Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rain was still pounding against the window the next time I woke up.

If I didn't turn into a popsicle when the weather dropped I would have decided to sleep outside, but I could only do that in the summer.

I was still sweating from the nightmare that made my heart race and head hurt and the urge to get up and go was playing around in circles in my head. It was times like these I especially missed May and wished she was here to let me know everything was okay and tell me what to do next. Now I could only imagine, but that wasn't good enough.

Sighing, I got up from the sorry excuse of a bed I was laying in and stiffly made my way to the window. The building was condemned, which meant I had it all to myself and no one could bother me here if I kept quiet. Which wasn't very hard to do when I learned how not to make a sound when I was dreaming. Stay silent and still and no one will remember you're there. Just don't make a sound. 

Deciding I wasn't going to get back to sleep, I packed up the flimsy, flea bitten blanket I was covering myself with and the torn jacket I was using as a pillow into my worn backpack I missed using just for school books and papers. I looked down and took in the jeans and t-shirt I was wearing. I looked like any other homeless kid in Manhattan, which was tragic but that was the idea. I would shoot myself before going back to the people that killed May. Who killed the best thing in my life and tried to turn me into their own personal plaything. 

Opening the window, I slipped my backpack onto my back and reached out the window for the drainpipe. It was smarter to keep all of the things I had with me in one place then in two places and risk loosing them. Even if I was on good terms with some of the other ghosts that haunted the streets at night I wasn't taking any chances. Climbing down the drainpipe was less like climbing and more like sliding, which was one of the only times I allowed myself to smile. It reminded me of when May took me to the fire station and she wouldn't let us leave until the chief let me have a go on the pole the firefighters slid down. I think they were so reluctant, more like incredulous, that a fourteen year old wanted to have a go at something that brought four year old children joy, but May wanted me to have some sort of childhood happiness to experience that I never got to have when I was four. That was one of the things I loved about her. No matter how little she knew me, she wanted me to be happy and have good memories. And I tried for her.

Landing on the sidewalk, I blindly turned in a direction and walked down the empty street. At four o'clock in the morning, the air smelled of exhaust fumes and tar from where a construction company had called it a day at a work site. Time seemed to come at a standstill when there was no one else around, so I didn't even realize I had made my way to Central Park, 3 miles away. After being forced to run 20 miles a day by jackass wannabe Nazis, 3 miles in a single morning was nothing. Before my short but unwanted stay at Hydra, I had enjoyed running which probably added to the enjoyment of the guards watching; they loved to ruin or take things away from me.

Taking a deep breath and trying to keep the memories away, I decided to sit down on a park bench across from me. Maybe I could catch another hour or two of sleep before the city started waking up and people made their way onto the streets. I put my jacket on and my backpack under my head and stretched out on the cold metal. With no one around I didn't bother to hide the shivers that made my way up and down my arms and back. If people saw the slightest hint of discomfort they would ask questions. People asking questions meant failure. 

I closed my eyes, but stayed wide awake. Yep, I wasn't getting any more sleep. I decided to listen to the parts of the city that were already awake, or never went to sleep in the first place. The train cars were whirring, a plane flew over head, someone was walking their dog about a block away. The night and early morning was my favorite time to sit and listen because it was quiet enough I could use my full hearing. My hearing was sensitive enough that when someone once yelled a foot away from my ear, it was ringing for the rest of the day.

Another hour and a few people were making their way out of their houses and into their cars. Oh well, time to move again. And I was starting to like this bench too. Except I decided to procrastinate and lie there for another few minutes. That was when I heard a trio of men making their way through the park. I cracked my eyes open a fraction and found them at once. One was blonde in a blue jacket, the second one was darker in complexion with a brown jacket, and the third had long brown hair and a leather jacket. The third one looked familiar, but from this angle his hair was obscuring his face from my line of sight. I know I wasn't supposed to eavesdrop, and May would have been mortified, but curiosity got the better of me and I couldn't resist. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the show.

"Steve I am telling you, you have to watch the third film first. You don't need to watch the first two to understand what happens," the one with the brown jacket said in near exasperation. They were clearly having this conversation for a while.

The blonde one was clearly frustrated himself, "But doesn't that defeat the purpose of a trilogy?"

The one with the brown jacket sighed through his nose explosively. I couldn't help the snort that slipped through, and I quickly looked at them to make sure they didn't notice, but they were to far away to hear. I realized a second later that I snorted at the same time the one with the long hair gave a quiet chuckle. That was the only sound he made in the 5 minutes they were here. I opened my eyes and inconspicuously looked over at them again. The first two went back to their banter while the third watched in amusement. It wasn't until a minute later that the third turned his head and I got a clear look at his face. My breath caught in my throat and my heart skipped a beat. I was staring at a face I had only seen in photos, but one I knew by heart, one I never thought I would see in person.

I didn't realize I was openly staring, inconspicuous nature out the damn window, until he looked directly at me and narrowed his eyes. Time to go fucking go. Holding my breath I nonchalantly got up from the bench, put my backpack over my shoulder, and walked in the opposite direction of the three men. I forced myself to walk at a steady pace, but if they were watching then they could tell it was anything but steady. Even as I was walking away, a part of me couldn't help but shout in my head to turn back and talk to the men. Tell them the truth and who I was, tell him who I was, but in every scenario that played through my head it never ended well. He could think it was some sort of sick Hydra trick, or a poor homeless kid trying to get free charity from a couple superhero hotshots. Or if they did believe me and Hydra tracked me down, they would find him too and do everything possible to get their favorite weapon back. It was better to never let them know I never existed. Even if walking away from something I never had hurt like hell.

Listening to Steve and Sam arguing about whatever stupid millennial setup this century had was amusing as hell, even this early in the morning. Sam was gracious enough to accompany Bucky and Steve when sleep decided to completely allude the former.

A walk in Central Park when no one was around was a blessing that Bucky savored, but the banter was by far his favorite part. Chuckling lightly, he took a quick look around the park, old habits kicking in when different settings were around him. A woman walking her dog passed by, a couple cars slowly made their way by, which showed how few people were awake. Laying on a park bench across the expanse of grass was a teenage boy who appeared to be sleeping. At the sight of the boy, Bucky felt a strange tug in his gut. It almost felt like a protective feeling, something he only remembered having when he had to protect Steve from some dumbass brawl he started.

Bucky narrowed his eyes in puzzlement and slight suspicion when he caught the boy's eye and the brown doe like ovals widened a fraction. Was it fear, or recognition, or ... hope? Why would he look at Bucky like that?

"y... Hey Bucky... you in there?" Steve was calling. Bucky blinked his eyes and turned back to Steve and Sam who were staring at him in slight concern. He didn't even realize they were trying to loop him into their conversation.

"Sorry, what?" Bucky asked. He looked back to where the boy was, only to find he wasn't there. The tug got stronger, to the point where it felt like panic. Panic? Why the hell am I worried about someone I don't know? 

"Bucky?" Steve asked again, this time in complete concern. Bucky turned back and paused for a second. "I agree with Sam." He hoped that would be enough for them not to ask questions.

Sam and Steve both blinked in slight surprise. Steve opened his mouth to ask Bucky what was wrong, but Sam answered, "Yes, thank you. Someone who listens to sense," recognizing Bucky's need to get his thoughts together before telling them. The subtle look he gave Steve clued his friend in to what he was thinking and Steve agreed, somewhat reluctantly, to go with it and back to their banter, "Oh please, I think your advice on movie matters hardly counts as common sense."

With that the three men made their way back to Avenger's Tower with Bucky's thoughts occupied by a certain doe-eyed boy who he couldn't help but feel like he should know. Someone he should keep safe.

Chapter Text

August 10, 2001, Unknown Location, Russia

The crying from the little, pink squirming thing was the last thing she heard before the darkness descended and she knew no more.

The doctor put the little baby on the cold metal side table to attend to the new mother causing the little thing to squeal louder, but he paid no mind. He reached over to the young woman, no more then a child herself, and checked her pulse. Cursing forcefully when he didn't find one he started chest compressions, shouting at the guards standing stoic by the door to help. But the guards did not heed the doctor's calls and remained at their posts, colder then the steel walls of the compound.

Finally, after minutes that seemed like hours, the doctor slowed his ministrations before stopping completely. He looked at the young girl lying bloody on the operating table, then at the small person who was whimpering softly. The doctor could not help but feel pity for the poor thing. Now that the babe's mother was dead, he was at the complete mercy to the people the stone guards worked for.  People with no conscience, who would not hesitate to do the most unspeakable things their imaginations would allow.

The door moaned as it opened, and in walked a well dressed, serious man with malicious eyes and a permanent snarl fixed on his face. The doctor felt shivers run down his arms and spine when the man's metallic blue eyes landed on him. "Rebenok  rodilsya?" the man asked, his voice as cold as the guards.

