Chapter 9
Peter let Mr.Stark down, per usual.
He blames it on his mission being centered around the Winter Freaking Soldier who, for all intents and purposes, had seventy years of skill riding on his back to make it impossible to track him down. Peter was better off trying to find a shadow in the middle of broad daylight. Or, in this instance, finding an emo guy in a crowd full party-goers who should not have been served alcohol.
This was almost as bad as the school dance—and he says almost because at least nobody in here is belting out “Let It Go,” as if that Disney movie deserved any more memes to come out of it.
No, Ned, I will not ‘let it go’ and just because my webs are white doesn’t mean i’ll build a snowman. Can we just study?
He cringes at the memory, hides his face in his hands and decides that throwing himself off the roof was a better alternative than living out his teenage years. Or suffering Mr.Stark’s ‘disappointed dad face’. Or or suffering through Mr.Rogers (call me “Steve”)’s Captain America is Disappointed in You look, and the Winter Soldier was just out of the question. Peter didn’t even know if he gave looks without throwing invisible daggers at whoever he’s scolding.
But he likes Sam, because Sam is like a cool uncle who lets him play with his GameCube while Mr.Stark and Hundred year-old Emo fight over who’s eyebags are bigger. Plus, Peter was promised a ride on the jetpack wings later this week if he stayed out of trouble, so the number one title obviously got placed correctly.
His life was a little more than confusing and weird when it came to friends and—well, family? Because the Avengers are like his family, in a way. Or just really powerful babysitters with a lot of money. His status for everyone kind of goes like this:
•Mr.Stark (father figure)
•Mr.Stark’s Terminator boyfriend (big brother/evil cousin - he’s still indecisive)
•Pepper (nice lady, not many relations)
•Bruce (lab buddy)
•Steve (uncle/PE teacher vibe)
•Thor (loud, lovable brother)
•Vision (walking USB stick. Does he even know Peter exists?)
•Wanda (like a cool niece)
•Natasha (scary big sister)
•Clint (favorite dumb brother)
•Sam (uncle)
•Fury (his worst nightmare)
And the rest he doesn’t really know all too well to consider them acquaintances. DUM-E and U are pretty nice, even if they roll over his feet sometimes. Peter thinks they want Tony to yell at them, and he kind of understands, he really does. Any attention is good attention, especially if it’s by someone you admire—or, if they’re your creator, he guessed. Robots were confusing sometimes.
He spots the certain swarm of robots out in the fountain on his attempt to chase after someone who looked like Barnes, turned out to be a hippie dude with a really cool t-shirt with his face on it, and led him nowhere but to the giant fountain that got installed approximately four hours ago. Peter sits by the fountain edge and waits, because he’s not above abandoning his assigned task to swim in the water, even if he really feels like it.
The night air is cool as crisp against his skin. Where all the heat came from was beyond him, but the air—the air was something Peter appreciated. It was like swinging through the city again, the breeze making a whooshing noise by his ear that drowned out the noises of the party. Only now, while he sat and stared and lazily kicked at rocks with his shoe, the feeling of flying was more like falling, and falling hard.
MJ promised she’d be his New Year’s date, more or less; he wasn’t actually sure. It kind of went like:
“Hey, uh, you know uh—New Year’s is coming up and I know the school dances are boring, but you could totally come to Mr.Stark’s—er, uh, Iron Man's party with me, if you like! It’s on Thursday because, well… yeah. New Year’s. Starting at six o’clock,”
And MJ just kinda stared at him with an unimpressed look for a long while as Ned gave Peter star-eyes for having the balls to ask a girl to anything. He’d never been so pale then. “Don’t wear a red tie. It won’t match me,” She said, and that about brings him up to now, sitting by a bunch of robots having fun prominently without a girl on his side.
It’s fine, really. It is. Girls are lame, anyways, right? Mr.Stark said he should be focusing ‘on the little guy’, and so he will, but that little guy at the moment is a huge super-soldier with knives for eyes, so he wasn’t really sure where to start. He doesn’t even have his phone with him, because he’s dumb and asking Natasha to watch it for him was a spur of the moment choice he had to make to prevent himself from accidentally throwing it off the railing. If he ends up with another god-awful phone wallpaper by the time he gets it back, then all hope is lost. He was never really all that good at firewall protection, anyways, but that didn’t mean she had to rub it in. If she did at all.
