Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world had been loud just moments ago. The crackle of energy blasts, the rhythmic thudding of repulsors firing, the distant wail of sirens—chaos wrapped in steel and smoke.

Now, everything was quiet.

Not literally—his enhanced senses still picked up the distorted sounds of the battle raging on the fringes of his awareness. But inside his head, inside his chest, inside his very bones—there was nothing but a cold, hollow silence.

Peter’s breath hitched as he stared at the crumpled figure on the ground.

Tony Stark wasn’t moving.

The arc reactor in his chest flickered weakly, sending out uneven pulses of light, illuminating the smudges of dirt and streaks of blood on his armor. His helmet had been knocked off somewhere in the fight, leaving his face bare, slack, too still. His body lay at an awkward angle, like a puppet with its strings cut.

Peter’s stomach churned violently.

He had seen Tony take hits before. Had watched him crash into buildings, slam into the pavement, walk away from things no human should be able to. But this—this wasn’t like those times. The suit wasn’t humming with power, his hands weren’t twitching as he tried to push himself up, and he wasn’t throwing out some half-assed quip to let everyone know he was still breathing.

Because he wasn’t.

Peter could feel his body starting to shake.

No.

No, no, no, no—

His chest caved in on itself, like something inside him had been yanked out, leaving nothing but a gaping void. His ears rang, a high-pitched whine cutting through his skull, his breaths coming in short, uneven gasps. He needed air. He needed time.

But the man standing across from him had already stolen both.

The mercenary—some asshole in a reinforced exosuit, sleek black plating covering a network of stolen Stark tech—was watching Tony’s unmoving body with satisfaction. The expression on his face was barely restrained glee, like he had just won the lottery.

Peter saw his lips move, but he didn’t hear the words.

All he could hear was the echo of his own heartbeat. Slow. Heavy.

Then something in his head snapped.

And everything rushed back in at once.

The world slammed into focus.

His muscles coiled, fingers curling into fists so tight they ached. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, sharp, ragged, his whole body tensing with something raw and unfamiliar.

He knew his own strength. Knew that even when he held back , he was still the strongest person in most fights. Knew that if he didn’t hold back, he could tear through steel, shatter bones with a flick of his wrist, crush a person’s throat with the lightest squeeze.

One wrong move, one punch too hard, one flick of his wrist at the wrong angle…

He had never let himself go that far.

Because Spider-Man didn’t kill.

But Peter Parker had never watched Tony Stark die in front of him before.

Before he even realized he was moving, his body surged forward.

The mercenary barely had time to register the shift before Peter’s fist connected with his ribs, sending him flying backward. His body crashed into a streetlight, bending the metal in half before he hit the pavement with a sickening crack .

Peter didn’t stop.

Before the man could breathe, before he could groan in pain, before he could do anything at all, Peter was on him.

A punch to the chest dented reinforced plating like it was tinfoil, forcing air out of his lungs in a sharp wheeze. A second one, cracking the armour. A third—

The man coughed, blood spattering his lips. His eyes went wide, shock settling in.

Peter should have felt something about that. Should have cared.

He didn’t.

Some distant, rational part of his brain was screaming at him to stop, but it was buried beneath the roar of rage flooding his veins.

This man had taken Tony from him.

This man had smiled while doing it.

This man—

A hand shot up, weak and trembling, pressing against Peter’s forearm. It was meant to push him away, but it might as well have been a child trying to hold back a hurricane.

Peter grabbed the man’s wrist and squeezed.

There was a crunch. A sharp, wet sound. The mercenary screamed.

Peter barely registered it.

He didn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop.

The armor was failing. He could see the seams splitting, hear the servos whine in protest. One more punch, maybe two, and he’d be through it completely. And then—

Then it would just be flesh and bone.

Peter tightened his grip.

The mercenary tried to speak—maybe a plea, maybe a taunt—but Peter wasn’t listening. He grabbed him by the collar, hoisting him off the ground as if he weighed nothing. Fear flashed across the mercenary’s face, and for the first time in his life, Peter didn’t feel bad about it.

