Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The water was still running in the bathroom. Bucky could hear it from the kitchen; low and steady through the wall, the kind of water pressure that said Peter hadn’t moved in a while. He was probably sitting on the ground again, legs pulled up, limbs curled around him like a shield. The thought made Bucky’s jaw clench. Not with anger, but something else. Something deeper.

Grief, maybe. A shape it had learned to wear.

He wiped down the counter slowly. He didn’t need to be doing this - the kitchen wasn’t even dirty - but it gave his hands something to do, and that mattered. Steve was rinsing off the last dish beside him, standing too straight. Too quiet. The silence between them had stretched too long when Steve finally spoke.

“What did Peter want to talk to Tony about?”

Bucky’s hand paused over the dish towel. He didn’t look up right away, just pressed the rag a little harder into the countertop, like pressure could scrub out more than crumbs. He considered lying, or half-truthing, but that had never worked between them.  Not really.

So he sighed. Set the towel down.

“He wants to get the words out of his head,” Bucky said quietly. “At least the one we know.”

Steve straightened from the sink. “How?”

Bucky glanced over at him. His tone was even, but he could see the tension climbing through Steve’s spine like a rope being pulled tight. The way his hand curled around the edge of the sink. “We’re trying to… gently disable them,” Bucky said. “It’s Wakandan tech. Tony’s been working with Shuri and a couple of the scientists over there. We’re not scrambling anything permanently,  it’s just… interrupting the neurological response to the trigger. Disrupting the link.”

“How?”

Bucky winced internally, but didn’t let it cross his face. He let out a breath, not even bothering to sugarcoat it. “Targeted electrotherapy.”

Steve stared at him, visibly horrified. “You’re going to fry parts of his brain.”

Bucky grimaced. “Not like that.”

“Then how?” Steve’s voice had jumped, just slightly - higher, sharper. He caught it in his throat and reined it in with a long breath. His knuckles whitened where they gripped the sink. “Jesus, Buck.”

“I don’t know how the tech works,” Bucky admitted, lifting both palms slightly. “I was a nerd in the ‘40s, sure, but not that much of one. I can tell you what they told me - it’s electromagnetic in nature, it’s targeted, it’s been tested on tissue samples, not people just yet. But it’s - look. The kid’s scared.”

Steve didn’t look away. “They could kill him.”

“We’re not gonna kill him.”

“But it’s a risk.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, quieter now. “There’s always a risk. That's why we're being smart about it. Tony said it could cause some short-term memory problems. Confusion. Blackouts, or maybe some other issues. But only if they push too fast, which they’re not doing. They’re starting with one word to see how it goes.”

Steve’s jaw worked. Bucky could see him grinding down what he wanted to say.

“Like?” Steve asked tightly. “What kind of issues?”

Bucky shifted his weight, leaning against the counter. “Some… cognitive issues. Processing delays. It’s not guaranteed. But there’s a reason they’re doing it slow. If it works, they can isolate the patterns tied to the rest.”

“Jesus Christ.” Steve turned from the sink, dragging a hand down his face. His voice dropped lower, but it didn’t soften. “He’s just a kid, Buck. You of all people should-”

“I do understand,” Bucky snapped, sharper than he meant. Then he reeled it in. “You think I don’t?”

Steve’s eyes flicked over. Didn’t respond.

Bucky rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “I know he’s a kid. I know he’s hurting. But he asked for this. He’s not a weapon anymore, but he still has landmines in his head, and he’s scared that someone he loves might step on one by accident. That already happened. You think he’s gonna wait for the next time?”

Steve didn’t say anything.

“We're being smart about this,” Bucky said more evenly. “We’re trying one word. We’re monitoring him every step of the way. Tony’s been double-triple-checking every protocol. Cho’s involved. Shuri’s reviewing everything. If anything goes wrong, they’ll stop it.”

“He shouldn’t be-”

“He needs to have a say,” Bucky said, sharper than he meant to. His spine stiffened, his voice edged with steel. “Steve, this is important. Autonomy is important. He’s making the choice by himself, and that’s progress. I get that you don’t like it, but-”

“Don’t like it?!” Steve exploded. The words cracked across the room like a gunshot. Bucky winced. “I don’t like it?” Steve repeated, louder now. His face was flushed, brows knit hard and dark. “Jesus, Buck, you’re talking about frying a kid’s brain. You’re standing there acting like this is just - just another goddamn Thursday! You think this is fine because he’s got a say? What kind of choice is that when the only other option is staying unstable?”

“He’s not unstable,” Bucky said tightly, jaw clenched.

Steve kept going, steamrolling right over him. “I love you. You know that. I’ve loved you through every version of this mess, but this isn’t helping. This is you projecting your hatred of everything they did to you onto the kid. Onto Peter. And it’s blinding you.”

Bucky’s fists clenched at his sides. He felt heat crawling up the back of his neck, tight under the collar. “I’m not-”

“You are,” Steve snapped. “You’re so scared of what they did to you, so determined not to let it happen again, that you’re literally willing to burn it out of a teenager’s brain. That’s not recovery, Buck. That’s - God, that’s not who we are.”

And then - belatedly, too late - Bucky noticed it.

The silence. No shower running. The air had shifted in that unmistakable, hair-prickling way, like someone had sucked the oxygen out of the room. 

His gaze snapped toward the hallway.

Peter was there. Just barely - half-shadowed by the frame of the bathroom door. Damp hair stuck to his forehead. His borrowed clothes hung a little crooked on his frame like he’d gotten dressed in a rush, probably because he had. Probably because he’d heard them shouting.

Bucky’s gut turned to lead.

“Steve,” he said sharply.

Steve blinked. His breath was halfway out of his chest when he turned to follow Bucky’s gaze - and his whole face crumpled in real-time. “Shit.”

Peter didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The look in his eyes - wide and still and eerily blank - was too familiar. The spider limbs were curled in close to Peter’s sides, tight against his ribs like coiled rope. His arms folded up over his chest, gripping his elbows like it could hold him in one piece. He looked smaller than usual. Younger. He took a step back. Then another. Then he turned and scuttled - quiet and fast and light-footed - down the hall.

Gone.

Bucky exhaled through his nose. It sounded like a curse. He pressed the heel of his metal palm to his forehead and muttered, “Fuck.”

Steve stood there, stunned. The fire in him had gone out as quickly as it had flared. “Buck, I didn’t - I didn’t know he was listening.”

“He always listens,” Bucky said tiredly, dropping his hand. “That’s the thing about him. He doesn’t know how not to.” Steve’s eyes were on the floor now. His jaw worked, but no words came out at first.

Then, quietly: “I didn’t mean for him to hear all that. I just - I don’t want to see him hurt.”

“I know,” Bucky said. “So do I. That’s all I’ve been trying to prevent.”

They stood in the half-clean kitchen for a while. He wondered if Peter had locked himself in the spare room, wondered how long it would take him to coax him back out this time. Wondering if they’d just undone everything from the last few weeks.

“You should go talk to him,” Steve said finally, voice quiet.

Bucky shook his head. “No. Not yet.”

Steve looked over, surprised. “You’re sure?”

“He’s scared,” Bucky said. “And tired. He’s gonna need time to wrap his head around the fact that we’re not on the same page. Again.”

Steve didn’t argue.

“Give it half an hour,” Bucky said. “Then I’ll knock.”

—

Bucky walked the hall slow, not because he was uncertain - he’d made up his mind about that part - but because the air still felt heavy. The kind of weight that settled behind your ribs, not in your lungs. He paused outside the guest room door, hand lifting to knock.