Wanda gives him a short, elegant wave from across the yard and Peter happily returns it, shrinking in on himself when Vision’s eyes land on his. Creepy. He’ll never think about robots again if it meant that guy (AI with a body, robot, magic stone holder, whatever) would leave his sight and stop saying terrible slang to Peter whenever he walks past. “What’s up my homie-pal,” was not something fun to hear at four in the morning.
With a sigh—a heavy one, to be exact. He’s feeling a lot older than his age right now—Peter stands up from his spot and nods to DUM-E, who nods back on reflex, waving its little arm around as U, using its camera head, splashes water past the edge. Tony’s going to be mad about that later. “See ya, guys’. Stay out of trouble, please? I need Mr.Stark in a good mood for a little while,” He says, prompting U to stop. U does stop, but then it conveys as much sadness as a robot without a face can and Peter… gives in. He’s weak, they know it, and it’s totally unfair. “Just don’t let him see you, then,” He reasons, and walks off before anymore splashing starts up again.
Now, it’s focusing time. Nobody at the party (except for the few Avengers scattered around the place with their alcoholic beverages and color-matching wear like Peter wasn’t somehow given instructions on what color his damn shirt should be) knows who he is, and that’s great. It really is; because that means the weird, twink-looking kid will just be that: a weird, twink-looking kid, probably off somewhere to hide in a stall or, who knows, ask for a game of kickball while he’s at it.
He’s not a kid, okay, he’s—a teen. Yeah. A teen who can stop a train with two webs and a whole lot of panicked adrenaline. So it should be easy to slip through the crowd as a nobody (per usual), find the guy he’s looking for (as promised), and ask Mr.Stark as nicely as possible to never invite him to another one of these ever again or at least stammer out something along the lines of “Thanks!” or “Here’s your psycho boyfriend who kinda seems to tolerate me,” or, if he has to, “I need to go home because homework is important.”
The homework card always works, including on weekends, holidays, or during the summer. It’s like high school teachers want to pack in as much unneeded knowledge as possible to last through two months of supposedly enjoyed ‘free time’, and that’s not even including the work he has to do for his job. His… job. To save the world. Or go after Oliver the cat, who still hasn’t learned his lesson.
Jesus, Peter needs a normal job.
“And so I take the tank, fly it right up to the general’s palace, drop it at his feet, and i’m like ‘boom, lookin’ for this?’” Rhodey is saying, which is followed by a quiet uproar of laughter. Peter doesn’t really get the joke—or, he does, but he’s heard it at least five times since meeting the guy, so it’s starting to get real old real quick. He butts into the conversation with a nervous smile and gives Rhoedy the i’m so sorry for interrupting Adult Time, but i’m dumb and in need of help, also Tony might be doing something dumb right now look, and the response he gets is the same as always: Rhodey straightens his posture (seriously, do all military people do that when they’re about to kick ass?), nods, and he excuses himself from the group with an excuse of fetching more of an alcoholic beverage Peter couldn’t even begin to name if he tried.
He follows along like a lost puppy, hoping to come off as somewhat adorable to lesson the annoyance. Rhodey doesn’t look effected in the slightest. “You realize Tony does that, too? That whole—’don’t kill me, I'm cute’ look? It’s great to see you’re being influenced, but trust me, you don’t want to be by him.”
“Uh… thanks?” Peter says, because he can’t think of anything else right now that doesn’t include getting his spine ripped out by various Avengers. “Anyways, I uh, need your help—”
“Duh,”
“—And I have a really important question to ask.”
Rhodey gives him a look that’s lacking curiosity, somehow. It’s kind of unnerving. “Do you… happen to know where the Winter Soldier is?”
“Tony sent you after his boyfriend in hopes of getting drunk without being mothered,” Rhodey says, dropping the question part entirely. His eyes sweep over the party, but it must be hard to pick out anything since they were at eye level. Peter stretches up on the tips of his toes and confirms that yeah, there’s no use. If he had his suit on, Karen would’ve probably struggled, too.