Somewhere behind him, someone was shouting his name.

Then arms wrapped around him—strong, unrelenting. Peter thrashed, instinct taking over. He twisted, aiming an elbow at whoever dared try to stop him, but the grip didn’t loosen. Another set of hands grabbed his wrist, forcing it back, and suddenly he was being dragged away.

“Kid, stop!”

The voice was familiar. Rough. Desperate.

Peter struggled, but then—

“Peter.”

Everything inside him froze.

His breath caught, his fingers locking up mid-swing. His whole body seized as the voice cut through the haze in his mind like a blade.

It wasn’t a scream. It wasn’t even a shout. Just a name, said softly, but with so much weight behind it that it yanked him back to reality.

Peter turned his head, his whole body trembling, and there—on the ground but propped up now, coughing, bruised, but alive—was Tony Stark.

His chest was sparking, suit damaged but functional, and his face was twisted in pain. But he was breathing.

Alive.

Peter’s vision blurred. His hands, still clenched into fists, shook violently. He looked down at the mercenary beneath him, barely conscious, terror in his eyes.

He had almost—

A horrified sound tore from his throat as he stumbled back, away from him, away from everything. The arms holding him—Steve’s, he realized now—eased but didn’t let go entirely.

“Pete,” Tony called again, softer this time.

Peter’s breath came fast, ragged. His whole body ached, not from injuries, but from the sheer force of what he had almost done. His hands flexed uselessly, the phantom of violence still tingling in his fingers.

Tony was alive. Tony was okay.

And Peter had almost crossed a line he could never come back from.

Peter felt his breath hitch.

Something inside him cracked, like ice splintering under pressure.

His gaze dropped to his hands. His own fingers were trembling, blood smeared across his gloves—he didn’t even know whose.

The air suddenly felt too thick. His chest tightened. His whole body lurched with a sharp, ugly realization:

He had almost—

A sound tore from his throat, half-sob, half-choked gasp.

His heart was hammering, his lungs working overtime. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He sucked in a breath, but it didn’t feel like enough, didn’t feel real.

A hand gripped his shoulder.

His knees gave out, but Steve was there to steady him. Someone else—maybe Natasha—was barking orders, calling for medics, but Peter barely heard it. His eyes were locked on Tony, on the weak but knowing look in his mentor’s eyes.

Peter swallowed, the lump in his throat thick and suffocating.

“You’re okay, son.” Steve’s voice was beside his ear and Peter flinched.

He wasn’t okay.

He had almost killed someone.

And the worst part?

For one terrifying, horrifying moment—

He had wanted to.

Chapter Text

The city below buzzed with distant life—sirens rising and falling like the breath of a wounded beast, the occasional crackle of a radio, the low thrum of helicopter blades cutting through night air. But here, above the chaos, the rooftop was still.

The kind of still that makes everything louder inside your head.

Peter sat hunched on the ledge of the building, one leg drawn up to his chest, the other dangling out over the abyss. His mask lay limp beside him, its lenses blank, hollow. Wind tugged gently at his curls, mussed and damp with sweat, blood, maybe both. The battle was over, but his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

The metal taste of adrenaline still clung to his tongue. His fists ached from clenching, his jaw from grinding. But it was the quiet that hurt the most.

When Tony arrived, Peter heard him long before he saw him. The high whir of repulsors was unmistakable, but slower than usual—quieter—like Tony already knew not to startle him.

Boots touched down softly behind him with a gentle clunk . Then nothing. No clever quip. No snarky greeting. Just breath, ragged and real, catching in a chest still recovering from impact.

Peter didn’t turn around.

“Figured I’d find you up here,” Tony said eventually. His voice was softer than Peter had expected—tired, not just physically, but deep down, from somewhere marrow-deep. “Rooftops. Brooding. Very dramatic. Do you pick the coldest one on purpose or is it just a coincidence?”

Peter’s lips twitched. Almost a smile. But it didn’t last.

“You okay?” Tony asked, tone careful.

Peter’s shoulders tensed. “No.”