"Da," the doctor replied simply. Instantly, the doctor wished he had not said anything. He wished he could take back the words and lie, say that the child died along with it's mother. But the man walked toward the baby, taking in the fragile figure. The man picked him up with gloved hands and held him away with a look of disdain when the whimpering increased into full blown wails. He could not imagine how a disgusting little thing such as this could one day serve as the pride of Hydra, but maybe with time it could prove useful.

"Vy nam khorosho posluzhite," the man hissed to the small figure, and the baby whimpered louder. The doctor looked on with his heart heavy in his chest, one thought racing through his mind. The baby cannot stay in Hydra.

Present Day, November 30, 2016, Manhattan, New York

"Hey Parker, can you get that one?" Alex called. Alex Bell was another homeless boy who lived in the Manhattan area, and the first friend I made when I started hanging around the homeless shelters near Central Park. At eighteen, he was taking care of his little brother, Matt, after running away with him when CPS tried to separate them. Since I met him, Alex has been like an older brother to me too. It was really nice having someone who I could have a conversation with after being on my own for so long.

At that dark though, I turned from the trash bins I was sifting through to the big, cardboard box that was resting on the sidewalk. Today was the day before trash day, which meant if we wanted to get to any bottles or cans before the garbage trucks did, we had to work fast. Going through other people's trash for things we could trade for cash was disgusting and kind of degrading, but we did what we could and didn't complain. Much.

"Oh, this is disgusting," I moaned as I opened the lid to the cardboard box. I couldn't tell what it was, but it was moldy and green and Oh for Christ sake was that an eye?! I damn near jumped five feet in the air trying to get away from the box filled with the remains of a Halloween costume, wiping my hand on my jeans. Alex laughed heartily at my reaction and I turned and glared at him. He was going through the recycling bins, while I had to deal with the trash bins. He didn't understand the traumatizing things I have seen people put in their garbage. Seriously, I have had to go through bags with used underwear, used condoms, and once a bin full of vomit. I think I was allowed to freak out.

"You shut up. You have no idea what I have had to go through digging through other people's trash," I paused for a second, "And I'm not even getting paid for this!"

This only served to make Alex laugh harder. I admit I wasn't even acting properly indignant. I couldn't around Alex. Something about him made me have a good time and laugh, even if we were knees deep in garbage.

"Disgusting, revolting, goddamn atrocious son of a blowfish," I muttered, kicking the box aside and going for the other bins.

"Son of a blowfish? Peter, you live on the streets in Manhattan, you really need to work on your sorry excuse for cursing," Alex teased. I flipped him off, but I could feel a smile tugging at the corner of my lips. Yeah, I was really lucky to have a friend like Alex.

To be honest, I wasn't even really paying attention to Alex or our dig through the trash. My mind was still on the three men I saw in Central Park yesterday. Or rather, the long haired one with the leather jacket. Bucky Barnes. The Winter Soldier. My father. I couldn't believe I was that close to him. He looked different from the pictures I had seen from him during the war and during his stay at Hydra. He looked more alive, less weighed down. It was nice to see him smile and hear him chuckle with his two buddies. Though a part of me wanted to find him again and laugh and smile with him, but I knew it couldn't happen. When I escaped from the Hydra base, there were enough agents left who knew what I looked like and who I was. They wouldn't give up on finding their new weapon, especially after they lost their prized Winter Soldier. And if they did catch me, I wasn't going to lead them to Bucky.

"Hey Pete, you okay?" Alex asked in concern. By the tone of his voice he was calling my name for a few minutes. He didn't know about Hydra or my dad or any of it. All he knew was that my Aunt May had died, and I ran away from the foster home I was put into. He was sympathetic and understanding, and offered to let me stay with him and his brother right off the bat. I felt bad about keeping things from him, but the less he knew the better. I couldn't loose anyone else to those bastards.

"Yeah, yeah I'm good," I tried to reassure him, but by his raised eyebrow he wasn't convinced. So I said, "Actually, I'm not feeling to hot. I think all the trash fumes are starting to get to me." It wasn't entirely a lie, I was still feeling queasy from the nightmare that were plaguing me at night.

Now Alex looked flat out worried, "Okay, why don't you go back to my place and go to sleep. You look like you need it anyway."

I nodded gratefully, slung my backpack over my shoulder, and made my way down the street to Alex's cot at the homeless shelter a block away. Each of the people that stayed at Laurel's Shelter For Homeless Souls was given a cot to sleep on and a space to keep their stuff. Laurel Landry was a nice woman in her late twenties who ran the shelter and let anyone stay for however long they needed. She was sweet, kind, and had a motherly complex about her that reminded me of May. I stayed whenever I could, but I always had to keep moving if I didn't want to get caught or have someone recognize me.

Walking through the open door, I waved hello to the few people who were lingering in the living room of the three story mansion -like house. Laurel's family was rich enough that she could buy or have whatever property she wanted, so she had a Victoria style house built in the middle of Manhattan so whoever needed a place to stay didn't have to go far. Alex and Matt's room was on the second floor, but Matt was at school and everyone else staying on the floor was out in the city getting through their day, so I had the whole floor to myself.

Putting my stuff down and flopping onto the cool sheets, I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing. Even now, all I could think about was Bucky and the different scenarios of me telling him about the poor homeless boy who was his son. I could never do it in real life, but it was fun to pretend that he would be thrilled and welcome me with open arms. Fantasy was always better then reality.

"Pyotr," a voice called in the darkness.

I looked around and saw him standing there. Dr. Zakharov stood against a metal doorframe, smiling slightly. Only there was something wrong with him. He didn't look right.

"Pyotr, idi syuda," he called softly. I tried to step forward, but my feet wouldn't cooperate. I looked down and saw my feet frozen to the floor with a thick layer of ice covering them from toes to ankle. I panicked and turned to the doctor for help only to let out a loud shout. Dr. Zakharov stood standing against the doorway, his hand stretched out in welcome, ruby droplets dripping from his wide smile. Red rivulets were sliding down his face like tear drops, another stream of red dripping from the gunshot wound in the middle of his forehead. Blackened around the edges and agonizing to look at, the doctor kept smiling pleasantly like nothing was wrong. 

I frantically waved my arms in the air, trying to grasp something to hold onto or get my feet out of the ice, but nothing was within reach. My heart rising in my throat, I looked to the walls. Red droplets slithered down the steel fortress like snakes, pooling at my feet and hardening the ice to stone.

'I have to get out,' I thought, 'I have to get out.' In blind panic I reached over to my right and my fingers hit something cold. 'What.. is that a hand?' A scream tore from my throat when empty brown eyes met mine. 'May...' 

I gasped awake. 

My heart still pounding, stomach revolting, I fell out off the bed trying to untangle myself from the sweat soaked sheets.

Resting on the floor, I gave up and put my hands over my face. It was the same nightmare, Dr. Zakharov bleeding from the wound that killed him and May lying dead on an operating table like my mother must have when I was born. It's my fault. 

Slapping my face lightly, I tore the sheets from my body and stumbled to the window. It couldn't have been more then two maybe three hours since I arrived at Laurel's, the sun lowering leaving behind a pink and orange sky. It would be hours before I felt safe going back to sleep, so I picked up the sheets and set them in the laundry basket in the corner of the room for Alex to wash. Sliding my backpack over my shoulder I made my way down the stairs and out the door onto the street. Dodging people who were bustling by, I made my way back to Central Park. Maybe I could tire myself out by people watching. People were always the best entertainment to watch.

I sighed as I sat down on the metal bench and looked out over the people who were walking and minding their own business. I wondered what they were thinking about. Were they doctors and nurses thinking about a patient? Was one a serial killer thinking about his next victim? Was one a mother thinking about how much she loved her child? Or was one my father who was walking by with his friend like yesterday? Oh shit. 

Forcing my stiffened limbs to obey my commands, I picked up my backpack and hurried to my feet. Maybe they didn't notice me. Maybe I could sneak away and find a new park to haunt. Maybe...

"Hey kid," Bucky's friend called to my back, "Wait a second." Or maybe they noticed me and I was about to be arrested. Fucking great.

Chapter Text

"Hey Buck," Steve said quietly.

Making his way into the living room of their floor at Avenger's Tower, Bucky had resigned himself to another sleepless night. And Steve seemed to predict this because he was sitting in the armchair, sketching in his notebook something that he would rather stab himself in the eye then let Bucky read. At least that was what he said he would rather do when Bucky asked to see what he was drawing.

"Hi Steve," Bucky replied, his voice slightly strained from the nightmare that made him jerk awake with a knife held tightly in his flesh hand, his metal hand creaking it was clenched so hard.

The blonde looked like he was going to ask if he was alright before thinking better of it. Looked like those sessions, or rather ear bashings, with Sam were working. "So what's on the agenda for tonight?" he asked.