Three soft raps. Barely audible. He didn’t want to startle him.

There was a pause, long enough that he thought maybe Peter wouldn’t answer at all. But then a sound. Barely a hum, a soft sort of mnh that wasn’t quite a word but carried the same fragile permission. Bucky exhaled as he turned the knob, careful not to make the hinges creak. The room was dim, curtains drawn. Still smelled faintly like soap and damp towels from when Peter had showered earlier.

He stepped inside and saw him.

Peter wasn’t in the bed. He was on the floor, curled on the far side of it like he’d meant to hide but hadn’t quite committed to the act. Knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around them, his chin nestled between his kneecaps. Spider limbs folded low, pressed in tight and close to his spine like a shield, or maybe like a creature pretending not to exist. He blinked up at Bucky slowly. Didn’t flinch, but didn’t move, either. His chin dropped again almost instantly.

Submissive posture. Voluntary stillness. Not asset-mode, not exactly, but close enough that it made something in his stomach roll. “Hey,” Bucky said gently. “Can I come sit?”

Peter gave the faintest nod. It didn’t look like a nod at all, really; more of just a slight tilt, almost like a breath catching the top of his head.

Bucky crossed the room, boots quiet on the carpet. He didn’t crowd, just sat himself down on the floor beside Peter and leaned back against the bed, knees bent, forearms resting loosely across them.  

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said quietly. “That we were arguing. And that you had to hear it.”

Peter didn’t lift his head. His voice was a murmur, words muffled against his knees. “You’re fighting because of me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was just a fact, in Peter’s mind. A settled truth. Bucky let his head tip back against the edge of the bed. Stared up at the ceiling like maybe it had a better answer than he did. “Yeah,” he said finally. “We were.”

That made Peter blink. Bucky could feel the movement, sense the hesitation. Surprise.

“But that’s not on you,” Bucky added, softer now. “That’s me and Steve just having a disagreement. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Peter’s head stayed down, face buried again. His arms tightened a little around his legs. 

“…Should I go back down?” he asked, and the words were so quiet Bucky almost didn’t hear them - but it was hard to miss the tone; tight with guilt, strained with something heavier than fear. Like he’d been holding that question in his throat for too long.

Bucky turned his head toward him. “No,” he said, firm. Steady. “Not unless you want to.”

Peter didn’t answer right away.

“You like it up here?” Bucky asked. A beat passed. Then, a small, cautious nod. “You wanna go back down?”

“…Not really,” Peter admitted. But even that sounded like it hurt to say. Like something in him expected that desire to disqualify him. Like it wasn’t allowed.

Bucky watched him for a second. The way his limbs curled closer again, bracing for some kind of reprimand. The way his eyes darted toward the carpet instead of meeting Bucky’s face. Everything about his posture was apology.

“What do you want?” Bucky asked, voice quiet and even. No pressure. Just the question.

“I-” Peter hesitated. His mouth opened, then closed again. Shoulders hunched slightly. He turned his head away, eyes fixed on the far corner. “I want to stay up here,” he said, and it came out like a confession, barely above a whisper.

“Then you can stay up here,” Bucky said simply.

And just like that, Peter crumpled.

Not physically, not dramatically - but it was there, in the loosening of his spine, in the way his forehead dropped down to rest on his arms. Like every wire keeping him upright had finally snapped. Like someone had cut the strings on a marionette and the puppet had finally been allowed to rest.

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t reach for him. Just let the silence stretch out soft between them again, warm and quiet and shared. After a few minutes, Peter inched a little closer - not much, just enough that their shoulders almost touched. One spider limb reached down like it was testing the floor, curled loosely near Bucky’s boot, then went still again.

They didn’t talk again - not right away. Not because there was nothing left to say, but because Bucky knew the moment would pass if he touched it too hard. Peter’s body was still wound tight, but not in the way it had been before - not like glass ready to shatter, and now more like a creature caught in that slow, wary transition from alert to calm. A fox blinking sleepily beside the coals of a dying fire. Not quite safe, not quite warm - but closer than he’d been in weeks.

The quiet wasn’t tense anymore. Just… shared.

Eventually, Peter shifted again. A careful scoot, inching closer, as if he didn’t even realize he was doing it. His shoulder brushed Bucky’s arm this time and didn’t move away. His chin came to rest against his knees again - but softer now. Like he wasn’t holding himself quite so fiercely together anymore.

Bucky didn’t look at him, didn’t acknowledge it. Just let him.

And then, without much warning, one of the spider limbs stretched out - slow and languid like a ribbon dragged through water - and curled loosely over Bucky’s leg. The pressure was featherlight. Not enough to restrain. Just… there. Bucky glanced down. Didn’t move. The limb twitched once, then stayed.

Peter’s breathing had slowed.

Bucky let his head tip back again, gaze trailing across the ceiling, and listened to the way the air shifted in and out of Peter’s chest - shallower now, but rhythmic. More even than it had been all day. Then he felt a slight pressure against his arm. 

Peter’s head. He’d leaned into him.

No weight, not really - just that careful press of forehead to bicep, tucked in against the side of Bucky’s body like it was the most natural thing in the world. His limbs had started to unwind from his body now, stretching out like he was finally letting himself go slack. Two of them folded loosely against the carpet, twitching slightly. One dragged across Bucky’s boot, then stilled. Another remained curled near Peter’s side like a loose question mark.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

Bucky shifted only enough to make room. Let his shoulder take more of Peter’s weight and braced it there, gentle and steady. He didn’t touch him. Didn’t want to break the moment. Didn’t even glance down to check - he could feel it, the way Peter’s muscles softened, the way his whole body seemed to release a breath he hadn’t meant to hold.

And then after another few minutes, so quietly that Bucky wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it - Peter’s breathing hitched. A tiny, fluttery sound. Almost like a sigh. Almost like a sob. But then it settled again. His eyes were closed now.

And Bucky realized, slowly, that he was asleep.

There was something almost holy about it. The way this kid - this half-feral, hypervigilant, still-splintered thing - had finally let go. Had finally rested, right here, against him. Not locked away behind glass. Not caged in a cell. Just… curled beside another person, breathing steady.

Bucky stayed still. The room was still dim, with the curtains drawn just enough to let the sunset light slant in - orange and fading gold, soft against the walls. Peter stayed curled in on himself with his knees drawn to his chest, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, limbs half-extended and twitching on the carpet like they were thinking about moving without him.

For the first time in a long time, Bucky felt peaceful.

—

The next morning came slow.

Peter woke to the sound of Steve’s voice somewhere nearby, low and melodic - talking to someone, maybe Bucky - and the quiet rattle of dishes being moved around. He blinked blearily up at the ceiling of the guest room, his body half-sprawled across the mattress, one limb curled under his ribs, another draped over the edge like a discarded blanket. He didn’t know when he’d gotten there, or how. He didn’t register anything other than the noise and the feeling of being tired.

And warm.

Really warm, actually.

He pushed himself upright eventually, limbs clicking into place and his body slow to catch up, his hoodie rumpled and oversized. Someone had put fresh water on the nightstand. He drank half of it before even thinking about the taste. The floor under his feet was cool, and his stomach felt hollow in a manageable way. He could eat. Maybe. If someone else made it.

Which, apparently, someone had.

Because by the time he crept out into the shared space, still moving with half a dozen extra legs and a crawling, instinctive gait he couldn’t quite shake, Steve was waiting for him at the counter, plate already in hand.