“I guess so,” Peter responds, once he’s back flat on his feet. “I think he misses him. Or he’s already drunk and can’t find him. He acted a little… uh, off, I guess? On the roof. Because we…” Rhodey’s eyebrows shoot up, “It doesn’t matter. I just need to get him back to someone that could actually make sure he doesn’t blow anything up.”
“Just ‘someone’?”
“Preferably Mr.Barnes,”
“He’s not married. You don’t need to call him Mr.”
“I know. Sorry, uh, Mr—er, James, Jim? Can I call you Jim?”
“You know what?” Rhodey sighed, rubbing at the crease between his eyebrows like he’s trying to figure out a crossword puzzle. Peter’s smile wobbles a little. “I’ll help you find Barnes, and in return, you stick to calling me Rhodey. Sound like a deal?”
“I—yes! Of course! Thank you so much, Sir, you’re a lifesaver,” Peter beams.
“Right,” Rhodey nods, still looking a second away from rolling his eyes. “Well, my job is pretty easy. Have you checked the stage?”
Peter’s already looking over at the same time he says, “Yeah, of course,” and the lie catches in his throat a second later when, in all his scarily charming—like, Ted Bundy serial killer kind of level charming—glory, stands the Winter Soldier, his hands outstretched to pull an obviously spooked Mr.Stark up onto the foot-high stage. “Uh,” He says, going bright red, “I found him…?”
“Right,” Rhodey repeats. This time he does roll his eyes. “You better get down there before something bad happens.”
Peter’s already long gone by the time Rhodey even opens his mouth.
~
“Mr.Stark!”
“Not now, kid,”
“No—I mean, look!”
Tony gives Bucky a certain look that means more of distract me before this kid adds a grey hair to my head than I'm actually curious what the hell he’s talking about, and Bucky returns it with a lopsided grin that does nothing more but made Tony was to kiss him. He does kiss him, but then Peter makes a grossed-out noise and he decides to get this over with. He looks at Peter, following his arm to the steady finger where he’s pointing
...at his boyfriend.
What. “What?” Tony says aloud as Peter flaps a hand towards Barnes like he couldn’t see him standing The crowd parts off-center from where they’re standing to give the kid more room to—well, whatever he’s doing. If it was that easy to move a crowd, Tony would’ve started pointing years ago.
“I uh—found him?”
“And?”
Peter hesitates. “My mission… is completed?” He tries, and Tony could see how hard he tries, those eyes wide and terrified and so adorably cute, and that’s what makes the Dad Comment building in Tony’s throat swallow down for now. He turns towards Barnes, who’s looking right back at him with the swagger of a guy who’s had one beer and pretending it was eight, and sighs. Fuck. Alright. Fifty seconds until the New Year and he’s already mentally thinking about wedding decorations and the kid as the flower boy. A bow tie would suit him. Red, maybe? He’s getting too distracted.
“Good job,” Tony says after a pause, and flashes his best Fatherly Figure is Proud of You Smile. “Now if you’ll excuse me—” He flails his arms around in somewhat of an understanding and smacks Bucky on the upside of the head by accident, and then laughs and grins about it like it’s the most singular greatest achievement he’s made so far. It might as well be, he thinks, as Peter sputters and the crowd dutifully turns back to gape at the huge timer displayed on the wall behind Tony and Bucky.
Bucky’s doing a hell of a good job hiding eighty percent of his amusement behind the curtain of hair that declared independence from his used-to-be killer bun. Tony doesn’t blame it. He’d want to be outlining that jawline any time of the day on any given circumstance. He clears his throat and ignores that he’s being ignored by everyone except for his big, half-metal hunk of a boyfriend, who looks so damn happy and light that Tony has to shove his head elsewhere to give himself a break.
