Chapter 4
First thing in the morning, Peter triumphantly turned in his updated emergency contact form to the front office. Another hindrance out of the way, Peter walked to first period with lighter shoulders. He settled into his seat behind Ned. Peter still had a lot of catching up to do from his three months worth of absences. So close to the end of the school year, his teachers were being lighter on the workload, giving Peter extra time to make up for his missed work.
He had done his best to pop in every now and then to pick up and turn in assignments, but there were always a couple factors he missed. Damn participation points for starters. Before the bell could signal the start of class, he approached his teacher’s desk.
“Good morning, Sir,” Peter said in peak politeness. “Is there anything I can do to make up for participation points?”
His English teacher sat with his legs propped up on his table as he read a book. “Mmm…” he pretended to think it over, barely glancing up from the text. “Nope. Participation is meant to happen in class. Should’ve gone to school, Parker.”
Peter resisted cursing out his teacher. Just six more weeks, just six more Fridays, he tried to rationalize. Okay, Peter didn’t want to pull this card, but the circumstances called for it. “Please. sir, my uncle’s death over summer and then my aunt’s death at the beginning of this year really—“
“Fine!” His English teacher finally relented, snapping his book shut and getting his feet off the table. “You know which in class presentations you missed. I'm giving you two weeks before you present it to the class.”
Peter subtly high-fived Ned as he returned to his desk in victory. Of course, he forgot all about how Parker Luck responded to small victories.
“Peter Parker, report to the principal’s office,” the school secretary’s voice rang out in the intercom, alerting the entire school of his summons. The obnoxious ooo’s from his classmates (and English teacher?) grew when the secretary repeated himself, “Peter Parker, please report to the principal’s office.” Alright! Peter heard him the first time.
His class oggled as he picked up his backpack and walked out of the classroom. Peter’s damn hearing amplified their burst into chatter the second he made it into the hallway, conspiring how he already got in trouble when he’s barely been back.
What on earth did he do this time? For two weeks straight, Peter hadn’t missed a day of school. Not even cutting classes a few periods early for Spiderman duties. He was performing diligently in classes, being active in clubs, and even submitted the updated emergency contact form! What the hell did his principal want with him now?
“Mr. Parker, take a seat,” his principal said to Peter as he walked inside.
Peter glanced down at the nameplate on his desk, not even knowing the name of man harassing him over the form all this time. “My pleasure, Mr. Kleiman,” he said through gritted teeth, tucking into the chair parallel to his desk.
Mr. Kleiman slid the emergency contact form Peter had literally just submitted across the desk. “Can you explain why Mr. Reilly left the email and personal cellphone number blank?”
Peter leaned over the desk to get a better view. Huh. Barnes really did leave all that blank. Man, the principal wants to be this tedious? “He doesn’t have an email,” Peter shrugged. “I don’t even think he knows what phone is,” he added. Both statements were entirely truthful to Peter’s knowledge.
“Phone, okay, understandable. He’s on the older side,” Mr. Kleiman was inclined to agree with a shrug. He slightly leaned over the desk to emphasize, “You’re telling me it’s the year of 2015 and he don’t got an email?”
“He’s… Russian?” Peter tried using it as an explanation.
“I’ll cut you some slack, Mr. Parker. Fine. I’ll let the email and personal cell slide. But I want a signature by this time next week.” Mr. Kleiman slid over a yet another form. The header read Metropolitan Museum of Art Permission Slip. Sternly, he said, “If you get injured on the end-of-year field trip, we need to be able to contact him.”
“The.. the end-of-year field trip?” Peter slowly repeated.
The end-of-year field trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art was a rite of passage for every eighth grader at Dikto Middle. It was the only redeeming factor that came with attending the hellscape of a school. Peter honestly thought he would be prohibited from the trip due to his excessive unexcused absences. The cut off was ten, and Peter is sure he has over quadrupled that.
“You’re responsible for the Debate Team’s third place trophy and first place trophy, Mathletes first place trophy, and three East Coast region first place science fair medals.” Peter didn’t know why Mr. Kleiman was bringing this up until he elaborated, “Parker, do you know how much money our Dikto gets for each academic achievement? Of course you don’t! You’re brilliance is funding half of the school’s extracurriculars.”