“Morning, buddy,” Steve said, soft like it wasn’t even meant to be heard. He was dressed down - t-shirt, sweats, sleeves pushed to his elbows like he’d just rolled out of bed himself. Bucky wasn’t there. “I made scrambled eggs and toast. I know… I know you’re not… super enthusiastic about the idea, but… I thought it might be an easy start. A good way to ease you back into regular food.”

Peter blinked. Didn’t say anything, just nodded.

“But if you hate it, you don’t need to finish it,” Steve offered. “We still have some meat in the fridge if you’d like. There’s an uncooked steak, and some chicken - or pork, if you’d prefer that?” His limbs twitched, but he reached out to take the plate of eggs from the man’s hands. Steve tilted his head just a little and gave the tiniest smile. “Come sit. Don’t tell Bucky, but you can eat on the couch if you want.”

That got a response. Barely.

Peter padded after him, letting himself be led like a cat trailing someone to the couch. The eggs were warm. Soft. The toast already buttered. He sat on the corner of the couch cushion, limbs cautiously folding around him, and let the plate rest on his knees.  Steve sat beside him. Peter hesitated, then let his shoulder brush the man’s. Steve didn’t move away. If anything, he shifted just enough to lean into it.

It’s fine, Peter thought, eyes dropping to the toast. He’s warm. It’s okay.

The food disappeared slowly. Steve didn’t talk much while Peter ate. Didn’t push him to finish when Peter stalled and poked at his food. Just waited. Watched the little signs. Made sure he didn’t vanish into the floorboards again. And when Peter pushed the plate aside with a soft noise - barely anything - Steve took it from him without a word, set it on the end table, and opened a book.

The Hobbit, again.

Of course.

Peter didn’t argue. He slouched back into the couch, extra limbs draping over the sides and floor. He let himself sink until his cheek brushed against Steve’s shoulder, and paused. He tensed a little.

Steve didn’t comment. Just kept reading - and that was what did it. Peter sagged further, head coming to rest fully against the man’s shoulder like it was just gravity, like it wasn’t his choice at all. The pressure of the man’s body was solid. Secure. Not grabbing, not cold, not hovering. Just... there. A kind of warmth that seeped in through his hoodie and settled deep.

Peter went still.

His arms curled slowly around his own stomach, one limb looping around the back of the couch behind Steve’s shoulders. His eyes closed. Not all the way. But enough. He listened. Steve’s voice was steady for a while. Easy. But eventually - softly - it started to hitch. Peter’s brow twitched faintly. He stirred, just enough to shift his weight.

Then-

“I - sorry,” Steve said quietly. “Peter - I just wanted to - you need to know that you don’t need to do it if you don’t want to.”

It took a moment for the words to register. Peter blinked, groggy. “Huh?”

His voice was scratchy and raw, brain cotton-soft. His head turned faintly, cheek smushing more fully against the man’s shoulder as he lifted bleary eyes toward him. Steve was already looking down. Not stern. Not worried. Just… open. Pained, a little.

“You don’t need to do the… procedure,” Steve said again. His voice was gentler now, even lower than before. “If you’re not ready. You don’t need to do it for anyone else.”

Peter blinked again, slower this time as his brain tried to keep up before he realised, oh. What they had been fighting about, before. Then: “...I-” he swallowed, blinking away. “I want to.”

Steve didn’t react right away. Peter shifted again, a little heavier now against his side, like his own body didn’t want to hold itself up anymore. He was so tired. But the words needed to come out.

“I feel like…” he started, but his mouth stopped working for a second. He tried again. “I feel like I’m not normal or… Like I won’t ever be normal if… if one word can just stop me from being a person. From moving, or…”

Steve’s expression tightened.  

Something sank in Peter’s gut. “...Are you… am I not allowed to?”

His tone wasn’t angry. Wasn’t defensive. Just low and afraid, like he was waiting to be corrected. Like he’d spoken out of turn. Steve’s chest rose with a deep breath. “No,” he said firmly. “No, Peter. That’s not what I meant. Of course you're allowed to. It's your choice. I’m just saying… there’s no rush. You don’t need to do it until you’re ready. Not for anyone else’s sake.”

Peter was quiet for a moment. Then he let out a breath. Heavy. “I am ready.”

The moment Steve shifted his arm to accommodate him - just the smallest pull inward, a hand gently curved at Peter’s side - Peter latched on. Limbs wound slowly around the man’s ribs and arms. His cheek pressed against his shoulder again. His fingers curled in the hem of Steve’s shirt. He didn’t cry, but his breath hitched once, in that very specific kind of hurt where the body didn’t know what else to do.

“I’ve hated the words since the beginning,” Peter whispered, shame coloring the words. Hate. He was never supposed to hate.

Steve didn’t try to say anything else. Didn’t offer comfort beyond what was already being given. Just wrapped a slow, warm arm around Peter’s back and let him curl in tighter, settling as if he belonged there. 

Steve was warm. The room was warm. Not just in temperature - though the sunlight slanting through the windows helped - but in the way the cushions still held Steve’s shape, in the low thrum of his voice, the smell of laundry soap and eggs lingering from earlier. One limb hooked around a cushion for comfort, another twitching lightly against the floor. The other two were sprawled loosely across the backrest and Steve’s thigh, where they’d gravitated on their own, slow and curious and probably looking for heat.

He hadn’t spoken in a while. Hadn’t needed to.

Steve, for his part, didn’t seem to mind. He simply reached over and flicked the page back open with one hand, and Peter’s head dropped onto his bicep. Peter idly blinked down at the paperback dog-eared in one of Steve’s hands, his other arm resting along the top of the couch like a casual perch. His shoulders were relaxed. His eyes flicked from the page to Peter every now and again - checking without checking. That was nice. Peter liked that. It made it easier to breathe.

Eventually, though, the silence shifted. Got tighter.

Peter blinked and let his head tip slightly toward Steve’s arm, cheek pressing into the fabric of his sleeve. Then he asked, voice hoarse, “Where’s Bucky?”

Steve’s book paused mid-page. His eyes didn’t lift right away. Then, softly, “He’s with Tony.”

Peter’s brows twitched faintly. He didn’t move. But he felt something in his chest shrink, pull back. Something that had relaxed without him realizing. Steve must’ve caught it, because his next motion was slow. His hand shifted down - not quite touching, but close enough that Peter could feel the heat of his palm over one of his limbs.

“He’ll be back soon,” Steve said gently. “He just had something he wanted to run by Tony. Shouldn’t take long.”

Peter gave a little hum, barely audible. His head tilted into the shoulder of Steve’s arm again, nudging like a cat. He didn’t mean to. It just… happened. The hand above his limb hovered, then - after a beat - Steve let it settle. It wasn’t much. Just a warm palm resting over the textured surface of one of Peter’s spider limbs, gentle and grounding. No squeeze. No flinch. No fear. Just weight.

Peter let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Steve kept reading for a while after that, eyes flicking across the page with quiet ease. Peter didn’t sleep, but he didn’t move either. He drifted. Let the warmth of the man next to him seep into his skin. Let the world soften around the edges. Peter’s fingers found the hem of his shirt again, curling there.

“...Do you think Harley’s mad at me?” he asked suddenly, voice almost a whisper.

Steve blinked. Then his face softened further, and he leaned a little closer, angling toward him. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I think Harley’s confused. Probably hurt. But mad? No.”

Peter was quiet for a moment. “Is he… around?”

Steve shook his head, slow. “Probably at school right now. He’s been going in again.”

Peter nodded faintly. Didn’t say anything else; he just let his limbs curl in tighter and leaned more of his weight into Steve’s side, feeling for that warmth again, the reassurance of someone solid beside him. Not asking for anything. Not demanding. Just… there. Steve had gone quiet again, thumb brushing idly along the seam of his jeans like he was thinking. Peter didn’t mind the silence. Silence was easier than people trying to talk around him. Like he was a bomb, and everyone was terrified of finding the trigger by accident.

