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Peter clings to the wall outside of his apartment building, shaky fingers fumbling with the latch on his window. He can barely see straight—and the slickness of the blood coating his hands is not helping matters at all. Come on, come on…
He finally manages to tug the window up just enough for him to tumble unceremoniously through the small opening, and he lands in a heap on the floor.
An alarmed meow cuts through his pain-induced haze. Peter uses the hand not currently wrapped around his middle to wrench his Spider-Man mask off, letting out a small, pained gasp at the movement. He leans back against the wall underneath the window he'd just entered, eyes falling shut. He knows he can't go to sleep, not yet, not when he's, like, bleeding this much, but he could use a minute—
The meow comes again, more insistent this time. Something small and furry rubs against his foot.
Peter blinks slowly. "Hey, Leia," he slurs, holding out his good arm toward the cat. "Got into a bit of a situation out there tonight." He swears the cat gives him a tsk-tsk.
"I know, I know," he says. "It's not really that bad though. Worse things have happened." He glances down to see the not-suit-fabric-red splotches on his suit growing, and he groans. "Yeah, okay, I need to take care of this."
Peter braces one hand on the wall and pushes himself to his feet. Pain stabs through his left shoulder and leg in angry spasms. He grimaces. It's definitely been a while since he's been this injured on a patrol.
"Be a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, they said," he mutters, taking slow steps forward and attempting to stay on his feet. "It'll be fun, they said." Actually, he doesn't think that anyone else has ever said that, except maybe himself. But he's hurt and no one else is around to hear it, so he can complain if he wants to complain.
Peter limps the rest of the way to the bathroom and digs through the cabinet where he keeps his first-aid kit. He's no stranger to taking care of injuries, ranging from little cuts and bruises to stab wounds and broken ribs, but he can count on one hand the number of times he's been shot, and even fewer times that he didn't have somebody there to help patch him up. He's gotten used to that latter part over the last couple of months, since he's pretty much been on his own—at least when it comes to patrols. Although he hasn't had to deal with something this major since he came back from the Bartons'...
"Okay," he whispers to himself, searching through the box for some gauze to staunch the flow of blood still steadily leaking from his wounds. "Okay. Stop the bleeding, clean the wounds, bandage them up. Take a nap. A long nap."
He allows himself a moment to grieve what once would've been if he'd found himself in this state a couple of years ago. He probably would've called to ask Happy—and by extension Mr. Stark—for help to avoid sending May into a flurry of panic, because she totally would panic if he showed up back home bleeding out like this. Which, fair. But then Tony would rush to his location—because even though Peter is a big boy and pretends that he doesn't need another helicopter parental figure there would definitely be tracking devices still in his suit and FRIDAY keeping tabs on him at all times—and pick him up and bring him to get patched up. Then they'd get him home and May would still freak out even though he'd insist that he was fine, and she would mother-hen him half to death while he'd pretend to be annoyed even though he secretly enjoyed it, and Tony would play it off like he wasn't worried despite the fact that he would linger and keep checking in until Peter was completely healed.
An unsuspecting tear drips down Peter's cheek, surprising him. He misses what used to be. He always will, but he's learned that wrapping his fingers around those wishes and squeezing as hard as he can won't bring them to fruition. So he lets the grief wash over him, and then he gets back down to business.
He gingerly peels off his suit to gain better access to the wounds. Yikes. Hopefully Laura Barton won’t be too upset when she finds out the suit they worked so hard to mend now has two holes and a nice splattering of blood on it. The injury on his thigh isn't too bad—the bullet only grazed him there. Lots of blood, but probably no major damage. His shoulder, on the other hand…that one might be a bit more difficult to deal with, partly because of the location and partly because the bullet's still in there. He doesn't know what it might do to him if he leaves it in too long. These guys he was after were carrying black-market weapons that could only have been Chitauri technology. They're not the same as regular guns, and by the odd, stinging pain that accompanies the steady throbbing, Peter wonders if the bullets are poisoned or have some other weird sci-fi effects. Maybe I'll turn into an alien.
Leia slinks into the bathroom, watching in concern as the situation progresses. Peter glances over at her, trying to distract himself from the pain by starting a conversation with his cat. "Y'know, I think it's sort of ridiculous how the heroes in all those old western movies take, like, a bullet to the chest—and then get up like it was nothing and pummel the bad guys. I mean, I could do that, like I did tonight, but I'm not your average cowboy." And even with Peter's enhancements, getting shot is no joke.
His chatter slowly fades out as he begins to feel the effects of the blood he's been steadily losing. He grumbles to himself as he fishes out the tools he thinks will be necessary to remove the bullet from his shoulder.
