Archive of Our Own

Halloween at the compound was doomed to be chaos the second Tony announced the “first annual Avengers Halloween Contest.” He did it in the most Tony way possible—projected in hologram form in the common room, confetti cannons included.

“Costumes, my friends. Costumes!” Tony declared, wearing a Dracula cape over a three-piece suit. “Winner gets a prize. And not some cheap pumpkin-shaped candy bucket either. I’m talking Stark-level prize. Luxury. Prestige. Possibly cash. Definitely bragging rights.”

Most of the team reacted as expected. Sam perked up immediately. Natasha just muttered, “absolutely not” without even looking up from her phone. Wanda tilted her head like she was considering it. Clint groaned, and Steve asked what counted as “family friendly.” Vision looked confused.

You, leaning against the kitchen island, sipped your coffee and said flatly, “no.”

Bucky, sitting next to you, just shrugged. “Eh.”

Peter, however, practically vibrated out of his chair. “Oh my god. Yes. Yes. This is perfect!”

You gave him a long, flat look. “You sound like Stark.”

He ignored you, spinning in his seat to face you and Bucky. “Okay, so listen—this is huge. We can’t waste this. We need a plan. A theme.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Theme?”

Peter leaned in, lowering his voice like he was about to share state secrets. “For us. Just us three. We can’t let the others hear or they’ll steal it.”

You glanced at him over your mug. “Why would they steal it?”

“Because it’s genius,” Peter whispered. “But we gotta decide fast.”

Bucky smirked. “Alright, kid. What’ve you got?”

Peter grinned and held up his fingers like he was counting options. “Okay, option one: Addams Family. Easy. You two are Gomez and Morticia, I’m Pugsley. It’s classic.”

You deadpanned, “I’m not wearing black lace.”

“Okay, okay, option two,” Peter continued, undeterred. “Star Wars. You’re Leia, Bucky’s Han, I’m Luke.”

Bucky chuckled. “Pretty sure Luke and Leia are siblings.”

“Yeah, and?” Peter said.

You cut in. “Not happening.”

Peter pouted for half a second before snapping his fingers. “Fine. Option three: classic monsters. You’re a vampire, Bucky’s a werewolf, I’m the invisible man. Simple. Iconic. No one can beat it.”

Bucky gave you a side glance, lips twitching. “Vampire suits you.”

You ignored him. “What’s option four?”

Peter lit up. “Avengers, but backwards. Like, you two go as each other, and I’ll go as… Iron Man.”

You blinked slowly. “So you want me to wear a henley and scowl, and him to wear a trench coat and look unamused.”

“Exactly!” Peter said, delighted.

Bucky smirked. “That’s actually not bad.”

“Absolutely not,” you said immediately.

Peter sighed dramatically, slumping against the counter. “You guys are no fun.”

“You’re too invested,” Bucky teased.

Peter pointed a finger at him. “No, see, that’s the problem. You’re not invested enough. We could win this.”

You picked up your coffee again. “Or we could not participate.”

Peter gasped. “Blasphemy.” Then, muttering to himself, “okay, fine, I’ll keep brainstorming. But we’re doing something.”

Bucky leaned closer to you as Peter typed ideas into his phone like he was writing an Avengers mission plan. “He’s not gonna let this go.”

You sipped your coffee, unfazed. “Then he can dress up on his own.”

Peter looked up, horrified. “And go against the entire team without backup? That’s suicide!”

You stared at him blankly. “It’s a costume contest, Parker.”

“Exactly!” Peter said, as if that proved his point.

Bucky chuckled under his breath. “This is gonna be a long week.”

Over the week, Peter didn’t just ask once. Or twice. He begged. For days. Every time you came into the kitchen, he was there—leaning across the counter, eyes wide, voice full of hope like a kid trying to convince his parents to get a puppy. “Come on. Please. Just this once. You don’t even have to try hard. Literally, just show up in something.”

You would stare at him over your coffee. “No.”

Then he’d pivot to Bucky. “Okay, fine, but what about you? You’ll do it, right?”

Bucky, already halfway through his oatmeal, gave a lazy shrug. “Eh.”

Peter gasped. “That’s not a no! That’s a maybe. That’s progress.”

You set your mug down. “That’s not progress. That’s him not committing.”

Peter leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was hatching a master plan. “Do you know how many people are gonna be in this? Everyone’s taking it seriously. Sam already bought a fog machine. Clint’s been hoarding pumpkins. We can’t just… not participate.”

You blinked at him. “We can.”

“But—”

“No.”

Peter slumped back in his chair with a dramatic groan. “You’re impossible.”

Bucky smirked. “Told you.”

By the fourth day, he was desperate. He cornered you and Bucky outside the elevator, whispering urgently like you were in the middle of a heist. “Okay, okay, fine, final offer. You don’t even have to match me. I’ll go as Spider-Man, Bucky can go as, I don’t know, a wolf or something, and you—you could literally just wear all black and say you’re a witch.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s already what I wear.”

“Exactly!” Peter said, triumphant. “Minimal effort. It’s genius!”

Bucky chuckled, crossing his arms. “Kid’s not wrong. You’d win scariest costume without even trying.”

Peter turned to him like he’d just found an ally. “Right?! So you’ll do it?”

Bucky gave you a sideways look, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Depends. You in?”

You exhaled through your nose, deadpan as ever. “No.”

Peter groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Why are you like this?”

Bucky smirked wider. “Efficient. Terrifying. Just the way I like her.”

