Chapter Text
Peter’s time as an intern in Tony Stark’s workshop is always spent incredibly efficiently.
“What, would you say, is the opposite of a spatula?” Peter asks. He lies on the oversized corner sofa and gazes up at the ceiling tiles, at the fan rotating slowly and leisurely in its winter setting.
“Did you smoke something before coming here?”
“You’re a very bad influence.”
“Am not. If you had said yes, I would have given you the mother of all lectures, made you watch Steve’s PSAs, called your father, the whole shish kebab—”
“shebang”
“—I’m a great influence.”
Peter rolls onto his side, letting one hand dangle down to the floor. Tony is several feet away at his workbench, folded over like a very focused banana, doing something with a voltage reducer and a robotic arm. And Peter is just… not feeling it today. He’s in Zen-mode. Minimum effort mode. “I made pancakes last night. Quality non-stick pan, no complaints there, awesome—awesome pan. But I left the plastic spatula in it for a little too long and it melted. I want something that doesn’t melt every time my brain, like, temporarily branches into other subjects. I want something that is Peter-proof.”
Tony doesn’t look up, he is plucking at wires with delicate but deliberate movements. “So what you actually need is something very similar to a plastic spatula but slightly different. The actual opposite of a spatula is probably something like a steam engine, you want to flip your pancakes with a steam engine?’
Peter laughs softly. “I mean, I do now.” There’s probably a robot he could build. A pancake flipping robot. Who knows, it could be driven by a steam engine. That’s, like, totally a legit idea, actually.
“Could you be a good intern and grab me the locking connectors? The bright little plastic thingies—”
“I know what a locking connector is, how dare you.” He pushes himself off the couch, keeping his head ducked. On this side of the workshop, the walls are slanted inwards, just like they are in Peter’s bedroom. Though in his case, it’s because his bedroom is crammed in right under the roof. Here in the workshop it’s probably a fancy design choice.
He meanders towards the shelves by the opposite wall, where the windows offer a view of rain relentlessly pelting down on the helipad.
Tony has a habit of keeping all his nuts, bolts, screws in mismatched mugs, so the shelves look like a chaotic kitchen cupboard more than anything else. On days when Peter is really bored, he’ll sort through some of them and then line the mugs up by size, and an hour later do it again, by color. He pulls a step stool closer and climbs on. “Hmmm…”
“Green one with the cows,” Tony says.
Peter plucks it up and steps off the step stool.
Hah. Step stool. “You’re not my real stool,” he tells it, and then giggles to himself.
He brings the mug to Tony and plants one knee on the office chair next to him, hanging over the backrest as he observes. “Is that for Mr. Barnes?”
“Metaphorically,” Tony says. Whatever that means.
It’s nice to come to the workshop. It’s so nice. It’s so cool. Peter has made an almost daily habit of it by now. Sometimes he does actual intern things. Other times he just lays on the couch and watches Phineas and Ferb because Tony thinks that’s his favorite show, and eats the Spicy Queso Funyuns Tony keeps buying him because he thinks they are Peter’s favorite snack. Tony has been entirely convinced of all that for months now, and Peter doesn’t have the heart to correct him.
“Want to hear a joke about construction?” he says.
-
Pepper brings them food. The bread is still warm, fresh from the oven, and she added cream cheese that was probably homemade, and cucumber and little green snippets of a dark green herb that was probably homegrown. Ugh. When Peter eats food like this, he wants to cry; it makes him ridiculously happy.
Tony always reads the news on his phone during lunch, even though it always annoys him. Although, he seems to enjoy being derisive to other people, so maybe he likes being annoyed. Maybe he seeks out excuses to be annoyed. “I can’t believe they’re erecting a statue for that asshat,” he’ll say. Or: “All these senators have a room temperature IQ.”
Tony swipes and his mouth twists as he reads the next headline. Peter recognizes the logo of the Daily Bugle, and recognizes the picture too. This is the article about Spider-Man wrestling a giant spider on the roof of the Chrysler building last Sunday.
The Spider-menace, once again defacing some of our most precious heritage sites.
“One of these days, I’m going to sue these people,” Tony says.
Peter picks two slices of cucumber off his sandwich and leans in to press them against Tony’s eyes. Tony splutters and bats his hands away.
“You need to relax more,” Peter says. “I’m all about self-care. You want to see that video again of the spider-dog scaring the shit out of people in Poland?”