Okay, this is probably gonna hurt. But it's okay, you can do it. He takes a deep breath to steel himself before starting in on the process.
The first try results in Peter seeing stars, and he grinds his teeth together so hard that he's afraid he might chip one. He ended up on the bathroom floor at some point earlier, and he realizes that it was probably a good thing because otherwise he'd definitely have fallen and whacked his head on the counter or some dumb thing like that. Then he'd also be dealing with a concussion, and that doesn't sound like a fun time.
"Okay, okay, come on," he breathes out between pained gasps. "This is fine. You got this."
His next attempts are just as unsuccessful as the first, and blood is still continuing to leak from the wound. Peter's getting lightheaded and dizzy, and he thinks that this might be a bigger problem than he was prepared to handle. Whoops.
Hospital is out of the question—for multiple reasons. Peter's independent as they come, but after he blacks out for a good three minutes when he shoves the tweezers too far into the gaping hole in his shoulder and comes to with some weird sizzling liquid mixed with the blood leaking from the wound, he's finally forced to admit that he might need some outside help.
He fumbles for his phone, barely clocking the time on the screen, and pulls up his favorites list. A few taps later, and Peter situates the phone between his ear and his shoulder so that his good hand is free to continue holding a towel to his opposite shoulder.
The ringing goes on for so long that Peter is sure he's gonna die of blood loss before anyone picks up. Yeah, nobody's gonna answer—
A deep, sleepy voice cuts through the thought. "Hello?"
"Oh, shoot, sorry," Peter says hurriedly, hoping he's not slurring his words too much. "It's definitely like, really late, isn't it? Or early, I guess, considering it's two in the morning or something. I don't know—ouch!—but nevermind, all good, all good—"
"Peter. What's wrong?"
He grunts and shifts, moving the crimson-soaked towel to peer at the wound again. "Okay, wow, this should probably not still be bleeding this much."
"Peter." There's clear concern, maybe even some barely-steeled panic in the voice. Dad mode activated. "What happened?"
Maybe he's a little loopy from the blood loss. Just a little. "Uh…" He tries to focus. "Got shot—twice. Kinda fell off a roof."
This time, Clint's voice comes through loud and clear. "You what?"
"Long story. Not my finest moment." He squeezes his eyes shut, breathing through another wave of pain. "Really, I'll be fine," he tries to reassure. "I wouldn't have even bothered you, it's just…well, I can't get the bullet out and it's gonna be a big problem if I heal with that still in me, y'know? It's like, poisoned or something, and I've been trying to get it out but it's just not happening and—"
"Okay, okay." Clint interrupts his rambling. "Take a breath, kid."
Peter does, feeling the slightly painful pull against his definitely-bruised ribs as he inhales.
"Now, I need you to listen to me. Keep pressure on the wound, okay? Are you at the apartment?"
"Yeah, yeah." Peter clumsily shoves the towel back against the hole in his shoulder and shudders, nearly dropping his phone. "Don't know why I even called, not like you can zoom over here in five minutes." For some reason, he thinks Clint would probably try anyway.
Clint must not be paying much attention to what Peter's saying, because he ignores that last observation. "Stay right where you are—help is on the way, buddy."
"Might…might pass out," Peter mutters. "Been a long night." A very long night. He had been looking forward to coming home and crashing since he had the entire weekend off work. But no, now he's gotta deal with all this instead. Stupid criminals.
"No, Peter." The words are so stern that Peter jerks back upright, automatically resuming holding the towel against the bullet wound. "Tell me about the injury. You said it's poisoned?"
"Hm." Peter grunts nonchalantly. "High-tech guns. Feels weird—kinda sizzlin'." That’s probably not the best description, but hopefully it gets the point across.
Clint is trying to hide his panic, Peter can tell. "Okay," he says, voice clearly betraying that it's not okay.
"Who's even coming?" Peter asks, trying to keep himself awake and focused.
"Who you should've contacted in the first place—we've been over this, Pete, they're here to help you when you need it."
Peter sort of tunes out the mini lecture, fuzzy mind wandering as he wonders who might show up to help him. Does he know any surgeons skilled in bullet removal? Doctor…oh, crap, Dr. Strange. Yeah, no. That would never happen. Guy doesn't even remember Peter. Is he even a real doctor?
Clint's practically yelling at him again, telling him to stay awake.
I'm trying, I'm trying.
Peter realizes that if someone's coming here, he probably will need to let them in. He forces himself to stand, managing to get on his feet with only a bit of trouble, and starts out of the bathroom, hands still full of bloody towels and his phone.
He gets about two steps before a figure slips through his window at a lightning-quick speed.
"Whoa!" Peter stumbles backward. "Geez, you couldn't have used the door?" Next to his feet, Leia puffs up her fur and hisses in surprise.
