Spiderson Oneshots

I Need a Hero--Bucky and Peter

Warnings: Mentions of death

Peter Parker doesn't remember how to be a hero. He doesn't remember being a hero. He only remembers fights, blood, pain, and sadness. There were so many people he couldn't save. Each one adds weight to his shoulders, and he doesn't know how much longer it'll be until he collapses.

Under his bed rests a box. It's plain and battered, and the color is faded. 'In Memoriam' is what it reads. Old fingerprints mingle across the top. It's nothing but a shoebox, but to Peter, it's the most important thing in his world.

Peter takes out the box, pushing aside other clutter and five years' worth of dust. It's been two days since everything. Peter hasn't left the apartment, despite May's begging. He hasn't let anyone in. He hasn't been Spider-Man. He hasn't been anything but sad.

He's sitting cross-legged on the floor that's cluttered with clothes and other things. He takes the box in his lap and stares at the words written across. He had written those curly letters from a reference. Now, they only remind of who he once was.

He sniffs, trying to convince himself it's only the dust, but he knows it's so much more. It's with trembling hands that he removes the lid as he tries to remind himself that yes, Mister Stark would be proud of him.

The smell is musty as he looks upon the many pictures. Hundreds of news clippings, the backs littered with names. So many he couldn't save, so many names. He knows it isn't helping him move on, but if he doesn't move on, who will remember them? It's his fault they're gone, so shouldn't he have to remember them?

He knows Tony and Natasha wouldn't be proud of how he's feeling. He knows he's not enough. He knows he should be doing better. But he needs a hero, and right now, the world's short on those.

It's ritual for him to look through every one of the pictures when he opens it. He starts with the first one, a picture of him. May had found the box. Underneath it, a note reading 'half the universe.' Then he's sorting through all the old pictures, hundreds upon hundreds of slips of paper--clippings, colored, black and white. Each face showing the last view of the person. Many are faded from so many fingerprints.

And with the pictures come memories. Memories of pain and scars he's long forgotten. Memories of bright smiles. Memories of flying through the air. Memories of the funerals he's gone to and of the weight he put into the words 'I'm sorry for your loss.'

He feels like he can't breathe. He knows it's not the dust. His throat burns with the pain of holding back tears. He's gasping for breath as the tears fall, and he's careful not to let it touch his precious cargo. Because after everything, he can't lose those too.

Pictures are spread out around him in a circle. Thousands of faces stare up unblinking. His clutter had been pushed farther. And in the center of it all is that heartbroken boy. He's like one of them himself, having lost so much, doomed only to remember those times. Outside the window, he can hear people seeing each other again and cars honking. It's all too much for him, but he can't close the window.

He presses his eyes shut, trying to silence everything. He's getting better, he knows he is. Moving on is a painstaking activity, and he's making progress one step at a time. It's the question of whether or not he'll move on all the way.

He's fallen in love with these feelings or perhaps he's too used to them. He knows he's a disappointment, but it's believing it that's the issue. The logical part of him is trapped in brambles while the emotional side is in control.

He needs a hero, but the world's short on those.

No medicine for anyone who's fine. But he's not fine, and he hasn't been. What can't anyone see he's not the person he wishes he could be? Why are they so blind when someone is not fine, but everything is clear when it doesn't matter?