Chapter Text
He’s a kid, really—maybe twenty, if that. Bucky almost laughs when he hears the first words that come out of his mouth.
Polished silverware, spotless white tablecloths, and a clientele that reeks of old money. It’s the kind of joint where the wine list is longer than the menu, and Bucky couldn’t stand out more even if he tried.
He knows what people see when they look at him. The metal arm, the distant stare, the scars both visible and hidden. Damaged and, obviously, stupid for letting the government stomp all over him, stupid for signing up to get broken in the first place. Has to be that, right? Stupid. That's the only reason why this fucking kid who picked out a restaurant too fancy for Bucky’s comfort would sit here and lie his ass off by saying, "I have a stalker," and think he is getting away with it.
Bucky knows he's full of shit, having suspected what the job was actually for even before he walked into this place. And it doesn’t help that while insulting his intelligence, Peter Parker’s eyes are full of pity and misunderstanding. It's the same look Bucky’s gotten from the hostess when she directed him to the table.
Bucky doesn’t need this job; he doesn’t need any job. Doesn’t need the cash. What he needs is a distraction, something to keep his mind from spiraling back into dark places. But he’s not about to share that with someone who is used to getting his way with a few well-chosen words and a charming smile, not realizing that Bucky can smell bullshit when it’s being shoveled his way.
Bucky leans back slightly, letting the silence stretch just enough to be uncomfortable.
"Do you now?" he drawls, flat, noncommittal.
“You’ll need a car,” Peter says, motioning awkwardly at Bucky’s motorcycle helmet.
He looks even younger in the bright light of day than he did in the dimly lit restaurant. The sun catches on Peter's hair, a messy shock of brown that almost glows. His face is clear, boyish, but it’s not just his face; the whole package screams innocence, and maybe that’s the point.
Peter’s clothes are casual but carefully chosen. Designer jeans that fit just right, a simple but expensive t-shirt. Sneakers. Worn, not falling apart but definitely past their prime. Bucky knows comfort when he sees it.
“I have one,” he looks at his own boots, scuffed and sturdy. Bucky’s got a few—cars—but he isn’t about to share that either.
Later that evening, when Bucky’s picking out sliced carrots from his kung pao chicken with chopsticks across from Yori, he thinks about those sneakers. They aren't a sign of poverty—the kid wouldn’t be able to afford him if they were—they’re a sign of preference.
“Got a new gig driving around an escort,” Bucky mutters, chewing his food.
“Huh?” Yori looks up, squinting as if that might help him hear better.
“Eat your soup, old man,” he says, not about to repeat it.
Nat hands Bucky a file on one Peter Parker and goes back to wiping glasses behind the bar, barely looking up.
“He’s a nobody,” she says, not interested.
He shrugs, flips the folder open, skimming through the pages. Tragic past—he figured. Orphan—called it. Recently lost his aunt—a bit too specific to call it, but there’s always something. Pattern as old as the profession. That said, plenty of people with tragic pasts don’t end up whoring themselves out.
“What’s with the new name?” Bucky asks, tossing the file to the side and tipping his chin toward the sign in the window. “The hell is S.H.I.E.L.D. supposed to be?”
“Strategically Hidden Individuals Engaging in Low-profile Deeds,” Clint spells out with a smirk, emerging from the side door, carrying a crate of beer. He sets it on the counter and then slams a Glock 19 on top of the crate. “Got a job. Want it?”
“Fuck off,” Bucky refuses without hesitation. “Will have a beer, though.”
Then again, some people with tragic pasts end up doing worse.
“I keep telling them to stop fucking with the names,” Sam says, pulling darts out of a board nearby. Bucky tilts his stool back to check if his aim has improved. It hasn’t. “No brand recognition.”
“Sister Margaret’s,” Nat and Clint mimic Sam in unison, both grimacing straight after.
“Steve?” Bucky asks, wrapping his right hand around a cold bottle Nat slid toward him and then using his left one to pop the cap off.
“Not a peep,” confirms Sam, examining the dart. “This rigged or somethin’?”
Steve. Punk who Bucky thought wouldn’t make it two weeks in black-ops, who not just survived but also managed to get the fuck out of dodge after they’ve all fallen off the metaphorical tracks.
“I’m gonna hit the hay,” Bucky says, getting up and planning to head upstairs, just as the front door swings open and a couple of frat guys all but fall in.
“Closed for business,” Nat snaps, giving Bucky an annoyed look because he was the last one in and didn’t lock it. Whatever. Using a fucking bar as the latest front was her dumbass idea.
The first time Bucky picks Peter up, he pulls up to the bus stop in a black Dodge Charger—a car that doesn’t raise eyebrows but also shouldn’t look too out of place in a nice neighborhood—respectable, dependable.
He spots Peter before Peter spots him. The kid’s standing under the bus stop shelter, nervously spinning his phone in his hand. Bucky doesn’t need to pick him up at a bus stop, but Peter insisted. Smart, almost, if Bucky didn’t already know every detail of his life. He knows where Peter lives, knows that he wrote an obscene amount of thank-you notes to his teachers in high school, knows that he’s a universal blood donor and that he spent sixty bucks last week on a game he could have pirated for free.