Bucky shrugged, then sat stiffly down on the couch across from the armchair. The nightly feature of flashbacks and what if's that haunted Bucky's dreams seemed to be worse tonight. Starting with his time at Hydra, as always, torture, lights flashing, guards laughing, voltage, pain, something different happened. There was something else, or rather someone else who appeared in the horror show that replayed in his mind. A little boy, no more then two or three, with big doe like eyes and dark brown hair, the same shade as his, with the same nose and cheekbones, and why did he seem so familiar?

"... Bucky? Are you okay?" Steve's voice cut through his thoughts. Blank blues eyes met concerned blue eyes, and Bucky made an effort to look somewhat alive to make that look go away. He loathed being looked at like that. He didn't know what was worse, worry or pity.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Bucky replied. He was perfectly content to leave it at that, but a surprise request slipped out on it's own accord, "I was thinking about taking a walk down to Central Park again, like last night."

He didn't know who was more surprised, him or Steve. For Steve, it was probably because that was the longest sentence Bucky had said in the last few weeks. For Bucky, it was because he didn't even realize how much he wanted to go back and find that kid. Why did he feel so protective over someone he didn't even know? Why did that kid bring up so many emotions he didn't even know he still had? After so many years acting as more machine then person, the rise of feelings he hadn't felt since the war, or maybe before, he couldn't let it go. Maybe he didn't want to let it go.

"Uh, okay. Sure Buck," Steve stuttered out. "Do you want me to go with you?"

Bucky hesitated for a second. He welcomed the time he had when he was alone because with mother hens like Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson, he wasn't allowed alone for more then a few minutes. But Steve was better with people then he was, so maybe if the had the chance to find the kid, Steve would be the better choice to interact with him.

"Sure," he said. Steve's face lit up with delight, and a warm feeling grew in Bucky's chest. Maybe he wasn't completely emotionless after all.

Unlike the other morning, there were more cars and people out on the street which made Bucky even more tense and keep his shoulder hiked up to his ears with his head down. As always he noticed all the people walking down the same street as him and Steve, walking past or across, minding their own business, but you could never know. They may have been a serial killer, or Hydra agent waiting for their chance to activate the soldier again.

To his left he heard Steve sigh. He glanced over and saw a sad, forlorn look flit across the blonde's face for a second before disappearing. And for a second, Bucky felt guilty. He knew he couldn't shut off the part of him that Hydra created, the same scars and habits that he carried every second of everyday, no matter how much he wanted to sometimes. He also couldn't go back to being the same old Bucky Barnes from before the war, the one that was carefree, who only worried about his sisters and Steve. Some things really couldn't be undone.

"So, why are we walking to Central Park at four o'clock in the morning?" Steve finally asked.

"Just felt like getting some fresh air is all," Bucky replied. He knew he should have told Steve about the dreams and the boy, but he couldn't seem to get the words to form.

Steve didn't seem satisfied with that answer, but went along with it. He ended up taking about some old memories he had of him and Bucky hitching a ride to Manhattan and having no way to get back home. Bucky felt a smile work it's way up his lips, but he didn't seem capable of more then that.

Walking through the entrance, the two men slowed to a snail's pace. The sun was barely out, with the streetlamp providing most of the light, but Bucky preferred it that way. After spending 70 years in a dark, enclosed capsule in an even darker, more enclosed compound, he still had trouble with bright lights.

And like any other day, he looked around at the other park occupants. The woman walking her dog, a man digging through the trash can, a teenage boy sleeping on the park bench, a woman... wait what?

Blue eyes shot back to the bench where the boy was laying. Even though he wanted to find the boy, he didn't think the boy would be there the very next day. And the boy seemed to notice the two of them walking by because he shot out of the bench like a bullet from a gun and picked up a worn backpack. With a spooked expression on his face, the boy made his way down the path and to the entrance before Steve shouted after him, "Hey kid, wait a second."

Bucky turned to Steve, startled. Could he have noticed his reaction to the boy? And the boy didn't seem to thrilled at having been spotted by them either. Steve hurried over to the bench the doe eyed boy was laying on and picked something off of the ground. Oh, he dropped a couple dollar bills. Bucky breathed a sigh of relief, and curiously, so did the kid.

"Here you are," Steve smiled, handing the kid the dollar bills. The kid seemed even more nervous with the two men so close, but he took the money and gave a strained smile back.

"Thank you," the kid said. Bucky noticed how the kid wouldn't even look in his direction. Why would he seem so afraid of me? 

"No problem. Here," Steve took out a twenty dollar bill from his pocket and gave it to the kid. Boy, did he seem like he needed it.

"Thank you sir," the boy said. With another smile, this one slightly more genuine, the kid quickly walked away.

"Poor kid," Steve said looking after him.

"Yeah," Bucky replied. Poor child.

What the fuck just happened?

I leaned against the wall of a building a few blocks away from Central Park, out of breathe with my heart trying to pound it's way out of my chest. I saw my father. I saw my father and talked to his friend. Well, I didn't exactly talk, but I was within reaching distance of them. Because I dropped a few damn dollars. And Steve freaking Rogers gave me a twenty dollar bill.

A laugh bubbled it's way up my chest and out my mouth, but I wasn't feeling very humorous at the moment. I could have come clean to Bucky right there, I had a chance and I blew it! Laughter turning to a frustrated sigh, I heaved myself from the wall and made my way to Laurel's. I could slip the twenty Bucky's friend gave me to Alex's brother Matt. Alex would have a fit, but it would be worth it to see Matt's face light up with excitement. At first, I was tempted to give the money back to Roger's, but I wanted to get of there as fast as I could. Besides, not many people would return money to a homeless kid like me. He seemed like a decent guy, I was glad Bucky had someone like him.

I sighed. 'Next time,' I thought. 'Next time, I'll actually talk to him.'

I just hoped imagining Bucky being happy about having a kid would be the same as actually telling him. I didn't want to think about what he would do if he didn't want a kid. But the worst part of it was that I wouldn't even find it in myself to blame him.

Chapter Text

September 10, 2001, Unknown Location, Russia

"Tishe, ditya. Tikhiy," the doctor muttered urgently under his breathe to the whimpering child in his arms.

This did nothing to quell the soft cries from the little creature twisting and turning in the doctor's arms, head turning from one side to the other, obviously looking for someone that wasn't there. The doctor felt a pain in his heart when he realized just who the little one was searching for. 

"O, malyshka.  Mne tak zhal," the doctor whispered, genuine regret in his voice. He could still picture that night one month ago when the young woman fought through unimaginable pain to bring life to a child she never even got to hold. That even now her baby was expecting to hear the voice that sang to him and made promises of blue skies, green countrysides, unconditional love from a mother. Freedom. A possibility that died along with her.

Tasked with studying the little being, making sure that he wasn't a waste to the noble cause that had killed and desecrated millions of lives, the doctor did something he never thought possible within the ice cold walls of the Russian compound. He grew attached to the boy. Looking into the doe like eyes of the baby in his arms, he couldn't imagine something so small and innocent taking lives on the orders of men that had no conscience, no feeling. "If only there was another way," the doctor thought. Another way... maybe...

"Doktor Zakharov," a cold, blank voice rang out from the doorway. 

Jumping slightly in his chair, the doctor turned and faced the steel gaze of the General, as he was called. A fine dressed, serious looking man with ice blue eyes, and a permanent frown on his face, he was the one in charge of the compound when Mr. Pierce was away. Also known for his tortuous methods of interrogation, he was a man that brought a fear the doctor had never experienced before into his chest. 'Oh the things he would do to this child.'

"Vy dobilis' progressa?" the General asked, lips pulled back in a sardonic smile.

"Net, General," the doctor replied quietly. Almost unconsciously, his gripped tightened on the little body in his arms who stayed thankfully silent.

The smile stayed on his face, but the General's eyes darkened a fraction in displeasure. "A pochemu, doktor?" he hissed.

Doctor Zakharov stuttered out a reply, his eyes on the man's boots, " P...pr...roshel vsego mesyats, ser. Rebenok y...yeshche ne polnost'yu s...sformirovan."

The General hummed in discontentment, " Togda na vashem meste, doktor Zakharov, ya by nashel rezul'taty do togo, kak vernetsya mister Pirs," he leaned in closer to the doctor grim delight dancing in his eyes, "Ili vy i etot rebenok v konechnom itoge stanete bednoy zhenoy i det'mi, kotorykh vy ne smogli by zashchitit'." And with a last grin, the General made his way out of the door with two guards, leaving the doctor and infant alone.

Heart pounding, sweat glistening in his forehead, Zakharov couldn't get the images of his families dead, tortured bodies lying on the compound floor, where even in death their faces showing the agony they endured. 'All because of me,' he thought sorrowfully.

A mewl from the body in his arms jerked him from his memories and he looked down at the baby. No, he couldn't let Hydra destroy this pure little thing. Not something that hasn't felt the sharp tip of a knife running over his throat, a bullet tearing through his chest, electric voltage taking away his thoughts and leaving him a shell of a man who could only do one thing; follow orders like a good little soldier.