Bucky doesn't answer the question, just bulldozes over to Peter and immediately starts guiding him back into the bathroom. He quickly takes stock of Peter's condition with his intense gaze. "God, kid, you really did a number on yourself."
"To be fair, I didn't shoot myself," Peter tries to quip. He lets Bucky lower him down onto the closed lid of the toilet—or more like his injured leg gives out and he lands there rather unceremoniously. Leia weaves around their feet, still regarding Bucky warily, like she's offended by his sudden entrance. "It was these…like, gang members. With really big guns." Peter vaguely realizes his phone isn't within his general vicinity anymore and figures Clint must know he's with Bucky now and has hung up. Though he's gonna want updates ASAP.
Bucky huffs and shakes his head. "Stupid kid," he mutters, but there's underlying affection in his tone. The soft side of the older man had surprised Peter at first, but he quickly realized it was natural. From a few vague things that have been said before, Peter thinks that maybe he reminds Bucky of pre-serum Steve Rogers. He isn’t sure he deserves that honor, but it’s not like he’s going to argue with the former Winter Soldier.
"You didn't have to come, you know," he says, hoping he doesn't sound like a petulant child. "I heal fast."
"Fast healing won't matter if you bleed out first, which is what you were set to do," Bucky retorts, still examining the wound.
Peter sighs, letting out a particularly pained yelp when the older man prods at his shoulder a bit too hard.
"Sorry," Bucky mutters, but he doesn't sound that sorry. "Trying to figure out what this crap is."
Peter tilts his head down to watch as Bucky continues to work. "Those guys were selling some kind of…modified Chitauri guns and ammo. I—I'm not sure what exactly it is 'cause they've been around for years now." He smirks, despite the pain. "Bet there weren't weapons like that back in the forties."
Bucky snorts. "You'd be surprised." He doesn't elaborate. He presses something to the injury. "We'll just have to clean it out really thoroughly and keep an eye on it until it heals up."
Peter nods halfheartedly, his headache intensifying. Must be a result of all the blood he's lost. He should be thankful for his powers—he'd probably be dead or halfway there if not for his enhancements.
After briefly checking over the leg graze, Bucky taps Peter on his good shoulder. "Okay, that looks better. Come on, you're gonna have to lie down for this next part."
On a normal day, Peter would probably be embarrassed that someone like Bucky Barnes has to come in to save the day for Spider-Man. He already feels like a little kid compared to some of these other superheroes—he doesn't need them to see it for themselves. But he's hurting—a lot—and his desire to stay alive outweighs the need for dignity, so yeah, he's gonna let Bucky help him out.
Bucky practically carries him over to the bed, spreading a towel out over the top half of the sheets to avoid getting any blood on them. Peter settles down on his back, holding back a groan when the movement sends a throb through his shoulder.
"Easy." Bucky's voice is equal parts gruff and soft, which seems like it shouldn't be possible, but it somehow is.
Peter watches the former soldier methodically set up an array of supplies on the nightstand. Leia is sitting on top of the dresser, keen eyes also following the man's movements.
"You have any painkillers?" Bucky asks, settling himself in a position that provides easy access to Peter's shoulder.
Peter shakes his head. Regular meds don't really work on his enhanced metabolism.
Bucky gives him a sympathetic look. "Then this is probably gonna hurt."
"Maybe I'll get lucky and pass out," Peter says, closing his eyes and bracing himself. Don't think about it don't think about it don't think about it. "Hey, where's Sam?" he wonders aloud. Yes, distraction. Perfect.
"Busy."
"Hm." He pops one eye open. "He doesn't like me."
Bucky raises his eyebrows, tweezers and something else in his hands as he leans over Peter.
"I dunno. Just the vibes he gives off when he's around me. Think I annoy him."
"Vibes?"
"Oh, right, you don't understand half of modern teenager vocabulary."
"Nor do I want to," Bucky shoots back. "Here." He offers some kind of piece of thick fabric for Peter to bite down on. "Okay, three, two—"
Peter clamps his teeth down on the nasty-tasting fabric to choke back a scream when Bucky starts digging for the bullet. He grunts, curling his fingers around the bedsheets and squeezing. Stars dance across his vision.
Bucky curses, and more fire races up Peter's entire arm. He wishes he would just pass out already, because this hurts.
"Come on, come on," Bucky mutters. "This is not as easy as they make it look in the movies."
Peter snorts amidst the pain. Despite Hollywood's depictions, he doesn't think it's common medical practice to remove a bullet from a wound—definitely not without the help of a professional—but they don't have much choice because this isn't an average bullet. Who knows what might happen if they leave the bullet in his shoulder.