The comfortable sneakers are gone, replaced by shiny Converse straight out of the box. Same jeans, but his t-shirt is baggier, no doubt picked out to make him appear smaller. It flaps in the wind, and Peter looks like he could be blown away by a strong gust, although that has to be at least partly deceiving; Peter Parker has a gym membership and works out on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and every other Saturday.
There is a backpack hanging from Peter’s shoulder, completing the student look—not used, at least not regularly. Bucky would bet his favorite Beretta that this particular backpack has never seen a schoolbook in its life. He can only speculate as to the contents, but he reckons it’s the usual toolkit for this line of work.
Bucky has to roll down the window for Peter to notice him, but once he does, Peter quickly pockets his phone, hurrying over to the car.
“You’re early,” Peter says, opening the door and getting into the backseat. There’s a hint of surprise in his voice, as if he wasn’t expecting Bucky to be punctual. Maybe didn’t even expect for Bucky to show up at all. Bucky doesn’t bother responding to that.
“Where to?” he asks instead, mostly to keep up appearances, already knowing the answer. Peter rattles off an address, and Bucky nods, merging back into light traffic.
“You do this kind of work often?” There’s apprehension in Peter’s tone when he breaks the silence four streetlights later.
“Often enough,” Bucky replies. He doesn’t elaborate, and they don’t speak for the rest of the ride.
The driveway alone is bigger than most estates, paved with stones that probably cost more than some of the cars that drove past since Bucky had parked. He counted at least two Ferraris, one Maserati, and a slew of Teslas rolling by in the first twenty minutes, having stopped counting after that.
He didn’t do too much digging into the John—that’s Peter’s business—but this one's actually called John, which Bucky finds ironically fitting. He knows the type without the need to research, though, having been in houses like this before. Too many bathrooms, not enough soul. Places where the walls are adorned with overpriced art that means nothing to the people who own it. John’s a middle-aged guy with a receding hairline and what Bucky suspects is a paunch hidden beneath a tailored suit. Rich, powerful, and dirty in ways that money can’t wash clean. Not that it matters.
The soft leather of the car seat creaks under his weight when Bucky shifts, taking another quick look at the walkway lined with some god-awful statues. He remembers a mission in Prague, a similar house, similar opulence. The mission went south, and Bucky ended up using a statue not unlike the ones here to bludgeon a man to death while Clint was busy bleeding out on a sidewalk. Funny how certain memories stick.
He checks his watch—another hour until the kid is out—and goes back to reading his book.
As far as distractions go, this gig’s alright. Bucky doesn’t much care what’s happening inside that house, but can imagine easily enough the part Peter plays, batting those doe eyes. Besides, simply waiting here sure beats staring down the barrel of his own gun.
The book’s not bad either. A decent sci-fi thing, thick with politics and betrayals, just convoluted enough to hold his attention without demanding too much. A bird has been chirping on the power lines above for nearly as long as he has been here, and the minutes don’t drag.
Exactly two hours on the dot, Peter walks out onto the porch.
When he slides into the backseat, there is a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, but otherwise, he seems unruffled.
"Thanks for waiting," he says, his voice light. "Just finished up tutoring. Making progress."
Bucky moves his shoulders to acknowledge he heard him. It’s up to Peter to keep pretending this isn’t what it is. Bucky isn’t the one to judge him for what pays the kid's bills.
The next time Bucky picks him up and drives him to a client, Peter keeps it up.
“Just a friend,” he spews this crap with forced cheeriness, tapping his foot on the rubber mat.
Another dozen appointments later, after a dozen more lies, Peter toys with the sleeve of a Catholic boys' school jacket, tracing the fabric as if trying to make sense of it. The striped tie sits tight around his neck, and he seems to barely resist the temptation to loosen it, his fingers running over the knot every other minute.
“Costume party?” Bucky works triple-time on not smirking. He can’t help but be amused—Peter looks fucking ridiculous in this getup.
“Why do I even bother?” the kid mutters, and Bucky doesn’t miss an exasperated scoff in the rearview mirror.
“Dunno, doll,” Bucky shrugs, earning a kick to the back of his seat.
“I don’t need saving,” Peter says firmly when they stop in front of an honest-to-god boarding school at ten at night.
Bucky kills the engine, stretches his legs, and gets out the book from the glove compartment. “Never said you did.”
“You read,” Peter points out as he starts grabbing his things. Without disbelief or anything, but no less insulting.
“Only for the pictures,” Bucky admits, deadpan, flipping open the book and pretending to study a page with intense focus.
Peter rolls his eyes, steps out of the car, and heads toward the school without another word.
When he returns—after midnight—he’s flushed and pissed, the kind of anger that comes from deep frustration. He slams the car door behind him and immediately starts ripping off the jacket, his movements jerky and aggressive.
“Don’t fucking look,” he borderline yells at Bucky, sharp and raw.