“Eat your sandwich.”
“Come on. It’s the Daily Bugle. They have high journalistic standards. They’ve probably got good reason to write all this.”
“They’re claiming that Spider-Man eats bugs. They’re saying an eyewitness caught him digging for worms in her back garden!”
Peter just smiles his most charming smile. “I mean, I don’t know what to say. It adds up.”
Tony looks at him as he takes a slow sip of his coffee, his gaze calculating. “So.” He sets the cup down. “What have you been up to this weekend?”
“Family picnic,” Peter says.
“Oh, great, great fun,” Tony says and swipes away from the article.
It’s quite obvious that Tony knows he is Spider-Man, but decided not to acknowledge it; decided to keep the secret going. For what reason, Peter doesn’t know. Maybe Tony thinks he can use the information in his favor, or maybe he just doesn’t want Peter to freak out. Either way, it serves Peter just fine, because Tony tries so hard to keep up his oblivious act that he never prods too hard or looks too deep.
Which means all of Peter’s far bigger secrets are still safe.
-
Peter applied for an unpaid internship at Stark Industries four months ago, during his summer break. He did one of his usual tumbles, deep into the Stark-Industries-rabbit-hole, and found the job posting at the bottom.
The description asked for a college student, which Peter wasn’t; who had a bachelor’s degree in a scientific field, which Peter hadn’t; who had strong communication and interpersonal skills, which… the other day a girl said ‘hi’ to him in the street and Peter walked into a lamppost; who was passionate about contributing to a green and sustainable world.
So, what the hell, one out of four is good enough, right?
He sent an application letter, an overview of his projects, yammered on a bit about one of Tony Stark’s recent publications. He received a reply within two hours: an invite for an interview that same Saturday. When he showed up in his best shirt and jeans, Tony Stark himself stood downstairs in the lobby to greet him, sunglasses pushed into his hair, wearing a big lebowski sweater, turning heads. And he said he would be conducting the interview.
This is when Peter started to suspect that this man might just know about Spider-Man.
Tony Stark led him to an office, gestured for him to sit, and folded his hands on top of the desk. “You clearly have a good brain, but you meet none of our qualifications,” he said. “Why should I hire you?”
Peter flashed a bright smile at him and said: “Because I am a bastion of wisdom.”
Tony Stark tilted his head back and laughed, and then hired him on the spot.
And that’s more or less how they have interacted ever since.
Tony Stark has no idea, though, about the secret double life Peter has been leading. Phineas and Ferb and Spicy Queso Funyuns and, and, and...
At this point, Peter is in too deep. Like Pinocchio when he was in that whale.
-
“Lollipop?” Peter asks, offering the bag of chupa chups to every student he passes in the hallway, giving his widest smile. “Lollipop? Lollipop?”
“I love how insane you are,” someone says, and takes two.
“Insanity is the highest art form!” Peter yells after her.
Midtown is a place full of oddballs, but apparently Peter is still the weird one, just because he’s always in a good mood. Which is stupid, because being in a good mood is awesome. Other people should try it, sometime.
There is a light tap on his shoulder and he turns to find his English teacher right there, briefcase clenched under her arm, holding up a worn copy of Othello. Her face is creased in weariness. “Mr. Parker. Your report on one of the works of Shakespeare was due last night and yet I found my inbox tragically empty. If I don’t see it appear this evening, I’m afraid I’ll have to fail you.”
“Mrs. Carvalho.” Peter smiles pleasantly and holds out the bag. “Would you like a lollipop?”
Mrs. Carvalho moves her briefcase to her other arm to take a lollipop. “Please do not make me fail you, Mr. Parker, you are one of the few students I like in this nightmarish hellscape they call a high school.”
“I’m sorry. I was really busy with this family picnic over the weekend. There were so many puppies there, you know, I had to—I had to pet them all. How could I possibly…? Do you hate puppies or something?”
“Mr. Parker.”
“Right, no, right. I will get right on this. Nothing—Nothing more important in my life right now than Shakespeare, I promise. Priority one.”
“Shakespeare is always priority one, Mr. Parker,” she says. “Don’t forget it.” She sticks the lollipop in her mouth and walks off.
-
And yet somehow, when he is in the workshop that evening, he finds himself reading a library book called ‘Living with Hearing Loss and Deafness’, that definitely wasn’t written by Shakespeare.
