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Bucky woke. He didn’t open his eyes: there was no imminent threat. The device on the other side of the bed was just chiming a wake-up call at Stark, who started complaining at Jarvis; shortly after that, Potts started complaining at Stark. “Oh my God,” she groaned. “Tony, I don’t believe you. How could you talk me into this? You know what happens when I drink too much champagne!”
“I drank a lot of it too, you know,” Stark said plaintively. “One among the many reasons why it’s much too early for this. Why, Jarvis, why?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Jarvis said, not sounding very sorry, “but you did leave instructions that you were to be alerted if there were any significant alterations in the press coverage.”
“I didn’t mean at four in the morning!” Stark said.
“I believe you specified immediately,” Jarvis said.
“Oh my God, Tony, look at him,” Pepper was saying, ignoring the conversation with Jarvis. “I could be his mother.”
“Given that he was born in 1918, that seems highly unlikely,” Tony said. “Besides, you say that like a young boytoy is a bad thing. Jarvis, what possible press-related thing is going at four am?”
“The printing presses themselves,” Jarvis said succinctly. “An employee at the Daily Bugle production facility has just leaked the information that the paper will be running a photograph of the wedding on the front page of tomorrow’s edition. They are promising a five-page spread for the day after, along with a video of the entire ceremony to be posted to their site on the following day. The photograph is remarkably good and was taken from within the church.”
“Goddammit. One of the ringers?”
“No, sir,” Jarvis said. “All the individuals taking footage from within the church seem to have encountered inexplicable issues with hard drive corruption and network interference.”
“Which we don’t know anything about, of course,” Tony said.
“Nothing whatsoever,” Jarvis agreed.
“Tony!” Pepper said. “Do you have any idea how many laws you’ve broken, not to mention the potential civil suits—”
Bucky rolled up out of the bed. Pepper squeaked and clutched her sheets up a little closer, staring at him with a pained expression as he padded around naked to Tony’s side. “Show me,” Bucky said, and the screen at the side of the bedside table illuminated. Even through a blurry cameraphone shot of the newspaper front page, it was a good photo: Sam and Steve holding hands in front of the altar, grinning at each other helplessly, Steve’s face full of incandescent happiness. Bucky glared at it.
“I have to hand it to J. Jonah J., it’s a good plan,” Tony said, rubbing his face; he’d propped himself up on an elbow to peer at the front page too. “The Bugle will get a massive circulation boost today; by the day after, they’ll probably have inked a bunch of deals to break into new markets. Hell, they might ride this all the way to becoming an international paper.”
Bucky clenched his fist. “How’d they even get it?”
“Based on the viewing angle, the camera must have been located substantially above the congregation’s heads,” Jarvis said.
“I cleared the rafters,” Bucky said. “There was nobody up there but me.”
“Interesting,” Tony said, squinting at the newspaper page. “Jarvis, let’s take a look at that credit in the right corner.” The image zoomed in to an unreadable blur, then enhanced: Peter Parker. “Tell me about Mr. Parker.”
“There’s very little information about him available online,” Jarvis said after a moment. “I can’t find him listed almost anywhere—not even in the DMV. However, scanning through the Bugle’s previous front pages, he is credited with nearly all their significant photos of Spider-Man.”
An array of photos started lining up, crisp action shots of Spider-Man in his ridiculous spandex circus costume hopping around, swinging mid-air. “Third from the left, two rows down,” Bucky said, and it zoomed in to a top-down shot, middle of an intersection. “How the fuck did Parker pull that shot off?”
“My, my, isn’t that clever,” Tony said. “The obvious answer is he didn’t. It seems our friendly neighborhood Spider-Man has decided to join the press rather than beat them.” He waved a hand at the screen. “He webs the camera into place, strikes a pose, gets some truly fantastic shots, hires himself a front man who apparently is an off-the-grid type, gets him to sell the photos to the Bugle, pockets a share of the cash, done. Nice little setup.”
“It stopped being nice when he started branching out to photos of other superheroes,” Bucky said, flexing his metal hand. “How do we stop this?”
“No chance of buying the Bugle off,” Tony said. “This is just too big for them. My lawyers might be able to do something. Jarvis, get them all up and put them on this, and let’s get a wakeup delivery of cronuts and coffee for whichever judge they want to go after. We’ve got time for an injunction if we move fast. Other than that, our best chance is going after the rights directly. If we get Parker to fess up that he didn’t actually take the shot, then he doesn’t have the right to sign a contract. We invalidate it, then we get Spidey to sign one with us directly instead.”
Bucky nodded. “Where do I find this photographer?”
“Okay,” Pepper said loudly, interrupting, “let’s stop there!” They looked at her. “You both need to let this go. It’s over. Do you actually think Sam and Steve would want you to—I don’t even know what it is you’re thinking about doing, but I’m reasonably sure it’s going to be pointless and probably illegal in at least some jurisdictions.”