Bucky obliges, turning his head to the window and the building instead. He briefly contemplates if he should leave an anonymous tip about the headmaster. With the kind of money it takes to enroll someone here, you’d think they’d do better background checks. Then again, he doesn’t know if Peter is planning on coming back, and it’s not up to him to fuck with his client list.
The drive back is tense. When they get to Peter’s place—a modest apartment complex that’s become their new drop-off point after the sixth client—Peter doesn’t move to get out immediately, lingering.
“Didn’t want you to think—” he starts, but Bucky cuts him off.
“You don’t pay me to think.”
They have an understanding after that.
The funeral is a sea of black. Black suits, black dresses, black umbrellas shielding over a hundred attendees from a light drizzle that seems almost too perfect for the occasion. Bucky stands on the sidelines with Nat, holding her by the elbow. She's wearing a massive black hat over the blonde wig, tulle and all, occasionally sobbing two octaves too high.
“You look more torn up than the widow,” Bucky grits through his teeth, rummaging for a tissue in his pocket. “Ease off on crying, or they’ll think you were fucking this asshole.”
She dabs the tissue under her dry eyes and stabs his foot with the heel of her Louboutin stiletto for solid criticism, having him bite back a wince.
“Let’s get you out of here, darling,” he murmurs loud enough, guiding her through the throng of mourners. She sways deliberately, bumping into her target.
They are already in Nat’s silver Aspark Owl when the crowd stirs. The whispers turn to murmurs, then to shouts and screaming.
“The grave’s still open,” Nat peers over him at the commotion. “Could just chuck him in and be done with it. Thanks for the assist. How’s your twink for hire?”
Bucky doesn’t say anything at first, watching Nat battle her hat, her manicured fingers clawing at the tulle, the massive brim wobbling.
“Fine,” he slips that in between her snarling, “Fucking thing is glued on,” yanking at the hat and then asking, “Help, it’s actually stuck.”
“Fuck him yet?” she pushes while he pries the wig with the hat off, her red curls spilling out in a messy cascade.
“Not planning on it,” he answers honestly, tossing the combo onto her lap.
They drive a few miles away before swapping seats—Nat would never let him drive her baby longer than necessary.
“Why not?” She hits the gas and recklessly breaks the red light while throwing funeral paraphernalia on the road.
“Like you said,” Bucky sticks the elbow of his left arm out the window and explains, “he’s for hire.”
Peter mumbles something from the backseat, muffled over the hum of the engine, and Bucky glances back with “What was that?”
“Your arm,” Peter repeats. He’s been extra fidgety today, clearly not looking forward to his appointment, but at least he’s not wearing a uniform this time around. “It’s Stark tech, right?”
Bucky sure as shit does not want to talk about it, even to distract him, but he does end up making an agreeing motion with his eyes, looking back at Peter in the mirror. The arm stands out. Tony might as well have slapped his brand on it, the tech’s unique, so no point in being cagey about it.
“How’d you get it?” Peter leans in, as if to take a closer look, and Bucky’s grip tightens on the wheel, the metal fingers flexing involuntarily.
It’s always the same question. Not “How did you lose it?” but “How the fuck did someone like you get your one healthy loser hand on it?”
Bucky’s nearly tempted to snark back with, “How did you start hooking?” but for hire or not, Peter doesn’t deserve that. So he doesn’t evade.
“Stark made it for me.”
Peter’s eyes widen in surprise, he rather comically blinks a few times, but then just slumps back in his seat, now skeptical. “You know Tony Stark. Right. Pull the other one.”
Bucky could tell him how Stark personally built it for him after Bucky dragged him out of Afghanistan. How bad it was, with Bucky just about not beating Ten Rings with his ripped-off arm and considering using it to plug a hole in Tony’s chest. He could also tell him about his whole unit getting royally fucked over for managing to pull off a rescue they were apparently meant to fail. But that’s a lot more than he’s willing to disclose.
“You got me. Picked it up at a yard sale.”
Peter chews on the inside of his cheek, opens his mouth as if to say something, but then clams up and stays quiet.
There are times Bucky thinks that at least a part of Peter enjoys what he does.
It’s not something he’s ever going to say out loud, and, sure, there's probably a deep-seated self-hate buried in there somewhere, or maybe just a number on Peter's bank account he needs to hit before he stops—or at least tells himself he will.
But some nights, Peter returns to the car with his pupils blown wide, eyes wild and electric, and there’s a spark there, a glint of something almost like satisfaction. Bucky’s seen that before too, in soldiers fresh from the field, their adrenaline still pumping, the rush of survival mingling with the horror of what they’ve done.
It’s there in the way Peter holds himself afterward, the way he sits still, while his breath comes just a bit too fast, too shallow.
On those nights, Peter doesn’t speak, not that they normally exchange more words than necessary. He just stares out the side window, his profile illuminated by the passing streetlights, and Bucky watches him out of the corner of his eye, wondering what the hell is going through that kid's mind.
Peter rubs his bottom lip with his thumb, in those small, unconscious gestures, and Bucky drives, his own mind half on the road and half on another life’s washout behind him.