"Ne boysya, Petr. Ya budu derzhat' tebya v bezopasnosti. Ya obeshchayu," the doctor whispered gently to the baby, and for the first time in a month, the little baby slept peacefully through the night.

Present Day, December 1, 2016

"Oh for Pete's sake Alex, I'm asking to hang out with a couple friends, not running away to live in a brothel!" Matt nearly yelled.

I choked on a laugh while Alex choked at the word brothel coming out of his kid brother's mouth. Being three years younger then me and six years younger then Alex, Matt was about as innocent a 12 year old could be living in a homeless shelter. With an overprotective older brother like Alex Bell shielding him from everything possible that came his way, I wasn't surprised. The more I thought about it the more I wished I had someone like Alex growing up. Well, I guess I did if only for a little while. Dr. Zakharov was the greatest, but if he was anything with me it was honest. He never kept anything from me, even if I didn't like the answer. He was the best parental figure I could have asked for, besides May.

"Yeah Alex, for my sake let your brother go out," I couldn't resist jumping in. Matt gave an amused snort, while Alex gave me a half assed glare, though I could see the grin fighting it's way onto his face.

"I already told you, it's a school night, so even if I wanted to say yes..." Alex started, but Matt cut him off, "Actually, it's a half day tomorrow, and I already did all my homework for the rest of the week."

Alex opened his mouth, then closed it again, but I could tell he wasn't about to give in. "Alex come on. It's not like he's going out and getting high with the degenerates who skip class and smoke behind the bleachers."

Now I got a full on glare. I could practically hear Alex saying, 'I thought you were on my side' and 'Don't give him any fucking ideas!'

But I looked over at Matt and we came to a silent agreement. We both turned to Alex and gave our best puppy dog eyes full force. Alex's own blue eyes widened and took a step back. I've got to give it to him, he valiantly held out for longer then I thought he would before he sighed and caved in.

"Alright, fine you can go to your friend's house. Now put those damn eyes away," Alex said, rolling his eyes and throwing his hands into the air in exasperation.

Matt and I gave each other a high five and Matt gave his brother a hug before tearing out of the room to get his things.

I sighed in content and leaned back in my chair only to have Alex glare at me again. Okay, the first two times I get, but this was just a little excessive. "What? What'd I do now?" I nearly yelled.

Alex pointed a finger at me and I pretend to be affronted, "Don't go giving that kid any ideas. I don't want to have to worry about him turning into one of those junkies we see when we find a new place to stay. The ones who go with whatever John that promises money, but leaves them bleeding in an alley."

Oh. My gaze softened and I replied in a gentle tone, "Alex, I'm not going to say don't worry because you always will. But you should know that you can trust Matt. He's a great kid who knows what's right and wrong and makes good decisions. He won't let you down," I got up and crossed the room to put a hand on his shoulder, "Besides, he's got a pretty great role model to look up to."

Alex chuckled softly, "Thanks Pete." But his posture was straighter then it was a minute ago, like his shoulders were less weighed down with worry. Look at that May, I did something right by someone.

I smiled and squeezed his shoulder. Grabbing my backpack, I made my way to the door. Before crossing the threshold I turned back and looked at Alex, "Oh, and one more thing," he looked over at me. I gave him the best cheshire cat grin I could muster and said, "If he does come back saying you're going to be an uncle, don't blame me."

I ran down the stairs listening to Alex curse me out in every phrase he could think of, laughing all the while.

Walking down the street under the mid-afternoon sun, I treasured one of the last days the sun isn't obscured by clouds, signaling the winter weather. Preferring the warmer weather because of my spider genetics, I spent as much time as I could outside before winter came to kick my ass.

Looking at the different shops lining the streets, it took a minute before the tingling at the back of my neck registered. Faltering in my step, I slowed down my pace and tried as casually as possible to lean against a lamp post and turn around. Strangers were walking by, barely taking notice of their surroundings. Cars were zooming down the street honking aggressively to each other with billboard signs advertising the new product or entertainment of the week. But there was nothing that could set off a warning like that...

I hissed in pain as the sensation at the back of my neck became more pronounced, rising to a full blown stinging. What the hell?

And that was when I saw the man sitting at an outside coffee shop table across the street in front of me. Dressed in a long black trench coat, black slacks, and black boots I noticed that he had a newspaper in his hand that he wasn't paying any attention to. Instead he was looking straight at someone. Me.

Fighting the rising panic trying to climb it's way out of my throat, I resumed my walk. Making it half a block I turned my head and felt my stomach jolt when I saw the man a few feet behind me. Turning back around, I thought as fast as I could without feeling like I was going to pass out. To many people to engage. Not enough back alley ways to make a quick escape. Is this how my dad thought when he was on a mission? Which way to go.

Deciding to take the quickest route, I ducked into a clothing store. Trying to act like any other teenage customer, I pretended to look through the racks of shirts farthest from the door. Giving a quick glance at the entrance, the trench coat guy was loitering at a stand by the door. Clenching my jaw and swallowing hard, I gave another quick glance around and found the sign for the dressing rooms. Grabbing a hand full of shirts, I briskly made my way to one of the stalls and shut the door. Looking around I nearly dropped with relief when I found a window in the stall a few inches over my head. Dropping the shirts onto the wooden bench in the stall, I crouched down to see if trench coat guy followed me. Low and behold a pair of black boots were waiting by the door, probably waiting for me to come back out. Wiping my sweaty hands onto my jeans, I stood on the bench and fought to open the rusted lock on the window. When the lock squeaked, I heard a pair of footsteps come closer to my stall and I pushed with all my might to open the damn thing.

Finally, I broke open the latch and didn't even have time to feel guilty as I heaved myself through the small opening and fell onto the hard cement beneath me. Getting up and running was the only thing I focused on until I felt I was far enough away to slow down and stop. When that finally happened and I could catch my breathe the panic came back full force. Who the hell was that guy? Why was he following me? He couldn't be... The was no way he could be... Oh May, please tell me Hydra didn't find me already. 

Then another thought popped into my head. If they found me, then did that mean they found my dad? No matter how much I believed Bucky could handle himself against Hydra, especially with the Avengers backing him, I couldn't help the nauseating feeling rising in my stomach. I have to check on him.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I started running in the direction of the Avengers Tower. To go check on my dad who didn't even know he was my dad. How the hell did things go to shit so fast?

Chapter Text

December 17, 2001, Unknown Location, Russia

Soon. It's going to happen soon. 

The doctor muttered under his breathe while working out the scientific equations on the metal table in front of him. Only that's what it looked like. To any one of the guards who walked by or looked in, it would seem the old doctor was doing his job and studying the small child that had a permanent place at his side. 'Oh, if they only knew,' the doctor thought with a sense of despondent irony. That in actuality he was watching them. Watching the way they changed positions every six hours, how they exchanged posts every twelve hours, how one guard took a break to smoke and another took advantage of a prisoner in one of the cells on the next floor. For the last three months, the doctor watched all of this, keeping notes in a language only he could understand, variables instead of letters, equations instead of sentences. The violent brutes would never know the difference.

Eyes alight with a hope he hadn't felt in many years, the doctor gave a quick smile to the babe sleeping at his side in a makeshift cradle. 'It won't be very long now, Pyotr. Not very long at all before you can see the sun and sky.'

Of course, there was something on the doctor's list that was going to be harder to accomplish. 'How to find Pyotr's father? Now wasn't that the question. When Pyotr's mother was to be impregnated, the doctor was given the semen and that was that. No mention of the poor soul, or volunteer or prisoner, who fathered this little being. 'If he is a prisoner, maybe he can be saved. But who is he?'

The easiest way to find this out was to look through the files in the command center in the middle of the compound. The most secure and guarded place in the entire metal fortress. 'How can I get to those records?' the doctor thought to himself in frustration. 'Guards come and go as they please, and I am chained to this cell.' The doctor paused, 'Guards come and go as they please.' Well, isn't that an idea.

Present Day

Natasha made her way through the halls of the Avenger's Tower with no specific purpose in mind.

Boredom being quite the motivator, and all the guys working on their respective activities, an exploration of the crevices she already found, but never paid much mind to seemed the way to go. Or, at least this was the safest option. Natasha could have found Tony, or Bruce, or Clint to annoy and pester, but she refused to sink to Clint's level. For the moment.

Deciding to start from the bottom upwards, Natasha took in the first floor and lobby. Stark Enterprises employees and interns wondered from one side of the room to another and security guards stood rigid at their posts. The receptionist at the front desk was people watching, appearing to be just as bored, and Natasha felt the ghost of a smile cross her lips. 'Well, there's one person who won't be bothered.'

As she was about to make her way across the slick flooring, a figure outside of the class doors caught her attention. A young boy, no more then fifteen or sixteen, stood lingering across the street from the front doors of the Tower. While no one would take a second glance at him, the phantom expression of worry and fear on the boy's face was clear to Natasha's keen eye. A frown flit across her face, 'Why would he look like that staring at the Avenger's Tower? Or is it something else?'