Peter, muffled behind his hands, muttered, “worst parents ever,” before storming off to try and come up with yet another plan.

You sipped your coffee, watching him go. “He’s not gonna stop, is he?”

Bucky shook his head, amused. “Not a chance.”

You thought the pleading would die down after your last string of “no” responses, but the kid came back stronger, like he was treating this whole thing as a mission of his own. It was late afternoon when he cornered you and Bucky in the lounge. You had a book, Bucky had the remote, and Peter came skidding in with his phone open to some costume site like he’d just discovered the secret to world peace. “Okay, okay—listen. I’ve got it. This is the one. You have to say yes to this,” Peter said, bouncing on his heels.

You didn’t even glance up from your page. “No.”

Bucky smirked without looking away from the TV. “Let’s hear him out.”

Peter’s eyes lit up. “Right. So—you’re Ghostface.”

That got your attention, if only enough to raise an eyebrow. “The slasher mask.”

“Exactly!” Peter said, like you’d just proven his genius. “It’s perfect. Scary, minimal effort, totally your vibe. But here’s the best part—it’s interactive.”

Bucky finally looked over, one eyebrow raised. “Interactive?”

Peter grinned, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “You stab Tony for real.”

There was a beat of silence. You closed your book slowly. “For real.”

“Yeah! Like, not—okay, not fatally for real,” Peter said quickly, holding up his hands. “But like… just enough for authenticity. Imagine it! Everyone will think it’s a gag, and then boom—realism! We win.”

Bucky barked out a laugh, leaning back against the couch. “Kid, you just suggested attempted murder as a party trick.”

Peter hesitated. “...Yeah, but it would be epic.”

You stared at him flatly. “I’m not stabbing Stark.”

Peter slumped, muttering, “you didn’t even think about it.”

Bucky was still chuckling. “She did. You just don’t wanna know the answer she came up with.”

You stood, setting your book down. “If I stab Stark, it won’t be during a costume contest. And it won’t be for points.”

Peter blinked. “...So that’s a maybe?”

“No,” you said, walking out.

Bucky clapped Peter on the shoulder, still grinning. “Points for creativity, kid. But maybe next time pitch something that doesn’t land you on a watchlist.”

Peter groaned, flopping onto the couch where you’d been sitting. “You guys are the worst parents ever.”

Bucky smirked at the TV. “Told you—efficient, terrifying. Just the way I like her.”

Peter muttered under his breath, “Yeah, yeah, Gomez and Morticia energy. Whatever. I’m still gonna figure out a way to win.”

---

It was Saturday, late afternoon, and you were already suspicious when Bucky leaned into the doorway of your shared room with that too-casual tone. “C’mon, doll,” he said. “We’re taking Peter out for ice cream.”

You looked up from your tablet. “Since when do you volunteer for ice cream duty in October?”

Bucky shrugged, hands in his pockets. “Since now. Figured it’d be nice. You, me, kid, cones. Normal.”

Peter popped his head in right on cue, grin too wide, voice pitched way too innocent. “Yeah, c’mon! Ice cream! Normal!”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re both terrible liars.”

Bucky smirked. “You’re paranoid.”

Still, you let them herd you out, into the car, and down a couple of exits off the highway. You were waiting for the tell, the slip-up. And then it came. Peter was practically vibrating in the backseat when Bucky pulled into the parking lot—except it wasn’t an ice cream shop, it was Spirit Halloween. You turned your head slowly. “This is not ice cream.”

Peter was already unbuckling. “It’s better!”

“No,” you said flatly, staring at the orange sign. “It’s not.”

Bucky grinned, pulling the keys from the ignition. “Kid asked me for backup. Said you’d never come willingly.”

Peter leaned forward between the seats. “You never come willingly! We gotta win the contest, and we can’t win if you don’t at least look like you’re trying.”

You sat back in your seat, deadpan. “I was promised ice cream.”

Bucky leaned closer with a little smirk. “Play along, and maybe we’ll get ice cream on the way back. Extra sprinkles.”

Peter added, “And I’ll do, like… all the dishes for a week!”

You stared at both of them, stone-faced, while they tried not to crack under the silence. Finally, you unbuckled. “If I end up in glitter, both of you are dead.”

Peter whooped, bolting toward the entrance. “Deal!”

Bucky got out too, still grinning as he fell into step beside you. “See? Family outing. This isn’t so bad.”

You gave him a flat look. “You tricked me.”

He bumped his shoulder lightly against yours. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Inside, Peter was already darting between racks of masks and costumes, holding up options like he was at an auction. You trailed behind, arms crossed, letting them whirl around you with ideas. Bucky leaned down after a minute, muttering just for you, “think of it this way—we get to veto the worst ones before he drags them home.”

You didn’t answer, but you did glance toward Peter holding up a giant inflatable dinosaur costume, and muttered, “start vetoing faster.”

In just under an hour, Peter must’ve tried on or waved around a dozen costumes already—dinosaurs, vampires, even a banana suit—before he stopped dead in the aisle with a gasp. He whipped a hanger off the rack and spun it toward you like it was Excalibur.

“Mortal Kombat!” he declared. The packaging showed a plasticky Mileena costume—bright pink, ridiculous mask, too much vinyl for anyone’s good. “You should totally be her!”

You looked at it, then at him, and said flatly, “no.”

Peter’s shoulders slumped. “What? Why not? It’s perfect!”

“If I were going to be anyone,” you said evenly, “it would be Kitana.”