“Cute. I’d tap that,” Clint pops the folder with Peter’s file that’s been knocking about closed, and Bucky motions for him to pass it over so he can dispose of it later. They still don’t let customers in—when pigs fly—but there is no reason for this folder to become a prop for a running gag about Bucky’s “hobby”.
“Sure, want his number?” Bucky scoffs, putting down his beer over the brown cardboard, creating a wet stain. Adding to other stains, actually, further proving that Bucky’s somewhat dropped the ball on not letting Peter’s sheet become a coaster for when the topics run dry.
“Nah, I’ll pass.” There is a white towel flung around Clint’s neck, and Bucky shakes his head, taking another sip. The cleaning of the glasses, the towel, the actual stocking of inventory they never plan on selling—talk about taking it too far.
“I prefer my ladies of the night more chesty,” shares Clint—no shit, what a revelation—moving this rag down to rub the already clean surface. “Figured out yet what’s for sale?”
“Not difficult to guess,” Bucky salutes Sam, who storms in using the back door, covered in what whiffs suspiciously of sewer. Not even remotely interested in what the fuck happened there, Bucky then points upstairs. “Don’t even think about it. This establishment is reserved exclusively for ‘I don’t smell like shit’ clientele.”
“Lick my balls,” Sam drips something brown on the floor, but it does send him packing, not that he was likely to stick around before grabbing a shower anyway.
Bucky spends the rest of the evening dodging Clint’s attempts to find out more.
The truth is, after a few weeks, Bucky started to make an effort not to guess what Peter does while he waits.
For one very simple reason.
Peter’s got that scrappy, wiry strength about him, and has absolutely zero fake about him unless you count the way he dresses for the job (his initial idiotic approach to hiring Bucky excluded). He isn’t hard to look at either. Bucky would actually tap that and enjoy it a great deal under different circumstances, let's call a spade a spade, but with the circumstances being what they are, it’s not a line he’s dying to cross.
He did it once—thought about it, let himself picture it when the book he was reading took a batshit tour into La-La-land. Within minutes that particular line of thought had him grabbing some fresh air outside the car, pacing by the curb, questioning his ability not to rub one out under the Do Not Park sign.
He could almost see Peter’s face, those brown eyes fluttering closed, and could almost hear the breathy gasps and the low moans. Did not fucking help knowing for a fact that Peter was being railed six ways to Sunday across the street, taking dick for cash.
Took some doing to shove it the hell back in where it crawled out of, while Bucky was driving him back home, letting his imagination run wild. Every time Peter barely shifted where he sat, Bucky had images flashing in front of his eyes, and he had a great ol' time counting the odds of these Johns actually handling that body right.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it,” Clint uses his thumb and index finger to send a bottle cap flying into the glass across the room, and it clacks against others, landing dead in the center of the stack.
“This ain't ‘Pretty Woman’,” Bucky attempts the same maneuver and ends up knocking the glass down. Well, they’ve all got their own strengths, and Bucky prefers a rifle.
Peter is—
Peter.
What’s not to fucking like? He’s got a look that makes you want to protect and ruin in equal measure, but Bucky’s got his own shit to deal with. Not blowing his brains out all over this bar, for starters.
Peter does what he has to, and Bucky drives.
Simple. Clean.
Simple and clean until— already parked outside Peter's place, after apologizing for eating in Bucky's car for the third time—Peter mentions through a mouthful of fries:
“Saw you in Chinatown last night.”
They grabbed food from McDonald’s drive-through, and it's normal, friendly even. Fucking weird, and Bucky should be drawing that line in the sand, but instead just twists his body slightly toward Peter, a fry halfway to his mouth too, asking: “Yeah?”
“Uh-huh,” Peter makes a sound, preoccupied chasing a rogue piece of lettuce around the wrapper with his finger. “Who's the old man?”
“A friend,” Bucky replies absentmindedly, his eyes following the trajectory of the sauce-soaked lettuce into Peter's mouth, which culminates in him licking around his finger with an appreciative hum.
“He's like a hundred,” Peter laughs, and Bucky turns back to face the front, taking a bite of his Big Mac, chewing thoughtfully.
“Yori doesn’t have anyone,” he says after putting his half-eaten burger down. “It's my fault.”
Bucky hadn't meant to unload—hell, he hadn't even realized it was chambered and ready to fire.
He chances a glance in the mirror and finds Peter stopped mid-bite, a fry poised between his fingers, now limp. Bucky frowns and braces himself. He's expecting that look—the wide-eyed, oh-shit sympathy that had made him want to punch something the first time they met. That, or more questions.
Neither comes. Instead, Peter just rubs the back of his neck. There are a few shadows across his face from this angle, and those shadows seem to deepen the lines that shouldn’t even be there yet. His chewing doesn’t resume; he seems to force the food down while muttering a genteel, understanding “Fuck,” and then works on packing up his leftovers, the greasy paper rustling too loud in the suddenly too-quiet car.
It almost comes as a surprise that not every client of Peter's can be categorically filed under "Likes underage, but too chicken to fuck one."