Bucky stared back at her. Of course Steve wouldn’t want him to. Steve hadn’t wanted to have his bleeding ass hauled out of a hundred stinking alleyways in Brooklyn, either; it had always been “I had it” or “I don’t need help” or some other bullshit like that. Steve didn’t get to decide whether Bucky got his back or not, because Steve had demonstrated that he couldn’t be trusted to make that call.
Bucky wasn’t sure about Sam; Sam seemed to have his head on pretty straight, but he also hadn’t cared about any of this stuff in the first place. The conversation about moving had gone something like Steve swooning on the couch going, “Oh Sam, I can’t bear to take you away from your home,” and Sam saying, “I bought it two years ago because it was ten minutes away from work,” and Steve moaning, “But your degree!” and Sam saying, “I can transfer the credits,” and Steve moping over not having to water the fucking lawn while Sam sighed tolerantly and made him a bowl of ice cream.
Steve had even tried to rope Bucky into objecting. Bucky didn’t object, obviously. What sap would object to living in a highly secured Manhattan pad fifty stories up that came with a private movie theater and laboratories full of the world’s most advanced weaponry? Steve, that’s who; but Sam hadn’t, and he probably wouldn’t give a shit about the photo, either.
But that wasn’t the point. For whatever reason, Steve was miserable over the paparazzi, and if the paparazzi got the idea that it was open season on him, Steve was going to stay miserable, so no fucking way was Spider-Man getting a pass on this. Bucky eyed the gallery of photos professionally. The guy would be a challenge. Serious agility, speed, strength. Probably smart, given this cushy setup he’d worked out. But Bucky had taken down a lot of smart, fast, strong guys.
He looked back at Pepper, who was staring at him through narrowed eyes. She’d rat him out to Steve, he knew with sharp clarity, but fortunately he also knew exactly how to handle this particular situation. He put on a small frown, let his shoulders slump gradually, dropped his eyes away from hers. After a moment he said gruffly, “I guess they wouldn’t.”
She relaxed, just like Sister Catherine always had. “You both already did everything you could,” she said gently. “I know they appreciate it.”
“Yeah.” Bucky rubbed the back of his neck with a hand and looked away. “I guess I should go. You probably don’t want me in your hair—”
“Oh, no!” Pepper said, turning pink, and yeah, he had her number. She put a hand on his arm, concerned. “No, you’re—this was lovely! And—highly athletic, actually, and very—and very—” She darted an urgent glare at Tony, who was staring bemused at them.
“Nice,” Tony said. “Very nice. We’ll take a repeat anytime.” Pepper glared at him harder; he mouthed back a what? at her.
Bucky was all for a repeat himself. He hadn’t gotten laid in a horrifyingly long time, if he really thought about it. Fuck Hydra for that, too. As far as he was concerned, God more than owed him a whole bunch of threesomes with smoking-hot redheads who weren’t afraid to tell him exactly where he was supposed to lick to get them off. A little weird doing it with Stark’s kid, but on the other hand, Stark’s kid was now older than he was, gave great head, and talked progressively less the closer he got to getting off, which provided both a metric and a goal. Bucky appreciated that also.
“Thanks,” Bucky said, and looked at Pepper. “If you really mean it?” he added soulfully, and she stared back at him and said faintly, “Oh, well—”
Bucky got a text from Stark about five minutes after he hit the street: that bit about letting our webslinging photographer slide was bullshit, right?
Y, Bucky texted back.
Just checking: I salute your performance. Parker’s W-9 gets mailed here, followed by a street address in Queens. Bucky slid the phone into his pocket and headed for the subway.
#
Even at five in the morning, Parker was still out on the town. There was nobody in the place at all: the tidy master bedroom was empty, photos on the walls of a small family, not more than a dozen different people with a mix of black and white faces. One side of the bed hadn’t been used in a while; the other one belonged to an old lady, judging by the reading glasses and the well-worn Bible. Bucky was guessing a widow who’d needed to rent out a room, or maybe Parker was a deadbeat relative.
Parker’s room was a fucking pigsty. It looked like it belonged to a fifteen year old with no mom to make him pick up after himself. There was a Mac laptop and a good photo printer, the two most expensive things in the house. Bucky poked into the trash and came up with a stack of test prints that pissed him off even more.
He rigged tripwires across the door and window that he could pull into active position with a single yank, shoved a pile of laundry off a chair in the dark back corner, and then he parked himself to wait. Close to six, with the room getting brighter, footsteps came down the hall, and then paused just outside the doorway. Bucky frowned. He hadn’t left any traces. The door had been left in the exact same position.
The door pushed slowly open. Parker warily stepped into the doorway.