Peter doesn't want to find out, so he'll take his chances with having a former assassin perform surgery in a bedroom with no anesthesia. Sounds great.
Bucky's next attempt leaves Peter's mind spinning out in a dizzy circle, and he's pretty sure he does pass out, because next thing he knows, the pain is abating and something is being pressed to the wound. Bucky lets out a relieved sigh.
Peter gasps, chest heaving as he tries to tilt his chin downward to see what's happening. "Please tell me you got it," he croaks.
"Yeah. But that was the easy part. I've still got to clean it."
The easy part? Perfect. Lovely. Amazing. His whole left side is already pulsing, what's a little sting from disinfectant?
It touches the bullet hole, and white-hot agony engulfs Peter's entire being.
He promptly passes out.
***
Since Peter's gotten to know Bucky and Sam a little better, he's learned that Bucky is a lot softer than most people might think, given his past and his reputation as the heartless Winter Soldier. After the two men found out Peter was more than some random orphan kid who Clint Barton needed a babysitter for—which didn't take long—they immediately became a hundred times more protective of him. The teasing began then, too.
Bucky shakes his head. "God, you're just a baby. A tiny little spider baby."
Sam still looks shocked, if not embarrassed. "You're telling me this shrimp is the same dude who couldn't keep his mouth shut in Berlin?"
"Um, yeah, and also the one who totally beat you both," Peter pipes up.
"Shut up," Sam and Bucky say simultaneously.
The sarcasm and banter is constant between them, but Peter finds he doesn't mind it much. In fact, he appreciates the company—and okay, maybe he fanboys a bit over them. Who else can say that they literally have the Falcon—aka the new Captain America—and the Winter Soldier as backup? He has Clint to thank for that.
Anyway, suffice it to say that Peter isn't entirely surprised when he comes to and sees Bucky hovering over him, brow furrowed in concern.
"Hey," Peter groans, blinking away the blurriness and shifting slightly. His left shoulder still throbs, but at least it no longer feels like it's literally on fire. The graze on his leg is almost unnoticeable compared to the shoulder wound.
Bucky leans back and lets out a breath. "Good, you're still alive."
"Aw." Peter tries to shift, but his shoulder must weigh a ton, because he can barely move. "Didn't know you cared so much."
"I don't," Bucky immediately responds. "But Barton would kill me if you ended up dead."
"And here I was thinking you had a heart." Peter chuckles, the breathy laugh quickly turning into a violent coughing fit.
Bucky drops the teasing and the smirk, quickly reaching for the cup of water that’s sitting on the nightstand. He helps Peter sit up and drink a few sips while Leia hops onto the bed and curls up in her usual spot in the top corner.
"Thanks," Peter whispers as he hands the now-empty cup back to the other man, moving his hand to brush over his cat's back. "How's…how's it look?"
Bucky shrugs. "Good as it can be, I guess. Still don't know what the hell was in that bullet."
"Feel like I got hit by a truck. A really big truck."
Bucky grunts noncommittally. "That's generally what happens when you get yourself shot."
"I wasn't trying to get shot!" Peter defends weakly. "I was just—those guys, it—" He sighs. "It's a long story."
"Uh-huh." Bucky plucks something up off the table and moves over to Peter. "Here. Clint wants you to call him as soon as you can."
Peter takes the offered phone with his good hand. He can already move his left arm better, but he doesn't want to strain it before it's had ample time to heal. He easily opens the phone app and taps Clint's number. "He's probably upset," he says as it rings.
"That's putting it mildly." Bucky snorts.
"Peter?"
"Hey," Peter greets, clearing his throat.
"You okay?" Clint doesn't sound totally panicked anymore, so Peter assumes that Bucky must've talked to him at some point while Peter was still out.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"Liar."
"Clint, I swear, I'm okay. I'm sorry if I worried you—"
"Seriously, Peter, what have I told you about being careful out there?"
"I know, I know—"
"And who is the first person you're supposed to call if you get into trouble and need immediate help?"
"Bucky or Sam," Peter mumbles, ducking his head like a young child who’s being scolded. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Bucky leaning against the wall, arms crossed, trying not to smirk. Peter glares at him.
"Right. Not me, who's several thousand miles away and can't be there in two minutes if you need help. When you've been shot. Twice."
Peter winces. "I'm sorry." The berating brings him back to what feels like a lifetime ago, when both May and Tony would've done the same thing if he'd done something even remotely stupid while in the suit. He dislikes it and is comforted by it both at the same time.
He hears Clint sigh over the line. "It's okay, bud. You don't think straight on a normal day, much less when you're badly injured."
Bucky's grin widens.
Peter groans into the phone speaker. "Not you, too."
Clint chuckles, but his tone turns serious when he speaks again. “Tell me about the weapons these guys got you with.”