Peter blinked, then immediately bolted two racks over and returned with a crumpled Kitana costume, still in its bag. “This one?”

You eyed the cheap plastic, the flimsy fabric. “No. I’m not wearing plastic.”

Bucky, who had been quietly laughing at this whole exchange, raised a brow. “So you’re saying you would wear it… if you made it yourself.” You didn’t answer, but you didn’t deny it either.

Peter caught the hesitation and practically vibrated out of his sneakers. “Oh my god. Oh my god. You could make them. All of them. You’d be Kitana, Bucky could be Sub-Zero, and I’ll be Scorpion!” He was already grabbing the bags off the hooks, juggling them like he was at checkout. “It’s genius. We’ll look amazing. No one will beat us.”

“Kid,” Bucky said, fighting back a grin, “you’re putting a lot of faith in her sewing machine.”

“She’s amazing at it!” Peter shot back without missing a beat.

You crossed your arms. “I never said I’d make them.”

Peter turned the full force of his wide-eyed pleading on you. “Please? Please, please, please? We’d win for sure. And it’s not like you’d let me wear plastic either. You already look down on it.”

Bucky snorted. “He’s not wrong.”

You glanced between them, stone-faced, letting the silence drag until Peter started to fidget. Finally, you sighed. “If I do this, you follow the list exactly. No complaining when I make you stand still for fittings. And if you spill chili on it, I’m not fixing it.”

Peter threw his arms up. “Yes! Yes, deal, done, no chili!” He grinned at Bucky. “We’re gonna crush them.”

Bucky leaned down, murmuring just for you, “never thought I’d see the day my wife signed up for cosplay.”

You gave him a flat look. “If anyone says ‘cosplay,’ they’re dead.”

Peter, juggling the plastic costumes he knew you’d never use, was already sprinting toward the checkout like a kid on Christmas morning. Bucky smirked, bumping your shoulder with his. “Guess we’re committed now, huh?”

You exhaled slowly. “I should’ve demanded two weeks of silence as part of the bargain.”

He chuckled. “Too late for that, doll. You just made his year.”

---

The costumes became a full-scale project the moment you touched fabric instead of plastic. You’d commandeered one of the spare rooms in the compound, spreading bolts of blue satin and black leatherette across the table with military precision. Scissors, chalk, thread, and a stack of pattern papers were laid out like weaponry. Peter hovered in the doorway, watching you pin seams with the awe of someone witnessing sorcery. “Are you… like… actually making armor?” he asked, eyes wide.

“Lightweight faux leather. Reinforced seams,” you said, not looking up as you cut through fabric with steady, exact lines. “Plastic is cheap. This won’t fall apart if you trip.”

Bucky leaned against the wall, arms folded, amused. “You should see her when she gets into this mode. Scariest part isn’t the knives—it’s the measuring tape.”

Peter grinned. “Okay, but this is amazing.” He shuffled further in, holding up one of the flimsy store-bought masks. “So… you’re making better versions of these?”

You gave him one sharp glance. “I’m replacing them entirely. You’re not wearing molded plastic on your face.”

Bucky smirked, moving to help, though “help” mostly consisted of holding fabric taut when you told him to. He leaned down toward Peter. “Told you, kid. She’s efficient.”

Peter stifled a laugh. “Efficient is one word for it.”

Hours slipped by like minutes. You worked methodically: cutting, stitching, assembling. Peter tried to help once, nearly stabbed himself with a pin, and was promptly reassigned to “fetching things.” His new role mostly consisted of sprinting back and forth with coffee and snacks while you perfected the details. At one point, Peter peeked over your shoulder as you embroidered faint silver edging into the blue fabric of Kitana’s dress. “That’s… so detailed,” he whispered.

Without looking up, you said, “if you’re going to do something, do it right.”

Bucky caught Peter’s expression—part terror, part admiration—and chuckled. “Told you she doesn’t mess around.”

By the time the sun dipped low, you had prototypes pinned together: Peter’s Scorpion tunic taking shape, Bucky’s Sub-Zero armor laid out in pieces, your Kitana bodice already halfway done with precise stitching.

Peter held up his half-finished mask in awe. “We’re gonna win. Like, not even close. Everyone else is doomed.”

Bucky smirked, slipping an arm around your waist. “Told you, doll. He’s more excited about this than the actual holiday.”

You didn’t answer, just kept stitching. But the faintest twitch of your lips betrayed you. Peter caught it, grinning ear to ear. “Oh my god, you’re actually into this.”

You gave him a flat look. “Say that out loud again, and I stop right now.”

Peter mimed zipping his lips shut. Then, once you turned back to your work, he whispered to Bucky, “totally into it.” Bucky just grinned and shook his head.

---

Tony announced it over breakfast like it was nothing. “Alright, team,” he said, slapping a datapad down on the counter. “Field trip. Escape room. Ten p.m. sharp tomorrow.”

There was a pause, then Steve looked up from his coffee. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack. Which, by the way, Cap, is what you’ll have if you keep drinking your coffee like that.” Tony leaned back against the counter, smirking. “Eleven of us, one room. Let’s see if Earth’s Mightiest Heroes can manage to solve some riddles without breaking the furniture.”

Clint immediately perked up. “I’m amazing at escape rooms.”

Sam snorted. “You cheat at Uno. No way you play fair in an escape room.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “You know we could get out of any locked room in about ten seconds, right?”