“Is that for a school project?” Tony asks.
“No. It’s because you never listen to me.”
He has chosen his favorite spot today; on the beige vinyl floor, back against the wall, crammed in between two shelving units, his knee digging into a metal ridge, with a good view of the workbench where Tony is working.
Tony is looking his way, a smudge of something black on his cheek, smoke curling up from his soldering iron. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable on the couch?” he asks, instead of anything like are you planning to actually do any intern work today at all?
This is how Peter, only a few weeks into his internship, decided that yes, Tony definitely knew he was Spider-Man. There was no other reason for Tony to keep him around when half the time Peter wasn’t actually doing anything at all.
“No. If it fits, I sits.” He pats the floor. “There is a heating pipe going through the floor here, and it’s almost November.”
Tony turns his gaze back to his project. “You are like a high maintenance cat.”
The autumn weather is hitting him a bit harder than usual. It might be the spider thing or maybe he’s just, whatever, getting old. Every breath of wind feels like it is cutting straight through him, like his body is just a metal frame. Rain is even worse. Tiny pricklets of cold steel. He got himself soaked to the bone last week, wetter than a dog in a car wash, feet sloshing in his sneakers, and it took about eight hours of napping for him to feel like a human being again.
It's a real shame, because rain is objectively awesome. Like, he loves rain. It brings life and all that jazz. Rain is great. From a distance.
If Tony knew that Peter knew that Tony knew about Spider-Man, he would probably just make Peter a better suit. Which would be—
No. No, no, no. If one secret gets out, they all get out. It will be Spicy Queso Funyuns-gate.
“Incoming call from Mr. Rogers,” FRIDAY reports.
Tony lifts his shirt to wipe his brow and glances up at a digital clock above the door. “It’s… 3 AM where he is.”
“That might mean it’s an emergency,” Peter helpfully points out, tipping the book back against his knee.
Tony hums in acknowledgement. “I’ll take the call on my cellphone, FRIDAY. Kid, could you—”
“Yep.” Peter flashes a smile and a thumbs up. “Get lost.”
Tony rolls his eyes as he picks up his phone. “Rogers, I’m here, are you dying? … Okay, then give me three seconds.” He covers the mouthpiece with one hand and looks back at Peter, a bit sternly, grandfather-sternly, head tilted forwards. “Don’t ‘get lost’, no, kindly give me some privacy while I deal with this other high maintenance cat.”
“Captain cat,” Peter says.
-
He goes to the one place where he knows he is always welcome, no matter what important phone calls come in: the penthouse, the big open spaces with the kitchen at its heart: with the round table and the wide-plank floorboards, all in warm walnut wood. Where one of Tony’s sweaters is perpetually hanging over the back of a chair. Where parsley and oregano and mint grow on the corner of the kitchen counter, and tomatoes in the window. Where Pepper is nearly always at the stove, like she is right now, stirring a big pot; really putting her back into it, too. “Honey!” she exclaims, and lays her wooden spoon across the pan so she can lean in and give him an enthusiastic side hug. “It’s been so long!”
It’s been three days.
“I melted a spatula,” Peter says as he inhales the scent of turmeric and cilantro. He has been told that Pepper has always been a pretty good cook, but that she really threw herself into the hobby last summer, around the same time when Peter got his internship. The stars aligned. Because it just so happens — unpopular opinion: Peter likes great food.
“You can’t become a good cook without melting a few spatulas,” Pepper says reassuringly. “And setting your own hair on fire once or twice.”
“What are you making? It smells like tomato-y heaven. This is lunch?”
“You know I love feeding you.”
Pepper is so nice. So nice, that it makes him a little sad sometimes. “What are you making? Or is it a soup-rise?”
She huffs out a laugh. “It’s harira soup, you little comedian.”
Peter gives a tiny bow. “I am your court jester. Me being here is basically just a community service.”
“Hmmm.” She starts stirring again, scraping along the bottom of the pan. “Is Tony coming, too?”
“In a few minutes, I’m guessing. He took a phone call.”
Steve Rogers is currently in Romania, looking for his friend Bucky Barnes, and Tony is assisting from a distance, guy in the chair, and Peter is not supposed to ask any more questions, you already know more than you should, kiddo.
“Hon, can you grab some garlic bread? You know where it is.”