There was a pause, just long enough to sting.

“Yeah,” Tony muttered finally, lowering himself onto the ledge a short distance away. He grunted in pain and Peter flinched. “Didn’t think so.”

They sat in silence. The wind tousled their hair. Far below, the city moved on, oblivious. Somewhere, someone was calling in a damage report. Somewhere else, someone was trying to explain the blast radius. But up here, there was only the aching stretch of the sky and the raw weight between them.

Peter’s voice was quiet when it came. “I almost killed him.”

Tony didn’t flinch. Just watched him carefully, eyebrows drawn together.

“I wasn’t bluffing,” Peter continued, eyes locked on the drop below. “I meant it. I had him on the ground. One more hit, and he wouldn’t have gotten up.”

“And then I said your name.”

Peter swallowed. “And then you said my name.”

Tony was quiet again. He didn’t fill the space with platitudes. He let it sit there, heavy and true.

“I’ve never been that angry before,” Peter admitted. “Not even at Thanos. Not… not even after the Blip. It was like everything went red. Like there was this noise in my head and the only way to make it stop was to hurt him.” He paused, voice cracking. “And the worst part? I wanted to. I wanted him to bleed.”

Tony’s eyes flicked down to Peter’s hands—scraped knuckles, dried blood beneath bitten nails. And then back up, to the boy beside him. Just a kid. Still just a kid.

“Do you know what I saw when you hit the ground?” Peter asked suddenly, voice raw. “I thought—God, I thought you were dead. Again. I thought this time I was too late. This time you wouldn’t recover. And it just—something inside me broke. It broke, Mr. Stark.”

Tony didn’t say anything. Just let him talk.

“I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. It was like—like watching him die again.”

Tony turned. “Who?”

Peter blinked hard, trying to clear the blur from his vision. He finally looked at Tony, really looked at him—bruised, battered, pale beneath the cuts and grime. Alive. Thank God, alive .

“My Uncle Ben.”

Tony’s breath caught.

“I was fifteen,” Peter continued, voice distant, as if the memory belonged to someone else. “He got shot. I could’ve stopped the guy who did it, but I didn’t. I was selfish. I let him get away. And then Uncle Ben was gone.”

Peter rubbed his palms over his jeans, as if trying to wipe the memory away.

“I went looking for the guy afterward. I wanted revenge. I found him. Looked him right in the eye. I didn’t kill him—but I could have. I remember thinking how easy it would’ve been. But then I thought about what Spider-Man had become, what he meant to the city, and I couldn’t do it. I thought I had let go of that rage.”

His throat tightened. “I thought I’d moved past it. I thought I was better than that. But tonight, when I saw you lying there… it wasn’t Spider-Man that stood up. It was that kid again. Angry. Helpless. Ready to tear the world apart.” 

Peter’s voice cracked on the last word. He pulled his legs up, wrapping his arms around them, hiding his face. “I don’t think I’m who you thought I was.”

Tony exhaled. “You’re exactly who I thought you were.”

Peter let out a bitter laugh. “You took the suit away after the ferry because I couldn’t be trusted—I wasn’t ready. Maybe you were right. Maybe I shouldn’t be Spider-Man. If I can’t keep it together—if I can’t be better—then what’s the point?”

Tony turned fully toward him, brow furrowed. “Peter, listen to me. That suit? The one I took back? That wasn’t because I didn’t believe in you. It was because I knew what the stakes were, and I didn’t want them to break you before you were ready.”

Peter didn’t respond.

“But tonight, you were ready. And yeah, you lost control for a second—but you stopped . That matters.”

“I only stopped because you were alive,” Peter whispered. “What if next time… you’re not?”

“You’ll stop, because it’s who you are.”

Peter blinked, shaking his head. “You don’t get it.”

“I get it better than you think.” Tony leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’ve built weapons that wiped out villages. I’ve stood over people I couldn’t save. I’ve wanted revenge. Taken revenge. And I’ve had to live with that.”

Peter’s lips parted, eyes flickering.

