Chapter 7
"I'm going to dump this robot out the window."
Bucky makes his displeasure all too clear as he strides into the communal living room. Without even having to turn around, Sam can tell by the way that his feet fall heavy and fast on the ground that his sensitive temper is flaring.
Sam, who is sprawled out on the couch munching on a bowl of stale Doritos, mutes his episode of Friends and twists his neck to check on his teammate. Though there's flashing anger in his eyes and his jaw is tight with the tension of his mood, he can tell that Bucky isn't close to lashing out. The way his hands remain lax by his sides and his breathing is steady is a telltale sign that he has control.
It's clear that he's only just gotten out of bed - his hair is uncombed but pulled into a bun on the back of his head and his tanktop, revealing arms both flesh and metal, is ruffled and wrinkled. There's remnants of lingering sleep under his eyes in the form of faint purple marks.
And there's a wet patch all over his crotch and down his legs. God - Sam really hopes that isn't piss.
"There's a lot of robots in this building, Bucky," Sam comments carefully.
"Dum-E, or whatever his name is," the supersoldier clarifies, almost spitting at the mere mention of stark's robotic assistant.
Rolling into the living space past the Winter Soldier with a familiar mechanical whirr is the AI itself; he skirts around Bucky as if he were avoiding the plague, his little claw grabbing at the air as he trundles towards Sam. "Hello, lil' buddy," he says jovially, one Dum-E has pulled to a stop beside him. "What've you been up to?"
The robot's single arm dips in response, claw poking at Sam's outer thigh. Though it's hardly a response that could be considered anywhere near understandable, Sam is once again awestruck by the eerily humanised intelligence that the AI showcases. How Stark managed to build a machine so technologically advanced that it somehow seems to feel emotions is something he could never live up to.
"Don't treat it as if it feels things!" Bucky objects as he watches their interaction from the threshold, making his disagreement all too clear.
"He does feel things." Just to add fuel to the fire that sparks Bucky's hatred, Sam pets the joint that connects Dum-E's claw to his arm as if the robot were a dog. The whine that the AI produces sounds somewhat pleased. "And stop calling him an 'it'. Tony clarified that Dum-E and U are both-"
"Does it matter?"
Dum-E's next whine sounds nearly upset. Sam makes sure that his pity for the robot is clear, just to make Bucky that little bit more annoyed - he's always loved pushing his teammate's buttons. "Treat him nicely. He's got a sensitive soul," he sniffles.
"It's heartless," Bucky insists dramatically. "It tried to hand me my water glass and tipped it all over my bed. And me." He motions towards the stains on his grey sweatpants.
Relieved that the Winter Soldier didn't piss himself as he originally assumed, Sam lets himself laugh. Classic Dum-E; trying his hardest to be as useful as possible, but not quite getting it right. Tony Stark did a good job on his creation nevertheless. "He was only trying to help," he reasons serenely. "He's clumsy. That's why he's called Dum-E - he's a bit of a dumbass."
"You got that right," Bucky grumbles.
The AI beside him makes a whine that Sam can only assume means he's disagreeing (or is he agreeing? He hasn't touched up on his robot communication skills recently) with what he's said. There's only one person who can decipher what the robot is saying and, understandably, that person is the same person who created him.
And, as if Sam's thoughts summoned him, that person comes striding into the room with a coffee in one hand and a StarkPhone in the other.
"Who's trashtalking my favourite robot assistant?" Tony Stark demands as his eyes fall upon Sam and Bucky, his tone sounding threatening but the humour in his coffee eyes suggesting otherwise.
He's clearly had a powernap (and they call them 'powernaps' because he never sleeps a full night), because the remains if sleep remain impassive in his eyes and his hair is mussed, sticking up all over the place and desperately in need of a good combing session. His sweatpants are stained with oil and his hoodie has burn holes in the stomach and fringing the sleeves. In his chest, the arc-reactor glows a steady blue.
Tony is always disarrayed - always ruffled up, always so unorganised to everyone other than himself that even JARVIS struggles to keep up sometimes. It's the Tony that he's used to that he looks at now, and knowing that there's next to no chance that he'll ever change is almost a constant comfort to everyone.
"Your favourite robot is Dum-E?" Sam questions, brows dipping. If he had a dollar for everytime he's overheard the billionare insult and threaten to severely mutilate that poor robot, he might possibly be as rich as Tony Stark himself.
Tony, looking at the ceiling for the briefest of moments, carefully nods his head. "Dum-E was my first ever robot. If course he’s going to be my favourite," he explains with a nonchalant shrug, sipping at his coffee. "Not to say that I don't love JARIVS. JARVIS is the second smartest person in this building." Sam assumes that the first on his list is himself. "But Dum-E is probably my favourite with a physical body, yes."