“Uh… your welcome?” Peter said with a raised eyebrow. He deduced that Mr. Kleiman is weird. He realized that a long time ago, but it was only brief moments when he cornered Peter in the hall to remind him about updating his forms.
“You’ve caused a lot of trouble for me, Mr. Parker. The district kept wanting to meet up with their new genius and what was I supposed to say? He hasn’t attended school for the majority of the second semester? Barely passing your non-STEM courses?” Mr. Kleiman’s summary of Peter’s old habit is more than accurate. “I covered for your ass, told them your aunt died and the other junk you told your teachers to get an extension.” Word got around that he cheated his way into participation points already. “You can pay me back by having lunch with the district’s board director at the Met.”
“I get to go to the Met?” Was all Peter understood by the end of the principal’s tangent.
“Did you not listen to a word I just said? You’re the district’s pride and joy, Parker. I’d be dead if I didn’t let you.”
“‘Course, sir. Uh, can I shake your hand? Y’know, for practice with that director guy.” Peter awkwardly extended his hand. He was genuinely grateful for the opportunity, mainly for the field trip, but meeting the director of anything was pretty cool in itself.
“Get out of my office, Parker,” Mr. Kleiman said through a tight smile, hands knitted together at his desk.
Peter redirected his extended hand to smooth down his perfectly fine hair. “Got it!” He did not have to tell Peter twice.
He has seven days to get Barnes' signature. Having harassed him all of yesterday afternoon to get him to sign the guardian forms, Peter didn’t know if he’d be as willing to sign a field trip permission slip. It was several steps ahead of parent-teacher conferences, which was one of the things Peter promised to not put Barnes through. Shit, Barnes wasn’t even aware Peter made him his guardian at Dikto, too.
To his core Peter was a scientist. It’s always been in his nature to question everything, find answers to everything, gather the data. The first (realistically, like tenth) thing a scientist does is experiment.
Instead of working on the two slideshows he had to present two weeks from now, Peter devised up a plan to condition Barnes into signing any sheet of paper Peter hands him.
-
It started with a ridiculously unserious yet actually legal contract. Matt did everything he could to make sure the little fine print would hold up in court. Peter doubted he'd even need some of the terms, but Matt owed him a favor anyway. Peter was always planning on cashing in the favor for a funny gag.
Printed on fancy lawyer paper and ink that Peter didn’t need to pay forty cents for was this:
Spiderman and James Reilly Super Legit Contract
- Mr. Reilly will NOT reveal Spiderman’s identity to anyone.
- Spiderman will NOT reveal James Reilly’s identity to anyone.
- Mr. Reilly is not allowed to be mean.
- Spiderman is.
- If one does reveal identity, suing will happen.
- Mr. Reilly is not allowed to sue Spiderman.
- Spiderman can wash up in Mr. Reilly’s apartment.
- And use it as his personal storage unit.
Spiderman’s signature: _____________ Date: _____
James Reilly’s signature: _____________ Date: _____
And of course there was a bunch of real legal shit in the tiniest font at the bottom of term number eight.
Terms seven and eight actually had some practical reason and thinking behind it. Showering in the school’s locker room and cramming his stuff in an overfilled locker was only a viable solution for his lack of home until the end of the school year. Once summer hits, Peter is effectively doomed. He’s seriously just preparing in advance.
Being his second time loitering outside Barnes’ apartment in one week, Peter was less nervous than the first time around. Getting the contract written up already took one day, Peter had no time to waste hyping himself up through silly rituals and funny business. He proceeded to fold the contract into a paper airplane.
Peter squatted in the middle of the sidewalk to peer through Barnes’ window. It was cracked open and barely above the sidewalk, he seized the opportunity to throw in the airplane.
It sailed through the air and landed on the couch (now pulled out into a queen bed). Barnes, who was peacefully sleeping until now, jolted awake by the soft rustle of the feather like paper. Like all of Peter’s plan, nothing goes according to plan.
Peter hadn’t expected Barnes to wake the second the paper airplane hit his personal atmosphere. He was supposed to wake up naturally and find the contract waiting for him, Peter long gone until it was time to enact phase two of his plan.
Instead, Barnes locked eyes with Peter through the window.
