Not Like Mr. Stark
Peter rubs his eyes, his back sore and his eyelids heavy, refusing to fully open. The sun had just begun to rise, and he could hear the roar of Queens beginning to wake up. He lazily climbs out of his pajamas and into his suit. He felt more tired and exhausted then his previous days, the consequences of sleeping on a stiff couch finally catching up to him. He covers his Spiderman suit with a large black North Face jacket and gray sweatpants.
Peter shivers as he climbs down his apartment's fire escape, the sharp morning wind ruffling his hair and nipping at his face. He makes his way down to Brooklyn to a local coffee shop only 9 blocks from his apartment. Every step felt heavier, the tension tightening in his chest, preparing himself for what he's about to put himself through.
The bell jingles as Peter pushes the door open, his eyes meet MJ's and he brightly smiles. He physically can't stop himself from it. This is only his second time seeing his girlfriend since the very memory of him was erased completely from her mind. "Hey… wait. I know you." She furrows her brows, like she’s actually trying to place him. Peter's heart jumps into his throat, he can hear his blood rushing in his ears. Maybe MJ had broken through Dr. Strange's spell, he gets ahead of himself. "Really?" Is all he can manage. He drifts toward the cashier, unsure if he’s ready for the reality of it all. She's still wearing the teal uniform with the pink collar. She always complained about it, but Peter always thought she looked beautiful, no matter what she wore.
She gives him a quizzical look, as if confused by his reaction. "Um... You're Pete—no, Peter, right?" She asks, as if his name is just something easily forgettable. He’s caught off guard, his hope leaving the second he let himself believe it.
"Uh—yeah. I ordered a coffee a few days ago." He shrugs as if trying to play off his previous shocked expression. MJ gives him that look—a slight side-eye, curiosity flickering across her face. They stand there for a beat too long, the silence stretching between them before Peter clears his throat."What's your recommendation for a kind of latte?" He already knows the answer. The first day MJ was officially hired, he had asked her the same question. Without hesitation, she had brewed a caramel latte.
"How do you feel about caramel?" she asks curtly, her voice holding no emotion, no flicker of recognition.
Peter shrugs, pretending he doesn't know MJ loves her coffee black with no sugar, pretending that he doesn't know the girl in front of him better than anyone. Like he doesn't know she occasionally still sleeps with the stuffed cat her dad had given to her when she was four. "Yeah, sure." He says, trying to keep his voice steady to conceal the pain he feels in his chest. "I don't care." he says to both himself and this 'new' MJ.
She turns from him, quickly making his latte. As she works, Peter notices Mr. Thompson leaning against the door frame of the kitchen. MJ had always complained about him, and Peter was used to her debriefs about how terrible a boss he was. "Michele, I want to talk about your shift hours once you're done with that kid." He calls from across the shop. "Sure." She nods, with a hint of attitude and annoyance only Peter could detect.
MJ finishes and calls out, “Peter.” Her voice is flat, unreadable. He nods appreciatively and pulls out his ten dollar bill. He knew MJ never got tips here, but she never complained. If he couldn't make her smile by being himself anymore, he could do a small gesture to make her day. "$3.70." She eyes his cash, surprised. "Uh—keep the change." He offers a small smile, trying to act casual. “Um...” She pauses, blinking in surprise before giving him an awkward grin. He knows damn well MJ's customers never tip. "Thanks." She nods.
Soon he is leaving Peter Pan Donut & Pastry Shop, with his small caramel latte warming his hands in the frigid weather. He drinks it quickly, then ducks into a narrow alleyway to take off his jacket and sweatpants. Learning from past experiences from all the stolen backpacks May had to replace, Peter swings back behind his apartment complex—out of sight, just in case, and stashes his clothes into his mailbox. He then loops back to Brooklyn, taking a detour from his usual patrol.
He's perched on top of Mr. Barnes's roof, waiting patiently. He had made the decision to watch him slowly throughout the day, to see how truly serious the weapons deal was. Peter is sitting on the ledge of a nearby building when, at around 11:30, Mr. Barnes’s fire escape rattles with metallic thumps as he marches down it, in a sleek black military-looking vest. It's the same on he had worn the night before, made with leather and tactical zippers running diagonally. Peter sees the light gold accents from James's dark vibranium arm reflect the pale winter sun's light. Though the day is cloudy, the sunlight still manages to glint through the overcast sky.
As Mr. Barnes starts up his motorcycle, Peter prepares his web shooters—ready to loosely follow his path. Peter begins swinging far behind Mr. Barnes, enough to track him without him quickly notice he's being trailed. It slightly bores Peter as James waits for each red light to turn green, civilized and calm—in no rush. It's not until they reach the Brooklyn Bridge that he seems to finally pick up the pace, his siren beginning to wail as he cuts through traffic.