“The line isn’t about never wanting to cross it,” Tony said. “It’s about what you choose when it counts . And you chose to stop. That’s what makes you Spider-Man.”

Tony hesitated. Then, without another word, he reached out and pulled Peter toward him.

Peter froze for a moment, startled by the contact—then folded, silently, into Tony’s chest. The embrace was firm, anchoring. Tony wrapped both arms around him, one hand steady at the nape of his neck, holding him like he was something fragile but worth protecting.

“I’ve seen monsters,” Tony said softly into his hair. “I’ve built monsters. You’re not one of them.”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t feel like a hero.”

“You don’t have to feel like one to be one.”

Peter’s fingers curled in Tony’s jacket, small tremors working their way through his body. “I just… I don’t want to be someone people are afraid of.”

“You’re not.” Tony pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “You’re someone people look up to. Including me.”

Peter blinked, tears tracking silently down his cheeks.

“I don’t know what happens next,” he admitted. “I feel like I broke something tonight. Inside.”

Tony nodded slowly. “So we rebuild. Together. That’s what we do.”

Peter let out a long, shuddering breath and nodded, leaning into the hug again. The rooftop was still cold. The world was still broken. But for the first time since the battle, something small and quiet settled in Peter’s chest.

Not peace.

But maybe the beginning of healing.

Chapter Text

It had been three weeks since that night. Three weeks of recalibration. Tony hadn’t pushed—he’d hovered, yes, but not pushed. There had been gentle check-ins, casual movie nights that felt a little too carefully curated, and an ever-present, unspoken invitation to talk. And Peter appreciated it. He did.

But he couldn’t breathe.

Not all the time. Not when Tony looked at him like he might break again. Not when Happy offered to drive him everywhere, just in case. Not when Friday tracked his bio-signs and adrenaline levels with a quiet attentiveness that left him feeling watched, not protected.

He understood why. He didn’t blame them.

But it made the mask feel heavier.

So, he started going to the gym in the tower late at night, when the halls were dark and quiet and the world left him alone. He trained until his limbs trembled and his breath burned and his thoughts slowed down enough to be bearable.

That’s where Bucky Barnes found him.

It wasn’t intentional. At least, Peter didn’t think it was. Bucky didn’t really do “coincidence,” but the man didn’t say much either, so Peter wasn’t sure.

The first time, Bucky just nodded at him, like two people crossing paths in an empty church. Peter had paused mid-rep, tension coiled up in his shoulders, expecting a lecture or a question or a warning.

Instead, Bucky had said nothing. Just picked up a set of weights and started his own routine. Wordless. Respectful. Quiet.

The next night, he was there again.

And the next.

And the next.

They didn’t talk much, not at first, but the silence was different than the one Peter shared with Tony. With Tony, the silence was heavy with unspoken grief, too many memories that bled at the edges. With Bucky, the silence was shared space. Not a void to fill—just a room they both agreed not to talk in.

Until one night, when Peter stayed too long, and the weight of the world cracked open again.

He sat on the mat, elbows braced on his knees, staring down at his bandaged knuckles. He wasn’t bleeding, not really. But he’d hit the bag until it stung, just to make sure he felt something.

Bucky walked past him to grab a towel. He paused.

“You do that a lot,” the older man said, voice low but even. “Push until you can't.”

Peter didn't look up. “Yeah, well… Better than not feeling anything.”

Bucky sat down on the bench across from him. He didn’t challenge the statement, didn’t correct him, just let it hang.

Peter glanced at him sideways. “Can I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

Peter huffed a humourless breath through his nose. “Okay. Can I ask you another something?”

Bucky gave a slow, almost-smile. “Go ahead.”

Peter’s hands tightened around his wrists. “How do you live with the stuff you’ve done? The things you almost did?”

The gym fell into a still, tense hush. No TV. No music. Just the soft hum of the building’s ventilation system and the steady beat of two hearts.

Peter swallowed. “Sorry. That’s probably too personal. I just…”

“You didn’t do it,” Bucky said quietly.

Peter blinked.