Bucky stared. He was fifteen years old. He was the skinny black kid from the most recent family photo, just a couple of years older and filled out, wearing a school backpack slung over one shoulder and a camera in the other. Bucky blew out a breath and crossed a dozen options off his list and stood up: Parker jerked his head around and stared at him. Give the kid credit, he didn’t flinch or scream. “Who are—what do you want?” he said.
“A chat with you and your good pal Spider-Man,” Bucky said. “On the subject of respect for other people’s privacy.” He tossed the pile of test prints towards him, letting them scatter across the floor: the one of Steve and Sam about to kiss in front of the altar landed right at Parker’s feet. Steve’s hands were clutching Sam’s arms tight, and Sam had a hand behind Steve’s head, and they were both smiling, leaning in, soft mouths and Steve’s cheek all flushed and his lashes dark and lowered. The camera had even caught a tear track glistening on his skin.
“Hey, you’re the guy standing in my bedroom in the middle of the night who just went through my trash,” Parker shot back, but it came out half-hearted and uneasy, and he looked away, swallowing. “I figured a lot of people would get photos,” he muttered.
“You figured wrong,” Bucky said. “Give your costumed pal a call.”
“Or what?” Parker said, defiantly.
Bucky shrugged. “I’ll take you to the Queensboro and hang you off it upside down until you change your mind.”
Parker stared at him. “Uh. And you’re—a friend of Captain America’s?”
Bucky was done talking. He just went for Parker, who ducked under his arm and darted for the other side of the room. Bucky turned and made a grab for him, but Parker eeled away. By then, Bucky already had a bad feeling growing, but he made one last shot, just charged full-speed across the room towards him, and Parker somehow managed to dive between his legs and somersaulted back up to face him again, and that was good enough for a conclusion.
Bucky turned around and contemplated him. Parker had shrugged off his backpack: Midtown High School across the top, which mean he wasn’t just some weirdly young-looking twenty-something. “Tell me you’re at least a junior.”
“Why? You only beat up sophomores on Thursdays?” Parker said.
Bucky stood silently, trying to figure out what to do. His fallback plan had been shooting Spider-Man in a few non-fatal places and letting him think better of taking photos of other people all on his own, but he didn’t need Steve here to tell him that wasn’t an option anymore.
That thought answered the question, though. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“How about we don’t,” Parker said.
Bucky took out his phone. “Fine.” He dialed.
“Who are you calling?” Parker said warily.
“Bucky?” Steve said, sleepily. “Everything ok?”
“No,” Bucky told Steve. “20 Ingram Street, Forest Hills.” He hung up and sat down again to wait. Parker’s eyes darted to the door. Bucky said, “Don’t bother. I’ll just find you again. Or Romanoff will.”
“Who’s Romanoff?” Parker said. Then he said, “Wait, Black Widow? You’re friends with—who are you?”
Bucky wasn’t sure enough to answer that question. He ignored it.
Parker spent the next ten minutes asking Bucky questions that Bucky didn’t answer, and dithering over whether or not to run away, which was stupid; if he’d been going to run away, he should’ve done it right off. By the end of the ten minutes it became a moot point: there was a thump on the roof, and a minute later Steve dived through the open window shield-first, rolled, and came up on his feet: he was wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants and his feet shoved into sneakers. He stopped and stared at Parker, who was staring back at him with huge eyes.
Sam appeared in the hallway door a moment later, gun in hand. He jerked it up and away instantly the second he’d got Parker in the sights. “What the hell?”
“Bucky, what’s going on?” Steve said.
Bucky jerked his chin at the kid. “He’s Spider-Man.”
“What!” Parker said. “What—I am not! I’m totally not even a little bit—” Steve turned and stared at him again, and Parker stopped talking mid-stream, mouth open, and then shut it again with a dismayed expression. Steve had that effect on people sometimes.
“Hang on a second,” Sam said. “Buck, is there any reason for me to have this gun out?”
“No,” Bucky said.
Sam put the gun away. Then he walked in and put a hand on Parker’s shoulder. “Okay,” he said. “You all right? We didn’t mean to scare the shit out of you.”
“Nah, I’m fine,” Parker said faintly. “Party at my place. Is Thor coming too? How about Iron Man? We could order a pizza.” He was trying for offhand, but his voice wavered too much.
Steve had slung the shield away onto his back. “Where are your parents?” he said, frowning.
“Kinda dead,” Parker said.
“Who’s your guardian, then?” Steve said.
Parker shrugged. “I do okay on my own.”
“Uh huh,” Sam said, folding his arms. “So I guess you’ve got your emancipation papers handy?”
“Um,” Parker said, eyes darting, trapped between them. Bucky watched in satisfaction: it felt like an appropriate punishment. “Misplaced them?”