Peter sets the table for three. He always picks a tablecloth in the same color as the sweater Tony is wearing that day. He wonders how long before Tony will notice.
“How are you?” Pepper asks. “How is the family, how is school?” She generally doesn’t prod much, either. Peter is pretty sure Tony told her about Spider-Man.
“One big Shakespearian tragedy. Shoot. Must remember to read. I’m totally gonna forget it anyways but I should try to remember. Have you read Shakespeare?”
“I liked Midsummer Night’s Dream; try that one. It’s up your alley, I think.”
“Yeah? Are there zombies in it?”
“Just try it. Because I say so.”
“Compelling argument, don’t quit your day job.” Peter sits, leaning his chin on his hands. “What was your favorite subject in school?”
“I hated school.”
“Really?” That surprises him.
“I was a goody two-shoes so I did all the assignments, but I didn’t like it. I could stomach math, but that’s about it.”
“I like school,” Peter says. “I like that everything is basically about solving little puzzles all day, different kinds of puzzles. I like being on the decathlon team. Naming all the planets in the right order is such a rollercoaster.”
“You nerd,” she says, very affectionately.
Tony shows up and says absolutely nothing about his phone call with Captain Cat. “Do you want to actually do some work after, intern Parker?” he asks Peter, and blows on his soup.
Peter smirks. “Yeah, what the heck, why not.”
Pepper pours a whole lot of leftover soup into a tight-lid container for Peter to take home.
-
He takes his chances when they are back in the workshop, and he is optimizing the rolling contact joints for printing. “Will you be using 2 millimeter UHMWPE cord?”
“Correct.”
“And want me to calculate the position for a linear actuator?”
“Please.”
“And what will you do when you find Mr. Barnes?”
Tony frowns at him, disapprovingly. Peter beams a smile in response.
“Not sure yet,” Tony says. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
Tony vaguely, hazily, ambiguously disclosed a few details about Bucky Barnes. One: that Captain America ran into him a year ago after presuming him long dead. Two: that he appears to have fled to Romania. Three: that he has a metal arm. And google shows absolutely zero results when you search the name. So officially, theoretically, that is all Peter knows about the case.
“I’m not worried,” he says. “I know the great Iron Man will protect us all.”
“You little shit.”
Peter lowers his head to hide his smile.
These moments might be his favorite. The evenings, when everything feels quieter, after the sun has set and the windows offer a panoramic view of the city lights twinkling and winking in the rain. He still isn’t entirely sure why Tony keeps him around, but he wishes he could tell him sometimes how much this all means to him. Unfortunately, he’s not good at being sappy. He’s better at cracking jokes.
“Seriously,” he says. “You know how people hang dream catchers or horseshoes or evil eye amulets in their house to ward of danger? I have a little Iron Man toy dangling from a string.” He mimics the dangling with his index finger.
“Yeah, well I have—” Tony starts, before breaking off and shaking his head, chuckling. He was about to make a Spider-Man joke, Peter realizes.
Damnit. If Tony ends up slipping up and accidentally blowing this whole Pinocchio-thing wide open, Peter will be so annoyed.
-
Peter feels bad for autumn. The season really gets a bad rep.
He leaves Happy’s car with Pepper’s soup tucked protectively under his coat like it’s a baby kitten, and a borrowed umbrella angled against the rain. A sharp wind sends trash skittering along the pavement.
What kind of spider-suit would Tony Stark make? Probably something with nano-heaters. Peter might be able to pull that off himself, if he had the budget to get nano-heaters. They’re not the sort of thing you can just find by going through people’s trash, casually tossed in with the pizza boxes and socks and occasional household appliances.
He shakes the umbrella out as he climbs the stone steps towards the third floor.
Maybe he can ask Tony for some nano-heaters, and they can both pretend that it’s not for the thing they both know it is for.
He steps inside and dramatically throws off his coat, leaving it in the middle of the hallway. “Honey, I’m home!” The living room is blessedly quiet. He kicks off his shoes, then his jeans, the legs are soaked around the ankles. He curls up on the couch, under his checkered throw blanket. It’s a good thing he’s got such dry humor. Hehe. He giggles to himself, pulling the blanket tighter.
The first thing he does is check his bank account to see if the hundred bucks from the Daily Bugle is there.
