Peter sleeps like a rock. So, the first time he crashes in the Avenger’s common room and some of the team slips out to fight crime late in the night he writes it off to they tried to wake him up and just couldn’t.
It’s plausible.
One time May tried to wake him when the alarms went off in the building and she had to physically pull him out of bed. As in, she tugged on the covers until she pulled them off the bed with him tucked inside. The fall bruised the side of his thigh, and left his elbow stinging, but at least he was up.
So, Peter figures he ought to just tell them.
“Hey, Mr. Winter Soldier, sir, I’m sure you tried - Or, um, I just kinda sleep really deep. In case - in case you were wondering.”
Bucky pauses from where he’s reaching into the fridge. His head is half tucked inside in search, but the hesitant, stumbling, unsure voice is unmistakable.
He leans out, looking down at the younger boy who has a hand rubbing the back of his neck nervously.
“It’s just - because of last night. I know you and Mr. Wilson went out and I was sleeping. So, you just have to really - to really kind of punch me.”
“Punch you?”
“Well, not - not- um, punch me, but like a good shove or slap.”
“You want me to slap you?”
Peter’s red-faced now. The words are slipping past his lips faster than he can stop them. “It’s not - it’s not weird, though. You probably can just use your normal arm and not the weird, mechanical one. Not - not that I think it’s weird or not normal - I mean it’s cool, like really cool. And weird, too. I guess - I guess what I mean is just sometimes I need to be shaken a little to - to wake up -”
“Kid,” Bucky interrupts, shoving a container of butter and a knife into his hands, “Don’t sweat it. It was just a two-man thing me and Falcon were doing.”
“Oh, right,” Peter shrugs, looking down to the floor awkwardly, “I just thought maybe -”
Bucky throws him off his balance by knocking into his shoulder goog naturadly as he passes by to grab the bread. “I’ll punch you awake next time, deal?” He’s grinning, just barely though, no teeth, or crinkling of the eyes, but Peter knows that’s about as good as it gets.
“Deal,” Peter chuckles.
Bucky quietly plucks the butter and knife from Peter’s grip.
“Now, you want a sandwich or not?.”
“Yeah - yes. Great, I’m starved,” Peter’s face is cracked in half with a giant smile. The inner fanboy in him screaming at the opportunity to munch on something crafted by the Winter Soldier’s vibranium digits.
He’s glad it was all a misunderstanding. He had felt awful this morning as he lounged on the couch, hair all tousled, and sleep lines still imprinted on his cheek when the two older men walked into the building a bit worse for wear. He was sure they had to pass him on their departure and Peter was absolutely gutted with the notion that they could have needed him and he was asleep. Not off fighting another battle, or creating new weapon tech, or training new hand-to-hand combat techniques. No, he was sleeping .
Peter senses the plate sliding across the counter before he hears it. He turns around just in time to slosh the two glasses of milk he was pouring down, and snag the plate as it falls off the side.
“Man, that was close - oh”
Peter glances down to see a single slice of open-faced bread staring up at him sadly. What in the hell is -
“What?” He hears Bucky grumble with what sounds like a full mouth.
Peter smiles - grimly, all tight-lipped, and small shakes of his head. “Nothing,” he folds the slice in half and in one bite shoves the whole thing in his mouth.
“It’s a butter and sugar sandwich,” Bucky grunts, already making another one. “Depression food.”
“Yum,” Peter forces himself to chew twice and push it down in one swallow, “that was good. Thanks.”
“Here,” Bucky holds another piece out to him. It hangs in the air between them, Peter unable to reach out and grab the offending offer. “I made another one for -”
“No,” Peter drains his glass of milk. “No, that’s okay. Gosh, I’m -I’m so full. Wow, those are filling. I don’t think I could eat another one even if I wanted to - and - and I do want to. Really .” He glances at the time on his phone and backs away, “I think - yeah, you know what? I have homework. Maths homework and I should really work on that. Thanks for the - the bread, though, Mr. Barnes.”
“You hated it,” Bucky grumbles, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Just admit -”
Peter’s eyes bulge at the suggestion. “No,” he insists, “Sugar bread is awesome, but I just - like I said - homework.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Bucky waves him off. “Last time I cook you anything.”