But Steve wasn’t like that. Steve asked things. Not all at once. Just slowly, like checking for bruises.

“Can I ask something?” he said gently, shifting slightly to face him more. Peter tensed, barely. Steve caught it anyway. “You don’t have to answer.”

Peter nodded once.

Steve paused. “Are you… mad at Harley?”

The breath caught in Peter’s chest so fast he almost choked on it. Mad? He hadn’t even thought about it like that. Not really. He hadn’t had the words for it. He'd barely had the thoughts. Just the echo of it, raw and dull, sitting in the center of his chest like a bruise that didn’t want to fade. He blinked, a little too fast. Felt something sting behind his eyes.

“No,” he said, quiet. Too fast. Then slower: “No. I’m not mad.”

Steve didn’t say anything.

Peter looked away. The sting in his eyes got worse. He dragged his fingers down the side of his face like it would somehow smudge the emotion off. It didn’t help.

“I’m not-” His voice cracked. He coughed, tried again. “I’m not mad. I just…”

He trailed off.

“Just… hurt?” Steve offered gently.

Peter wrinkled his nose and turned his face further into the couch cushion. He hated that word. It made him feel six inches tall. “I don’t get hurt,” he muttered, automatically.

It felt like a reflex, something taught into the marrow of him by someone who didn’t want to deal with messy things like crying or vulnerability or being scared. His limbs pulled closer without him meaning to, two of them curling low beneath his knees, another pressing lightly into the couch cushion beside Steve’s hip.

Steve didn’t flinch. Just hummed softly.

Peter hated how hollow he felt. How bad it had been. The sound Harley made. The way his voice had cracked, saying the word Peter never should have taught him. How small Peter had felt afterward, like a kicked dog too ashamed to crawl back to the door. “It was just…” Peter’s voice trailed again.

“Bad,” Steve finished, like he didn’t need more than that. “It sounds like it sucked, from what I heard.” Peter flinched at that - barely - but Steve’s tone wasn’t sharp. It was matter-of-fact. Honest in the way few people were with him now. “But it’s okay to feel that,” Steve added. “He cares about you. Barging in and… everything that happened before wasn’t the right way to do it, but… he misses you. I think.”

Peter’s jaw clenched. Not because he disagreed, but because agreeing made something in his chest ache. He missed Harley too, so much it made him sick. But missing didn’t make it better. Didn’t erase the words, or the way he’d folded like paper the second one left Harley’s mouth.

He swallowed and pressed his forehead into the back of the couch. Closed his eyes. “I know,” he whispered.

He didn’t know if Steve heard. But the hand on his shoulder didn’t move, and the silence stayed gentle, unpressured. Peter’s limbs uncurled just slightly. Enough to bump lightly against Steve’s side again, reaching - barely - for that solid warmth.

He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

—

Tony didn’t say anything right away.

He was supposed to be checking the numbers, but he couldn’t really see anything. It was just… noise. Bucky shifted from where he was leaning against a chair, and Tony didn’t look up. Instead, he muttered, “We shouldn’t be doing this yet.”

Bucky didn’t argue. He just nodded slowly, like he was already halfway in agreement. “But we’re going to.”

Tony let out a tight, humorless breath. “Yeah. Because he wants it, and we’re idiots. And God forbid we ever try to slow the kid down when he decides something,” he said, voice thick. Fuck, he missed the kid. He missed how stubborn and determined he could be when he wanted something. Fighting Harley over tools in the lab or going after stupid weapons dealers with alien tech even when Tony had told him-

He turned back to the screen. He scrolled through the nearest console, tapped a few commands, and pulled up the current memory interface readings they’d been compiling. The visual scan - a ghostly lattice of Peter’s brain activity - floated above the surface, flickering with live data.

“I’ve got the word mapped,” Tony muttered, swiping through diagnostic overlays. “Still leaves the other nine.”

“Let’s not think about the other nine yet,” Bucky said flatly.

“Right.” Tony paused, looked over his shoulder. “You sure we should even try this?”

“No,” Bucky said. “But I’m more sure we can’t not try.”

That made Tony stop. Bucky looked… tired. Older than he was. The lines on his face were drawn deeper lately, like every time Peter slipped out of reach, he aged another year. Tony knew the feeling.

He turned back to the data, pulled up the cross-reference from the Wakandan team. The mess of neural pattern isolation, precision-targeting therapy, some kind of electrochemical scrub - it was all so experimental that most of the documentation was still in progress. They didn’t have protocols, just best guesses.

Fuck, Tony wished Bruce was here. Cho was barely tolerating this as is.

“This is going to hurt him,” Tony said eventually. Quiet. Like he needed to say it out loud so it would be real. “And maybe he doesn’t care. But I do.”

Bucky walked over, leaned against the side of the console, and watched the data rotate slowly. “He doesn’t want it to happen again,” he said after a while. “He’s not scared of the pain. He’s scared of losing control and hurting someone. Or it being used against him when he least expects it. No matter how much it hurts, I guarantee you they put him through worse to get him here.”

Tony didn’t answer. He just adjusted the calibration on the interface. Dialed it back another few percent. Then another. “I’m setting it low-impact. Short duration,” he said. “We do one word. See how it goes.”

“Don’t,” Bucky said firmly. “Get it out. If we do all this and it doesn’t work, it’ll kill him.”

He gaped at the other man. “If we do it wrong, this will kill him.”

“It won’t. Shuri promised me it wouldn’t,” he said. “But if we do this just to have it doesn’t work, we’re just drawing it out. It’s better to just… rip the band-aid off.”

Tony held up a hand, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. His other hovered just above the calibration dial, still glowing faint orange beneath his fingertips. The interface reflected blue across his face, hollowing the lines around his eyes, drawing deep shadows down his cheekbones. He felt tired. Bone-deep, gut-rotten tired. “If he seizes, we pull the plug. If he flatlines-”

“He won’t flatline,” Bucky said simply.

“If he flatlines,” Tony repeated, “you’re doing CPR, not me.”

Bucky smiled grimly. “Deal.”

He just stood there, arms folded, metal fingers tightening subtly into the meat of his opposite arm. His jaw clenched. Hard. Tony sighed and dropped his hand from his face.  “God, I hate this,” Tony muttered.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, still watching the readouts. Still not blinking. “Me too.”

They worked like they were building a bomb, because they were. There was something about Peter’s brain - cracked open and carved out by someone else’s code - that made this feel more intimate and invasive and crueler than anything else they’d done. This wasn’t just patching up a suit or reprogramming a training bot. This was going into the places Peter didn’t even want to remember, and pulling out the rot by hand.

Tony slid the last of the calibration wires into the port. It glowed steady green. “All right,” he said. “We’re ready. You want me to go get him?”

Bucky hesitated. Then: “No. I’ll do it.”

Tony didn’t try to stop him as the other man headed toward the elevator, shoulders squared, breath measured - but even from behind, Tony could see the tension in his spine. He moved like a man about to deliver a sentence. Like he was hoping, against all odds, that Peter would change his mind at the last second.

But he wouldn’t. Not Peter. Not when it meant protecting them from himself.

—

Peter had been waiting.

Not sitting. Not pacing. Just... waiting.

He’d pulled the blanket up over his knees again, despite the warmth in the room, and sat tucked into the farthest corner of the couch. His limbs were curled tightly around him - two sprawled off the armrest, one limp across his lap like a weight, and the last gently curled around the edge of the blanket, loosely mimicking the way a hand might clutch at something for comfort.