Diverting her path to the front doors, Natasha silently made her way through them and onto the street, using the crowds of people as a cover from the boy's eyes. Keeping the boy in her line of sight, Natasha made her way through the crowd and past the cars speeding by like bats out of hell. When she was a few feet from the boy, he stiffened causing the spy to freeze mid-step. The boy turned in her direction, and she caught sight of doe like brown eyes widening before he took off down the street, using the crowd to cover his tracks much like she did herself. 'Now why would he seem so afraid of me? How did he notice me out of all these people?'

Quickening her pace, Natasha kept the boy's hole covered jacket in her sight before he turned a corner. Deciding that she was going to lose him if he made a quick duck into any one of the doorways lining the street, she calmly made her way back to the Tower with the image of the boy fresh in her mind. There was something about him that seemed so familiar. The way he weaved through the crowd, the expression on his face looking at the Tower, it almost reminded her of...

She faltered in her tracks before continuing briskly to a lab with a computer. Why would the boy remind her so much of Barnes?

Shit! What the hell did I just do?

Hiding in the restroom of a Chinese restaurant, I replayed the scene in my head while cursing myself quite colorfully in my head. What the hell was I thinking?!

Aside from completely forgetting my training, which would be reason enough for a smack to the head or an electrical charge to the head, don't forget little spider, I was caught by the goddamn Black Widow! Of all the people who could have spotted me, it had to be the best spy in the world. She'll figure you out in a matter of seconds, now isn't that quite the disappointment? And worst of all, if she figures out who's son I am she could tell Bucky. And if for any reason they come looking for me, Hydra could find Bucky if the agent following me earlier was any indication. Well my checking on Bucky plan backfired spectacularly!

Taking a deep breath to calm my racing heart, I wrapped my flimsy jacket tighter around myself and unlocked the door. I hesitated opening it though, expecting a fleet of Hydra agents waiting for me on the other side, or the Black Widow ready to take me to SHIELD or back to the Tower where I'd come face to face with a disappointed Bucky. I honestly wasn't sure which was worse.

Holding my breathe and deciding to bite the bullet, I wrenched open the door and hastened my step through the restaurant, keeping my eyes on the door the whole time. I let out the breathe, only to have it quicken in short pants until my vision started to get blurry. Oh, great. Okay, what did Dr. Zakharov say to do when this happened? I stumbled in my step, not even paying attention to where I was going, and began to run through numerical equations in my head. It was like our own language, I remembered. Only Dr. Zakharov could understand the translation and that made it all the more special. It also had a way of coming me down only the doctor and May could accomplish. Seeing May's smile in my mind, I slowed in my pace and focused only on the memory. Now that I was able to draw in a breathe, I realized with a jolt that I was back in Central Park. I was really starting to dislike this place.

Sitting down on a bench, I tried to figure out where to go next. I couldn't go back to Laurel's so no one followed me there, and any other place in a couple mile radius. And I really hoped Alex and Laurel didn't worry. They were to good of people to worry about me, I sure as hell didn't deserve it. Maybe I better try some place outside of Manhattan. Going back to Queens was still a raw memory and I didn't have the energy to leave New York, so Brooklyn it was. Hopefully, I could come back sooner then later because no matter how much I didn't want to admit it, I really wanted to see Bucky again. If this was all the contact I could have with the man, then I would take as much a I could get. Even if it hurt just as much seeing a father I could never have.

Chapter Text

December 31, 2001, Unknown Location, Russia

'These brutes are going to be the death of me,' the irate doctor thought before wincing. They were brutes yes, but brutes with guns and a bloodlust that rivaled a feral dog.

Sitting in the partial dark of the cell, Dr. Zakharov rocked the baby in his arms while the little being slept. Weeks of planning went into the chance that presented itself on New Year's Eve, all the time he spent memorizing the guards schedules and movements, the General's schedule and temperament, and he knew that he had only one chance. If he succeeded, then he had the chance of giving Pyotr a normal life. If he got caught...well, he didn't plan on spending the last moments of his life at the mercy of men who had as many brain cells as a rock, so he wasn't going to fail. He wasn't going to fail Pyotr.

He listened to the ruckus the guards were making on the other side of the door. This was the only way he was able to discern time stuck in between the four steel walls, mostly because a physical clock could be used as a weapon if the person was angry enough, or desperate enough. 'Even an old, mild mannered doctor, Zakharov thought to himself in grim amusement. And by the shouts of excitement and pleasure coming from down the hall, the doctor wrinkled his nose in disgust when he realized the guards were just about finished with the young woman they brought tonight, her crying non existent giving a glimpse of just how much the guards had their fun with her. They'll kill her soon then. They liked it when they screamed.

If his calculations were correct, Zakharov knew that once the guards were...finished, then they would make their way past his cell to the control room for their own New Year's Eve celebration. Then he could continue with his plan.

The doctor's hands started to sweat, tremors of anticipation and fear wreaking havoc with his nerves, but he held the baby steady in his arms. He smiled fondly down at him, thoughts of his children dancing through his mind leaving pain in their wake. How he missed his family. And he never said goodbye. He never saw the him coming, though he supposed that was what makes him Hydra's most prized weapon.

The doctor could still see his wife's smiling face looking back at him as they watched their daughters play together in front of their home, in the grass with flowers in their hair and laughter floating in the wind. And then, just like a storm coming to wreak violence to feed it's pleasure, the soldier came from the shadows behind their home. A masked face appeared behind his wife and bright eyes lost their life as the soldier shot the woman dead. The doctor didn't even have time to move, couldn't move. Mouth open in a silent cry, he turned as fast as he could to his daughters, 'his little girls, please, not his babies', but they were already on the ground, long hair covering their faces, blood pooling under them in ruby red lakes.

The Hydra agents weren't very far behind, the General leading the way. Unfeeling blue eyes smiled down at him as the General commanded the soldier to take the doctor with them back to the compound. Stiff, robotic movements are the only things that would give indication that the masked man was living. With blue eyes of his own, they held no life in them, no sign he was anything more then a machine awaiting his next orders.

The doctor tightened his hold on his little girls, pleading, 'Don't take me from my children, please don't take away my babies, please', but the soldier gripped him under his arms and hauled him to his feet, his body giving a jerk when the cold from the soldier's metal arm seeped through his shirt right down to his bones. Or maybe he just had no warmth left in him.

Zakharov didn't remember what happened after, his thoughts locked onto his family, 'his dead family, no more laughter, no more smiles, no more family', or when he got to the compound where he has been ever since. No will to fight, no will to resist when his will was buried six feet underground. He wonders how long it's been. More then a year, he knows that, maybe much more.

A minuscule whimper escaped from the baby in his and he shook himself out of the memories that always left him drowning in a sea of pain. Almost as if the little thing was warning him to pay attention, Pyotr waved his little fists toward the wall where the voices of the guards were getting louder and louder, indicating the men were walking closer to their cell.

Sitting rigid in anticipation, the doctor strained his hearing and held back the gag of nausea rising in him at the crude description the men were sharing with each about the girl they had just broken. Complete pleasure in their voices along with laughter. The doctor really needed to get Pyotr away from them.

As the voices of the men faded as they walked toward the control room at the center of the compound, doctor quickly, but gently placed Pyotr in his makeshift cradle, wrapping him tight in a blanket.

"Ya seychas vernus', Pyotr. Obeshchayu," Zakharov whispered, lightly brushing his finger against the baby's cheek.

Turning away and toward the metal door, he took out miniature screwdriver he from his pocket, the only thing he could steal from a guard's jacket without anyone noticing when they searched him. Keeping his hand as rigid as the tool, the doctor worked at the lock until he heard the lock give and the door opened with a push of his hand. Glancing one more time at the little boy, who was depending on him to succeed on his mission, he stepped through the uninviting doorway and cautiously closed the metal barrier. Keeping his eyes and ears open for any stray guards, he made his way to the General's personal office, fear coursing through him all the way.

Present Day

The bus ride from Manhattan to Brooklyn wasn't the most comfortable bus ride I've ever had.

My stomach was still rolling from my earlier panic, and my head was pounding just enough I was cursing my enhanced senses in every language I could think of. And boy, could I think of a few. 'What would my dad think of his son swearing worse then a sailor,' I couldn't help but think to myself, and mentally pounded on my head harder then the headache. If I wanted to save myself from the inevitable pain I was going to be put through wishing for a dad and not getting one was going to give me, I needed to stop with all the thoughts of wishing and wondering. They weren't going to do me any good. I needed to save myself first.

The bus came to a stop in front of a row of shops, and I hopped down the steps, blending into the crowd as best I could without getting to close to anyone. Shoulders tensed, and back hunched, I took in all the different people from behind my bangs and calculated all the different hiding places and advantage spots I could see. It's all about having the advantage, little spider, because if you don't have the advantage, you don't survive. 