Peter wants to tell the Winter Soldier that Ned’s little sister made him a grilled cheese sandwich one time that would’ve knocked that sugar bread catastrophe out of the park, but instead he scurries down the hall to his room and promptly brushes his teeth. Twice.
Peter’s not a cynic.
He sees the glasses half full, and the clouds with their silver linings, and the lights at the end of the tunnels. He’s an optimist. It’s his nature .
But the second time he’s left behind when Winter Soldier and Falcon leave to save the world he begins to have his doubts.
They were watching TV- Peter, and Bucky, and Sam. Or, Peter was a watching TV with his hand stuffed in a bag of cookies, and Bucky and Sam were there.
“If he’s just going to come back,” Sam quips, looking up from his laptop, “then what are you crying about?”
“I’m not crying,” Peter refutes automatically, but his voice breaks suspiciously. “However, one might cry because - because he regenerates into a new doctor.”
“So, the shows not over?” Bucky asks, his voice full of confusion. He plucks the cookies out of Peter’s lap and tosses them off to the side. “That crap is awful for you,” he grumbles quietly.
Peter holds back his eye-roll because since when did Mr. Winter Soldier start taking scolding tips from Aunt May?
“No, it’s been on forever. Like, since the 60s or something.”
Bucky’s hand smacks lightly into Peter’s chest, “That’s not that long.”
“Seems like its run its course,” Sam picks up the remote and changes the channel abruptly, “Time for something new to come along. Like sports. Sports are always new. ”
“Hey,” Peter squawks, half-heartedly reaching for the remote but still a little too unsure to just brazenly pluck it from Sam’s hands. “You can’t just change it.”
“Don’t we have any insecticide around here?” Sam’s hand swats Peter away like an annoying fly.
Ding.
Bucky stands suddenly, reading something on his mobile and flexing his fingers. “Sam,” he mutters seriously and then stops whatever he was going to say when both men turn towards him, alert and attentive. “Um, Peter, will you - I forgot that Happy was looking for you earlier. It was something about a new bookbag.”
“A new bookbag?” Peter repeats, his head twisting like a confused pup. “Did he want me to-”
“Yeah, he wanted you to come see him.” Bucky cuts him off, nodding his head toward the door, “Get on it, kid.”
Peter spares Sam a glance, but when he only gives him an encouraging nod, Peter hops up. “I’ll be right back,” he assures them, exiting with a light jog, and a smile.
And he was.
Peter tracked down a confused and slightly irritated Happy who told him he didn’t have time to deal with Peter’s “teenage antics” and “if I wanted you I wouldn’t ask I-respond-to-your request-with-no-visual-cues-or-affirmative-phrases Mr. Winter Soldier to tell you.”
So, when Peter walks back into the TV room four minutes later, he’s unsure of why it’s completely abandoned. No Bucky. No Sam. And no clearly explicable cause announcing their absence.
When he wanders out suspiciously to the launching pad he finds an unusual amount of people wandering about despite the absence of a jet. Again, Peter’s an optimist, he’s sure there is a reasonable conclusion as to why the jet, Bucky, and Sam have all inexplicably disappeared.
However, as he gazes off into the distance hoping to reach that explanation, the clouds only look heavy, looming, and grey.
After the bookbag incident, Peter takes to wearing his suit underneath his clothes at all times - just in case.
“Wait up,” Peter garbles around a mouthful of chips, “I’m coming. I’m - I’m ready -”
Bucky and Sam shoot past him, the only acknowledgment is Sam stealing the turkey sandwich off his plate in passing.
“Guys, hold up!” Peter stumbles as he tries to flip his shoes off to reveal his suit. “I can -”
“Your minder said your benched, kid,” Bucky spares him a glance over his shoulder as he types into the screen, firing up the jet that Peter is determined to get on.
“What? Minder? No - No, I’m not. I’m fine ,” Peter rips his hoodie over his head, only momentarily snagging it on his chin to thoroughly block his vision, and abandons it along with his shoes and trousers in a scattered pile on the floor. “I’m healthy. I can help.”