Tony waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah, but this one’s about teamwork. No phasing through the walls, no vibranium claws, no magic hexes, no punching through steel—” he glanced at you, then Bucky—“no knives.”

You stared at him flatly. “So we just sit there?”

“No,” he said cheerfully, “you use your big scary brains. For once.”

Peter’s head shot up. “Wait, so all of us? Together? Like… me too?”

“Especially you, Underoos,” Tony said. “Gotta test how you operate under pressure. Pretend the room’s full of high school algebra.”

“Terrifying,” Peter muttered.

Rhodey leaned back in his chair, skeptical. “You booked a room for eleven people? Escape rooms aren’t built for that many.”

“I may have told them we were an eccentric bridal party,” Tony admitted. “So if anyone asks, Wanda’s the bride.”

Wanda just sighed. “Of course.”

Vision tilted his head. “I fail to see the appeal of pretending to be trapped when we could simply walk out.”

“That’s the spirit,” Clint said. “Confusion and despair—exactly how escape rooms are supposed to feel.”

Bucky looked over at you with his usual dry calm. “You in?”

You didn’t look up from your plate. “No.”

“You don’t get a choice,” Tony shot back.

You gave him a long, slow look that made him fidget, then went back to eating. “If I don’t talk, don’t expect me to solve your puzzles.”

Peter leaned across the table toward you, whispering like it was a secret. “Please come. You’ll be really good at it.”

You just raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because,” he said earnestly, “you look like someone who could solve a murder mystery in two minutes just by staring at the crime scene.” Bucky chuckled under his breath, but you didn’t argue. Which, to Peter, was as good as yes.

The next night Tony herded the team like cattle into a van, which—predictably—was his idea of subtle transport. By the time the eleven of you shuffled into the escape room lobby, the poor twenty-something receptionist looked one nervous laugh away from fainting. Eleven Avengers in one place was not exactly standard clientele.

Tony clapped his hands once. “Alright, team. No powers, no weapons, no smashing walls. Just brains. Let’s see if we can do this without embarrassing ourselves.”

Clint muttered, “we’re already embarrassing ourselves,” but followed the group into the dimly lit room.

The door shut behind you all, locking with a click. A recorded voice boomed overhead, setting the scene: a haunted manor, a missing heir, and riddles hidden in the shadows.

“Cool,” Sam said, squinting at the walls. “So basically Scooby-Doo but for adults.”

Peter was already darting toward a bookshelf. “There’s usually a clue hidden behind the books! Or inside one!” He yanked one off the shelf and shook it, dust falling everywhere. “See? Classic escape room move.”

Tony rubbed his temples. “You’re supposed to solve puzzles, not redecorate.”

Vision bent down in front of an old trunk. “This has a lock with four digits. Perhaps the date on the painting—”

“Or,” Clint interrupted, “maybe it’s the creepy doll on the chair, huh? Always the creepy doll.”

Steve was trying to keep order. “Okay, let’s divide up. Clint, Sam—check that side. Natasha, Wanda—see if there’s something under the floorboards. Bucky and—”

“I’m not playing,” you said flatly, arms crossed.

Steve gave you the long-suffering look of a man who’d already had this conversation. “You’re playing.”

You sighed and glanced around. The others were already bickering over lanterns and ciphers. Quietly, you stepped over to the wall, tilted one of the picture frames, and revealed a key taped to the back. You pocketed it without a word.

Ten minutes in, chaos reigned. Clint and Sam argued about whether a riddle was referencing a clock or a candle. Wanda muttered in Sokovian as she tried to decode a cipher with Natasha. Vision quoted the manual definition of “escape room” while Peter frantically searched behind every loose panel.

Meanwhile, you unlocked a desk drawer with the hidden key and pulled out a folded map. You laid it flat on the table, started marking the coded letters, and pieced together the next combination without comment. Bucky, who’d been leaning in the corner watching you, smirked. “You’re carrying the whole team, doll.”

Peter noticed what you were doing and immediately blurted, “guys, guys, she’s solving it! She’s like—she’s got it all figured out already!”

Everyone turned. You looked up from the half-finished code, deadpan. “Keep wasting time. I’ll finish it.”

Tony threw his hands up. “Unbelievable. The cold one’s the MVP.”

Steve’s mouth twitched like he wanted to smile but was holding it in. “Focus, Stark.”

Peter hovered next to you, watching your hands. “She’s, like, scary good at this. She just… she just stares at things until they give up their secrets.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “That’s not how puzzles work.”

“It’s exactly how she works,” Bucky said, amused.

Forty minutes later, the final lock clicked open. You’d done most of the work, Natasha had helped with a few codes, and Peter had provided unending commentary. The rest? Mostly noise. The door creaked open, the recording congratulated you all on “escaping the haunted manor,” and the lights flicked back on. Tony groaned. “I hate to admit it, but we never would’ve made it without her.”

Peter grinned. “Told you. She carried us.”

You stepped out into the hall, calm as ever. “It was boring.”

Bucky followed right behind, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Boring, but effective.”

Peter looked back at the receptionist. “Can we get, like, an Avengers discount for how fast we beat it?” The receptionist just stared, wide-eyed, like she was still processing what she’d witnessed.

Then, Tony sprung the haunted house idea on everyone the way only Tony Stark could—by waiting until everyone was strapped into the van, on the road, with no way out. “Where are we going?” Steve asked suspiciously as the van rolled down an unfamiliar dark stretch of road.