Sam and Steve traded a look. “Just tell us, son,” Steve said, and Parker gulped and said in a small voice, “Aunt May. She’s in the hospital. She doesn’t know,” he added desperately. “You can’t—seriously, you can’t tell her, she’s—”
“No,” Sam said. “You’re going to tell her. We’ll figure out how to do that later. For right now, I want you to pack a bag. You’re going to come with us.”
“Oh, no,” Parker said. “No, that would be—a really bad idea. A super extremely very bad—” He was smart; he saw that wasn’t going to work and switched tactics desperately, “Aren’t you afraid I’ll take more photos?”
“What?” Steve said, frowning. Bucky pointed him at the pictures under their feet. Steve stared down, his eyes traveling the whole wide arc of them spread over the floor, widening as they went.
“He stuck a camera up in the rafters and sold the photos to the Bugle,” Bucky said. Parker was staring out the window longingly like he was thinking about diving out.
“Dude,” Sam said to Bucky reproachfully, “tell me this isn’t why you’re here.”
Bucky shrugged. “I didn’t know he was a kid.”
“I’m fifteen!” Parker said.
“Bucky!” Steve said.
Bucky rolled his eyes. “I called you, didn’t I?”
“All right, we’re going to have a conversation about this another time,” Sam said. “For now, I just got woken up at six-ass-o-clock the day after my wedding, so we’re going back to the Tower, we’re going to get you a room,” he said to Parker, “and then I’m going back to bed for at least three hours before I try to make any other decisions.”
“I’ve got a chemistry test,” Parker said. “And I have to hand in my math homework!”
Steve stepped close in front of him. Parker stared up at him. Steve said quietly, “Go pack the bag.”
Parker’s shoulders slumped. He went to the heap of crumpled laundry in the corner and started digging out some clothes.
#
Sam called the Tower for a car with smoked windows that took them straight into the basement garage, so they didn’t get spotted by any of the paparazzi still five-deep around every exit of Stark Tower. On the ride in, Sam managed to get Parker to spill his guts about his entire life, which had apparently consisted of getting beaten up on a regular basis for being a nerd—Bucky had a vague nostalgic sense of familiarity—until a radioactive spider bit him and gave him powers. As explanations went, at least that wasn’t any weirder than that Thor guy. The kid broke down crying talking about his uncle getting killed, and then kept on crying his way through an apology about the wedding photos, which it turned out were paying for his aunt to have surgery.
Steve leaned forward and put a hand on the kid’s knee and said earnestly, “Forget about it. The photos might even help. We need to do some press anyway and calm things down,” and Bucky glared at him speechlessly, because since when had Steve decided he was going to suddenly be reasonable about the goddamn reporters.
In the Tower, Parker clutched his bag and trailed them into the apartment staring at everything, overwhelmed. Bucky followed them in and watched them get Parker settled into a bedroom about five times the size of his previous one. “Okay,” Sam said finally. “Get some rest, and we’ll talk later today. Try not to worry. We’re going to figure things out.”
When Sam said shit like that, it sounded like a promise from someone who kept them; the kid relaxed a little bit and sat down on the bed and said, “Okay,” in a small voice.
Bucky followed Sam and Steve into the living room, where they both sat heavily down on the couch side-by-side, looking a little shellshocked. “Dude,” Sam said. “I think maybe we just kidnapped that kid.”
“What else could we do?” Steve said. “Fifteen years old. And he’s been running around the city risking his life for—more than a year?” He shook his head.
“Yeah,” Sam said, “except now we’ve got to figure out what to do with him.” He and Steve stared at each other. Bucky snorted and got up. They both looked at him.
“Congratulations on your bouncing baby superhero,” he said. He left them staring into each other’s eyes again, probably having a silent communion about whether they were up for becoming parents yet, with a foregone conclusion. Well, Parker seemed like a decent kid.
Bucky wandered back upstairs on the off-chance that Tony and Pepper hadn’t gotten out of bed yet. It turned out they hadn’t. Pepper had dozed off again and Tony was sitting up writing angry messages at lawyers. “Oh, good,” he said. “Did you find our pipeline to Spider-Man?”
“It’s okay, forget about it,” Bucky said, climbing back into bed. Pepper yawned a bit and opened her eyes and blinked up at him and went pink.
“What?” Tony said.
“Steve’s gotten over it,” Bucky said. “Or at least he’s gotten himself a bigger problem.” He looked hopefully over at Pepper, only to meet narrowed eyes.
“So when you said you realized it wasn’t a good idea to go after that reporter,” Pepper said levelly, “what you actually meant was you were going to do it anyway.”
Bucky shrugged. Yeah.
“Okay,” she said, “just so we’re clear, that’s the last time that move is ever going to work on me, and the next time you try it, absolutely no more sex for you ever.”
Bucky nodded, accepting that, then said, “Does that mean I can go down on you again now?”
Pepper bit her lip, irresolute. She looked at Tony, who raised his eyebrows, deferring to her. “Oh, all right,” she said.
# End