Sam pushes Peter back with a firm hand on his chest. “This is two-man job, Spider-boy.”
“Then, I will just come for backup.”
“No, kid.” Sam says definitely and Peter deflates, his determination giving way to frustration.
“I can help. If you just let me!”
“Give it time, kid,” Bucky disappears without another backwards glance into the jet.
“Graduate high school and then we’ll talk,” Sam looks smug as he pulls the door up and an infuriated Peter steps back as the jet roars off the launching pad in front of him.
“It’s completely unfair!” Peter storms into the tech lab, letting the door slam behind him and sitting down angrily on a stool in front of Mr. Stark. “They act like I’m a kid -”
“What? No! Really?” The older man barely glances away from his current task on the table.
“ - And I’m spider man . I’ve got - got superpowers, Mr. Stark. I can help, if they would just - just give me a chance. Instead, they just leave without me. Tell me I’m a kid and need to graduate high school.”
“You do need to graduate high school. Hey, wasn’t that report -”
“Not the point,” Peter interrupts, his arms crossed in front of him and his face hard and irritated. “The point is that they won’t let me go.”
Stark just makes a grunting noise, not sounding nearly as irritated with the situation as Peter would’ve liked.
“Hello,” Peter waves his hands in front of him, “Are you even hearing what I am saying? Am I talking to a wall?” Peter knows how very teenager-y he sounds right now, but he can’t help himself. “ Your team is leaving me behind. They are denying me opportunities to grow .”
Tony rolls his eyes, abandoning his tools on the table and standing up suddenly.
“Look, Parker, kid, it’s not the end of the world. You train here, get some more practice in a safe place, get rid of those wobbly doe legs, and then you go out with the big guns -”
“Are you - Do you agree with them?”
“Kid, we’re not talking about your first boy/girl party. By the way, who is this MJ Cap keeps telling me about?” He peers at Peter over the top of his glasses, but the young boy is too irritated to do anything more than huff. “This is life and death, Pete. I support whatever decision keeps you safe-”
“Wait, this was your call? Wasn’t it? Mr. Stark, you told them - you told them to leave me behind didn’t you?” Stark doesn’t say anything, walks away quite determined to stay mute, but Peter hops up to his feet and follows at his heels. “Wait - Bucky said - you’re my minder ! You!”
Tony whips around with both hands flung up innocently and Peter’s accusing finger points passionately into his chest.
“It’s for your own safety,” Tony speaks up loudly before Peter can get out another word of protest, “And when you’re ready, then you can go.”
“What! Mr. Stark, I’m ready now!”
Peter wants to argue further, but all the sudden a pair of arms sweep under his armpits and pick him up to bodily remove him from the room.
“Hey! What’s - Happy?” Peter cranes his neck, sees the bodyguard giving a conspiratorial wink in Mr. Stark’s direction. “This is so uncool.”
“Go practice, Pete.” Tony grimaces at Peter’s incessant protests.
“With Happy?” Peter yelps indignantly, “What good will - Ow!”
Peter ducks a second too late to avoid the smack that pops the back of his head.
“Spider-sense my ass,” Happy grumbles, grabbing the younger man by the arm.
“Mr. Stark! Wait! Happy-” Peter plants his feet, making it impossible for Happy to drag him any further. “If I beat Happy? If I take him down? Then? Then can I go?”
Tony spares the kid a glance, sees the hopeful gleam in his eyes, the promise that he’ll do whatever it takes to get to that point, to prove he’s worthy of their fight. Tony wants to tell him he’s wrong. That’s he doesn’t have to prove his worth, Tony knows it. He feels it in his stomach everytime Peter laughs, or rambles on about some science project, or blushes because someone mentioned the name MJ. He knows exactly what Peter’s worth, and that’s why he can’t stand to watch him walk out those doors, load onto the jet, and disappear to go do God knows what with God knows who.
Tony’s sure the kid will never understand just how much he’s worth.
So, instead, Tony walks over to ruffle an affectionate hand through his hair. “Sure, kid,” he agrees, with a soft smile, “Kick Happy’s ass, then we’ll talk.”