He hadn’t moved in a while. He didn’t want to.

FRIDAY had confirmed that they were preparing the lab. She hadn’t told him when it would be ready, but just that Tony and Bucky were doing their best to make it safe. That the settings were being double-checked. That Bucky had asked for padded cuffs instead of the metal ones. That they weren’t going to tie him down unless he asked for it.

Peter hadn’t responded.

He just let the information settle like dust around him. Safe.  Sure.

What did that even mean anymore?

He stared at the floor for a long time. He thought about Harley. He thought about the word, the sound of it, spoken through crooked teeth and fear and desperation, wrapped in a voice that shouldn’t have said it. It shouldn’t have worked, but it did. It had unraveled him in a blink, like nothing. Like he was nothing.

He’d punched a dent in the wall afterward.

Didn’t remember doing it; probably done in the tumble from when he’d ripped away from him. He didn’t remember anything, not really - just the echo of the voice and the electric crackle in his skull, that awful drop into quiet obedience.

And Harley’s face.

Peter blinked. Squeezed his eyes shut. His jaw ached from clenching. He didn't want to hurt him. He never wanted to hurt anyone.

But he had.

Even if no one said it out loud. Even if they all just kept looking at him like he was unstable, like he was the one that needed protecting. He didn’t want to be so unreliable and dangerous and half-feral anymore. He wanted the words gone.

One word, to start off with. Just one.

He shifted slowly. One spider limb reached over to rest on the floor, bracing gently. Another curled behind his back, grounding. He focused on the rhythm of his breathing. One beat. Then the next. In. Out. It didn’t help. A knock broke the quiet. Just once. Firm, not loud. Then the soft hiss of the door as it opened.

Peter looked up. Not fast. Just enough to see Bucky standing there. He didn’t come in right away; he stood in the doorway for a second, like he wasn’t sure if he should. Like he was giving Peter one more chance to say no.

Peter didn’t say anything.

He sighed. “You ready, kid?”

Peter looked away. He nodded once. His limbs dragged behind him as he slowly unfolded himself and stood. Everything inside him felt stiff. His joints ached. His skin felt too tight. But he didn’t complain. He didn’t say anything at all. Bucky waited for him to come to the door on his own, and he didn’t offer a hand or a shoulder. He didn’t touch him. Peter appreciated that, even if he couldn’t say it.

The hallway was quiet. Their footsteps echoed.

Peter followed just slightly behind. He didn’t look up. He watched the scuffed patterns on the tile instead, the little grooves where Bucky’s boots had worn down the floor, where someone had dropped something and left a dent. When they reached the elevator, Bucky pressed the button. They waited in silence. No music. 

Peter felt like he was walking into a graveyard.

“You sure about this?” He asked quietly, just once, as the doors slid open.

Peter didn’t answer right away. His limbs flexed once, like they were bracing for something. Then he stepped inside. “I’m sure,” he said.

It was the only thing he could be.

Bucky didn’t push; he didn’t say anything else as the elevator moved. Peter could feel him glancing over once or twice, but he didn’t meet his eyes. He didn’t want reassurance. He just wanted this to work.

The lab doors opened with a soft click. The lights were dimmer now - less sterile than usual. They’d dialed everything down, Peter realized. Warm tones instead of white. Softer hums from the machinery.

There was just a padded chair. Monitors. The hum of calibrated equipment. And Tony, standing nearby, hands on a tablet and leaning in a posture too practiced. Peter stopped just inside the room and tried to ignore the way he could feel the way his limbs curled in slightly, defensively, but he didn’t move to run.  

Bucky gave a nod. Not forced. Not soft. Just solid. Like he was telling Peter: You’re here now. That’s enough.

Peter stepped forward. The rest could come later.

—

Bucky hadn’t moved from his spot at the corner of the lab.

His arms were still crossed, metal shoulder tight under the collar of his jacket, boots braced slightly apart like he was getting ready for something awful. Because he was. He wasn’t entirely sure what Tony had cooked up with the Wakandans or what kind of tech was being used - Tony had thrown a lot of jargon around about neurostimulation and synaptic disruption and something about isolating embedded command phrase feedback loops - but none of it really mattered.

What mattered was Peter. The kid was sitting in the chair now.

He looked too small in it, curled in like he was waiting to be hit. Not restrained yet, not locked down, not contained - but that didn’t matter. He was still caged. Shoulders hunched, knees drawn slightly in, spider-limbs tight and trembling behind him like they'd taken on his fear for him. The light from the monitor washed him out pale and sickly, deepening the dark circles under his eyes. His jaw was clenched tight.

He hadn’t said anything since they brought him in.

Cho was there - her expression carefully blank, hands already moving over a monitor. Tony was moving around behind her, fitting something onto a sleek headset that bristled with thin electrodes. Bucky caught sight of it and barely held in a flinch. It looked like a crown. A crown of thorns, more like.

Peter didn’t look up as it was lowered onto his head. He barely blinked when the sensors were adjusted. He looked hollow. Gone, almost.

Bucky hated this. He didn’t say anything. It felt like waiting for the axe to fall.

Bucky stayed silent as he watched Cho adjust the interface one last time, her fingers flicking over the monitor like she was playing an instrument she didn’t want to hear. The readouts were green. Too green. Too perfect and flat. It made the back of his neck itch.

Peter sat still in the chair, every inch of him obedient and unreadable. His spider limbs were curled tight to his spine again, all of them low and slumped. Not defensive. Not ready. Just folded in, like he'd packed himself up for transport. The crown went on his head with barely a murmur. One of the electrodes tangled in his curls, and Cho gently freed it. Peter didn't even blink. The kid might as well have been made of glass.

And Bucky hated this. Hated it so much he could taste bile at the back of his throat.

He stepped forward slowly, boots heavy on the floor, every movement deliberate - telegraphed, careful, trying not to spook him. Peter didn’t look up, but Bucky saw the ripple through his shoulders, the little jolt of tension in his arms. Not fear. Not quite. Just… that flicker of awareness. That learned readiness. The way you flinch from something before it touches you, because it always does.

He crouched down to Peter’s level, trying to keep his voice steady. Gentle. Not gentle like you’d speak to a child, but like how you'd speak to a cornered animal you didn’t want to scare off.

“It’s gonna hurt,” he said bluntly. “There’s a good chance you’ll flail.” Peter’s eyes moved, just slightly, flicking down toward him. A signal. He was listening. “If you do,” Bucky went on, “you could hurt yourself. Or damage the equipment. I’m not gonna screw you into the chair unless you want me to, but I need to know what you want. We’ve got padded cuffs from Wakanda. They’re soft but they’re durable. It’s your call.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, a jerky little nod. “Please,” Peter rasped.

It was barely a word. His voice had the dry, cracked quality of something pulled out of a furnace. Bucky reached behind himself and retrieved the cuffs. They looked too clean in his hands, and he’d hated them on sight. They weren’t like what HYDRA used; not sharp. Not digging into skin. No bloodstains. No barbs. But still - they symbolized the same thing. Restraint. Loss of control. The idea of putting them on Peter made something in Bucky’s chest twist into a sick knot.

But Peter had asked, so he did.

He moved slowly, deliberately, murmuring the whole time. “Okay. Left wrist first. Gonna keep it loose but secure. You tell me if anything’s too tight.”

Peter didn’t reply. Just let his arm be guided.