Head in his shoulder, Bucky lets out a pleased, happy laugh and presses a kiss to the tuft of brown hair attempting to burrow right under his skin. Tony likes the attention—no, actually, he loves the attention. He’s a fucking playboy of packaged talent at getting people to stare at him, but it’s different when he’s, you know, in the middle of a party (and a New Years one, Jesus Christ) while a former assassin-now-turned-boyfriend is laughing in his ear and everybody else around him—his friends; his adopted family, he thinks—is partying like they’re twenty-two without a care in the world. But that’s all right, really. It’s stupidly fine that a bunch of numbers projected on the wall could attract people away from their moment.
He looks up at Bucky, eyes horribly shiny and love-stricken or something, if he had to guess, and genuinely smiles when he sees the same expression cross over Bucky’s face.
Ten!
The crowd cheers, glasses raised.
Nine!
Peter stumbles his way across the dancefloor to some girl in a dark leather jacket.
Eight!
Bucky plants both hands on Tony’s waist and gives them a squeeze.
Seven!
Jesus fucking Christ this countdown is taking forever, Tony thinks.
Six!
Five!
Four!
Three!
All cameras and Starkphones point in their direction. There’s confetti coming from somewhere—an arrow maybe?
Two!
Bucky leans down.
One!
And they kiss like it’s open space and they’re running out of air.
~
“Morning,” Tony says, chucking a pain killer down his throat and swallowing it dry. He tries to do the same to Bucky, but the only response he gets is a faint whir from the metal arm and a very tired mrph, followed by the most intense blind fumbling game of Where the Hell is My Boyfriend. He gets a hand around Tony’s waist and pulls him close enough to nuzzle against his hip and, while Tony halfheartedly protested, knocked the fuck back out—for the most part.
“I am a billionaire,” Tony grumbles as he pushed at the party-induced frizz of the Winter Soldier’s hair. “I have priorities. Pepper has priorities! Pepper’s also going to be mad if I'm late.”
“Late for what?” Bucky muffles out, tightening his hold and ignoring the huff from above.
“Business… stuff. Lots of it. So much business, Buckaroo, you wouldn’t even understand. If you went to school for business and came by to look at the SI stocks—”
“Alright, Alright, yeah. I get it. You’re fuckin’ rich and smart,”
“You said it. Now let me up,”
“No,”
“Let. Me. Up.”
“Romance is dead,” Bucky groans dramatically. "The Notebook was a lie."
“Romance has been dead since you laid your shiny fingers on me,” Tony tells him, trying not to sound so amused. "And stop being so dramatic. You sound like me, and I gotta say, it doesn't go well with your list."
"What list?"
"Half-robot, brainwashed, un-brainwashed, brainwashed again by shitty rom-coms Cap keeps recommending you…"
"Don't forget about Sam and baseball," Bucky says from the pit of pillow fluff hell he's trying to burrow into.
"Right, of course! How could I forget that? It's not like we have TOO many baseballs signed by players I couldn't even begin to name. You couldn't have just gone with, I don't know, a selfie? Help me put facetune out of business."
"What's—"
"Don't even ask,"
Bucky lifts his head up and inch and squints. Tony squints right back, and then uses the opportunity to wiggle out of Bucky's arms and haul ass. He makes it to the edge of the bed before getting snatched up by certain shiny fingers and tugged down into the rumpled bed sheets again. Failure has never been so fondly annoying.
"Y'know, I forgot something from the list," He says at an attempt for sweet, sweet freedom.
"And what's that?"
Tony nozes up Bucky's jawline until he gets to his ear, nibbling there softly. "My ray of sunshine," He says sweetly, and then he gets violently thrown off the bed in a fit of cackles while Bucky's eye honest-to-God twitches.
“I want a divorce,” He says grimly.
“We’re not married,”
“I want a divorce,” Bucky repeats, twice as annoyed. He throws a pillow down and smacks Tony right in the face with it, grinning. The mass of pillows on the ground shuffles around and out emerges a head of fluffy, mussed hair and a pouty billionaire. Bucky has to slump back down on the bed to avoid getting a damn toothache at how sweet that looked, Jesus Christ. What is his life? Tony, he thinks, tuning out the rambled grumbling. That’s his life.
And boy, he was pretty fuckin’ lucky to have it.