“Team bonding,” Tony said smoothly. “Think of it as… exposure therapy.”

“Exposure to what?” Natasha pressed.

The van pulled into a gaudy parking lot lined with strobe lights, fog machines, animatronics, and a massive sign reading HOUSE OF TERROR – LIVE ACTORS, REAL FEAR.

Sam groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Clint looked oddly excited. “Oh, I love these things.”

Wanda narrowed her eyes. “No one agreed to this.”

“No one disagreed either,” Tony countered, hopping out. “C’mon. It’ll be fun.”

Peter lit up instantly. “Oh my god, this is going to be like Five Nights at Freddy’s!”

Everyone turned to him blankly. “…What?” Steve asked.

Peter blinked. “You know… FNAF? Creepy animatronics, haunted pizzeria, jump scares? Legendary game franchise?” Dead silence. “Never mind,” Peter muttered, trailing after you and Bucky.

Inside was everything Tony had paid for: animatronics jerking in strobe light, actors jumping out of hidden doors, air cannons blasting bursts of cold fog. The team’s reactions varied. Wanda sighed every time an actor lunged at her. Sam threatened to punch a clown. Steve kept reminding everyone “they’re just kids doing their jobs.”

And you? You barely blinked. A ghoul jumped out with a chainsaw, revving the motor inches from your face. You just stared at him until he faltered mid-scare and shuffled back into the shadows.

“Why do I feel like you’re scarier than all of this?” Clint muttered.

You ignored him, but when the next actor—a zombie bride—leapt from a coffin, you moved faster. One step forward, the tilt of your head, eyes locked. You didn’t say a word, but the actress flinched like she’d been the one ambushed.

Bucky smirked. “She’s doing their job better than they are.”

Peter was half hiding behind him but grinning. “Oh my god, you’re terrifying. This is awesome.”

Halfway through, the group shuffled into a foggy maze of mirrors. Everyone bickered about which direction to go. You slipped away without a word. It didn’t take long for it to happen, Clint rounded a corner only to scream when you appeared in the reflection first—silent, behind the glass, before stepping into his path with dead eyes and slow, deliberate movement. He actually stumbled backward.

Sam cursed loud enough to echo down the hall when you crept out from a corner, matching the timing of an animatronic so perfectly he thought you were part of the set. By the time the group emerged into the final corridor, Tony was laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes. “Oh, this is priceless. Forget the actors—I should’ve hired you.”

Natasha shook her head, smirking faintly. “You just traumatized three professional scarers.”

Peter was practically bouncing. “You have to admit it—she was the scariest part of the whole haunted house!”

Bucky slid an arm around your shoulders as you walked out, calm as ever. “Scariest part of anywhere, kid.”

Peter grinned like Christmas had come early. “She’s unstoppable.”

“Yeah,” Clint muttered, still pale, “and I’m never sleeping again.”

---

Peter cornered you in the kitchen right after dinner, practically vibrating with excitement. “Okay, hear me out. Pumpkins. Carving. Tonight.”

You gave him your usual flat stare. “No.”

“C’mon,” he begged, already dragging a massive pumpkin from behind the counter like he’d been hiding it all day. “You’re amazing with knives, you could, like, do something insane! It’d be the coolest jack-o’-lantern ever.”

Bucky, sitting at the table with his coffee, smirked. “Kid’s got a point. You’re terrifying with blades. Might as well put it to festive use.”

You sighed, but Peter was already clearing space at the island, setting out a bowl and a carving kit like he’d staged the whole thing. “Fine. But you’re doing the guts.”

“Deal!” he said, way too fast.

You handed him a knife and watched as he struggled through the first cut around the stem. It was messy, uneven, but eventually, he managed to pry the top off with a triumphant grin. The smell of pumpkin hit instantly, and Peter wrinkled his nose. “Ugh, okay, maybe not a deal.”

“Too late,” you said, sliding the bowl closer. “Scoop.”

So he did, chattering away the whole time—about school, about some science project, about how Flash still hadn’t gotten over the Avengers field trip. He talked nonstop, not even noticing when a string of pumpkin guts flew off the spoon and landed squarely on your sleeve. You froze, and then slowly you looked down at the orange mess, then up at him. Peter winced. “Uh… accident?”

Bucky chuckled under his breath. “You’re dead, kid.”

Without a word, you scooped a handful of guts from the pile and lobbed them across the counter. They hit Peter square in the hoodie. He gasped. “Did you just—?!”

“Yes,” you said flatly.

Peter grinned like he’d just been handed a challenge. “Oh, it’s on.” He scooped another handful and flung it—this one missing you and hitting the fridge with a wet splat.

Bucky laughed outright now, watching you both devolve into chaos. “Stark’s gonna love that.”

You ignored him, grabbed another handful, and nailed Peter right in the chest. He laughed so hard he dropped the spoon into the pumpkin. “Okay, okay, truce!”

“Wise,” you muttered, wiping your sleeve with a towel.

“Still worth it,” Peter said, breathless from laughing.

Bucky shook his head, smirking as he sipped his coffee. “Kid, you don’t know what you started. She plays dirty.”

Peter looked at you nervously. “You wouldn’t… right?”

You tilted your head, smirk ghosting across your face. “Clean up first. Then we’ll see.”