Peter instantly sprang up from his crouched position. He leaned against the wall, legs obscuring the window, as he looked around the street in stiff motions. He instinctively scratched his head very casually as if it was any other day. Peter was bound to break into a whistling fit any second now.
He listened to every step Barnes made until he was in Peter’s face.
“Oh, hey,” he nonchalantly said. Then with what he hoped was a convincing tone, he added, “Wait…” Peter looked over his shoulder to the building against his back, “Holy cow, I didn’t even realize I stopped outside your place. Oh goody, you caught my airplane.” Peter lunged for the plane, but he was always a tad bit slower than Barnes.
He pulled away the contract just as Peter made a break for it. “What the hell is this?” Barnes asked, glare bouncing between the contract and Peter.
Peter squinted at it to play it cool, acting like it was the first time ever seeing that paper (he was looking over Matt’s shoulder the whole time he was typing it up). “Looks like security measures? Spiderman’s a smart guy for that,” Peter couldn’t hide the tint of amusement in his voice. He tried to stop the small smile tugging at his lips towards his own jokes. It was honestly a burden to be this hilarious.
Barnes' face, clenched jaw and eyebrows nearly pulled together into a unibrow, did not help Peter from bursting into laughter. He had to remind himself of his plan going South to keep his cool.
“Very funny, kid,” Barnes said without a hint of cheer. Peter didn’t need the validation from Barnes to know he’s being a complete riot right now.
“It’s nothing personal,” Peter shrugged. “As Spiderman's personal right hand man, I can guarantee you that he has contingency plans with all of New York’s weirdos. You know your buddy in Hell’s Kitchen?” Peter recalled how Matt warned him of a tin man taking sketchy jobs and he clocked it was Barnes instantly. “Yup, good ol’ Spiderman has one of these nifty contracts with him too.”
“Spiderman goes around telling everyone his identity then?” Barnes replied in a disbelieving manner.
“Spiderman knows Daredevil’s identity,” Peter said in a corrective tone, and it was true. Barnes implied that Spiderman was the only one with his identity vulnerable between him and Daredevil. Really, they both knew each other’s identity, it was a mutual thing. Peter never even intended to hand over his identity to Matt, the bastard just found it out on his own and vice versa. “Don’t get it twisted,” Peter added sharply.
“Fine, Spiderman knows the Snare-Kettle’s identity,” Barnes reiterated with unnecessary repulsion.
“It’s Daredevil,” Peter was quick to mutter under his breath. He averted his gaze from Barnes, preferring the tree lined streets instead of his glare.
“No, you zip it,” Barnes snapped, catching Peter opening his mouth. Peter was about to bring up signing the contract, but of course Barnes needed to interrupt him with another boring, lame lecture. At this point, Barnes would never agree to sign it. There were so many better ways to gain a signature than conditioning— conditioning is probably one of the worst ways to go about gaining a signature, Peter was now realizing as Barnes went on and on about, “blah blah blah, you’re annoying… dinner… excuses… Ms. Carlton.” To hell with Barnes’ nonsense. If Peter hadn’t already mailed out his Midtown application, he could’ve made copies of Barnes’ signatures to replicate in writing. Peter just needed one sample, but how on the dying Earth will he manage that with Barnes lecturing him—
“—I’ll only sign this if you agree to have dinner with Ms. Carlton and I.” Peter barely picked up the last part of Barnes’ tangent.
Peter blanked. “Who’s Ms. Carlton?” Shit. Maybe he should’ve been paying attention.
“Have you not been listening—?” Barnes cut himself off to basically strangle the air. Peter thought steam was bound to come out his ears. In a whispered yell, he gritted out, “Our upstairs neighbor, the one who gave us the cleaning supplies. By the way, it was your idea to start cleaning before you up and bailed.”
“Ohhh,” Peter frantically nodded, finally catching onto the situation. “Yeah, sorry, was spacin’ out. Anyways, so dinner with Ms. Carlton?” He confirmed.
“And her son. Tonight at seven…” Barnes suddenly grimaced after catching a whiff of Peter. “And god, take a shower before coming.”
“Right, right,” Peter said, excessively nodding along. “…So term seven?”
Barnes paused, lifting up the contract and reading through it carefully. He raised his head to look back at Peter. “Don’t you have a home to shower in?” Peter picked up the concern hidden under Barnes' irritation.