“The thing you’re beating yourself up over. You didn’t do it.”

“But I wanted to.” Peter’s voice cracked on the confession. “I felt it. That… that hunger to hurt someone. I still feel it sometimes. And if Tony hadn’t—if he hadn’t—”

“But he did ,” Bucky interrupted, firmly but gently. “And you stopped. That’s what matters.”

Peter looked at him, really looked at him. The lines in Bucky’s face were carved deep—not just with age, but with history. With regret. With endurance.

“I wish people would stop saying that,” Peter breathed softly. “Yeah, I stopped. But the thought was there, the intention, isn’t that the point?”

“No,” Bucky stated. “I know what it looks like to be afraid of yourself. You’re scared of your own power. That’s natural. But you have to realize that you’re going to get angry. Everybody feels how you did, most of them just don’t have super strength to do something about it.”

They sat in silence for a while after that. A different kind of silence.

Peter finally asked, “Does it ever go away?”

“The guilt?” Bucky shook his head. “Not completely. But it gets quieter. Doesn’t scream as loud. And you learn how to live with it. You find people who see more than just what you did or almost did. People who look at you and still choose to stay.”

Peter picked at the tape on his knuckles. “I don’t know who I am anymore. Spider-Man was supposed to be better than this.”

Bucky leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Spider-Man is better than this. You’re the one holding the line. Every day you put the mask on and choose to try again—that’s the part that counts. Not what you almost did.”

Peter bit his lip. “What if I mess up again?”

“You will.” Bucky nodded. “Everyone does. But the fact that you care this much about not turning into something you're not? That means you're already a step in the write direction. Monsters don’t ask if what they’re doing is right or wrong.”

Peter breathed in slowly, held it, let it out.

He didn’t thank him—not with words. But he didn’t need to. Bucky just gave him a quiet nod and tossed him a water bottle before heading back to the bench press.

As Peter watched him go, he realized something:

He wasn’t okay. Not yet. Maybe not for a while.

But maybe he didn’t have to do it alone.

Maybe—just maybe—there was still a path forward.

Even if it had to be rebuilt one rooftop, one night, one choice at a time.

~+~

The gym became their sanctuary.

No set schedule, no spoken agreement—they just… found each other there. Some nights Bucky arrived first, already moving through a training set like clockwork. Other times, Peter slipped in with earbuds half in and a restlessness he couldn’t shake. Regardless of who got there first, they always left later than intended.

At first, it was silence and sweat. Then came the conversations. Short ones. Muted.

But over time, the silence changed shape—less avoidance, more comfort. Like the hum of streetlights at night, it became something steady.

Peter didn’t have to hold back here.

He’d grown too used to being careful. Around MJ, around May, around Tony. Even on patrol—always aware of how hard he could hit, how quickly he could end a fight. But Bucky didn’t flinch. He took the full force of Peter’s swings with the solid, practiced grace of someone who’d sparred with gods and come out the other side.

They trained together now. Fluid sparring sets. Balance drills. Tactical maneuvers. Sometimes they’d go for so long that sweat streaked the mats and their lungs burned from exertion. And Bucky—Bucky just took it. He let Peter move at full strength and matched him, countered him, grounded him.

It wasn’t just healing. It was recalibration.

One night, after a particularly long session, Peter sat with his back against the mirror, stretching his arms across his knees. Bucky tossed him a cold pack without being asked.

Peter caught it and held it against his shoulder with a wince. “You’ve got, like, eighty years of experience on me. This feels like cheating.”

Bucky smirked faintly. “And you’ve got radioactive spider powers. Feels like we’re even.”

Peter cracked a tired smile. “Fair.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“You ever feel like the person you are now is just… you trying to apologize for who you were before?” Peter asked suddenly, voice low.

Bucky’s expression didn’t shift, but his eyes went a little distant.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I did. For a long time.”

Peter looked at him. “Did it help?”

“No,” Bucky said honestly. “Not until I started trying to be someone for myself , not just to make up for the past. Guilt’s a weight you carry—but it doesn’t steer you.”