Peter gives the older man as much detail as he can remember about the guns the dealers were using. The one good thing about the tech being, well, alien, is that they’re pretty unique in terms of style and function.
“Okay, thanks, kiddo,” Clint tells him when he’s finished. He’s quiet for a moment, and then he says, "Do you want me to come?"
"No, no. I'll be okay," Peter responds immediately. "Seriously. A few days—tops—and I'll be good as new." It's still hard for him to believe that he has someone who cares enough to travel halfway across the country because they're worried about him. After May's death, Peter didn't think he'd ever have someone he could call family again. How wrong he was.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure." Peter stifles a yawn, watching Bucky move over to the tiny kitchen on the other side of his studio apartment.
"All right, well, you sound exhausted. Get some rest, okay? Laura and the kids send their love."
"Thanks. Love you guys, too."
"And hotshot—please listen to Bucky. Don't try to go back out there until you're ready."
Peter rolls his eyes good-naturedly, wanting to throw back a snarky response but knowing it'll mean another five minutes of lecturing. "All right."
They hang up, and Peter drops the phone on the mattress beside him.
Bucky returns, shoving a bowl of something in Peter's direction. "Here. Eat and then sleep."
Peter sighs but complies, taking the offered food and beginning to pick at it. "Um, just so you know, you can leave," he tells the older man without looking up. "You don't have to stay. Like if you have more important things to do."
Bucky scoffs. "Kid—no. I'm not leaving you like this. Besides, what else would I have to do at" —he glances at the time— "five in the morning?"
Peter gives a one-armed shrug. "I dunno. Superhero stuff?"
Another snort. "Sleep, Spider-Baby."
"It's hot."
Bucky frowns, briefly pressing his flesh hand against Peter's forehead and then his cheek. "You're a little warm," he says. "But that's not unexpected." Nostalgia crosses over his face like a shadow. A moment passes, and Peter thinks that the other man might not say anything else. But then Bucky quietly says, "There was this one time that Steve…" and launches into a story from the early half of the twentieth century when his best friend was still a sickly kid who seemed to come down with a new illness or end up with an injury from a fight every week. It's a little surprising, seeing someone generally regarded as solemn and closed-off just talking about old times like this. Although according to Sam, Bucky is a giant softie at heart and has lightened up a lot since…well, a lot. Peter gets it—he can't imagine everything the man went through over the years. It's kind of cool that he gets to see this side of the Winter Soldier. Scratch that, it's awesome. Captain America was always a hot topic of interest during history class at school, and no discussion of the Howling Commandos could ever be complete without someone bringing up James Buchanan Barnes. They were both heroes in Peter's eyes, so to get to not only meet them in person, but be an Avenger with them…well, Peter couldn't ask for anything cooler.
So he listens to Bucky's story and Leia cuddles next to him as he starts to drift off. His shoulder is bothering him again and his head is throbbing, too, but he tries to ignore it. Clint is probably right—he just needs to sleep it off, allow his healing factor to do its work.
He'll feel better when he wakes up.
***
Things go downhill fast.
Bucky sits at the table, watching the kid in the bed across the room and listening to his labored breathing. He's not terribly worried—yet. He's seen and heard worse from Steve when they were kids.
He checks his phone again, even though he looked at it less than a minute ago. Another text from Clint. Nothing from Sam—but he'd already said he was on his way, so it's not like Bucky's expecting any word from him until he arrives.
Bucky tiredly rubs a hand over his face, still working through potential solutions. It's hard to tell if Peter's infection is "natural" or if it's the result of those modified bullets; the symptoms appeared within hours, so he's leaning toward the latter, but it's entirely possible that it's a mixture of the two. Bucky doesn't know if they can just wait it out or if further intervention is required—meaning a mission to hunt down the idiots that did this to the kid. He'd like to knock a few heads in anyway. Better than sitting here and watching the kid suffer.
Supposedly Peter's enhancements allow him to heal faster than the average person. Hopefully that ability applies to infections caused by gunshot wounds.
There's a noise from the other side of the room, and Peter lurches upward into a sitting position, a rough series of coughs causing his body to shake. "Buck—" he croaks, and this time he starts gagging.
Bucky's halfway across the room in a split second, practically grabbing the kid and dragging him—as gently as he can at this speed—into the bathroom. Peter drops to the floor in front of the toilet and immediately starts heaving.
Bucky winces, standing behind the kid and steadying him by bracing a hand on his back. Hurry up, Sam, he thinks. He can't leave a sick and injured kid to fend for himself, and he hopes that his friend will be able to at least provide some backup support, if not a few good ideas of his own on how to deal with this.