Peter groaned but grabbed the towel anyway, muttering, “why do I always regret these things…” Peter had cleaned up most of the pumpkin guts—with a lot of dramatic sighs and muttering about “tyranny”—and now he was perched across from you at the kitchen island, chin resting in his hand as he waited for you to start carving. The pumpkin sat in front of you like it was awaiting surgery. “Okay,” Peter said, gesturing. “Make it epic. Like… insane detail. Something scary. Something cool. Something that’ll make May gasp when she sees it.”

Bucky leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching with that familiar smirk. “Careful what you wish for, kid. You give her a knife and say ‘epic,’ you’re asking for trouble.”

Peter grinned. “I trust her. She’s basically an artist with sharp objects.”

You picked up one of the carving knives, tested the weight, and gave him a look. “That’s the first accurate thing you’ve said tonight.”

Peter bounced in his seat. “So what are you gonna do? A spider? A haunted house? Tony’s Iron Man helmet? Ooo—Ghostface?

Bucky chuckled. “Or you could just carve Stark’s face and then smash it after. Two for one.”

“Tempting,” you deadpanned, turning the pumpkin to a good angle. “But no.”

Peter leaned closer, watching every move as you made the first cut—clean, precise, the blade slicing through like you were working on something far more serious than a Halloween decoration. Unlike Peter’s uneven mess at the top, your cuts were sharp, deliberate, like you already had a blueprint in your head.

Ten minutes in, Peter finally asked, “uh… what are you doing?”

You didn’t look up. “You’ll see.”

Another ten minutes and Peter’s eyes went wide. “Oh my god. Is that…?”

Bucky stepped closer to look and let out a low whistle. “Yeah, kid. She’s not messing around.”

By the time you set the knife down, wiped your hands, and leaned back, the pumpkin wasn’t just a jack-o’-lantern. It was a full-on piece of art: a skeletal reaper cloaked in shadows, scythe raised, with delicate cutouts that made it look like it was standing in front of a twisted, leafless tree.

Peter’s jaw dropped. “That’s not… that’s not even fair! That’s like, professional museum-level carving!”

You gave him a flat look. “No, it’s just basic knife work.”

Bucky barked a laugh. “Basic, she says. Kid, your little triangle eyes don’t even qualify as kindergarten compared to this.”

“This isn’t a contest!” Peter said quickly, before groaning. “Okay, maybe it is. But still—how do you even do that?”

“Finishing school,” you said simply, wiping down the blade.

Peter blinked. “Wait—you learned to carve pumpkins in finishing school?”

Bucky smirked, leaning in conspiratorially. “Pumpkins weren’t the target, kid.”

It took a second for Peter to process that, and then his eyes went huge. “Oh. Oh. Ohhh. Okay. Uh—cool. Yeah. I don’t wanna know.”

“Good,” you said, placing the pumpkin carefully in the center of the counter. The candle inside flickered, throwing eerie shadows across the walls.

Peter stared at it like it might come to life. “I’m still telling May you cheated.”

“You asked for epic,” you reminded him, tone dry. “Don’t complain when you get it.”

Bucky chuckled, nudging Peter’s shoulder. “Look at it this way—you just got the scariest pumpkin in Queens. No one’s topping that.”

Peter muttered, “yeah, because no one else has a retired assassin as their mom…” but he was grinning when he said it.

---

Peter was practically bouncing as he adjusted the fabric of his Scorpion costume, tugging at the mask until it sat just right. “Okay, okay—tell me this isn’t the coolest group costume idea ever,” he said, muffled through the yellow mask.

Bucky, dressed as Sub-Zero, was standing with his arms crossed, looking far less excited. “Kid, I’ve worn real uniforms with less straps than this thing.” He tugged at one of the belts across his chest. “It feels like Stark designed this just to annoy me.”

Peter grinned. “It looks awesome, though! Trust me, when she comes out, we’re gonna look like the most badass trio here.”

Bucky raised a brow. “Uh-huh. You’re just excited you get to yell ‘get over here’ at people.”

“Okay, yeah, that too,” Peter admitted with a shrug.

The door to your shared room opened, and both Peter and Bucky looked up at the same time.

You stepped out in the Katana costume you’d made yourself—blue, perfectly fitted, more authentic and intimidating than any store-bought version could dream of being. The twin fans on your hips caught the light, the armor plating hugged your waist and chest, and the slit in the skirt revealed just enough leg to make both Peter and Bucky’s brains short-circuit.

Peter’s jaw dropped so hard his mask nearly fell off. “Oh my god.”

Bucky’s expression darkened instantly. His gaze ran over you once, his jaw tightening, and then he moved without hesitation—his metal hand coming up to cover Peter’s eyes.

“Hey!” Peter yelped, swatting at the hand. “What are you doing?!”

“Protecting your innocence,” Bucky said flatly, still staring at you.

You raised an eyebrow, stopping in front of them. “Really?”

Peter wriggled, trying to peel Bucky’s hand away. “She’s my mom—well, fake mom—but my mom! What’s the point of a group costume if I can’t even look at it?!”

Bucky didn’t move his hand. “You can look when you’re thirty.”

You sighed, arms crossing over your chest. “Barnes, let the kid see the costume. It’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad?” Bucky muttered, finally dragging his gaze up from the expanse of your exposed thigh to your very unimpressed face. “You look like you’re about to commit a war crime at a fashion show.”

Peter groaned loudly. “Oh my god, let me see!” He finally yanked Bucky’s hand off his face and got a full look at you. His eyes widened again, and then he slapped a hand over his own face. “Nope, nope, nope, too weird. Forget it.”

Bucky smirked faintly. “Told you.”