The second time Peter laughs in Bucky's presence happens when Peter fiddles with his sports jacket, shrugging it over a tight t-shirt that already looks painted on. He sprays cologne in a generous cloud, little droplets catching the dim overhead light, polluting not just the backseat. The scent isn't bad—sharp, with a hint of citrus—but in the cramped confines, it’s pretty much a chemical assault.
“You trying to marinate yourself?” Bucky cracks a window open, grumbling about the stench.
“Can I see a picture?”
Bucky's still mentally cursing the cologne, so it takes a second to process what the fuck Peter's on about. But nimble fingers are already reaching out, brushing against Bucky’s shoulder and plucking a white hair from his navy-blue jumper.
“You have a cat. Don't even try denying it.”
“Don't have one,” Bucky insists, stone-faced, and swears that next time some rat-looking thing decides it now lives with him, he's not just going to deposit it at Nat’s door but also make sure to lock his own.
“You're full of shit,” that’s when Peter laughs—already half out, stopping only to poke his head back in with that look of incredulous amusement, and for a second there Bucky forgets where Peter's off to.
“Don't have a picture,” he snaps out of it. What does he look like? A fucking cat guy?
Bucky's room, perched above the bar, isn't exactly the Ritz. The place is cramped, sure, but it's a king's quarters compared to the four days he once spent wedged under floorboards, listening for the footsteps of a target who took his sweet time to show. His current digs at least have the luxury of vertical space, and the bed doesn't double as a booby trap.
The cat is dirty white, scruffy, female, still too skinny, and with a silver collar, tagged with a number only because Bucky’s not about to let some well-meaning volunteer snatch this stray up and put it down "for humanitarian reasons."
He grabs his phone and aims it at the cat, which, true to its nature as an asshole of perpetual inconvenience, chooses that moment to move. The resulting photo is a shit, blurry mess. The cat's halfway out of the frame, its eyes demonic slits, although that part’s accurate. Bucky swears, then crops out the half-made bed with the stock of the semi-automatic sticking out from under the pillow and a small shelf crammed with books. He's no photographer, that's evident.
He hesitates for a moment, thumb hovering over the 'send' button. But hell, the kid asked for it, and it’s not like Bucky's got a specific reputation to uphold. With a muttered curse, he sends the photo. Most days he'd rather share a toothbrush with a dead raccoon than his personal life, but this diabolical furball with hair mats that refuse to come out is not his.
Immediately, there’s a ping back, and Peter’s response flashes on the screen. “LOL, looks haunted.”
The minutes while Bucky waits for Peter to return start to drag after that.
Bucky stands with his arms crossed against his chest, leaning back against the warm side of the car, the evening sun glaring, attempting to school his expression somewhere between a scowl and the usual blank slate reserved for bullshit he doesn’t want to deal with. They’re parked outside another mansion that stinks of money more than a Wall Street bull, and Peter has only now chosen to disclose that Bucky’s role tonight extends beyond the driver's seat.
“This wasn’t the deal,” Bucky feels the heat of the summer scorching against his skin, his black t-shirt attempting to stick to his back within minutes since they’ve arrived and started arguing—or have gotten as close as they ever did to having an actual argument.
Peter glances around as if he’s worried the hedges have ears.
“It’s a party,” he vaguely explains like Bucky’s supposed to know what that entails. He kind of does, on a theoretical level—a cesspool of every vice known to man cloaked in a veneer of glittering excess. But.
“Why the fuck do I have to come in? I am not your pimp.” Even though he plays the part well enough.
“Look, I just found out myself. They want everyone to come in, no one left outside to—” Peter makes a circling gesture with his hand, adding a pleading face; fucking lethal—“snoop around or whatever.”
"Fine," Bucky caves, regretting it already. He rounds the car to pop the hood open, fishing for something—anything—to cover his arm. It's not exactly party apparel, his metal limb, Stark tech or not.
"No, don't," Peter blurts out before Bucky even gets his hands on anything less insulating than an engine block. Peter’s cheeks are flushed from the heat, and he looks embarrassed when he stammers out, "It's, ugh, awesome. Makes me feel, I don't know, important or something."
Bucky stares for a good three seconds, trying to find the logic in that statement. Jesus Christ. If Bucky was given a hundred years to stew on this, he still wouldn't understand the kid’s wiring.
“Come on, lead the way,” he says, slamming the trunk closed. So, the arm’s out and he's out; a freak on a leash without the leash.
Bucky can't remember the last time he felt as much like a piece of shit as he does now, sitting outside the massive doors under the watchful eye of a guard. He's hunched on a gilded bench, arms on his knees, flanked by two men who leave no doubt in his mind about their profession. He might not be a pimp—technically—but these guys definitely are.
The first, with a dreadful comb-over, wearing a leopard-print shirt, is practically a caricature of sleaze. Every few minutes, he checks his gold watch—an obvious fake—as if he’s the one actually busy working his literal ass off. His partner sports a suit so loud Bucky’s sure it’s intended as a distraction from the tic in his right eye.