Peter, very recklessly, began walking backwards to the staircase leading down Barnes’ apartment. “To Ms. Carlton’s knowledge, my home is right here,” he said with a smug grin. Thank all the fucking gods his senses kicked in, Peter barely caught himself from tumbling down the stairs.
One semi-gentle turn of the doorknob and Peter accidentally twisted it off. Nonetheless, the door was basically unlocked and welcoming Peter inside. “I’ll fix that later,” he hurriedly called out before Barnes could notice it for himself. “You still got that toolbox, right?” He’ll take his chances that there’d be some tools in there to fix a nearly shattered doorknob.
At that moment, Peter heard Barnes stomping after him. “I didn’t sign this yet, Parker— What the hell did you do to my door?!”
It hurt Peter that he couldn’t see the livid expression on Barnes’ face, but he had already locked the bathroom door behind him.
-
The last thing Bucky wanted Parker to know was that he applied for a job under the uncle Jame Reilly identity prior to his whole thing with Midtown guardianship forms. That was the primary reason Bucky had given in so easily. If he hadn’t had all those forged documents set straight already, he wouldn’t be able to answer half the questions Midtown wanted. Besides, it was the rational thing to do when Ms. Carlton knew him as James Reilly and would recommend him to her son as so.
Dinner with the Carlton’s, that information was bound to get out. They had a lot of preparation to do before they could pose as regular civilians having dinner with authentic regular civilians.
After washing up, Parker almost looked like an average middle school boy instead of a pruned street rat. He was still wearing stale clothes, a ragged pair of jeans and shirt that read ‘STAR WARS’ with a cartoon under it.
“Wow, Parker, nobody would think you’d be Spiderman,” Bucky commented.
“All part of the cover, Uncle…” Peter trailed off, unsure of what name basis they should be on while undercover. “What am I supposed to call you in front of the Carlton’s?”
Bucky couldn’t handle the first time Parker called him Bucky. Hearing that nickname was only a reminder of what he’s lost. These days, the only name people knew him by was James. There was no more Asset or Winter Soldier, names that invoked terror and fear. Instead, Mrs. Carlton, his boss, and even his coworkers all addressed him with casual familiarity that once felt so far away.
He worked hard to build this new identity so he might as well use it, the answer was obvious. “James, I guess. First names aren’t weird for nephews and uncles, are they?”
The question hung in the air heavier than Bucky had meant it to. “Yeah, they aren’t,” Parker finally confirmed. Immediately, he sprang into his usual chipper self. “No more ‘Parker’ either, James. You can call me Peter, Petey, or even Pete on good days, but just don’t call me late for dinner!”
Parker, Peter for today, could truly entertain himself for hours in solitude through the sound of his own yapping.
“We’ll go off on that story you told your ‘Chewbacca’ guy,” Bucky still wasn’t convinced that was a real word. “I flew you out to Russia to help me pack and we moved to your hometown, Queens,” Bucky reiterated the story Peter spun up for his best friend. That day felt so long ago, a blur of adrenaline and bad decision. A botched airport escape, a rooftop fight, and his introduction to Mrs. Carlton, who had somehow believed their gimmick of uncle and nephew up to this point.
“Got it,” Peter said with a grim nod when Bucky finished.
“You go to school…?” Bucky drilled.
“Dikto Middle,” Peter finished. His turn to ask questions, Peter said, “What do these guys think you do for a living?”
“Construction,” Bucky replied. It wasn’t just what Mrs. Carlton and her son, Robert thought, it was an honest fact. Bucky ended up contacting Robert during that brief, peaceful period Parker wasn’t interfering with his life. He’s been commuting to upstate New York these past few days to renovate an old Stark warehouse with the rest of the construction crew. He was lucky to find out it was a basic renovation, no one from the Mighty Avengers would meddle with the construction process. The only people on the construction site were hardworking men and women doing their thing. His thing was to work on the North Wing with a small team of other veteran construction workers.
