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The world ended on a Thursday.
At least, that’s what it felt like. Sirens had wailed all night, screams echoing in the distance, buildings shaking with the kind of force that made the air taste like dust and metal. Bucky hadn’t slept. He’d just sat in his apartment, metal fingers flexing restlessly, trying not to think about how everything was coming apart.
And then he remembered.
The kid.
His neighbor down the hall—the little boy who always smiled shyly when Bucky passed, clutching his backpack or a worn stuffed dinosaur. The kid with the soft voice who called him “Mr. James” once before Bucky awkwardly corrected him. Peter. Six years old.
Bucky’s stomach clenched.
He shoved himself out of his chair and strode into the hall, every step heavy with the pounding in his chest. He banged on the door.
“Peter!” His voice was harsher than he meant. He hit the door with the flat of his hand. “Peter, it’s me. Open up, kid.”
There was silence at first. Then, faintly, the shuffle of small feet. The knob turned slowly, and the door cracked open.
Big brown eyes peeked out. Red-rimmed, wet with tears.
“…Mr. Bucky?” Peter whispered.
Bucky crouched down without thinking. “Yeah, it’s me. You okay, kid?”
The door creaked wider, revealing Peter in pajamas—tiny Captain America ones that looked too big for him. His face was blotchy, cheeks damp. His little fists twisted into the fabric.
“Aunt May—Uncle Ben—they aren’t—” Peter’s voice hitched. He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. The silence in the apartment behind him said enough.
Bucky swallowed hard and stepped inside, shutting the door. He didn’t let himself dwell on the stillness of the rooms, the overturned lamp, the framed photos that still hung on the wall. He just knelt, brushing a shaking hand over Peter’s curls.
“Listen to me, Pete. We gotta go, okay? It’s not safe here.”
Peter’s lip trembled. “Go where?”
“I’ll explain later.” He forced his voice steady. “Right now, I need you to grab a bag. We’re packing.”
Peter blinked at him, lost. But he obeyed, dragging a little backpack from the corner. Bucky started stuffing essentials—clothes, snacks from the kitchen, a water bottle—moving with the practiced efficiency of someone who’d lived on the run.
Then he crouched again. “Two things, kid. You hear me? Two things that mean the most to you. Something you can’t leave behind.”
Peter’s brow furrowed. He sniffled, toddling off toward his small bedroom. Bucky followed him to the doorway, watching as the boy clambered onto his bed and grabbed a ragged stuffed dinosaur, hugging it to his chest. Then he tugged a picture frame off the dresser—one with his parents smiling beside him, Aunt May and Uncle Ben in the background.
“This,” Peter whispered, holding it close.
Bucky nodded. “Good choice.”
He stuffed them carefully into the bag, making sure they wouldn’t break. Then he swung the bag over his shoulder and scooped Peter up in his flesh arm. The boy clung to his neck instantly, burying his face in Bucky’s shoulder.
“It’s loud outside,” Peter mumbled. “I don’t like it.”
“I know, kid. I got you.”
Back in his own apartment, Bucky locked the door behind them and pulled his phone out. Static on most channels, but one still worked. He dialed.
“Steve.” His voice was low, urgent. “I’ve got the kid. Yeah, the Parker boy. He’s alive. He’s with me.”
Peter looked up at him, wide-eyed, still trembling.
Bucky softened, brushing a strand of hair back from his forehead.
“We’ll figure it out,” he promised quietly. “You’re not alone.”
For the first time since the world had started shaking, Peter’s grip loosened just a little—like maybe, just maybe, he believed him.
Bucky set the phone down, listening to the dial tone fade. Steve and Sam were on their way, but how long that would take—no one could say. The city outside wasn’t the same anymore. The streets were a battlefield, filled with fire, rubble, and things he didn’t have names for.
He glanced down at the boy curled on his couch. Peter had tucked himself into the corner, his stuffed dinosaur hugged tight to his chest. His eyes were still red, but the quiet sobs had stopped. For now.