"Quite the weather we’re having, huh?" the-tic-in-the-eye tries to make conversation. Bucky ignores that. Engaging would mean acknowledging that they’re the same, and fuck that noise.
He finds a bitter sort of humor in the thought that he's probably the most human thing on this bench, despite the hardware, and can almost thank the heavens for soundproof doors because the alternative—actually hearing what's going on inside—would be a whole new level of hell. As much as those doors block out sound, though, they sure as shit don't block out his imagination, which is currently running a marathon. And that inability, that fucking impotence to do anything but sit and wait, chafes at him more than any physical restraint ever could.
The heavy door suddenly cracks open, and a wisp of a girl squeezes through just before it slams shut. The brief opening lets out a blast of blaring music and a cacophony of laughter, and Bucky involuntarily strains his ears for any hint of Peter's voice.
The girl, with her hair tangled and her eyes darting nervously, motions to the comb-over. He perks up like a dog hearing the kibble bag rustle, smoothing down his gaudy shirt as he stands to amble over to her. She whispers something in his ear, her posture tense, and Bucky's grip tightens on his knee, his nails digging into the denim of his jeans.
With a rough hand, the girl is pushed back towards the door and left there to hover, while the sleazebag comes up to speak to the guard with a conspiratorial lean in his posture.
Bucky catches snippets—"extra" and "nothing that scars"—and his jaw clenches tight enough to grind teeth to dust. The guard nods, indifferent, and Bucky gets to witness the exchange of cash, before, with even more roughness that makes Bucky’s hand twitch towards something he can’t hit, the sleazebag shoves the girl back in.
As if the scars that don't show don't count, Bucky thinks, every protective instinct he's ever had flaring up in a backdraft.
“Fuck this,” he says to the guard, standing up.
They size each other up—former military, fifty-fifty dishonorable discharge—and, in a blink, it’s on. The guard goes for his gun, fast, sure, but Bucky’s faster. Springs, screws, and metal pieces of the guard’s Ruger clutter the floor.
"Not worth it for a piece of ass," the guard says dismissively after not pushing further. "Could it crush a skull?"
"It can," Bucky replies simply, flexing the arm deliberately. The plates shift with a soft, hydraulic hiss. It had.
Peter pauses, his hand on the handle, the door ajar.
"That was four thousand bucks," he says, and Bucky has to unclip his belt to properly turn to him.
He isn’t surprised by the price tag people put on their sins. When they were strapped for cash and on the run, Bucky would have killed for less. What does surprise him is the fact that Peter tries—fails—to sound and look annoyed even though his face screamed ‘relieved as fuck’ when the guard walked him out of that room.
“Want me to pay you back?”
Peter's eyes drop. He rubs his free hand over his forehead and then, with a guttingly weary motion, moves his hair out of the way, one stubborn curl immediately springing right back out.
"No. Wasn't worth it," Peter chews on his bottom lip. “Thanks.”
“This one is alright,” Peter says one day, not that Bucky had asked. He’s fine-tuning mascara on his lashes and then finishes off by spending a better part of a minute applying lip gloss. When he’s done, Peter leans back, eyes scrutinizing his reflection in the little mirror. He grimaces, as if not entirely satisfied with the outcome, and slaps the case closed with a click. “What do you think? How do I look?”
Bucky thinks Peter looks like a doll. With or without the makeup he doesn’t need, although the idea of Peter’s lips wrapped around Bucky’s cock, glossed up like that, is hotter than it has any right to be.
"Like a cartoon character," Bucky smiles, and Peter laughs, almost giddy, the sound screwing with Bucky’s head.
“He might become a regular,” Peter overshares, zipping up the warpaint in the backpack, and it has Bucky going for the water bottle in the side door so he has an excuse to turn away, taking a long sip, trying to wash down the lump that had formed in his throat.
It goes downhill from there.
Starting with two hours later when Peter sways back, mascara leaking down his cheeks in black tears, looking more wrecked than a truck in a demolition derby.
"Not so bad," Peter falls onto the backseat, voice horse, and stretches his limbs, once again oversharing, “but fuck me, I am beat. You hungry?”
Bucky nods and doesn’t say anything; what’s there to say? He just hands over a couple of napkins from the glove compartment, and the gig—shit, he can't even call it that with a straight face anymore—morphs into the polar opposite of the distraction it was meant to be.
"It's not helping anymore. Quit driving him around," Nat says, planting her fingers over the piece hanging from his metal hand, and when it doesn’t budge, hisses, “Give me the fucking gun.”
Bucky doesn’t look at her; doesn’t need to. Seen it all before, heard it all before too, but he does let go.
“The clip’s empty,” she notes, sitting down next to him and placing his Beretta between them.
“I have a cat,” he shrugs. “Yori’s dead.”
“There’s one in the chamber.”
“It’s not a very good cat.”
There is no black, no rain, no hats or somewhat-grieving widow, not even an assassin in a wig overdoing it on the performance.
There's still a grave though, a priest, a too-shiny coffin that Bucky had paid for, as well as the scant number of attendees that wouldn’t even fill a jury box.