It is. Good. Sometimes the Bugle gets lazy about paying their people and then Peter calls Mr. Jameson a million times, leaving funny jokes in his voicemail, ‘Hey, hey Jameson, Why can’t you hear a pterodactyl going to the bathroom?’, because he has learned that this is the most efficient way to get Jameson annoyed enough that he’ll just pay.
As far as he’s concerned, it’s a dream job. A hundred bucks for a picture and a short article about Spider-Man every week, that he’s pretty sure no one even glances at before some intern throws it up on the website. Easy money, anonymous, not to mention fun. Peter loves making up weird shit about himself. Making up that rumor about how Spider-Man eats bugs was particularly inspired.
The ideas he still has lined up make him chuckle whenever he thinks of them. That Spider-Man is a secret Canadian spy, that Spider-Man has four extra limbs which he hides behind his back, that Spider-Man lays eggs, that Spider-Man is a secret child of Tony Stark.
That last idea is a personal favorite, but also, Tony will probably actually sue, so he shouldn’t.
He doesn’t have the heart to tell Tony that he is the one writing all these articles. Even though part of him thinks Tony might just laugh and think it’s hilarious. He’s Pinocchio and he’s in the whale.
He finds a funny video of two kittens jamming to ‘turn down for what’ and sends it on to Tony for the man’s daily dose of animal therapy. And then he grabs his laptop to watch Fargo, his actual favorite show, and he eats salted caramel popcorn, his actual favorite snack. Life is good.
-
The next morning, he’s lumbering from the cafeteria towards the biology classrooms when he spots Mrs. Carvalho up ahead, her arms folded across her chest.
Oh. Shoot.
-
Spider-Man is always cheerful and always kind, smile smile smile. No request too big, nor too insignificant. He’ll catch a bus, wrestle a giant spider, save lives. He’ll pose for a selfie, help someone look for their car keys, go to the corner store to buy an elderly lady some bird seed. Spider-Man is happy, relaxed, unfazed, his life is good, his cup is full and he’s pouring. That’s why people like him.
Maybe Peter should just act grumpy and stressed all the time, to protect his identity. Complain about his to do list, and deadlines, and stuff that needs fixing, and stuff that is being fixed, like “ugh, the builders woke me up this morning with their big boomhammer”, whatever it is called, or “ugh, why can’t the government fix the— the…” he doesn’t actually know what kind of stuff the government usually fixes.
See. He doesn’t even know how to do it. He doesn’t even have the right vocabulary.
Tony never seems concerned about deadlines, and look how far it got him.
Peter is perched on the edge of a roof where warm fall sunlight reflects in the still puddles. Autumn can be pretty, if it wants to be. The copper leaves, and the orange sunlight in the morning, and the purple skies when a storm approaches. Beautiful.
Hehe. Beautifall.
Life is good.
Below in the street, a dad wheels a stroller along the sidewalk, his eyes on the traffic around him, he doesn’t see his little daughter dropping her bunny-sleep toy, one of those long, narrow ones with a little blanket for a body.
Time to do his duty.
He shoots a web and soars down to street level.
-
Movie night? He texts as he blindly grapples through the fridge, looking for a snack.
He gets the same reply as always: O.K.
He puts the library book in his backpack, and his laptop. The weather is decent. He zips up his coat and leaves his gloves. He takes his bike, lifting it by the steer and spinning the front wheel to check the dynamo light before he leaves. It’s only a twenty-minute ride; he whistles as he zigzags around potholes.
He rings the doorbell but also sends a message just in case, I’m downstairs, and waits patiently for the low mechanical buzz so he can push the heavy door open. He sets his hip against it as he wrestles his bike across the threshold. He always leaves it inside, under the mailboxes, because this neighborhood is pretty crummy and he wouldn’t have money for a new bike if it got stolen.
When he gets to the second floor, the door to the apartment is already open. He wipes his feet in the cramped hallway, on a doormat that says ‘home sweet home’ with a looping heart in the corner. He closes the door behind him.
He lets the backpack slide off his shoulder, swaying it back and forth in his hand as he steps into the living room.
Bucky is on the couch, bare feet, hair tied back, green sweater. All his sweaters are green, sort of army-green. Only color he feels comfortable in. Ankles crossed. Silent gaze on Peter.
“Hey,” Peter says, smiles, and points a thumb across his shoulder. “I’ve been meaning to ask. Did you buy that doormat? That’s cute.”