"And I'm your favourite without a phyisical body, Sir?" JARVIS intones.
The billionare grins. "Without a doubt, J."
"I heard you call DUM-E a glorified waffle iron yesterday," Bucky points out.
"It's called tough love."
In the spur of the moment, Sam blurts out, "can Dum-E make waffles?"
Smartly ignoring the out-of-the-blue question, the Winter Soldier crosses his arms. Sam can see in the way that his lips are upturned at the corners that his anger is turning down the playful route. "Well, your crumb-filled dishwasher over there went ahead and spilled water all over my bed. And my sweatpants!" He motions once more to the water staining his clothes.
Tony gaze runs down the mess all over the supersoldier's legs. His expression unwaveringly smug as ever, he tells him, "probably deserved it, Robocop."
"Oh, suck my dick."
"Maybe later, Greased Lightning."
Sam chomps on more Doritos, enjoying the entertainment. It's like a terrible comedy movie in his own living room.
"I hate you, Stark."
"Nothing's new, then," Tony drones, somewhat distracted as he taps at the holographic screen beaming from the face of his wristwatch. Then he looks up to where Dum-E is still lingering beside Sam; "come on, you 8-inch floppy disk. You've got some wires to hold for me in my lab."
The AI is all too happy to oblige; he trundles gleefully after his creator, following him out of the communal living space and into the corridor. Sam watches the pair disappear from over the top of the sofa before affectionately commenting, "what a cute robot. You think I can convince Shellhead over there to make me one of my own?"
Bucky opens his mouth, most likely to tell Sam that they'll ruin his life or needlessly insult him in some way, but is cut short when another presence makes himself known in the room. Their eyes fall upon a figure hanging back in the threshold that Tony and Dum-E just left through moments ago.
Peter is small, but he's never looked as small as he does now, even when Sam and Clint had found him bruised and bloodied in that alleyway a few days ago. It isn't the kind of small that Sam could associate with weakness, though, for the kid is absolutely the opposite of so; he's just small in stature, and it makes Sam's heart both warm and cold all at once.
(Warm; because he's so incredibly adorable, and his cautious smile could probably light up the whole universe, it shines so brightly. Cold; because a fifteen-year-old shouldn't be that tiny.)
Though he's wearing a hoodie that belongs to the smallest member of the team (Tony, but you won't catch him admitting it aloud anytime soon), it still manages to swallow Peter's lithe body whole. The black sweatpants - also Tony's - have been tightened and tied with the string around the waist and rolled up past the ankles to keep them from dragging on the floor.
Even so, he looks a lot better than he did previously; he's clearly had a shower and a haircut, if his cleaner skin and fluffier, shorter hair is anything to judge by. There's still remains of purple and yellow bruising on his cheekbones and there's a plaster on the left side of his forehead, but all other signs of the scuffle in the alley are gone from his face. No doubt that the story is different under that hoodie.
Peter stops almost as soon as he steps into the room, eyeing Bucky with what seems to be a conflicted mix of nerves and admiration. It's hard to tell from the distance Sam is sat at, but he thinks he can see the kid's eyes glancing towards the metal arm the most.
The supersoldier's body seems to relax immediately upon Peter's arrival and he even offers the teenager a loose smile; something Bucky doesn't initiate often. Sam can almost interpret it as an attempt to make sure the kid knows that he's not a threat to his safety. It's a nice sentiment to witness, honestly.
"Hey, Pete," Sam greets, grinning. "You missed out on saying hi to one of Stark's robot assistants."
"Yeah?" Peter crosses the room and sits on the edge of the sofa opposite to Sam, eyes flickering uncertainly back to Bucky every so often. He doesn't seem afraid of the Winter Soldier; rather unsure of whether he's welcome around him. It's clear by the way he fiddles with his hands in his lap that he isn't sure what to do with himself.
This is when Bucky decides it best to break the tension between them; he moves to stand behind Sam's sofa, a distance not far enough to be weird, but not close enough to be considered too forward. "Peter, right?" he begins, seeming somewhat unsure of himself.
"Y-yeah."
"Bucky. It's nice to meet you." The Winter Soldier has always been a little more than hopeless at interaction, but he's oddly easy-going around Peter. It's a refreshing change of character to witness, if not a bit startling.
(Part of Sam wonders whether it's because he's young and small and reminds him of a certain spangled blonde before the muscle came into the picture. He doesn't know a lot about Bucky and Steve's past together, but what he does know points him in that vague direction.)