Three old-timers from the Bingo hall are huddled together, and there's that girl from the Chinese place, Mei. She's clutching a cheap bouquet of supermarket flowers, likely on a lunch break and probably rethinking her decision to show up, judging by the way she winces when the priest—mid-drone of his generic eulogy—calls Yori "Harold", causing Bucky fake a cough to hide his smirk.
Yori would've laughed his ass off for not making it into the Mad Libs book of the dead at his own funeral and would have pinched the priest’s wallet as a parting gift for the mix-up.
Bucky sees the sneakers first, sinking into the grass, and then feels an uncomfortably gentle tug on the sleeve of his leather jacket. A soft murmur of a "Hey," accompanies the touch, followed by a shoulder bump that's probably supposed to pass for friendly.
"I read the obits," explains Peter, sounding guilty, appearing on Bucky’s right. "And you are never 'busy.'"
A sad turnout that wouldn’t even impress a hermit, now with the addition of a hooker with a heart of gold.
"Hey, doll?" Bucky asks, suppressing a laugh, just as Peter unsuccessfully attempts to sneak a hand around his twitching fingers. "Get me the hell out of here?"
"Sure," Peter nods, not looking particularly offended at Bucky stuffing his shaking hands into the pockets of his jacket. "It’s not like I'm here for this verbal Valium. Not going to fuck you though. Just so we’re clear."
"Don’t sweat it. You are not my type," he lies.
It wasn’t Bucky’s idea.
It's the first time Bucky's been let inside Peter's building—hell, it's the first time he’s been allowed to see anything more personal about him than the usual backseat view.
Peter’s place is almost too predictably messy, with every surface covered in the debris of his interests—everything out and nothing hidden, obscure tech gadgets sprawled across the coffee table, tangled with wires that seem more modern art than functioning equipment. Clothes are strewn all over the place, and there are dishes piled up in the sink, promising a future archaeological dig.
The bookshelf that Bucky is standing by is sagging under the weight of comic books, and he can’t resist pointing out, "Look at that, you read for pictures too."
"I have a Kindle," across the room, Peter's grin splits wide, and he impatiently motions at Bucky. "Come on, take your clothes off."
Bucky throws him a skeptical look, peels off his jacket, the leather hitting the back of the chair, and quickly works the buttons of his shirt. The shirt joins the jacket, and finally, the Henley—lifted over his head, tossed on top, leaving Bucky in the raw.
"Fuck, I actually can't wait," Peter says, visibly vibrating with anticipation, not quite bouncing but damn close.
A rough chuckle scraping out from his throat, Bucky flops down on Peter’s disaster of a couch and beckons him over with a flick of his two metal fingers.
"Can't believe this is happening," Peter mutters as he settles next to him.
"Go on then," Bucky says, cocking his eyebrow in a dare, and Peter finally reaches out, grazing the edges of the plates on Bucky’s arm with his fingertips, clicking his tongue with approval.
There is a small toolbox on Peter's lap, and his "Holy shit" is mostly awe.
"Which one is it?" Peter asks after the metal arm is almost too thoroughly inspected.
"Fourth from the top," Bucky directs, flexing his bicep to better show where the plate has been catching. "You botch this, and you’re going to have one very pissed off Tony Stark to deal with."
“For real?” Peter recoils, which gets Bucky properly laughing.
“Nah, just fucking with you. I do it all the time, it’s a prototype.”
He'd only sworn under his breath when the plate got stuck while walking away from the funeral towards the bike. Peter, with that all-too-curious tilt of his head, had asked. Bucky, against his better judgment, had answered. And well, here they are.
And it's—alright.
Peter doesn't probe about the scars, but he is close enough for Bucky to count every freckle playing hide and seek on his bent neck. Close enough that the absence of that cologne leaves room for something mild—lavender shampoo—which makes a case for sniffing if Bucky was to let himself.
Peter's hair looks soft; soft enough that Bucky's flesh fingers itch with the want to touch and confirm if it's as downy as it appears. And it’s been a very shitty day—week—so Bucky can forgive himself a fucked-up urge to rub his nose against that hair like some kind of affection-starved stray, still rattled from how tight Peter was holding on to him, sitting behind on the Bucky’s Ducati.
But—alright.
Even though Bucky is shirtless on a couch, and Peter's knee is casually nudging his thigh, grounding itself there as if it's staked a claim, and this is normal—just two guys, one half-naked, in an apartment where a grenade might have gone off, doing robot arm maintenance.
Later, after Bucky's back in his clothes, minus the jacket, and Peter’s lips are shining with pizza grease that looks more tempting than any lip gloss, Peter asks him:
"It doesn't bother you, right?" He’s been picking at the pepperoni on the leftover slices—too full to eat more but still fishing for the good stuff, amassing small pieces of cured meat on the edge of his plate. "That I sleep with men?"
Bucky chews slowly, buying time, and tossing crust back into the box, goes with a semi-truth that sounds exactly like another lie would have:
"No, it doesn’t bother me."
Peter hums a little, nodding, produces an almost unsure smile, hums a little more, and the room feels smaller, Bucky’s world tightening up.