A few minutes later, Peter's retching finally comes to an end, and he slumps backward against Bucky's legs, eyes drifting upward. "Sorry," he mumbles. His cheeks are already flushed from his fever but they redden even more as he ducks his head, trying to move away. "Sorry."
"Kid." Bucky shakes his head. "You're all right, okay?"
At one point not so long ago, Bucky would never have pictured himself being that easy-going, protective guy he once was. Years of war, tragedy, and mind control will strip away everything you thought you knew, until you're nothing but a shadow of what you once were. Empty. Broken.
That was Bucky, up until recently. Being with Steve again, along with those in Wakanda helping him get rid of some of the demons in his head made a difference, but the anger and trauma refilled those holes once Steve…left. Normal was never for Bucky, and it seemed like it never would be.
But things can change in the blink of an eye, as he knows quite well. And now, after everything that happened with the Flag Smashers, Sam reclaiming the title of Captain America, and Bucky finally making his peace with what happened to him and what he did at the hands of Hydra—he's felt a little more of that old self returning. The man who once joked and flirted and stood up for those in need. He knows he's not the same—he's not whole anymore, and maybe he never will be. But he'll do what he can to keep getting better.
One day at a time.
Right now, that means taking care of a sick teenager.
He helps Peter up, stopping at the sink to let the kid rinse out his mouth and splash some cold water on his face. The damn cat is weaving between their legs, meowing up a storm like she's legitimately worried about what’s happening with her owner. "Better?" he asks.
Peter just shrugs, looking positively exhausted and miserable.
"Okay, back to bed. C'mon." Bucky tugs him back across the room, mindful of the injury on his leg, and deposits him onto the mattress before going grab a wastebasket to keep nearby—just in case.
Peter's eyes track him as he moves about the little apartment. At least he's not completely out of it, but Bucky hopes for everyone's sake that things don't go any further downhill. The kid’s fever is pretty high. If it continues to get worse, well…
What's frustrating is that there's not much they can do about the pain. Enhanced metabolism requires stronger medicine to abate it, and they don't really have access to anything like that. Over-the-counter pain reliever only takes the edge off.
Peter coughs, drawing Bucky's attention. "Hey...at least I'm not turning into an alien."
Bucky tries for humor, although it comes out a little dry. "Well, you're not out of the woods yet—could definitely still happen."
"Great." Peter rolls his head on the pillow. "I hope not. I don't think I'd make a very good alien."
Bucky snorts. His phone rings before they can continue their conversation any further, but Peter’s eyes are already closing again, and he needs all the rest he can get right now. Bucky glances at the caller ID before answering. “Hey.”
Clint doesn’t bother with a greeting. "How is he?”
Bucky shrugs, glancing over at the kid. “About the same.”
“So, I made a few calls, did some digging in SHIELD's old files—found some interesting info on the type of gun Peter said these guys were using."
“Yeah?” Better be good news.
Clint quickly rattles off a description of the wounds and a list of symptoms generally caused by Chitauri weapons. Bucky finds himself nodding, and together the two men are able to use Peter’s injuries and current sickness along with the process of elimination to determine the gun that's most likely the source of the wound and subsequent infection.
On the other end of the line, Clint breathes a sigh of relief. "Okay, so it looks like the components added to those particular bullets are made to increase the chance of infection and rapidly speed up the process. It shouldn't cause any major complications—and with his enhancements, he should be able to fight it better than an average person. Just...watch him and try to keep his temperature down. Sounds like it might get worse before it gets better."
"But it will get better?"
"As long as no major modifications were made to the bullets and the wounds were treated within several hours, yes."
Bucky hears the unspoken I hope.
"Keep me updated. I can be there by tomorrow if—"
"No, no, we've got him. If it gets bad, I'll let you know." God, don't let it come to that.
"Okay. And listen, man—I really appreciate you looking out for the kid—"
"Of course," Bucky grunts. And he means it. Sure, maybe the whole please look after this random teenager for me thing started out as a favor to Clint Barton—because, yeah, even after all this time, Bucky still feels like he owes something to those who teamed up with Steve to help him. They sacrificed a lot for his sake.
But what began as repayment for an owed debt quickly turned into something more. Once Sam and Bucky uncovered Peter Parker's alter ego, a lot of puzzle pieces fell into place. In a relatively short amount of time, both men found themselves invested in Peter’s constant escapades, even beginning to form a friendship of sorts—not that any of them would ever admit it. Despite the fact that their first meeting was on opposing sides of a “battlefield,” so to speak, no grudges were held. After all, how could anyone hate a kid like Peter Parker? A kid who doesn't look like he should be out of school and yet spends his time chasing trouble.
Reminds Bucky of another scrappy young kid he once knew.