Violently shoving the voice out of my head, I walked down the street until I came to one of the abandoned buildings I usually stayed in when I hunkered down in Brooklyn. Climbing up the side of the building in broad daylight would have attracted very unwanted attention, so I climbed through the broken window closes to the ground level. Throwing my backpack in first I hauled myself up and through grumbling all the while. Here comes another night of sleeping alone in an abandoned, rat infested, cold building. Who would have thought I would miss digging through other people's garbage if it meant spending time with Alex. And I really fucking meant it. Well, maybe not the garbage part.

Wiggling through the last few inches, I gave a yelp when a sharp pain shot up my side and landed hard on the ground below the window. Not even trying to get up when I would only land on my ass again, I looked down at my right side and lifted up my shirt. A small cut, only an inch or so long, leaked blood as it welled a little to quickly for my liking. I glared up at the window where I only now saw the sharp glass pieces standing straight on the outer frame. Great, it this gets infected I am thoroughly screwed. Sitting up and unzipping my trusty backpack, I pulled out the water I grabbed from Laurel's before leaving, and poured it over the cut. Ripping part of my spare shirt, I held it to my side keeping it in place with my jeans and hoped that it would be enough.

This day really fucking sucked.

The cold halls of the compound were empty, but the ghosts of all the victims that died in this place seemed to hover over the doctor, weighing him down as he made his was quietly to the General's office. As the second most important room in the entire steel deathtrap, it was located at the far end of the complex, usually guarded by at least four men, but not tonight. Wherever the General goes, the guards go too. Lucky for him.

Making him sure that no one was going to jump out and surprise him, he turned the corner and came face to face with the door he would happily never enter if he had the choice. But he took out the screwdriver and opened the door as quickly as possible. The cautious walk across the compound had taken much longer then he had the time for, and he needed to get the information he needed and get back to Pyotr.

Stepping through the doorway, a cruel shiver went through him and he bit back a yelp. He never thought he would prefer his cell. Moving hastily to the desk that sat at the far end of the room, he took in the barren, unwelcoming state of the office not in the least surprised with the lack of personal, or even, professional possessions. Considering who it's occupant was, he expected more bloodstains and torture devices.

Opening the drawers of the desk, he flicked through them, only skimming what he thought would be important, but not finding what he needed. Files and reports of prisoners who were held captive in this cold hell, none gave any information on who could be Pyotr's father. Stopping himself from slamming a compartment shut, he glanced around the room until his eyes fell on a file cabinet that came up to his knee, sitting by the wall to his right hidden in shadow. Rising from his crouched position on the floor, the doctor gave a quick peak at the door, not hearing anyone outside. Jerking on the handle, he nearly cried out a curse when the whole metal box nearly gave from the wall. 'Of course it was locked, idiot.' Using the screwdriver to unlock the cabinet, he made quick work through the files. 

Almost giving up hope, he searched through the last drawer, heart thundering in his chest and his palms sweating. Nothing. Nothing at all. Growl escaped him before he could stop it, and Zakharov kicked the drawer shut, wincing when the shoe on metal sounded through the room. Thank God no one was in that part of the compound, or he would be well and truly caught. Taking a breathe to calm himself, he turned to leave when a crack in the behind the cabinet caught his eye. His eyes narrowed in confusion, he didn't notice that before, only to have them widen in realization. When he kicked the big, useless thing, he unintentionally moved it from it's carefully positioned spot.

Digging his fingers into the crack, he pulled the opening from the wall and nearly fell back when it easily gave way. Inside the small, dark hiding place in the wall, Zakharov spotted a thick file sitting alone in the middle of the whole. Heart pounding even harder, the doctor snatched the stack of papers and hurriedly flipped through them. And his heart nearly stopped. There, in black letters on white paper, were the words he so hoped to find, only know he wished he didn't:

Eksperiment 0006

Subject Codename: Spider

Mother: Katya Volkov

Father: Soldat

Soldat. Father is Soldat. The soldier.

Zakharov flipped to the other page and the face of the man who killed his family, finally unmasked, starred back at him. Only, he didn't look much like the soldier in this one. He had the same long brown hair and expressionless face, only the lack of feeling could be from the fact he didn't seem to be conscious. Laying behind a metal prison, his face only visible thanks to the clear glass, the soldier lay frozen in cryogenic freezing until his masters had another use for him.

The doctor hated to admit that his heart pulled in his chest when he saw the robotic man unconscious and vulnerable to the mercy of men who loved to break people in any way they could. This man killed his family. He was a monster, any way you looked at it. Only...he was a prisoner too. Any person who consensually volunteers to be a part of Hydra, don't typically have to be put in cold storage. He didn't look like he had a say in what happened to him.

The doctor took to long staring at the picture before him because he heard the metallic creak of a door opening and closing. He jumped up from where he was sitting and put the panel and cabinet back in place, hiding the file under his shirt. A quick glance told the doctor everything was where it was before he came in and he took off through the door, locking it, and moving as quickly as he could back to his cell where the baby of a brainwashed monster was waiting in his care. But he could hardly blame Pyotr. If the soldier didn't have a say in what happened to him as a full grown man, then Pyotr certainly didn't have a say as a helpless baby.

Stuck in his thoughts, the doctor almost turned a corner just a hallway away from his cell, before he caught himself when he heard the loud laughter coming from a man. Pushing himself against the wall, he held his breath, waiting for the men to leave. Panic shot through him when one of the voices got closer to him, but a scream from the cell across from caught the guard's attention. Listening to the footsteps fade as they walked into the cell, he walked as quickly as he could without running until he slipped through his cell door, and closed it behind him until the lock snapped in place.

Breathing hard, sweat running down his back, Zakharov leaned against the cold metal until his heart stopped feeling like it was trying to jump out of his chest. Soft crying was coming from the cradle at the corner of the room, and he hastily picked the baby up, soothing him as best he could with his shaking hands. The baby laid his head on the doctor's chest, right where the file was, right where his father's picture lay. A father that the little thing may never know.

"Oh, Pyotr, mne ochen zhal," the doctor whispered quietly next to the baby's ear. A father who was brainwashed and order to kill and a mother who did not live long enough to hold her son. Tears welled in his eyes as he mourned not only his family, but the baby's as well.

Natasha's eyes narrowed as she looked at the screen in front of her. Frustration was slowly welling up inside her, but she tried to push it down.

Once she got up to the computer in Tony's spare lab, she got to work searching through every database she could think of trying to find the young boy who had escaped from her earlier. With the way he blended into the crowd, evaded her, dropped from sight when he rounded that corner, he moved very similarly to...He had to have some connection to Barnes. That had to be the only explanation. Only there was nothing about the boy. No school records, no medical records, no deaths records, nothing to give her any indication that he was a real person. She might not have believed he was real if she hadn't seen him herself. The boy was a ghost. But that would be impossible unless he was SHIELD, or...

Natasha's eyes widened. That couldn't be...he was to young to be...if he wasn't SHIELD...maybe, he was trained by Hydra.

"Friday," Natasha called out, her composure as solid as ever on the outside.

"Yes, Agent Romanoff," the A.I. replied.

"Can you run a trace through the the city's camera system and see if you can find a boy 14 to 16 years old, brown hair, brown eyes, around 5'6 to 5'7 wearing a worn navy blue jacket, jeans, and black sneakers," she hesitated before adding, "And don't tell anyone I asked you, okay?"

The A.I. seemed to hesitate as well, "Alright, Agent Romanoff. May I ask why you are intent of finding this boy?"

Natasha mulled over her answer. "He reminds me of someone. And...he seemed like he was in trouble," and that was the truth wasn't it. For someone who had such skill in evading someone who had years of experience, he seemed just like his aged suggested. A child. A scared child who needed help. Maybe there wasn't much Hydra in him.

Chapter Text

January 10, 2002, Unknown Location, Russia

Zakharov’s eyes snapped open when the shrieking of the metal door to his cell shocked him out of a troubled sleep.

Jack-knifing into a sitting position, the worn doctor locked eyes with blue lakes that froze his breath in his lungs and tightened his hold on the makeshift crib holding the figure’s son. ‘This is not going to end well,’ the doctor thought to himself.

The soldier moved mechanically toward the doctor, and hauled the frightened man up to his feet, keeping an iron grip on the man’s shoulder. ‘He didn’t even glance at the baby,’ Zakharov thought to himself, and he wasn’t sure whether to be heartbroken or elated.

The halls of the compound were lined with guards, stone-faced and standing ramrod straight, their blank eyes cutting through the doctor as he walked past them. Zakharov was unnerved to find that he was uncomfortable around them when they weren’t making some sort of derogatory remark. It just went to show how long he has been there. Zakharov didn’t even bother asking the soldier where they were going, knowing that he wouldn’t receive an answer. The man with the metal arm would not respond to anyone but his superiors. ‘More like his torturer.’