"You too," Peter murmurs, openly regarding Bucky with a tilted head. There is no doubt that he's inspecting the metal arm (he's not even trying to hide it), but Bucky doesn't appear too bothered by the attention and instead keeps himself occupied by observing the muted episode of Friends playing on the flatscreen. It's good to see the guy making an effort to be considered a friend in Peter's books.
"Good sleep, Peter? Did you consider Tony's offer yet?"
Peter worries his bottom lip with his teeth. "I'll get to it," he tells Sam eventually.
The offer wasn't much, in the wide perspective of things; Tony had come and poked his head in while Sam, Bruce and Peter were hanging out in the infirmary room and asked whether he wanted to have a temporary bedroom instead of living in one of the medical wings. 'Because the mattresses are so much nicer and it doesn't stink of hospitals in there,' he'd said.
It's a simple enough question to answer - and, quite honestly, Sam had expected Peter to say yes. When Tony Stark himself is asking if you want a room in his Tower, then who wouldn't?
But Peter had thought for a good minute before he'd carefully answered, 'I need to think about it'. And he doesn't seem to be particularly keen on detailing why he didn't want to move from the infirmary. He doesn't even need to be there anymore - Bruce had declared his condition well enough hours before the offer'd been proposed.
Sam accepts the answer, though not without an inward sigh of disarray. He just wants Peter to feel comfortable, and if that means allowing him to stay in the infirmary wing, then so be it.
.
Peter wants to say yes.
Honestly, he really does - there's nothing he wants more than to have a chance to sleep in a bedroom rather than an infirmary. The smell of disinfectant and the piercing white walls (why does everywhere medical have white walls?) is starting to get on his nerves and the blinds don't seem to want to close properly.
But, at the same time, he really wants to refuse the offer entirely.
Of course, if he were to speak of the reason, anyone would tell him that it's completely ridiculous. And it is; refusing a bedroom just because he doesn't want to feel as if he's going to be staying for very long - heck, he'll probably have to go before the week is over - is probably extremely stupid and he should probably just disregard the insecurity entirely.
He doesn't live here. No matter how much he wishes he did, the one thought that has been lingering in the dark shadows of his mind is that he does not live here. He is not a permenant resident. He is not welcome to live with the Avengers - he is only welcome to be here for a few days because he was hurt. Once he's all better, they'll kick him out and his life will be grey again.
'Kick out' is a strong term, but it's the one he's accustomed to using. It's the term that Aunt May had used when he'd been kicked out of her apartment and it's the one he's used ever since, on those dreary days where all he can think about is how much he misses home.
The Avengers wouldn't 'kick him out', so to say - they'd ask him to leave.
And he's really starting to like them, too. Not to say that he didn't like them beforehand, of course, but there's a difference between liking them as superheros and liking them as people.
They've all been so welcoming as of yet; so kind to him, so easy to get along with; so understanding to his problems. They don't ask an overwhelming amount of questions. They don't pry on his business. They let him exist within the Tower in peace - let him adjust to the environment and the people in his own time. It's nice. Peter can't express how much he appriciates it.
The best part of staying in the Avenger's Tower, though, is finding out more about the people he's looked up to for so long. The little mannerisms are the things he likes to observe the most; like how Tony has stupid nicknames for everyone, and how Clint whistles when he's in a good mood.
He hadn't felt welcome anywhere before he'd woken up in the Avenger's infirmary.
He's yet to meet Captain America. Behind the TV screen he'd watched in gym classes, the national icon was nothing more than a lesson gone boring. Behind his TV screen at home, the man was seen as a hero. There's no doubt that he's much different when you first meet him in person.
He'd met the Black Widow - Natasha, she'd insisted, because her 'superhero alias' is apparantly much too formal for her friends - when he'd seen the communal living room for the first time. Naturally, he'd been hanging back in the threshold, gaping at the size and the impressive technological enhancements of the place, when she'd walked in just to introduce herself.
Despite what the media conveys of the spy's personality, Natasha seems to be a very kind and understanding sort of person. The way her eyes are so gentle remind Peter somewhat of Bruce, except she carries herself in a manner that is much more confident and maybe even threatening. It's clear just by looking at her that she's a very independent person.
He grows to like her company very fast. It's hard not to, what with someone as witty and as smart as she is. And if his spider-sense didn't so much as twitch at her, then neither did he.
If there's one thing he's learned on the streets, it's to trust his spider-sense.
It's saved his ass from countless out of control cars; dozens of bullets thrown his way (though that experience remains partial to Spiderman only, as it seems); kept his backpack from getting stolen when he falls asleep on the pavement. He's been so used to it whining constantly in the back of his mind that, now it's finally quiet, he almost misses it.
God, he's dreading the day he'll leave this place.