The pay was more than enough, but it wasn’t the money that kept him going. He didn’t deserve Stark’s generosity. The few fragments of his past Bucky still remembered, the pieces that survived after the HYDRA deprogramming and the memory alterations, weren’t the youthful times with Steve in Brooklyn, as much as he wanted to remember those moments. No, they were the faces of his victims, those who had been caught in the path of the Winter Soldier. Every night, Howard and Maria Stark’s faces of terror haunted his dreams. If it wasn’t them then it was his other victims’ screams echoing in his nightmares.
Peter’s probing question broke the silence. “What are other important things uncles and nephews should know about each other?”
“Beats me,” Bucky shrugged. There wasn’t a rule book for playing pretend family.
“Well along as we’ve got the basics down…” Peter checked his empty wrist for a nonexistent watch. “Gotta bounce. I’ll be back by dinner!” Peter stumbled out of Bucky’s apartment as fast as he waltzed right in.
Watching him bolt out the door, Bucky felt a smile spread across his lips. Peter always knew how to leave the conversation before things got too complicated. At least he never sticks around long enough to ask questions Bucky can’t answer.
-
Three hours ago, Peter told Bucky to call him anything but late for dinner. Peter was exactly that. Ten minutes late to dinner to be precise. Bucky had been giving Mrs. Carlton empty promises and was finally able to fulfill it tonight when Peter finally showed up, and empty promises they continued to be.
For the first couple minutes, he awkwardly waited outside Mrs. Carlton’s alone, the neck of the cheap bottle of wine in a near shattering grip as he tried to give Parker the benefit of the doubt. Eventually, he didn’t want himself to be irredeemably late so he knocked on the door.
Bucky tried to stall the small talk with Mrs. Carlton at her door long enough until Parker could make his eventual and undeniable dramatic entrance. He kept glancing up above, waiting for Spiderman to swing into an alley and for Peter Parker to walk out in messy hair and crinkled clothes. The scene played out exactly as Bucky expected.
“Where’s your boy?” Mrs. Carlton finally asked when Bucky couldn’t steer the questions away from Peter.
Bucky used his body language to pull her eyes away from the blue and red blur swinging towards them. “At the library,” he blurted out. “Yeah, he’s running late, but I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”
Almost right on cue, Peter stumbled up the stairs that elevated Mrs. Carlton’s house.
“Here he is now,” Bucky wrapped a tight arm around Peter’s shoulders. “How was the library, Peter?” He asked through a tight smile, letting him know that’s where Mrs. Carlton thought he was. Bucky subtly leaned toward Peter to whisper, “You’re late.”
“Library, yup, had to work on Cornell notes,” Peter caught on to the lie quickly. He changed the topic to bring up his own excuse for being late even though Bucky laid out a perfectly good one. “Hey, did you guys hear what happened on 13th street? Some sicko cut the brake lines of every Subaru in Queens. The cars were out of control!” Peter exclaimed.
Mrs. Carlton clutched her heart. “Oh dear, is everyone alright?”
“Spiderman handled it,” Peter nonchalantly shrugged and sent a sly wink to Bucky. Now he understood why Peter wanted to sprinkle in his own cover story, to make Spiderman look cool. Bucky didn’t doubt he was lying about Spiderman stopping the cars, he certainly had the strength and the heavy scent of gasoline and oil all over him. What was even the point of demanding a shower when he was going to stink himself up all over again? “It just messed with the traffic, it’s why I’m late— So sorry about that, ma’am. I’m Peter by the way.” He extended his hand.
By the looks of it, Mrs. Carlton also noticed Parker’s stench. Bucky was no expert at reading body language, but even he could notice how she pretended her old eyes didn’t notice Peter’s hand. “Come in, come in,” she said instead, standing aside to make way for them. “The bathroom is down the hall,” she specifically addressed Peter, “and you could leave your school bag over here,” she gestured towards the coatrack and Peter obliged.
Peter took the hint and beelined towards the bathroom. Bucky didn’t want to know what he did in there to come back to the dining room smelling like flowers. He curiously sat in the seat across Bucky, peering into the doorway leading to the kitchen. He figured Peter could probably smell the food or hear the cooking going on in there.
“Shouldn’t we help?” Peter whispered.
“Trust me, I’ve tried,” Bucky admitted. “Robert doesn’t let anyone disrupt his cooking.”
Peter’s face scrunched up. Disbelieving, he said, “You have dinners with them often?”