You rolled your eyes. “You two are ridiculous. It’s a costume. That’s all.”

Peter peeked through his fingers. “Yeah, but like… do you have to look that cool? You’re making us look bad.”

“You look fine,” you said, adjusting the strap of your fan. “Sub-Zero and Scorpion are supposed to look ridiculous. It balances out.”

Bucky snorted. “I’m not sure if I should be offended or relieved.”

Peter pointed at you. “You know Mr. Stark is gonna lose his mind when he sees that, right?”

You gave a small, dangerous smirk. “Good.”

Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “This is gonna be a long night.”

Peter, finally resigning himself, looked between the three of you in the mirror and brightened. “Okay… but admit it—we look awesome together.” You didn’t argue; even Bucky couldn’t find a comeback for that.

The team had gathered in full costume, some more enthusiastic than others. Natasha looked effortlessly deadly in a black catsuit, Wanda wore something vaguely witchy, Vision looked… well, Vision; Tony had slapped a cape on him and called it festive, and Clint wore a cowboy hat so cheap it bent in half whenever he turned his head.

Tony strutted to the front like a game show host, mic in hand. “Ladies, gentlemen, cyborgs, synthezoids, and—” his gaze lingered on Clint—“whatever that is. Welcome to the first annual Stark Halloween Costume Contest! Winner gets a prize. And not some cheap pumpkin-shaped candy bucket either. I’m talking Stark-level prize. Luxury. Prestige. Cash. Bragging rights. All the good stuff.”

Peter whispered excitedly to you and Bucky. “This is it. This is our moment.”

Bucky muttered under his breath, “I’m regretting this already.”

“Contestant number one,” Tony continued, “Vision—aka ‘Diet Dracula.’”

Vision stepped forward, very solemn. “I am not Dracula.” Applause was minimal.

“Contestant number two: Clint Barton, as…” Tony squinted at him. “Spirit Halloween clearance bin?”

Clint tipped his floppy hat. “Cowboy.” The room erupted in laughter.

Then came Natasha, Wanda, Steve as a very unconvincing Frankenstein—the neck bolts were crooked— and Sam, who walked out in full vampire gear, including a ruffled shirt. He gave an exaggerated bow. “I win already. Admit it.”

Finally, Tony turned toward the three of you. “And last, but definitely not least… Mortal Kombat, Avengers Edition.”

Peter shot forward first, striking a dramatic pose. “Scorpion!” he announced, his voice muffled through the mask. He tried to do the “get over here!” line, but his voice cracked halfway through. Still, he got cheers from Wanda and Clint.

Bucky followed, slow and steady, arms crossed as Sub-Zero. He didn’t do any theatrics, just glared at the crowd until people started clapping nervously. And then you walked out in your hand-made Katana costume. The room went silent for about three beats before Clint muttered, “holy shit.”

Tony blinked. “Okay… yeah, that’s cheating. That’s not a costume, that’s—like—that’s Broadway-level production value.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “That’s not off the rack?”

“Nope,” Peter said proudly, stepping forward. “She made it. All of it. Every detail.”

The reactions around the room were immediate—shocked noises, murmurs, and a not-so-subtle whistle from Clint before Natasha elbowed him. Bucky’s jaw clenched, his arm subtly shifting behind you like he was ready to block the view from certain people.

Tony dragged the mic closer to his mouth. “Alright, we’ve seen the contestants, now for the judging. Audience vote—”

“No need,” Peter cut in. “We won. Right? Guys?” He looked around desperately, nodding. “Right.”

Natasha smirked. “I’ll give you this—impressive.”

Wanda tilted her head. “I didn’t think you’d actually wear it.”

Peter grinned behind his mask. “She wore it! And we’re synchronized. This is a group costume, Mr. Stark, so that’s extra points.”

Tony tapped the mic. “Points don’t exist, kid. But… I’m not blind. Winner: Team Mortal Kombat.”

The room erupted in groans and cheers, depending on the contestant. Peter threw his arms up in triumph. “Yes! Victory!”

“What’s the prize?” Clint asked, arms crossed.

Tony grinned. “Front-row tickets to whatever the hell you want. Concert, play, fight night, monster truck rally—you name it, Stark pays.”

Peter nearly fainted. “Wait. Anything?!”

“Anything within reason,” Tony said quickly. “No space trips, no private islands, no solid gold arc reactors.”

Peter practically bounced over to you and Bucky. “We actually won! Together! Oh my god, what are we gonna pick?!”

Bucky just looked at you, his expression saying what his words didn’t: This is your fault.

You smirked faintly. “I told you it wasn’t that bad.”

He shook his head. “Not that bad? Doll, you’re never wearing that outside this building again.”

Peter, still buzzing with excitement, didn’t hear him. “Do you think they’d let us go to a Mortal Kombat tournament?!”

---

It started sometime after midnight—well past curfew, lights dimmed, the compound quiet except for the hum of the refrigerators. You were sitting at the kitchen counter, working on a cup of tea, when Peter came bounding in with his laptop clutched to his chest like it contained national secrets. “Okay,” he said breathlessly, “game night. All three of us.”

You blinked at him. “It’s one in the morning.”

“Perfect time,” Peter said. “That’s the point.”

Bucky walked in behind him, half-asleep, wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants. “The point of what?”

“Game night!” Peter said again, setting the laptop on the table. “You guys owe me after Halloween. And it’s time to prove yourselves.”

Bucky frowned, rubbing his eyes. “Prove ourselves at what?”