The cuff clicked into place - soft, secure, wrapped around an inner vibranium frame. Bucky tested it gently with a tug and then moved on to the next one. The whole time, Peter didn’t resist. Didn’t twitch. Just breathed through his nose, staring down at his knees like he was somewhere else entirely.

Bucky swallowed hard and stood again, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He wanted to punch a hole in the wall. He wanted to break something, just to give this anger somewhere to go. But there was still one thing left.

“You’re gonna need this,” he said, pulling a thin, curved mouthguard from his pocket. “Stops you from biting your own tongue.”

Peter blinked once. Then opened his mouth. Like it was habit. Like it was nothing. Like he’d done it a hundred times before, and none of them had mattered. Bucky nearly dropped it.

He stepped in again, hand shaking slightly as he slipped the guard into place. Peter’s jaw closed around it obediently, and Bucky stepped back, hands going to his hips. He looked at the kid, and felt like he was watching someone march himself into a furnace.

Cho turned slightly. “Vitals steady. We’re ready on our end.”

“Good,” Tony said from behind them, sounding like a man whose soul was trying to crawl out of his skin. “Let’s get this show on the road and rip the band-aid off.”

Bucky turned and walked to the back of the room. He didn’t look at Peter again. 

Then Tony turned to Bucky. “You ready?”

Bucky’s throat felt dry. He’d said he’d do this - agreed to say the word out loud in Russian so the feedback system could track the spike and begin purging the embedded command. It was Peter’s choice. But Christ, that didn’t make it easier. He stepped forward. Just a little.

Peter didn’t look at him, but one spider-limb shifted toward the sound. It made Bucky want to throw up. He cleared his throat and said, quietly, “Эхо.”

Nothing happened at first, but then Peter jerked. Not a full-body flinch - just a ripple. Like something had passed through him all at once and he was scrambling not to react. His hands tightened on the arms of the chair, every knuckle white. One of the limbs seized and scraped against the floor.

Bucky’s gut twisted.

Tony adjusted something on the tablet beside him. A high-pitched sound buzzed briefly, then faded. Peter made a soft, involuntary sound in his throat.

“Again,” Tony said, voice steady.

Bucky hesitated. Then- “Эхо."

Peter twitched harder. This time it hit fast - his whole body convulsing once like he’d taken a punch. He didn’t scream, but he gasped like he was choking. One of the spider-limbs slammed down and scraped a line into the tile.

“Up to forty,” Cho said tightly.

Bucky’s heart was hammering.

“Again,” Tony repeated. “We’re seeing response. Say it.”

He didn’t want to. But he did. “Эхо.”

The machine whined. Peter’s head jerked back, teeth clenched so hard Bucky swore heard something crack. He went still after that, almost frozen. His chest heaved once, twice, then locked. Cho said something, but Bucky could hardly hear it. Peter made a low sound. Animal. Almost a whimper. He was breathing, at least. Bucky stepped forward, barely able to stay still. “Tony-”

“Not yet,” Tony said tightly. “Just a few more seconds.”

Bucky clenched his jaw. Something in the monitors shrieked. Peter arched in the chair, then went slack.

The machine beeped again - flatline tone - and Cho cursed. Tony hit a switch, and everything dropped into silence. Peter’s body slumped further. His limbs twitched once and went still.

“Vitals holding,” FRIDAY said again. “Neural response normalizing.”

Tony looked at the boy on the table - his face, pale and slack, his mouth half-open like he’d just been dragged out of hell - and felt a bolt of guilt so sharp it made his eyes sting. “We better hope,” he muttered, “that band-aid was worth it.”

Bucky stalked across the room and knelt beside the chair just as Cho reached in from the other side. Peter was out cold. His pulse was fluttering fast under the skin of his throat, and he’d bitten clear through the mouthguard and through his lip. Blood trailed from the corner of his mouth, dark and wet.

“Hey, kid-” Bucky said quietly, thumb brushing over the side of Peter’s face. He was pale. Sweating. His eyes fluttered once but didn’t open.

“Neurological activity stable,” Cho murmured, reading. “Looks like he blacked out right at the peak.”

“Is he-” Bucky started.

“He’s okay,” Tony cut in, a little breathless. “He’s okay. It worked, I think. Fuck, I hope it registered.” Bucky didn’t care. Not right now. He reached forward and brushed the hair back from Peter’s forehead. The kid didn’t react. But he didn’t flinch, either.

FRIDAY’s voice chimed softly in the background. “He is stable, Sergeant Barnes. All metrics are within safety parameters.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just stayed there, crouched at Peter’s side, breathing a little unevenly. He’d done it and it looked like it had worked.

But God, at what cost?

Bucky just looked at Cho, and she nodded without needing the words. “It’s safe to move him,” she said softly. “Vitals are stable. He’s not going to crash on you.”

That was all he needed.

Carefully, Bucky stepped forward, unbuckling the restraints and sliding one arm behind Peter’s back, the other beneath his knees. The kid didn’t even stir. He was still too out of it, and his head lolled against Bucky’s collarbone the moment he lifted him, spider limbs trailing behind limply, scraping lightly across the lab floor.

Bucky could feel cool breath on his throat. He was breathing. That was a good sign. But he wasn’t holding on, wasn’t curling into the touch or twitching in reflex. Bucky hated that. Hated how quiet he’d gone. He adjusted Peter’s weight slightly, careful not to jostle the headgear’s raw contact marks at his temples, and started toward the elevator. The metal doors slid open without a word. FRIDAY, for once, didn’t announce anything.

The ride down was silent.

Peter’s breath was shallow against his chest. His face was slack, expressionless, with a smear of dried blood on his chin and that unmistakable sheen of pain still clinging to his skin. Bucky couldn’t look away from it. He didn’t want to. There was a sort of weight to carrying someone like this - someone who'd handed himself over to suffering on purpose. It made his chest feel too tight.

The elevator doors opened again, this time to the low hallway of their floor. Steve was already there - he must’ve been waiting, pacing maybe, because he was halfway down the hall before Bucky stepped fully into the light.

His eyes landed on Peter, and his face changed immediately. “Jesus - he-” Steve strode forward fast. “Is he okay?”

“He’s out,” Bucky murmured. “Just out. They said he’s gonna be fine.”

“He’s not even twitching,” Steve said, already starting to reach forward, like he was going to check for something - breathing, pulse, anything. His voice had gone a little tight, that same panic bleeding into the edges. “Buck, are you sure he’s-”

“I’m sure.” Bucky adjusted Peter again, gentler this time, like even the shift of his arms might hurt him. “Cho wouldn’t have let me take him if there was a risk. He’s gonna feel like hell, but he’s okay.”

Steve pulled back slightly. He looked like he didn’t want to believe it. But he gave a shaky breath and nodded, stepping out of the way so Bucky could pass.

The spare room was already made up - Steve must’ve done that too, just in case. The sheets were clean. Thin. Tucked in sharp. Nothing extra on the bed, no fluff, no pillows piled for comfort. Bucky understood why. Peter had never liked anything he hadn’t chosen for himself. Bucky had been the same way, when he’d first come back.

He knelt down by the edge and lowered Peter carefully into the bed. The kid didn’t stir. Just slumped bonelessly into the mattress, head rolling to the side with a small, low sound that was more pain than consciousness. One of the spider limbs scraped weakly at the sheet before folding inward.

Steve hovered by the door. “Is there anything we can do for him?”

“Lights,” Bucky said immediately. “Draw the curtains. Water by the bed.”

Steve did it without saying anything else while Bucky adjusted the pillow behind Peter’s head. Gently shifted his legs into place. Pulled the blanket over him - just the thinnest one, not enough to weigh him down, not enough to make him feel trapped. Peter groaned faintly. Bucky paused.