“I should be going,” he says, just as Peter offers, “Wanna watch a movie or something?”
They don't end up watching a movie, although Peter does go on a disturbingly nerdy rant about how the first two episodes of "Battlestar Galactica" are technically a movie. They end up watching the miniseries, with the dip in the middle of the couch—a no-man's-land of sagging fabric—pushing Peter closer and closer to Bucky, until he is all but leaning his compact body that would fit just right between Bucky's arms against his left side.
"It comes off, you know," Bucky jokes. "If you two need a room."
Peter huffs out a laugh and shifts just enough to make it clear he’s not moving unless he has to. Bucky doesn’t move away either. The heat from Peter is a better comfort than the frayed blanket tossed over the back of the couch.
Besides, it’s been a long time since anyone’s leaned on Bucky without being another dead weight to carry, and they're just there, slouched into each other tighter than a couple of war-torn coats thrown on the same hook.
Until Peter turns to Bucky, a smile flickering over his lips, quick as a camera flash. Then turns away, lost to the flicker of TV light. And then back again, biting on his bottom lip, eyes scanning Bucky's, his face getting closer, his breath warm, his gaze dropping to Bucky's mouth.
Bucky slightly tilts his head—that's all he does.
But he can damn near see the flecks of different colors in Peter's eyes, can smell that lavender shampoo, and wonders for a half-crazed second how Peter would taste like—
Peter flies off the couch, as if he's been spring-loaded. He crosses his arms over his chest, his face twisted into something sour.
"I fucking knew it," he spits out, and it’s one of the few seconds of Bucky's life when time just stalls. Considering the shitshow it's been, you’d think he’d be used to pressure, but no, this dick move he didn’t expect from Peter rocks his boat just hard enough to feel it.
Bucky rises off the couch with a sigh, a quick lick of his suddenly dry lips, a shake of his head, and a bitter half-laugh, then walks past Peter to pick up his jacket.
"Nice, real nice," Bucky drawls, sliding into it. He's not rushing it, not giving Peter the satisfaction of seeing him flustered. "I don't want to fuck you, I'm a homophobe. I do, and I'm still an asshole. Well done."
Bucky should leave, should just snatch up his helmet off the coffee table and get the hell out the door.
Instead, he moves toward Peter, whose back is turned to him, stiff and all but radiating "gotcha." Bucky comes up close from behind—closer than he's ever allowed himself before without permission, his hands hovering over Peter's hips.
“Just had to make sure, didn’t you?” Bucky quietly asks. “That everyone wants to shove their meat inside you, including me. Happy now?”
Peter’s shoulders tense even further, his arms still crossed in front of him, elbows as sharp as blades. Bucky can almost feel the prick of them, imagining the sting.
He has to bend his head down for his breath to graze the shell of Peter’s ear:
"Yeah, alright, you got me. I’d fuck you. I’d fuck you real good too, but it’s not something you haven’t heard before, right?"
Peter doesn’t step away or turn around, but his breathing changes—sharper inhales, sucking in all the air out of the room.
“What’s the point, hmm?” Bucky moves his hand to catch the back of Peter’s t-shirt, the tip of his metal finger dragging itself on the bones of the spine, slowly pulling the fabric up and up. “The hell could I ever say or do that would even work here? Call you a pretty little thing, and have you thinking of some perverted lowlife with a beer gut? Say you have a nice smile, and have you probably assume it’s code for ‘open wide’?”
“Hey, doll,” Bucky keeps talking, whispering now, “you deserve better. Or, you know, bend over, since it’s all just another nickel in the jukebox.”
He pushes his groin into Peter’s ass—screwing the last thing on his shredded mind—both of his hands on Peter’s waist now, black splotches over eyes like ash.
"Why did you have to do that today of all days?" Bucky rubs his cheek against—so soft—hair on Peter’s head.
"I don't… don't know. Sorry," Peter finally blurts out, and Bucky shakes it off, calmer now, starting to let go.
He’s done, so done, as he’s stepping away, Peter’s t-shirt taking its time falling back down, and—
Here they are.
Fresh lines from a marker on the skin of his back. Dozens, maybe more. They join the black spots that are clouding Bucky's vision, lingering even after Peter turns around, straightening the t-shirt flat.
"And how much was that?" Bucky still can’t believe his eyes when Peter twists to glimpse over his shoulder, as if he could see that fucking artwork etched from there. “Moving up to a career on top of Pornhub's pig bottoms search? Or are we going for cum dumpster, and are now charging extra for ‘fuck safety’?”
"No, listen.” Peter looks back at Bucky, panic and possibly hurt flickering across his features. "You were gone a week and, I—I don't—"
"Fuck," Bucky rubs his hands over his face, starting to pace around the cramped living room, choking on something akin to protective disgust.
Peter's shoulders slump and he sits down, sinking back against the couch. "Wasn’t like that. At first. They didn’t film it, I made sure."
“Of course they did,” Bucky scowls through the coming up acid, grabbing his helmet. “For a smart one, you are an idiot. I'll fix it, but I am not your driver anymore.”