Bucky squints at him for a while, and says: “Are you asking if I bought the doormat?”
“Yes.”
“Does anything in here look like I bought it myself?”
Not really. Not the couch cushions with the same red-orange psychedelic pattern as the rug on the floor. Not the knitted pan holders in the kitchen drawer. Definitely not the television that doesn’t even work because Bucky has no cable.
Probably all belonged to Mr. or Ms. Blunt, then, whose name is still on the mailbox.
Peter thought that was hilarious when he first found out. “So I should call you Bucky Blunt?” he had asked with a grin. And then Bucky pointed out his real name was James, which made it even better. “So you’re James Blunt?”
Bucky didn’t know who James Blunt was.
Peter sets his backpack down on the coffee table and unzips it, takes out the library book, holds it out.
Bucky doesn’t take it, he just gives Peter another long look. “I don’t really read.”
“I read it.” Peter says, pointing at himself. “It’s good.”
“You read it?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
Peter rolls his eyes and tugs at his ear. “Because no one ever listens to me.”
Bucky’s mouth quirks into a gentle smile. He takes the book.
“You have two weeks,” Peter says, holding up two fingers. “Before I have to take it back.”
“Next time get me a book about zombies or something.”
“Oh my god. Same brain.”
-
Bucky showed up on his doorstep a few months back. This was after he started interning for Tony Stark, after he had already heard the name Bucky Barnes getting thrown around, but never seen a picture.
It was a simple knock at the door and Peter opened to find a stranger there, posture slouched, frayed baseball cap, green-gray clothes, one glove. He assumed it was a neighbor looking to borrow something, since he hadn’t buzzed anyone up.
“You’re home alone, correct?” the man asked.
Ominous first question. “At the moment.”
“Yes or no, please.”
Sheesh. “Yes.”
“Do you know who I am?”
Peter lazily hung against the doorpost, grinning. “Can’t wait to find out, I feel like we’re going to be great friends, you give off this real wholesome vibe.”
“Yes or no, please.”
Peter rolled his eyes and said nothing.
The man squinted at him for a moment, then dug into his pocket. He held out a photo, all hues of yellow and gray, two young men standing side by side, one was Captain America and the other one— Peter stood up straighter. “Holy shit. Are you Bucky Barnes?”
Bucky gave a single nod, his eyes on Peter’s face, watching intently.
“Prove it,” Peter said, eyes flitting down to Bucky’s left arm.
Bucky huffed out a breath whipped off his glove, revealing a gleaming metal hand.
“Woah….” Peter clasped a hand around the doorpost so he could lean in closer. “Can I poke that thing with a screwdriver? Do you know Captain America is looking for you? Want me to organize a reunion, like this is Toy Story 3?”
“I know you’re Spider-Man,” Bucky Barnes said, pointing past Peter, at the windows. “I’ve been watching.”
Okay. This was very quickly turning into an evil-villain-slash-blackmail scenario.
Bucky clearly saw the look on his face, because he continued: “I’m not here to start something. I need your help. You’re the best person for it.” His voice was rather intent, but there was hesitation in his body language, the way he stood with his shoulders slightly hunched, baseball cap pulled down as far as possible.
“Why don’t you go see Captain America? Isn’t he your friend? Like Toy Story 3?”
Bucky squinted at him for a while, and then said, in a far softer tone: “I’m not the person he thinks I am, and I’m not eager for him to find out.”
Peter understood keeping secrets. No judgment there. “But, uh—”
“I need your help. One time. And then I’ll disappear.”
That all sounded perfectly above board and definitely nothing to be worried about at all. “Is it illegal?”
“Are you asking if it’s legal?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.”
“Can I explain inside?”
“Yeah, sure, what the hell.” Peter stepped aside.
Bucky — holy shit, it was Bucky Barnes — pushed past him, down the hallway into the living room where he stepped straight up to the tall windows and surveyed the street below.
“Is someone following you?” Peter asked.
Bucky didn’t answer, but he also didn’t close the blinds, so it was probably fine.
“How long have you been in New York? Pretty sure people think you’re in Romania.”