“You’re alright,” he murmured, brushing back a damp curl of hair from Peter’s temple. “Just sleep, kid. You did good.”

The groan faded. Steve stepped back in. The room had dimmed significantly. Curtains drawn, lights off except for the faintest ambient glow from the hallway. He set a bottle of water on the bedside table, then paused, looking down at Peter’s face.

“Poor kid,” he muttered.

“Yeah.” Bucky didn’t get up yet. He watched the shallow rise and fall of Peter’s chest, the way his brow twitched faintly in his sleep. “He didn’t even blink when we told him it’d hurt.”

“He never does.”

That, more than anything, was the problem.

They stood in silence for a minute longer. Eventually, Bucky stood. He didn’t like leaving, but he also knew Peter needed the space. Needed the dark and the stillness and the room to breathe through whatever pain was still eating at him. He turned to Steve. “We’ll check in again in a few hours.”

Steve nodded.

They stepped out, and the door closed softly behind them. Bucky tried not to feel like he was abandoning him.

—

Peter woke up to the distant throb of pain and the sticky drag of something warm on his cheek. His tongue felt thick. His head was... wrong. Not just hurting, wrong. Like something had been rewired too quickly and sparks were still catching fire under his skull. Static in his thoughts. He blinked groggily at the blurred corner of the room, disoriented. Not his quarters. Not the cell. Somewhere soft. Unfamiliar.

And then it wasn’t.

Right. The bed. The spare bedroom.

He made a sound, something low and miserable in the back of his throat, and pressed the heel of his palm into one eye. Everything ached. His teeth. His neck. His back. Especially his head - dense pressure blooming behind his eyes like rot. There was a buzzing in his skull that didn’t match any input. Like wires coiled too tight. Like he’d been taken apart and put back together a little crooked.

Peter groaned again and rolled to his side.

Bad idea.

The moment gravity shifted, his stomach flipped - hot and sharp and nauseating. He barely made it out of bed in time, spider limbs jerking stiffly as he stumbled toward the bathroom, legs wobbling and unbalanced. It felt like everything had been tipped sideways - like a concussion but more, almost. The muscles in his legs were locked up. His knees hit the tile hard as he doubled over the toilet, gagging.

Nothing at first. Just retching. Then something bitter and bright forced itself up. His eyes watered, chest heaving. His limbs flared out wide for balance, clinging to the walls and doorframe, twitching erratically with each pulse of his gut. He hated this. Hated the way his body betrayed him. Hated the way his head spun even after it was empty. He didn’t even hear the door creak open behind him until there was a faint step, a shift in air pressure.

A voice - low, cautious - broke the haze.

“Peter?”

Steve.

Peter stiffened. His spider limbs curled protectively toward his body, a few of them curling around the toilet base as his breath caught. Shame burned in his throat hotter than the acid had. He ducked his head lower, shoulders curling forward. “I’m sorry,” he rasped, voice hoarse and too thin. “I didn’t mean-”

“Hey.” The tone wasn’t angry. Wasn’t anything like what he braced for. Just quiet. Neutral. “You’re alright. Don’t worry about that.”

Peter stayed where he was, body folded in half, trembling slightly. Steve didn’t come any closer. He stood at the threshold and waited. Peter’s breathing gradually slowed. He didn’t move. His fingers curled in on themselves and one of the spider limbs tapped the tile twice - a sharp, rhythmic sound like a heartbeat.

Steve watched. Then, after a long moment, said gently, “You think you’re ready to move just yet?”

Peter swallowed. His tongue still felt wrong in his mouth, like it didn’t belong there. He hesitated, then nodded once, small and quick. The spider limbs pulled in, coiling tight around his spine, folding flat. He levered himself shakily to his feet, wavering on the spot. Steve didn’t reach for him, but he stepped aside, letting Peter pass.

The light in the hallway made his head pound.

Peter winced, blinking hard against it, one arm curling up to shield his face. Steve must have noticed because by the time Peter made it to the couch, the overheads had dimmed automatically to something softer. His limbs uncoiled slightly. Not much. Just enough to show he noticed. 

Steve guided him down onto the sofa with the gentleness of someone who understood how breakable things could be. Peter let himself sit. Hunched in. Head down. Hands clasped. Spider limbs drooped off the side of the couch and one curled slowly around his ankle.

“You’re okay,” Steve said, crouching in front of him. “Just gonna grab you a glass of water and some painkillers.” Peter didn’t answer. Just nodded again, shallow, eyes barely flicking up.

When Steve returned, he held the glass out first. Peter blinked at it, confused for a second - then took it with both hands and tried to ignore how they shook. Cold against his palms. He dipped his head once, polite and wordless. The pills came next. He hesitated.

Steve saw it. Didn’t press. Just waited.

Peter slid them into his mouth and washed them down in one long swallow. They stuck slightly in his throat. He didn’t complain.

Steve sat nearby; next to him, but not too close. Just enough to be there. Peter sagged. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His limbs curled toward his sides, twitching slightly with every subtle shift of the room. All he could handle was this: water, quiet, the scent of clean laundry from the throw blanket at his side. Safe. Still, somehow.

He let out a wordless noise under his breath and leaned his temple to the back of the sofa.

The headache was still there, pressing in behind his temples, rooting into the soft tissue of his skull like claws. Nausea hovered just below the surface, not enough to be active, but just enough to keep him from relaxing. He felt brittle, like if anyone looked at him too long he’d crack straight down the middle.

The water sat half-finished in his hands. His fingers trembled slightly around the glass, and one of his spider limbs reached out automatically to steady it before he could drop it. Even that motion, fluid and instinctive, felt wrong. The weight of his body had shifted since the procedure. Things were still realigning. He could feel it - neurological sand still settling, the way a snow globe scattered in slow motion after being shaken.

He stared into the glass like it might tell him something. A reason. A fix.

It didn’t.

He sniffled once, barely audible, and pressed the heel of his hand against one eye, hiding it. His breath hitched. The ache behind his eyes had become sharp, urgent - emotional, now. Weak. Not just physical defection, but all of it. That needling feeling in his chest that built up from exhaustion and pain and nausea. He felt like a child again, in some blurry distant feeling that he had but couldn’t quite place.

“Do you… do you want a hug?” Steve asked, voice low, gentle like a hand cupped around a bird.

Peter blinked. His gaze ticked over to Steve without turning his head. He didn’t answer right away, and didn’t trust his voice. His spider limbs shifted nervously, drawing closer in toward his torso. Protective. Wary.

Then, slowly, he moved. Tipped his body to the side. Just a little at first. Just until his shoulder bumped Steve’s.

When Steve didn’t flinch - didn’t move away, didn’t tense - Peter leaned harder. It was like rolling toward warmth in the dead of winter. He hadn’t even realized how cold he was until he felt the heat of someone else beside him. Steve adjusted immediately.  One hand took the glass from him, settling it onto the side table before strong arms came around his shoulders, slow and steady. No pressure. Just presence.

Peter’s breath hitched again, this time sharper.

His arms came up before he could even think - around Steve’s ribs, quick and jerky like muscle memory, like a program he didn’t remember learning. He burrowed in close, curling half into Steve’s lap like some kind of feral, exhausted thing. He latched on and didn’t let go.

Steve’s chest was solid beneath his cheek. His heartbeat was just as steady. Peter could hear it. Could feel it, under his ear. Steve didn’t talk. Didn’t jostle him or ruffle his hair or say there, there like a handler might’ve in mockery or Rostov might have in earnest. He just let him be.