He hangs up with Clint just in time to see a new message pop up from Sam, letting him know that he’s had a minor delay but will arrive as soon as possible.
Bucky sighs, glancing over at Peter, who looks like he might be asleep at the moment. His cheeks are flushed, and Bucky takes a moment to pull back the thicker comforter covering the kid’s lower body, leaving only the thin sheet over him. "Looks like it's just me and you for now, kid." He eyes Leia—that's her name, isn't it?—who stares back at him with equal interest. "And your cat."
Leia maintains eye contact and lets out a long, disdainful meow.
***
Time becomes nonexistent.
Peter drifts in and out of consciousness. He doesn’t need anyone to tell him things are getting worse; it’s obvious from the way the pain flares and things that should make sense don’t anymore.
Bucky rambles on, telling stories from his time before the war, about all the scrapes Steve got into and how he always had to jump in and save the day. He claims the same is true now with Sam; always needing to be bailed out. Peter isn’t sure if he should believe it, but who is he to tell the Winter Soldier any different?
He gets weaker as time progresses, and Bucky helps him to and from the bathroom—which, yeah, is nothing short of totally embarrassing—and keeps him fed and makes sure he's drinking water. The older man checks on Peter's injuries often, doing what he can for the clearly infected area on the shoulder.
He knows that Sam comes in at some point, maybe even takes over watch for Bucky for a while. Clint calls several times to check in, but Peter isn’t coherent enough to hold a conversation—he remembers the older man telling him that he’s gonna be okay, to keep fighting. They say the infection will pass.
Peter’s trying. But the darkness continually swirls around him, and nightmares start to invade his mind. He’s burning up one second and then freezing cold the next. Everything fades in and out, and Peter isn’t sure what’s real anymore. He has brief moments of lucidity here and there—his arm on fire as it’s messed with, hands gently restraining him when he bolts up from an awful dream, someone supporting his head and prodding water into him, worried voices murmuring in the background…
The voices continue to ebb and flow as time passes in unknown intervals. They carry varying amounts of worry, anger, and fear. They say things like…
"He's getting worse—"
"—infection just needs to run its course. He's strong, he'll be fine—"
"You don't know that, what if—"
“We need to do something.”
"No, no—he's burning up."
“Get me some more ice.”
"Peter. Can you hear me, kid?"
Peter wants to answer, he does, but he can’t seem to focus, to make the effort to actually respond. He doesn’t want to give in to the threatening darkness, but he wishes all the pain would just stop.
At some point, everything finally fades away completely.
***
It’s quiet.
That’s Peter’s first thought when awareness slowly creeps over him, returning him to the waking world in a peaceful manner. It takes him a minute to orient himself, memories flooding back in gentle waves. His shoulder is sore, but it’s nothing compared to the fireball of pain it had been. He takes a deep breath.
Something twitches near his cheek, and he blinks his eyes open to see Leia curled up next to his head, the edges of her whiskers just tickling his face. She trills with excitement at his movement.
“Hey, girl,” he whispers—or tries to. His throat is drier than the Sahara desert, and he swallows hard. Ouch.
Eyes still adjusting to the light, Peter rolls his head across the pillow, and it’s then that he spots the two other figures occupying the room, both sprawled out in the most uncomfortable-looking positions as they sleep.
Bucky is sitting in one of the little kitchen chairs that he must have dragged over to the bedside at some point. He’s slumped forward so that the top half of his body is resting on the bed, his right hand curled under his chest and the metal one settled on Peter’s knee. Behind him, Sam is seated in the recliner, head tilted back in a way that will probably result in a very sore neck upon waking.
Peter wonders how long he's been out. He spots his phone sitting on the nightstand and carefully reaches for it, trying his best to keep his injured arm still and noticing for the first time that it's secured in a sling. Huh.
His movements are rather uncoordinated—whether that's due to having been unconscious for an extended period of time or him just being a klutz, who knows—and he has to stretch to grab at the device. He can't quite get his fingers around it, and it topples off the table, landing on the ground with a soft thunk.
Bucky snaps awake in less than a millisecond, looking like he was never asleep, and that's a little scary to see.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Peter croaks around his still-sore throat. He really should've been reaching for some water instead of his phone.
But Bucky must realize the predicament, because he immediately picks up the cup of water and hands it over to Peter, who downs it in a few quick gulps. Much better.
"You feel okay?" Bucky asks, eyeing him suspiciously, like he thinks he's still dreaming or this is all just a trick.
"Yeah…?"
"Why are you saying that like it's a question?"
Behind Bucky, Sam is stirring now, rubbing at his eyes. When he spots Peter, he jumps up. "Well, look who finally decided to rejoin the land of the living."