Peter opened the laptop and pulled up the game’s main menu. The distorted jingle played, tinny and unnerving in the quiet kitchen. “Five Nights at Freddy’s,” he announced dramatically. “You’re both playing.”

Bucky stared at the screen like it had just insulted him. “The hell’s a Freddy?”

You sighed. “I’m going back to bed.”

“No, wait!” Peter blocked your path, grinning. “You’re gonna love it. It’s scary. It’s, like, a security job simulator with haunted robots.”

“That doesn’t make it sound better,” Bucky muttered.

Peter ignored him. “You take turns surviving the nights. You can check cameras, close doors, watch your power. Easy. The goal is to not die.”

You gave him a flat look. “Charming.”

Bucky sat down first, squinting at the controls while Peter explained them. “So I just… click things?”

“Yeah. Check the doors, the lights, the cameras—don’t let the animatronics get to you.”

“Animatronics?”

“Robot mascots,” Peter said cheerfully. “Bonnie, Chica, Foxy, and Freddy. You’ll see.”

Night one was Bucky’s turn, who was surprisingly steady. He didn’t panic, didn’t waste power, and stared down every hallway with the calm of a man who’d seen worse in real life. When 6 AM chimed, Peter cheered. “See? You’re a natural!”

Bucky shrugged, unimpressed. “They didn’t even move that much.”

“Just wait,” Peter said ominously.

Night two was your turn. Peter hovered nearby, practically vibrating with excitement. “Okay, so they’re more active now, but you’ve got this.”

You didn’t answer, eyes locked on the cameras, methodical and detached. You switched between feeds with machine-like precision. When Bonnie appeared in the doorway, you shut the door instantly. No scream. No jump. Nothing. At 6 AM, the victory tune played.

Peter blinked. “You didn’t even flinch.”

“Predictable pattern,” you said simply.

Bucky smirked. “Told you—nothing scares her.”

Night three was Bucky’s turn again. Within three in game hours, Foxy bolted down the hallway. Peter screamed, Bucky swore, and clicked the door button, but it was too late. The jump scare hit. Bucky jerked back in his chair. “Son of a—! Okay, that’s cheap!”

Peter laughed so hard he nearly fell over. “You jumped!”

“I did not!”

“You did.”

You slid the laptop over without a word. “Move.”

You finished Night 3 in one try while Bucky glared at the screen. “You’re cheating.”

Bucky insisted on playing night four, and halfway through, the screen flickered. “Uh oh,” Peter muttered. “That’s—”

The golden bear materialized in the office. “What the hell is that?!” Bucky shouted.

“Golden Freddy!” Peter yelped. “Don’t look at him—!”

Too late, the screen went black, and the distorted face lunged. Bucky nearly flipped the chair. “That thing’s cursed!”

You leaned forward. “My turn.” This time, you finished the night easily, mechanical and calm, ignoring Peter’s commentary entirely.

On night five Bucky tried again and didn’t make it past 3 AM, Freddy got him mid-laugh. He threw up his hands, “that bear’s mocking me.”

You reached over, clicked continue and beat it on your first attempt. Peter gawked. “Okay, that’s not even fair. You’re a robot.”

You looked at him. “Takes one to kill one.”

Bucky tried again on night six, determined now with his jaw set and eyes narrowed. Somehow, despite running out of power forty seconds before the round ended, he managed to survive until 6.

Peter exploded with joy. “He did it! Oh my god, he actually did it!”

Bucky grinned, triumphant. “Told you I could handle it.”

Then Peter leaned over and whispered, “night 7.”

Bucky froze. “There’s a seventh?”

Peter grinned, evil. “Custom Night. Level 20 on everything. Only the bravest survive.” He turned the laptop toward you. “You’re up.”

You gave him a long, unimpressed look. “You realize this is a child’s game.”

“Not at level 20,” Peter said cheerfully.

You sighed, cracked your knuckles, and started. It was chaos. The doors slammed constantly. Alarms beeped. Power drained fast. Freddy laughed, Foxy sprinted, Bonnie and Chica appeared almost simultaneously.

Still, you made it to 5:00 AM. Peter and Bucky were leaning forward, holding their breath.

“Come on, come on…” Peter whispered.

Two percent power… one percent power… zero percent power… then nothing. Freddy’s song started to play in the dark.  

Peter clutched the table. “Oh no, oh no—”

The jingle stopped and Freddy’s face appeared on-screen.  You flinched—just once—but your hand reacted faster than your brain, and you punched the laptop.

Hard.

The screen went black and the corner cracked. There was total silence. Peter’s mouth hung open. Bucky blinked. “…You just killed the laptop.”

You exhaled slowly, flexing your hand. “I’ll buy him a new one.” Peter just continued to stare at you, wide-eyed. You met his gaze calmly. “And whatever you want. Just don’t tell anyone.”

He nodded instantly. “Deal.”

Bucky tried very hard not to laugh. “You punched Freddy.”

You leaned back in your chair. “He deserved it.”

Peter looked between the two of you, still half in awe, half terrified. “You know… I think you just unlocked a new ending.” You didn’t reply—just picked up your tea again like nothing happened.

Bucky shook his head, grinning. “Next time, we’re playing something less violent.”

Peter nodded rapidly. “Yeah. Like Mario Kart.”

You sipped your tea. “Still violent.”

Peter blinked. “What—how is Mario Kart violent?”

You didn’t even look at him. “Bananas.”