Peter could’ve cried, if he weren’t already so wrung out. Just from the kindness of it. The gentleness. It felt like a trick. Like a trick he wanted to fall for. Like the moment he gave in, someone would rip it away.

But no one did.

A big hand shifted against his back, then paused. Then - so softly he almost missed it - Steve brushed the back of his fingers to Peter’s forehead, like he was checking a child for a fever.

Peter startled, just a little. The touch wasn’t bad, but it flicked something raw in his chest. He reached up before Steve could move again and caught his hand in both of his, and pulled it down. He pressed Steve’s open palm to his cheek like it was something sacred.

The warmth. The size of it. He leaned into it shamelessly.

Steve went still. Not tense, just… surprised. Peter’s limbs twitched once, rearranged themselves slowly around the both of them. One settled across the back of the couch. Another crept under Steve’s arm, curving delicately around his hip like a hook, not holding, just resting. A third came forward and gently nudged at Steve’s opposite hand, as if to say: you can hold this one, too.

Steve hesitated. Peter could feel him figuring it out.

Then - tentatively - Steve let his fingers settle around the base of the limb that had reached for him. A small curl of touch, careful and respectful. It twitched again at first, an automatic spasm of defensiveness. Peter didn’t pull it away though. Instead, he turned his head slightly into Steve’s hand and pushed the limb back into his palm.

An offering. Trust.

Steve understood.

And Peter didn’t cry. Not quite. But something behind his ribs cracked a little looser, and his eyes burned, and when he finally exhaled, it was soft and fluttery, like the sound of something that had been holding its breath for far too long. He didn’t even try to hide it anymore. He needed the contact. Steve’s hand was still cupped gently against his cheek, radiating warmth. Peter leaned into it like a sunflower to the sun.

“How’re you feeling?” Steve asked, low and calm, voice barely a ripple in the quiet.

Peter didn’t answer right away. He barely breathed. He just made a small, pathetic hum - somewhere between a whine and a sigh - low in his throat like a wounded animal. He didn’t mean to. It just slipped out. His head throbbed, dull and mean behind his eyes, and every time his brain tried to form words, they melted before they got to his mouth.

Steve shifted slightly beside him, one hand moving from Peter’s cheek to the top of his head, fingers threading gently into his curls.

“Can you talk?” he asked, even softer now.

There was a beat of silence. Peter blinked slow. Heavy.

“…I can,” he rasped at last, voice raw and clotted with exhaustion. The words came out like they’d had to crawl across a desert first; dry, sluggish, almost confused. “Just… hurts.”

He didn’t specify what hurt. Everything. His head, his chest, his teeth, the back of his eyes. But mostly the inside of him - like someone had opened him up, stirred everything around, and tried to close him back wrong.

From across the room, Bucky’s voice came. “Did you give him the painkillers?”

Peter startled, because he hadn’t even realised the other man was there. Steve just pressed his palm further against Peter’s cheek, who relaxed again. “Yeah,” Steve murmured. “Couple minutes ago. He took them.”

“Okay,” Bucky said, and then footsteps padded closer. Peter barely processed the sound of it until Bucky crouched directly in front of them.

Peter blinked again. His eyes were half-lidded and glassy, and he peered up at Bucky through the loose cage of Steve’s fingers where they still brushed his temple. He didn’t move away, but he did press further into Steve’s ribs, like he could just absorb him. Like that would make it all stop.

“Hey, kid,” Bucky said, low and even, crouching until they were eye-level. “Gonna run a few things by you. Nothing scary, alright?”

Peter gave the barest nod, limbs twitching.

“We’ll start easy,” Bucky murmured. He held up one hand. “How many fingers?”

Peter squinted, blinking sluggishly. “Three,” he said after a moment, barely audible.

“Good,” Bucky said, patient. “What’s your name?”

“…Peter.”

“And mine?”

Peter paused, brow pulling slightly. He looked at him, confused. Then something clicked. “Bucky,” he said, though it sounded more like a sigh than a word.

“Good. You know where you are?”

Peter hesitated longer this time, eyes drifting to the ceiling. His mouth parted, and then shut again.

“…Steve’s room?” he tried, small and uncertain.

Bucky smiled faintly. “Close enough.”

Peter didn’t smile back. His body stayed tense, curled in like a fist, like he was still waiting for someone to hurt him.

“Can you tell me what day it is?” Bucky asked gently.

Peter groaned. “No,” he mumbled into Steve’s shirt, annoyed by the question and his inability to answer it. “I don’t - I don’t know the date.”

“Alright, fair,” Bucky said, lips twitching. “We’ll skip that one.”

Peter slumped a little, defeated and tired. Everything felt foggy and loose in his brain. Even answering questions felt like dragging himself uphill, but he hadn’t panicked. He hadn’t frozen or lashed out. And even though his voice was shot and his body felt like it had been microwaved, he was still here.

That had to count for something.

Peter stayed slumped against Steve, trying not to breathe too loud, trying not to exist too hard. Everything inside him felt tight and floaty at the same time, like he wasn’t real, like the ache in his skull had taken up all the space he used to occupy. He knew his answers had been slow. Knew Bucky had seen it. The long pauses. The way his eyes kept drifting. He’d gotten the questions wrong - the date, the room. HYDRA would’ve punished that.

His limbs coiled tighter, his hands curling into Steve’s sweatshirt like they were bracing for a hit. The pain made him stupid. That was dangerous. That meant he wasn’t useful. That meant-

“You’re good,” Bucky said softly, and then stood. He reached over, plucked the empty water glass from the side table. “You want something else to eat?”

Peter blinked at him. His limbs uncurled just slightly in confusion. That wasn’t the next step. That wasn’t how this was supposed to go. He swallowed, shook his head just enough for the movement to be visible.

“No,” he murmured, already burying his face back in the fabric of Steve’s shirt like he could hide from his own uselessness. He didn’t want to be fed if he couldn’t even keep up. He didn’t want to sit at a table and be looked at like a problem. He just wanted-

Steve’s arm gave a faint squeeze where it curled around him. “You want me to read to you again?” he asked gently, like it was nothing. Like Peter wasn’t a wreck half-fused into his side.

Peter shook his head again, the motion barely perceptible. “No,” he breathed. “Head hurts. Just…”

Steve didn’t respond right away. Peter felt the faint shift in his chest, the breath he took. The way his other hand settled against Peter’s shoulder like it was readying to help him up. “I can take you back to your room,” Steve offered softly.

Peter’s grip tightened. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a full-body clutch. It was the way his fingers curled a little harder into the fabric of Steve’s shirt, the subtle brace of one of his spider limbs against the couch like it could hold him there. He didn’t say anything else. But he didn’t move, either.

Steve exhaled slowly, like he was processing that unspoken answer. Then Peter felt him lean back into the cushions again, arm tightening around his shoulders.

“FRIDAY, dim the lights a little more, please?” Steve asked, voice pitched low.

The room responded without a word. The already low lights softened further, going warm at the edges until they just barely lit the contours of the room. Peter breathed in. Steve’s palm - broad and solid and steady - pressed against his upper back, between his shoulderblades. Not a pat. Not a rub. Just weight. Contact.

Peter melted. The knot in his chest loosened, and one of his spider limbs sagged down, brushing the floor with a soft click. Another folded itself around the edge of the couch. He let out a low, barely-there chuff against Steve’s chest. Not quite a sigh. Not quite a purr.

He wasn’t being made to move. He wasn’t being punished. No one was yelling. No one was dragging him back to containment. Steve just stayed there; solid, warm, quiet.

Peter stayed too.