They're soon in the Upper East Side, with fancy apartments and expensive cars parked along the sidewalks. May had always wanted to live in one of these neighborhoods—classy, beautiful architecture, and close to everything. Peter had wanted to graduate from MIT, dive right into work with Mr. Stark, and buy May one of these houses. One of the millions of dreams she had before her life was cut short—leaving Peter with no biological family left. A tiny click snaps Peter out of thought as Mr. Barnes set his bike stand beside a dark deserted alleyway lined with overflowing dumpsters. Peter squints, trying to make out anything that could be leading Mr. Barnes into this alley. Nothing. He waits and watches patiently from the building across the street.
Mr. Barnes seems to hesitate at the opening of the alley. He calls loudly without even looking behind him "Are you coming or what, kid?" Peter stands still—frozen to the edge of the rooftop. It's not until Mr. Barnes turns around slowly with his hands on his hips and directly meets Peter's gaze. "You're not very good at this sorta thing." He says, and without another word he turns and begins make his way down the alleyway.
Peter flicks his wrist and lands quickly, hurrying after Mr. Barnes. "Am I really that bad at it?" Peter asks defensively—catching up to Mr. Barnes. James continues to walk without even looking down at him."Kid, you're in a bright red and blue suit. I saw you from my window." Peter sees James's stoic expression falter a bit, him grinning slightly. He probably thinks I'm an idiot, he thinks to himself—but Peter can't help but smile a bit under the suit.
Their steps fall in sync and they walk silently until Mr. Barnes stops abruptly and lines against the wall. Peter mimics him. He watches as Mr. Barnes reaches for his holster, his safety of his gun quietly clicks off. Peter can hear faint footsteps, but they're mildly reserved—slow and taking their time. Peter estimates they must be a another minute or so away, coming from the sidewalk.
"Psssst. Mr. Barnes?"
Bucky eyes him—annoyed. "Be quiet. Just let me handle it."
"Sir, do you want me to cover you?"
Bucky puts his fingers to the brim of his nose and just sighs. "Sure, kid. Just stay quiet and out of sight."
Peter nods, and begins scaling the wall to the rooftop. "What—no—oh my God. That's not what I said ok to." Mr. Barnes whisper-yells after him. Peter can feel the eye roll from James without even needing to look, but nonetheless, he continues. It only takes seconds until he's up onto the roof and situated. A bird's eye view is where Peter can thrive best, always liking being able to observe and analyze the action from above. His eyes find two men with large sports bag equipment and complex tattoos lining their faces and arms. They're speaking some kind of foreign language Peter can't understand—it sounds like mumbled nonsense.
Peter watches from above as the scene unfolds, readying his webs whenever Mr. Barnes would need back up. The men turn into the alley way and James emerges from behind the dumpster, his gun drawn directly at them. They seem to begin questioning him in... Russian? The even funnier thing is he understands what they're saying. They seem to anger by Bucky's responses, their tone becoming increasingly aggressive—in contrast to James's calm and slightly bored sounding voice.
"Ты всегда будешь идеальным солдатом России." One man said, his tone was grave and he was eerily grinning.
"Я не являюсь чьим-либо солдатом" Mr. Barnes replied, his tone was turning more serious. Suddenly, the world goes quiet and the conversation becomes muffled. There's a humming grower louder in Peter's ears. There's a third man. Peter could see him approaching from the entryway. He was sulking—his footsteps noiseless. James's didn't seem to notice him—the man was only around 10 yards away from him. There's a surge in Peter's stomach. He jumps. He quickly webs up the man from behind as he had just drawn his gun to the back of Mr. Barnes head. No. Is all Peter's spider senses scream at him. Not like Mr. Stark.
The other two men are stunned—frozen in shock. They stare gaping at Peter as webs their colleague against the brick wall, taking his gun and effortlessly throwing it to the rooftop. His moves are quick and easy, before they can even process what he's doing. "Kid!" Mr. Barnes screams at him. Peter can barely hear him—blood pounding in his ears as he shoots his web over the guy's mouth. His surroundings come to him and he turns to the two others, staring blankly. "он тот паукообразный урод, о котором нам рассказывали." One whispers. "он сын Зимнего Солдата?" The other asks.
Peter turns to James "Uh, sorry Mr. Barnes. He was sorta gonna—" Peter pauses and mimics two finger guns. "Pew pew, y'know... I just couldn't let it happen." He turns to the two Russian men, now finally getting a good look at them. They are both bulky, covered in tattoos. One is missing a few of his teeth. They have white tees in the middle of winter. Their two large green gym bags clang if they shift their weight. Metal. Something metal. One of the men begins to unzip their bag.
Peter and Bucky watch, curiously. The man reaches into the bag. Peter's spider sense is going insane— the numerous possibilities of what he could pull out.
Doctor Osborn's flyer emerges.
"Планер Гоблина. Извлечен из Леди Свободы." The man holds it out in front of him with a smirk.