Bucky uncomfortably shifted in his seat. “Only these past couple weeks. I owe them my job.”
“What?” Peter quit comparing the tiny dessert fork to the dinner fork. Leaning in across the table he whispered, “You actually have a job?”
Bucky mirrored him, leaning the same way and whispering back, “Yes. I told you, construction.” He didn’t appreciate Peter’s tone implying he’s an unemployed bum.
“Holy cow, I thought that was just for the cover—“ Peter suddenly leaned back into his chair. A few seconds later, Robert came with a platter of roasted duck. “Woah, that smells bomb!” He exclaimed.
Robert settled down the platter at the center of the table, perfectly aligning it with a few adjustments. “I'm glad you think so… Peter, right? I’m Robert,” he turned to Peter with a warm smile. This time, Peter’s extended hand wasn’t rejected and Robert gladly shook it. “That’s a firm grip you’ve got, son,” he commented.
Peter shyly smiled, “Thanks. So, uh, I hear you like cooking?” He asked, driving the topic away from himself.
“Like it?” Mrs. Carlton chimed in as she entered the dining room with a glass bowl of Greek salad in her hands. “Robbie is marveled by it! Everything here is his own recipe.” She placed the salad alongside the duck.
Robert had returned to the kitchen for another dish, but he shouted back, “It’s nothing special!”
As soon as the salad bowl touched the table, Peter eagerly picked up the serving tongs and clamped hefty portions onto his plate.
“Peter!” Buck hissed, he didn’t know his voice could sound so humiliated. He thought it was common sense to wait for everyone else to sit until you can start eating.
Peter froze, his third serving already halfway to his plate. Eyes wide in confusion, he began returning what he had already taken back into the serving bowl. This kid seriously had no idea what table manners were.
Knowing that would only make things even worse, Bucky quickly stopped him. “Peter, no,” he said with exasperation.
Mrs. Carlton let out a jovial laugh, clearly amused. “You don’t need to wait for us, dear. Just let Robbie cut the duck, alright?”
Robert returned to the dining room, apron off and with the final platter of food, a rosemary lemon penne pasta. “Who’s cutting my duck?” He playfully demanded, only having heard the last part of the conversation. “I hope you don’t have any dietary restrictions, Peter,” Robert thoughtfully said. “I see your enjoying the Greek salad.”
Mouth full of greens, Peter could only nod. At least he had enough decency to not talk with a mouthful.
-
So far dinner has gone perfectly. Any well-meaning curious question the Carlton’s threw at them, Peter bounced back with the perfect response that Bucky could work with. His favorite pizza topping was double pepperoni, a mundane response but the doubled pepperoni made sense for how much Peter ate tonight. He offhandedly commented about hating rocky road ice cream when ice cream cakes were brought up. He also told them he was heavily involved with volunteering, the speech and debate club, and Mathletes.
Bucky wasn’t sure of anything with Peter. Everything he’s said throughout the dinner could’ve been another one of his silver tongued lies, for the cover he’d later claim, or maybe they were real pieces that made up who Peter Parker is. Either way, Bucky made sure to remember every detail in case the Carlton’s would bring it up later. He couldn't afford to blank out if they asked how his Nerd Club was going or his favorite food for dinner. Any hint of uncertainty could reveal their entire ruse, their cover.
After a hearty dessert and many glasses of wine, Mrs. Carlton said, “We’d love to have you two over for dinner again.”
“Peter might not have enough free time,” Bucky was quick to respond. How often Peter jumps into his life is as unpredictable as it can get. First Peter is stopping every attempt Bucky makes to evade the country, next thing he knows Peter is asking him to be his guardian after disappearing for a week. “He’s got a busy schedule with these… final exams, field trips, and whatnot.” That had to sound accurate enough to present teen life, right?
“Yup. Field trips,” Peter stiffly repeated. Wow, and he’s supposed to be the self proclaimed expert at being undercover. Fortunately, Peter bounced back and started his skilled improvisation. “Man, I totally forgot that you needed to sign this permission slip for next week.”
Bucky had to admit that Peter was very smooth when it came to incorporating his little tidbits of life that make a cover seem human. He even did that rude teenager thing of leaving the dinner table mid conversation. Peter came back with a crumpled sheet of paper and pen in his hands.