Bucky's still bent on interrogating Peter about his well-being. He presses his right hand to Peter's forehead, checking for fever.
"I…I feel fine," Peter tells them truthfully, shifting to sit more upright and leaning back against the headboard. Leia repositions herself as well. "That was…wow. That sucked."
Bucky and Sam exchange glances.
Peter frowns. "What? How long was I out? Please tell me I didn't miss work. Mr. Delmar is gonna be so—"
"Woah, now. Calm down, Spider-Kid," Sam interrupts. "It's all under control. Clint talked to your boss—everything is fine."
Peter lets out a breath.
"It's been about three days," Bucky tells him.
Peter's jaw drops. He doesn't remember much of anything after the first. "You guys didn't…did you stay here the whole time?"
Sam snorts. "Did we stay the whole time? Oh no, we totally left the sick teenager to fend for himself while he was dying of an infection."
Peter feels his cheeks heat with embarrassment and guilt. "Sorry, I didn't—"
"Really, Sam?" Bucky shoots a glare in his friend's direction. He turns back to Peter. "You had us worried for a bit there, kid."
"I'm sorry."
"You sure apologize a lot," Sam observes.
"Sorry—" Peter cuts himself off, and the guys roll their eyes in tandem. He clears his throat and shifts, still feeling weak. "So, um, what's…what happened?"
"Bad infection," Bucky answers shortly. He reaches to adjust the sling so that he can take a look under the bandages that still swath Peter's shoulder.
Peter watches in fascination as the man's metal arm whirs, moving in perfect sync with his other hand as he works. The tech for something like that has to be so intricate and well-designed…it's awesome.
He's pulled from his mesmerization by a sudden, painful twinge when something prods at his shoulder. "Ow!" he complains. Next to him, Leia lets out a warning growl in the back of her throat.
Bucky ignores it, but Sam's eyebrows lift. "Down, girl," he says to the cat, who fluffs up her fur and huffs in response.
"Just ignore him, Leia," Peter mutters. "It's not worth arguing with him. He's all bark and no bite anyway."
"Hey, I resent that!"
"He's right," Bucky says, still focused on Peter's injury.
Sam throws his hands up. "What is this, gang up on Captain America Day?"
"Yes," Peter and Bucky say together.
"I actually thought that was every day," Peter adds with a cheeky grin.
Sam shoves his pointer finger in Peter's direction. "You're lucky you're laid up right now, you web-spinner. Otherwise I would not be okay with this slander."
Peter bites back a laugh. "Whatever you say, Mr. Captain America Falcon, sir."
"Mr. Captain—" Sam shakes his head. "If you won't call me Sam, at least go with Mr. Wilson or something. Not all this Captain-America-Falcon nonsense."
Peter refrains from unleashing another snarky comeback, his energy already drained from the short time he's been awake. He closes his eyes while Bucky finishes checking him over. "How's it look?" he asks.
"Better." Bucky finally lets the bandages fall back into place and fixes the sling. “Especially compared to what it looked like just a few hours ago. Fever was really high.”
Peter winces. “I don’t remember much,” he admits. “I didn’t, uh, I didn’t say anything really weird or stupid while I was out of it, did I?” He says the words in a rush, avoiding eye contact with either of the men.
Sam shrugs. “Nothing more than you usually do.”
Peter sees Bucky choke down a laugh. It’s a good comeback, so instead of trying to one-up it, he settles for his most sad, pathetic puppy dog look that Clint is always going on about him having.
It works as intended. Sam’s face softens slightly, and he clears his throat. “Hey, I’m glad you’re okay, kid—and I hope you enjoyed hearing me say that because you never will again. But next time, maybe call for backup before you get into trouble like that.”
“What he said,” Bucky agrees, patting Peter on his good arm before standing to his feet.
Peter knows that attempting to defend himself will probably get him nowhere, and he’s too tired to argue—although he wants to. He settles for ignoring their remarks, saying, “Should probably call Clint.”
“Shoot—yes.” Bucky swears and swipes Peter’s phone from where it fell to the floor earlier, depositing it into his hand. “He’s been asking for updates practically every five minutes.”
Peter takes the mobile device and punches in Clint’s number. As it dials, he thinks—not for the first time—how lucky he is to have these people in his life. At one point not so long ago, he was certain that he’d be on his own forever. Forgotten, alone. Never willing to let anyone else in.
Now, well, things are more different than he ever would have imagined since that fateful night on the Statue of Liberty, and in a good way, because he’s not alone anymore. He has friends, a family. And sure, maybe they’re a little overbearing sometimes, but he can handle that. It’s worth the knowledge that there are others in his corner who are willing to put up with him—and dare he say even love him—in spite of the trouble he finds daily.
What more can he ask for?