The doctor’s heart dropped to his feet when he recognized the hallway he was being led down. Cold steel that darkened to black the closer they got to…

“Doktor, kak milo s vashey storony prisoyedinit’sya k nam,” the General greeted cheerfully from behind his desk. Cheerfully. This was not going to end well at all. (Doctor, how nice of you to join us.)

“Obshchiy,” Zakharov greeted back, valiantly trying to hide his unease. It wasn’t working.

The General turned to the soldier. “Zakroyte dver.” (Close the door.)

The soldier stood in front of the metal door, his left arm blending into the gray that covered the structure behind him. There was no escape now. With no windows, no trapdoors, the most obvious choice being the door that led the doctor into the room being guarded by the most dangerous killer in the world. The doctor would have no way of getting out without the General’s say so. Whether he was walking on his own two feet or carried out, and he hoped it was the former.

The General moved around his desk and stood with his hands clasped together in front of him. Dressed in a dark blue tailored suit, black dress shoes, and a crisp white dress shirt, Zakharov had to guess the dear old General was visited by Pierce. That was the only explanation a homicidal brute like the one standing before him would be dressed in a suit. Also not a good sign.

“Doktor, kazhetsya, u nas problema. I my plokho rabotayem s problemami,” the General began. His ice blue eyes pierced like daggers into the doctor’s face, and he tried to hide a flinch. “My ne terpim problemami.” (Doctor, we seem to have a problem. And we do not operate well with problems. We do not tolerate problems.)

Zakharov swallowed before asking, his voice cracking slightly, “I chto eto za problema?” (And what problem is that?)

The General sighed as if he was saddened by the tragedy of a death. “Kazhetsya, budto odin iz moikh okhrannikov ukral u menya.”

Zakharov kept his composure, but he felt as if his heart would stop at any second. The General knew. He knew about Zakharov’s little exploration of his hiding place and the files…’I put the files back as I found them, except the one with…’ but the General said it was a guard…only there weren’t that many guards on duty that night…what could he think…

The General went on, seemingly unaware of the doctor’s internal panic, “Zakharov, vy uzhe davno zhivete v moyem podvor’ye.” He clasped the frightened man’s shoulders as a friend would a trusted confidant. “Kak by stranno eto ni zvuchalo, ya chuvstvuyu, chto mogu tebe doveryat.” (Zakharov, you have stayed in my compound for a long time now. As strange as it sounds, I feel I can trust you.)

This only served to make Zakharov nauseous, the gray mush he was given for dinner the night before threatening to expel itself any second.

“I imenno poetomu ya khochu, chtoby vy znali, chto proiskhodit, kogda vy peresekayetes' so mnoy.” The General snapped his fingers and the soldier stepped aside from the door far enough to allow two guards to drag in a man sagging between them. Zakharov recognised the third man as one of the guards who would patrol outside his cell, one of the ones who liked to play with the female prisoners. Only now, the man looked like a prisoner himself. Blood painted his face and down his front, dripping from his mouth and nose and onto the floor. Ragged breath escaped him in broken rasps, a tell-tale sign of broken ribs, if not a punctured lung. And his ribs were not the only broken bones he had, his arms were twisted unnaturally along with his legs. The two guards holding him up dropped him unceremoniously to the ground, but the man didn’t seem to even have the strength to cry out in pain. They had broken him.

The General looked down at the bleeding man with disgust, no sympathy, no remorse, nothing but disdain that the man would even dare to bleed on his clean floor. “Itak, vy vidite, Doktor, vy by nikogda ne zakhoteli mne perechit'. Net, yesli vy ne khotite stolknut'sya s posledstviyami.” (So you see, Doctor, you do not want to cross me. Not if you don’t want to face the consequences.)

“Soldat.” The soldier moved faster than any human being the doctor had ever seen. From beside the door, a metal hand whipped out and… Bang.

Present Day

My eyes snapped open and I jerked into a sitting position before I could stop myself.

Pain shot through my right side and I let out an involuntary yelp, one I was sure was more surprise than pain. That…wasn’t much better. Rolling up my shirt, I looked down to examine the cut from earlier only for my eyebrows to shoot to my hairline when I see it hasn’t healed. Not an inch has been healed, the only progress I can see is that the bleeding has stopped. But it hasn’t even scabbed over. That…that hasn’t happened before.

Dropping my shirt, I take a breath to stave off the panic that’s starting to climb up my throat. Glancing around my temporary new home, I see out the window that it's dark out, meaning I’ve been asleep for a good couple hours. ‘If I decided to go out now, I can use the moonless sky to give me cover if Hydra decided to follow me to Brooklyn,’ I thought to myself. 

Nodding to no one, I stumble as I get up, my gaze going fuzzy for a second. What the hell was that? I was so used to going without enough food to keep my enhanced metabolism fed, I barely noticed them anymore. Maybe that was why the cut wasn’t healing. I hadn’t eaten even my meager findings while staying away from Laurel’s, so that had to be why I wasn’t feeling like myself.

Taking another breath, I put my jacket on and slip my backpack over that. Keeping still for a full minute, listening to make sure no one was anywhere near the building, I shimmied out the window I came through, making sure all the glass pieces were broken away this time.

Standing in the frigid night air, I moved as quickly as possible without drawing attention to myself down the almost empty street. The cold was a welcome slap in the face from my dream that seemed to weigh around me, making me feel heavy and weightless at the same time. Dr. Zakharov bleeding on the carpeted floor of our home, May standing next to him asking why I didn’t save them, my mother lying dead on a bloody slab, five dead bodies scattered around her… Oh God, please not them…

My breath caught in my throat and tears blurred my vision. I tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, hands automatically splaying in front of me to break my fall, but being of little help when I just crashed down on them and my knees. I wiped the back of my hand over my eyes, trying to make the tears go away. But they kept coming, one after another, and I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. My sobs echoed in the empty street until I bit my lip to silence them, blood starting to well in their place. The dreams were always unbearable, but whenever those five bodies appeared, it was like I was being ripped from the inside out and the pain was indescribable. I hated it when they appeared in my dreams, but I wanted to see them.

I missed them. I missed them, even though I had no idea who they were.

The cold from the soldier’s metal hand clasped like an iron shackle on the doctor’s arm sent shivers down his spine. It was a strange sensation, cold mixing with the numbness shock induced. Strange, and extremely unpleasant.

The sound as the bullet from the gun in the soldier’s hand ricocheted in the man’s head, the blood and brain matter that painted the wall and the doctor’s pant leg as the man’s head dropped to the floor, not moving…he wasn’t moving…all the blood…

The doctor jumped as the shriek from his cell door broke through his thoughts. The soldier pushed him through the opening and closed it, no gruffness, no bruising like all the guards left behind when taking him from and to his cell, just mechanical movements, smooth and robotic, everything with a purpose but no mind to what the action was. Closing a door or shooting a man through the head. He just did it.

Before the doctor could stop himself, he called out to the retreating figure, “Soldat!”

The soldier froze for a second, one second, before continuing on his way back to his master's chambers to receive his next orders. But the doctor saw it. That one second of hesitation, that one second where the soldier listened to someone who wasn’t the General or a handler. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Something.

“Bucky?” Steve asked, standing behind the armchair that held a figure hunched over, long hair hiding the pained face.

It was another night of nightmare, or memories would be the correct term. Memories of blood and guns and guts and knives. Torture, screaming, begging, shots, bang..

“Bucky?” Steve asked again, quietly. The only answer he received was a slight inclination of the head, a sign of recognition. “Do you want me to leave?”

Did I want you to leave. You mean I get a choice? Did he want Steve to be around him when he was like this? To see him in the aftermath of remembering, seeing flashes of the monster he was, of what he could do. But did he want to be alone, with the voices telling him it was his fault?

“No,” came the raspy response from a throat that spent years screaming.

Steve sat down on the couch a few inches away from the armchair, his sketchbook and pencil ready in his hand, prepared to give Bucky as much time as he needed to get himself together without making him feel like he was being watched, scrutinized. They’ve been through a lot of nights like this. And Steve would keep doing it until Bucky told him to go.

Bucky stayed in the position he was in for a long time, going over his dream, nightmare, memory, until he knew every detail. Or at least, make out what he could of the hazy pieces that refused to form. The General, the one who gave the orders, and a body on the ground…a man, a guard…and another man, this one with glasses, a frightened face, what was his name? Was it…no that’s not a name…but he was called Doctor…

A kind doctor. What was so familiar about that doctor?

“Bucky? You alright to start the day?” Steve asked, trying for jovial, but ending up with exhaustion.

No. “Yes,” and that was that.

Wincing as I walked down the street, my hands and knees stinging slightly with each step I tried to keep moving as much as possible. Staying in one place out in the open for so long had made me antsy. Anxious. I shouldn't have broken down like that at all. I couldn't cry over someone who I didn't even know. I couldn't. But I did.