Peter pressed the ice pack more firmly into his shoulder. “I think I’m scared of becoming someone I don’t recognize.”

“You already are someone,” Bucky said. “Not a symbol. Not just the suit. You’re a kid who wants to help people. That doesn’t disappear just because you lost control once.”

Peter dropped his gaze, thumb rubbing the condensation off the cold pack. “Sometimes I wish I could forget. Just… wipe it clean.”

“Trust me, I’ve wished that more times than I can count. But forgetting is just as bad.” Bucky’s voice was quiet. “Forgetting doesn’t make it right. Remembering—that’s what keeps you from going back.”

Peter let that sit.

Then, a half-smile crept onto his face. “You’re surprisingly good at this.”

Bucky shrugged one shoulder. “Got a lot of practice. You think I became this introspective on purpose?”

Peter laughed. It caught him off guard—light and real. He saw Bucky’s mouth twitch into something faintly resembling a smile in return.

They sat in comfortable silence again, the kind that settles after the truth’s been spoken.

Peter eventually said, “Thanks for letting me hit you.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Anytime.”

~+~

Over the following weeks, they fell into a rhythm. Peter would text “You around?” and Bucky would reply with a time. Some nights they just trained. Other nights, they talked. About the war, about Brooklyn, about being used, about reclaiming your name.

And without meaning to, Bucky changed too.

He found himself easing in Peter’s presence. The kid was sharp, yes, but also earnest. He reminded Bucky of who he’d been before Hydra—before everything. He’d expected Peter to flinch away once the shine wore off. But Peter didn’t.

He asked questions. Real ones. Sometimes uncomfortable ones. But always with care.

“You ever dream about it?” Peter asked one night after they’d run through a brutal ground defense sequence.

Bucky didn’t have to ask what it was. He just nodded. “Less than I used to.”

Peter leaned back on the mat, sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead. “I keep seeing him. The guy I almost…”

He trailed off.

Bucky didn’t fill the space.

“I look at myself in the mirror sometimes and wonder if people see him instead. The angry, vengeful version.”

“They don’t,” Bucky said. “And even if they did—it’s not about what they see. It’s what you do next that matters.”

Peter turned his head toward him. “How do you know I’m not faking it? Pretending to be good?”

Bucky met his eyes. “Because you’re asking that question.”

Peter blinked, breath catching faintly in his throat.

And Bucky knew. He knew that look. The need for reassurance. The quiet, gnawing fear that if someone didn’t anchor you soon, you’d drift into something darker.

So he added, softer this time, “You’re doing better than you think, kid.”

Peter didn’t answer at first. But when Bucky got up to leave, Peter said—almost too quietly to hear—

“Yeah. You too.”

Bucky paused in the doorway. Then nodded once, his expression unreadable, but something steady in his eyes.

~+~

In a tower filled with legends and gods and ghosts, they had found each other.

Not perfect. Not healed.

But real.

And maybe, for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Tony noticed first in the little things.

Peter came to breakfast more often. Not every day—some mornings were still hard—but more than before. He wasn’t bouncing off the walls with jokes and chatter like he’d once been, but he smiled now. Not the tight, brittle one Tony had grown used to since the incident, but something closer to real. Softer.

He offered to help with projects in the lab again, even stayed late one evening tinkering with an interface patch Tony had been too tired to fix.

And when Tony asked if he wanted to talk— really talk—Peter didn’t shy away anymore. Sometimes he said no. But sometimes he said, “Yeah, I’d like that,” and that was new.

It made something in Tony unclench.

It wasn’t just relief. It was pride, too, watching Peter pick up the broken pieces of himself, one by one, and start quietly gluing them back together.

But Tony hadn’t done it.

That part stuck with him. Not because he wanted credit—well, maybe a little—but because it meant there was a variable he hadn’t accounted for. Something had shifted. Someone had helped.

He didn’t push. Not at first.

Then one evening, passing by the gym on his way to the elevator, he heard them. The rhythmic thud of blows landing and a low grunt in response. Not from a training bot.