“This could have waited until after dinner, Peter,” Bucky chided. He looked between the hosts and Peter with a little embarrassment.
“Oh, no worries!” Robert insisted with a wave of his hand. “If he’s anything like me when I was his age, Peter is gonna forget all about it if you don’t do it now. There’s no telling how many school projects or events I waited until the last minute to tell my mother about.”
Mrs. Carlton agreed, instantly launching into story on a particularly frustrating time Robert gave her. He had a school field trip that required a twenty dollar entrance fee. Concluding her anecdote with a chortle, she looked over to Peter. “Where are you going, dear? Surely no fishy entrance fees?” She asked with a quirked eyebrow in playful suspicion.
Bucky let Peter take the reins on this one. The only possible field trip locations he knows of is the Smithsonian.
Without missing a beat, Peter replied, “The Met. It’s this huge museum in Manhattan…” As he continued to explain the unbelievable displays at ‘The Met,’ Peter passed the paper and pen to Bucky. Occupied with listening to Peter’s stories in case one of the little details would be important later, Bucky’s hands moved on their own to sign the form. “…Tickets for students are only ten bucks,” then Peter loudly cleared his throat, looking at Bucky with an open palm.
Bucky understood it now. This whole ‘field trip’ cover story at some ‘museum’ was just a ploy to scam Bucky out of ten dollars. It had nothing to do with a field trip at all.
For the sake of the cover, Bucky relented. He roughly shoved the completed form back to Peter, heavily sighing. He reached into his pocket to dig out his wallet. Bucky bought it a few days ago after cashing in his first paycheck. He had to put his earnings somewhere after all. He handed Peter all the ones and an extra five in his lightly creased, faux leather wallet.
Bucky should’ve known Peter was fast at counting money. “Woah, this is seventeen dollars,” Peter said with widened eyes.
He tried to give back the extra seven dollars. Bucky waved him off. If Peter wanted to scam Bucky then he was going to at least look like a generous uncle. “Keep it. Don’t you need lunch money?” He said. Lunch money had been a common thing in Bucky’s times, back then he’d get thirty cents. Seven extra dollars was more than generous.
Apparently it wasn’t generous enough for Robert, who raised his eyebrows incredulously. “This is New York, Reilly,” he said. “What is seven dollars gonna get him? A candy bar?”
“You can give him more than that,” Mrs. Carlton egged on, her voice teasing. “He is a growing boy.”
With the Carlton’s insistence that Peter is going to starve, Bucky coughed up another ten dollar bill. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to satisfy them. They were falling for Peter’s tricks and charms so easily that it was almost impressive. He managed to convince them he was an average teenage boy going on field trips and obsessed with science, but Bucky knew the truth.
Peter stuffed the cash into his pocket, all too pleased with himself. “Thanks James!” He said, grin stretching way too proudly.
Later, they left the Carlton's house with tupperware filled to the brim with ‘leftovers.’ Maybe they genuinely believed Bucky was starving Peter due to how much they gave them. Well, Peter was eating a lot during dinner, so he understands why it might come off that way.
They both felt the Carlton’s eyes burning into them as they left, forcing Bucky and Peter to enter his apartment together. Bucky knew it killed Peter to not immediately spilt up so he could patrol as Spiderman.
“I’ll sign your dumb contract now, punk,” Bucky said when climbing down the underground staircase, safe from the Carlton’s prying eyes. He instantly pulled out his keys to unlock the door, but grumbled out when the broken doorknob brutally reminded him of the destruction constantly following Peter.
While Bucky stared blankly at it in defeat, Peter pushed open the door nonchalantly and strolled in. He dropped his backpack and collapsed onto the pullout bed instantly, pulling the covers over himself and getting comfortable.
“Gimme a secon… food… coma…” Peter mumbled into the bedsheets. Bucky didn’t even know what ‘food coma’ meant. He guessed from how Peter immediately knocked out, it was from eating a lot of food
After a half-heart attempt to wrestle Peter for the only pillow, Bucky terribly lost. He settled for sleeping on the floor with a thin sheet of blanket, not to different from how he started out. He stared at the ceiling as he listened to Peter’s soft snoring. It wasn’t the most ideal situation, but at least he knew where Peter was for once. He was safe, well fed, and in a warm home.