Bucky didn’t answer. His head moved slowly left to right. He craned his neck to see past the neighbor’s balcony. And then he turned. His eyes were solemn. “I’m going to give you a list of eleven words you’ll need to read out,” he said. “They’re Russian words, I wrote them down phonetically. I want you to say them as loudly and clearly as possible. If all goes wrong, I respond in Russian, I need you to neutralize me immediately. That webbing you have is quite strong, correct? I do have enhanced strength, so make sure to properly tie me down. And then you’ll have my full permission to contact Tony Stark. If all goes well, then all goes well. I’ll leave and won’t bother you again. And you can still run to Tony Stark and tell him if you want, I do not care, he won’t find me.”
Peter gaped at him.
Bucky let the silence stretch for a good twenty seconds and then asked, politely. “Any questions?”
“Uh. Yeah. What the fuck?”
“Did you just say the f-word?”
“What are you, like cursed by Baba Yaga?”
“I didn’t understand any of that.”
“She’s from Russian folklore, I figured you’d know.”
“What are you asking me, precisely?”
“Are you cursed?”
Bucky’s gaze flicked from his mouth to his eyes and back. A hint of amusement slipped into his expression. It made him look softer. “Are you asking if I was cursed?”
“I mean, it’s a reasonable—”
“It’s close enough, I suppose. If I say yes, will you help me?”
He was Spider-Man. No request too big, nor too insignificant. “I’ve always wanted to break a curse.”
“Was that a yes or a no?”
“Yes. Obviously. I’ll, uh—” he turned towards his bedroom door, “grab my webshooters, and then look at those words you got. I can find some text-to-speech thing online that will help me practice, don’t want to accidentally make your whole curse thing even—"
“Parker,” Bucky interrupted.
“Huh?”
“Don’t talk unless I can see your face. I’m deaf.”
Peter stilled, then turned, one hand on the knob of his bedroom door. “You’re… What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m deaf.”
“But you’re talking to me right now.”
“Lipreading, body language and context clues,” Bucky said. “I happen to have been trained in all those things, quite rigorously. I still usually understand fifty percent at best, but people rarely seem to notice, which I believe says a lot about our society. And deaf means, the issue is the ears, not the vocal chords.”
“Oh.” Now that he thought about it, he wasn’t even sure why he would assume that a deaf person wouldn’t be able to talk. And then he felt bad. “You should have said something, I wouldn’t have been an asshole about the ‘yes or no’ thing.”
Bucky squinted at him and said nothing.
“If you’re deaf, why am I reading words out to you?”
“I can hear noises. If I pay attention I can hear that you’re talking, can’t make out the words.” His voice turned rusty. “I just want to be sure that, that it’s good enough.” A crackle of sorrow splintered across his face and Peter felt a sudden rush of compassion.
He gave a quiet nod and said, slowly, “I’ll go grab my web shooters.”
He spent ten, maybe fifteen minutes bent over his coffee table, practicing the list of words with a little help from a text to speech app, while Bucky meandered around the apartment and fiddled with everything; the phone charger, the tin with instant coffee, a dead plant in the window. His face was grave, he seemed to be bracing himself.
“Okay, I think I’m good to go,” he said.
Bucky didn’t answer.
Right. He pushed himself up.
Bucky turned.
“I’m good to go.” Peter gave a thumbs up and a smile.
Bucky gave a grimace that was, perhaps, supposed to be a smile, too. His eyes flicked down to the webshooter in Peter’s hand. “I don’t think I will attack you,” he said, matter-of-factly. “If anything, it is far more likely that I would mindlessly obey you.”
“Okay.” That actually sounded scarier, as far as Peter was concerned. His instinct was to make a joke, but he saw Bucky’s face and decided not to. “I won’t—take advantage.”
“I counted on as much.”
Peter smoothened the paper out a bit more and cleared his throat. “Here I go.”
-
He asked Bucky once, later, when they were out for coffee. “Seriously, though. Why me?”
He remembers Bucky ordered a cappuccino, remembers the disturbed look on his face when it was served with a little heart in the milk foam. And how he said something like: “I thought about it from every angle, and you were my best option. Because I knew you’d be able to stop me if it turned out I was a threat, but you would let me go if it turned out I wasn’t. No other person met both of those requirements.”
“Wow,” he said in reply, slouching lower in his seat and grinning. “I’m also a bastion of wisdom, very good at getting a job without meeting any of the requirements.”
Bucky gave him a flat look. “I didn’t catch any of that, that was gibberish.”