He slowed and backtracked.

The door was slightly ajar. Inside, Peter and Barnes were mid-spar—barefoot on the mat, sweat clinging to their shirts, Peter’s brow furrowed in focus. Barnes blocked a jab, twisted, and brought Peter down in a clean, practiced move. Peter let out a soft oof but grinned up at him from the floor.

Tony blinked.

That grin—free, easy, unguarded—was the kind of expression he hadn’t seen on Peter’s face since before Titan. Before the Snap. Before… the blood in the dirt.

And Barnes?

He looked… calm, grounded. Not cold, not haunted, just present. Like he belonged there.

Tony hadn’t intentionally kept the two apart when Barnes came to the Tower, but he had been cautious. The wound was still fresh, the cries of his mother still in his ears, and he had been leery of the soldier.

Peter had grasped onto that with both hands and had kept his distance from both Steve and Barnes.

And yet, here they were, right before Tony’s eyes…

He lingered in the hall longer than he meant to. He didn’t interrupt, just watched.

Then he moved on.

~+~

Steve noticed, too.

Bucky had always carried his silence like armour, heavy and necessary. Since the snap—since coming back—Steve had seen flashes of the old him, glimmers in quiet moments. A dry joke here. A fond look there.

But lately, it was more than that.

Bucky came to team dinners without being asked. He teased Sam once, lighthearted and open. He started wearing his hair differently again—pulled back loosely the way he had in the old days, before war and metal and blood.

And sometimes, when Steve passed the gym, he’d hear laughter. Not just Peter’s, but Bucky’s, too.

It was strange—and it was perfect.

He mentioned it one night, sitting across from Bucky in the common room. They weren’t doing anything in particular—Steve had a sketchbook open in his lap, Bucky was slowly working his way through a paperback novel, one of the few that didn’t irritate his patience.

“You’re different.” Steve broke the silence.

Bucky glanced up. “A good different or a ‘you need therapy again’ different?”

Steve smiled. “A good different.”

Bucky looked down at the book, but Steve caught the way his mouth softened.

“Kid’s got a hell of a right hook,” Bucky said after a moment. “And too much guilt for someone his age.”

Steve nodded. “Remind you of anyone?”

Bucky huffed. “You, back in the day. Before the war..”

Steve’s smile widened. “Thought you were gonna say you.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Steve let the silence stretch. It was the good kind—thick with unspoken understanding. He thought about how long it had taken Bucky to find this kind of peace again. How many false starts. How many nightmares.

He’d almost lost him more times than he could count.

But now, here he was. Sitting across from him. Reading. Healing. Laughing.

Steve looked down at his sketchpad and drew a few lines he’d never show anyone. He let the warmth in his chest settle.

“Glad you found him,” Steve said softly.

Bucky didn’t pretend not to understand. He just turned the page in his book and murmured, “Yeah, me too.”

~+~

Tony finally asked one night, not directly, but close enough.

They were in the kitchen, Peter stirring a mug of cocoa with his usual meticulousness.

“You’ve been doing better lately,” Tony said casually, eyes flicking over a tablet.

Peter shrugged. “Trying.”

“I’ve noticed.” Tony nodded, then added, “Gym sessions paying off?”

Peter paused, spoon mid-stir. He looked over, wary at first, like he expected judgment.

Then he saw it in Tony’s face—just curiosity. A little warmth, maybe a touch of concern.

Peter nodded. “Yeah, I guess… Mr. Barnes gets it.”

Tony’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t joke. He just said, “Yeah. He does.”

Peter smiled faintly, looked down into his cocoa like he could see something important in the swirl of marshmallows.

Tony took a long breath and reached out to gently ruffle the kid’s curls. “You’re doing good, kid.”

Peter leaned into the touch.

“Thanks,” he said. And he meant it.

~+~

Two stories, quietly unfolding.

A kid learning he’s not a monster.

A soldier remembering he’s not just a weapon.

And two men—one in a suit of iron, the other with a shield of stars—watching them grow, steady and silent, hearts full of something almost like hope.