually?”
Bucky shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe you just do it anyway. The right way. Like you always did.”
Peter didn’t respond right away. Then: “Thanks.”
Bucky huffed. “Don’t thank me. I’m not the one making the rules.”
“You’re just the guy threatening to throw me back in containment,” Peter said, sleepily.
“Exactly.”
Peter’s breath hitched on a laugh, and Bucky felt it more than heard it, a warm flutter of air against his jacket - but he kept his eye on the space around them.
Bucky had never been particularly sentimental about parks; it was just grass and concrete and the illusion of peace. At best, it was a place to run where he wouldn’t get stared at too much, especially if he kept his sweatshirt sleeves down and didn’t make eye contact with the tourists. Most days, it was crowded with joggers and moms with strollers, or couples walking dogs that barked too much.
He tolerated it because Steve had always liked the idea of clean city air - even if that was a contradiction - and because movement helped. It helped him keep his mind from drifting back to the things he didn’t want to remember. Routine was the thing that made his life bearable now. Early morning runs, structured breathing, predictable distances. It kept his head above water.
But this morning wasn’t structured. It surprisingly wasn’t as terrible or invasive as he’d thought it’d be.
“Can we get a hotdog?”
Bucky blinked at him. “Is that the trade-off? No climbing trees, but I have to bribe you with food now?”
Peter shrugged lazily. “I feel like that’s a fair deal.”
“Do you even have money on you?”
Peter didn’t answer, but he slowly held out a familiar-looking wallet. Bucky stared at it. Then at Peter. Then back at the wallet.
“You little shit,” he muttered, reaching to snatch it from the kid’s hand.
Peter yanked it back, laughing like it was a game as he stood up off the bench. “You didn’t even notice!”
“That’s my front pocket,” Bucky growled. “You’re lucky I didn’t clock you.”
Peter only grinned. “Reflexes aren’t what they used to be, old man.”
Bucky scowled, but he couldn’t stop the amused huff. “Fine. Go get your hotdog, you little thief.”
Peter beamed and took off at a jog toward the nearest stand. Bucky watched him go, arms folded, trying not to look like he was watching.
Peter was blowing all his damn money. He could see it from here. One hotdog turned into two, and then the vendor pulled out some kind of pretzel thing, and Peter pointed at that too. There was cotton candy involved somehow. And soda. Bucky dragged rubbed at his.
The wallet was never safe around him. Nothing in his pockets were safe. That much was clear.
He leaned back and let his eyes drift across the trees again. It was a warm day, humid and a little hazy with the heat rising off the sidewalk, but the shade under the trees was cool enough to make it bearable. He let himself breathe. One breath in, one out. Calm. Steady. He still didn’t like being around this many strangers, but this was better. This was… manageable.
Peter trotted back over, hotdogs in one hand and a paper tray of fries balanced on the other, his face full of victory.
“I got you one,” he announced, like this made it better.
Bucky took the hotdog with a grumble but didn’t complain further. It was decent. The mustard was weird. He ate it anyway. Peter sat beside him on the bench and unzipped his hoodie a little, and his curls were messy from the humidity, sticking to his forehead. Bucky resisted the urge to fix them. That wasn’t really something he was allowed to do.
Peter leaned against his side anyway.
It wasn’t a big thing. Just a brush of shoulder to shoulder, warm and deliberate. He stayed there as they ate, bumping him occasionally when he reached for more fries, humming quietly when his mouth wasn’t full. Bucky let it happen. He didn’t pull away.
Peter liked contact. He’d figured that out early. Liked to lean, to curl around people like a cat, to hang off Harley’s shoulder or wedge himself into corners of couches that weren’t built for two people. It was like he hadn’t had enough of it for a long time and was trying to make up for lost time. Bucky… understood that. Maybe more than he liked to admit.
They ate. Bucky let his arm settle across the back of the bench, and Peter didn’t say anything about it; just shifted closer. They didn’t talk for a while. Didn’t need to.
Eventually, Peter wiped mustard off his chin with his sleeve and said, “I forgot how nice the city smells when you’re not trying to save it.”
Bucky looked over at him. “It still smells like hot garbage and dog piss.”
Peter grinned. “Yeah. But it’s my hot garbage and dog piss.”
Bucky snorted, against his better judgment.
They sat in silence for another long minute. Then Peter leaned into him a little more and sighed, quiet and deep. “I missed this,” he murmured.
Bucky didn’t ask what this was. He thought he already knew.
Peter shrugged. “I think… I think I just miss being part of it. The city. It was loud and messy and fast, but I liked that. I felt like I belonged.”
“You still do.”
Peter nodded, but didn’t answer. Bucky didn’t push him. He was here and happy, eating stolen hotdogs and curled up against Bucky’s side like it was the most normal thing in the world.