“You hungry?” Bucky asked.
Peter shrugged, eyes fixed on the floor.
Bucky rummaged through his cabinets, pulling out a box of granola bars. He unwrapped one and handed it over. Peter accepted it with both hands, nibbling in small, distracted bites.
The sound of distant explosions rattled the windowpanes. Peter flinched and let out a yelp, dropping the bar, and scrambled closer to Bucky before he could stop himself.
Bucky froze for half a second—kids didn’t usually want him close—but then he lowered himself onto the couch, letting Peter lean against his side.
“You’re safe here,” he said quietly. He wasn’t sure if that was true, but it was what Peter needed.
Hours blurred.
Finally, a sharp knock sounded at the door.
Bucky’s gun was out before the second knock.
“It’s me,” came a voice, familiar and steady.
Bucky pulled the door open just enough, then fully when he saw Steve Rogers standing there, shield slung across his back, Sam Wilson at his side. Both of them looked like hell—dirty, bruised and weary—but alive.
Steve’s eyes immediately caught on the tiny figure pressed into Bucky’s leg.
“Is that—”
“Yeah,” Bucky said, his voice lower than usual. “Peter.”
Sam crouched down, trying for gentle. “Hey, kid. I’m Sam. We’re friends of Bucky’s.”
Peter peeked out, lip caught between his teeth. His fingers clutched Bucky’s sleeve tighter.
Steve stepped forward, his expression softening in a way Bucky had rarely seen. “Hey, Peter. You remember me, don’t you? I’ve waved at you in the hallway a few times.”
Peter nodded hesitantly.
“That’s right.” Steve gave a small smile, then looked at Bucky. “We can’t stay here. It’s too open. Too close to everything going on.”
Bucky nodded. He knew.
“What about safe zones?” he asked.
Sam shook his head. “Most of ‘em are gone. Overrun. But there’s a fallback out past Queens. We can try to make it there.”
Bucky looked down at the boy, at the stuffed toy still clutched in his hands, at the photo frame sticking out of his backpack.
“Then we go,” he said simply.
The night was worse outside.
The four of them moved quickly, Steve in the lead, Sam covering their back. Bucky carried Peter against his chest, the boy’s face buried in his shoulder to block out the sight of burning buildings and broken cars.
Every so often, Peter would whisper, “Are we there yet?” His voice small. Cracked with fear.
“Almost, kid,” Bucky would murmur back. Always almost.
Once, a shadow darted from the alley ahead. Bucky’s arm tightened instinctively, and Steve’s shield flew before the thing could get closer. The body hit the pavement with a wet crack. Peter whimpered, burying himself deeper.
“Don’t look,” Bucky whispered.
“I wasn’t gonna,” Peter whispered back.
By the time they reached a half-collapsed church, Peter was asleep in Bucky’s arms. They slipped inside, barricading the door as best they could.
Sam set up a lantern, casting the room in a warm glow. Steve laid out rations. But Bucky stayed put, Peter curled against him, too afraid to let go.
Steve sat across from him, watching quietly. “You’re good with him.”
Bucky shook his head, running his hand down his face. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“You don’t have to. You’re keeping him alive.”
Peter stirred then, blinking up at Bucky. His voice was groggy, soft.
“Mr. Bucky? Are we gonna see Aunt May and Uncle Ben tomorrow?”
The question hit like a blade. Bucky froze. Steve’s face fell. Sam looked away.
Slowly, carefully, Bucky brushed Peter’s hair back. “Not tomorrow, buddy. But I’m here. And Steve. And Sam. We’re not going anywhere, okay?”
Peter’s lip trembled. Then he nodded, curling back into Bucky’s chest.
And as the city outside burned, the three soldiers sat in silence, knowing that their world was gone—
—but the kid in Bucky’s arms was reason enough to keep fighting.