Looking through my bangs to the world around me, I wasn't paying attention to where my feet were taking me before the street started to look familiar. Oh, fricking hell. Would you believe me if I said I walked all the way to Queens from Brooklyn? Well, believe it. With how fast I can move because of whatever fucked up serum Hydra dosed me with, I can move pretty damn fast when I want to. And judging by the sun rising over the horizon, I've been out for a while. All night to be exact. No wonder my knees were stinging.

I stopped in front of my and May's old apartment. I hadn't been here since my great escape from the hospital where they were keeping me the night May died. May didn't know about my past with Hydra, but this apartment had some great hiding places. And in one of those hiding places, were two thick Hydra files Dr. Zakharov had made sure would get to me if anything happened to him. And when something did happen, I followed his wishes to a T, but never looked in either file except for a picture of my father so I would know who to look for. Both files were safe inside, no new residence to accidentally stumble upon them, no one thinking to look in the place that was turned upside down by Hydra agents.

It was a perfect hiding place. And I was terrified of the secrets I stored in those hiding places. If my dreams held any truth to them, if they actually happened, five people died, five people who were important to me. And if missing them when I didn't know who they were hurt so much now, what would it be like when I found out their names, their faces. I could handle so much pain already. I couldn't see how I could handle that.

Chapter Text

February 14, 2002, Unknown Location, Russia

This was his favorite part of the dream.

The softness of his wife’s hands caressing his face, the musical laughter of his daughters, the warm sunlight radiating through the window. Home. 

And then…the screaming starts. And the beautiful dream turns into a mind shattering nightmare.

The doctor rubs his tired brown eyes with a sigh. The burning sensation in his eyes has passed, but the throbbing in his chest doesn’t leave. It hasn’t left since the last time he saw his family all those months…years?...ago.

Zakharov’s attention switched to the sleeping baby next to him. The only innocent thing to breathe within these steel walls, kept caged with monsters that wouldn’t need to hide under a child’s bed. They would have no problem taking over the entire village.

And the doctor had a problem of his own. Well, two to be exact. Firstly, the infant had a name, Pyotr. And according to the General,  ‘Puppets don’t get names.’ That was all Pyotr was ever going to be stuck within these cement walls. A puppet. A murderous marionette whose strings would be pulled by some of the most ruthless men on the planet, and he would be none the wiser. Ironically, in the confines of their shared cell, it was safe to call the baby by the name the doctor chose. There was a camera monitoring them in the corner high by the ceiling, but with Pyotr crying so often as all newborns do, the watch of men got so fed up with the constant noise they disabled the sound. Apparently, the doctor had thought to himself, small miracles do happen. But, none of the men ever announced themselves when coming into a prisoner’s cell, and you never knew who could be listening just inches from the bars of the door. So, when the guards or, heaven forbid, the General were within hearing distance, Zakharov couldn’t call Pyotr by his name. That meant that Zakharov had to think of another name, like a codename for instance, to give to the baby.

“Kak my budem zvat' tebya, malysh?”, the doctor asked quietly. (What shall we call you, little one?)

The doctor remembered when he and his wife were choosing names for their children. Two girls, but they came up with male names just in case. They had chosen Pyotr because it meant rock, something that was hard to break. It seemed grimly fitting. But for a codename…what could be fitting for a non conspicuous codename?

‘What was that spider creature his daughters were so fascinated by…?’

“Pauk-volk,” Zakharov realized. The name rang through the air, like the twinkling laughter of two Russian girls who were now gone. The baby squirmed in his crib, clear brown eyes gazing up at his guardian.

Zakharov gave the first honest smile he could remember giving in a long time. “Pauk-volk, eto togda.” (Wolf spider is it then.) Codenames were common practice here. Hopefully it wouldn’t draw any unwanted attention.

Now on to the second problem. The last part of the doctor’s plan to aid in their escape from the compound. He needed to get close to one of the guards…

Present Day

The stinging in my hands was really starting to annoy me.

Just like the cut on my side, the scraps on my hands from my fall during the little episode (freakout) hadn’t healed completely, even hours later when they should have. I really was trying to not worry about it, but since when did I ever listen to myself?

But the stinging was a nice excuse to procrastinate from going into May and my old apartment. I could still remember the sound of the door breaking, May’s screams for them not to hurt me, the smell of her blood filling my nostrils…

I gagged before I could calm myself, and slammed a hand over my mouth, watering eyes scanning the area around me to make sure no one heard me.

Get a grip, Pyotr, I hissed. Slamming down my jaw, teeth damn near rattling at the force, I let my feet carry me down the street, eyes open to every detail of the Astoria neighborhood as I could take in. A feeling of infinite sadness washed over me as memories of the rare happy moments of my life played in my head like an old movie reel. ‘Was that really me who used to smile and laugh with May when we walked down the street on her days off to the park? Was that really me who had someone kind who cared about me?’ Bitterness welled up inside me, overriding the pain. None of it was real anymore. Just a memory. I could never get those times back. 

Steeling myself, like all those times I would when the devil himself would walk into my cell at the base, I clenched my fists, straightened my shoulders, and walked up the age worn stairs of the red turned brown brick apartment building May was kind enough to let me live in. ‘Don’t think of it like home. If it’s not home maybe it won’t hurt so much to remember.’ 

Yeah, because not remembering always work out so fucking well.

Zakharov could barely contain the frustration boiling up inside him for another minute.

For two months, the doctor has been keeping track of the times the guards changed posts, when the General would come and go from the base, when one of the men would bring in crud from the bottom of the pot at mealtimes. He even tried to listen carefully for the times the Soldat would be taken out of his cage for his next assignment. But the bottomless pit of fear that radiated through every cell of Zakharov’s body, not just for himself but for Pyotr, was damn near suffocating the more time that passed. More time that someone would discover the doctor snuck into the General’s office. More time that the sound on the camera could be turned back on. More time that they could decide to take Pyotr out of his care and move him to another facility…

Clamorous noises startled the doctor out of his fears and back to the present. He sat as still as a statue, practically holding his breath as he listened to the rowdy noises outside his cell and in the hallway. 

The guards that were supposed to take over the night watch of the base had decided to celebrate…a holiday perhaps? Well, their idea of a good time meant drinking until they could barely stand upright and have their…way with the female prisoners.

Zakharov suppressed the shudders of revulsion that ran through his body to listen to the three or so guards stumbling their way down the hall. 

‘Careful boys, wouldn’t want the General to find out his lap dogs aren’t doing their job,’ he snorted to himself. ‘Honestly, with how idiotic these imbeciles with guns are, it’s a wonder how they even keep prisoners here. With how easy it would be to sneak past them while they’re lagging around drunk…’

The doctor nearly choked on that train of thought. Of course. Oh, he could shoot himself with how oblivious he’s been. It was right there, so simple. 

He couldn’t wait. He practically flew towards the door, hands bracing on the cold steel as he peered through the bars allowing for a small view of the hallway. He could see the boots of the guards as they banged and clanged their way into one of the prisoner’s cells. Zakharov watched and listened until the drunken voices were muffled by the metal walls and the cell door wailed shut behind them. He waited another minute or two to make sure they stayed inside the cell.

As carefully as he would rock Pyotr to sleep, Zakharov slid his scalpel from his medical tools into the lock and picked at it until a small click was heard. It might as well have been a gunshot with how loud it seemed to resonate in the doctor’s ears.

Slowly pulling the door open so there would be no scream of the old metal hinges, the doctor slipped through the thin open space, for once thankful that the guards never fed him much at meal times.

On silent footsteps he made his way deeper into the compound to the General’s private office. If he and Pyotr were going to leave, he needed to bring as many files as he could carry about the baby and the super soldier. He needed to know what Hydra knew about the Pyotr’s potential powers and get rid of any other copies.

As he briskly made his way through the icy hell, he tried to block out the screams of pain and terror and cruel laughter emanating from the cell the guards fell through.

The apartment was just how I remembered it.

I could almost fool myself into thinking that I was coming back from a day of bagging groceries at the grocery store and exploring the city and May would be a few minutes behind me returning from her own shift at the hospital. Those nights we would try not to burn the building down making dinner and she would put on an old movie that would be “absolutely essential to watch if I ever wanted to be a well rounded adult one day.” I would tease her relentlessly, but I always loved the smile that lit her face those nights.

I missed that smile.

The iron grip I had over my emotions on the walk up the four flights of stairs nearly melted right then and there. But I had to get the files and leave before anyone found me. Besides, why should you grieve over something that was your fault in the first place?  

Walking swiftly on silent feet, and trying fiercely to not look at the remaining furniture and mementos that littered the apartment, I made my way down the hall to my old room. The guest room. This was never actually your home, remember? 

If May was anything, she was pretty damn respectful. I could trust her not to go through my things if I wasn’t in the room or pry into something I didn’t want to share.

“You’ll tell me when you’re ready. And if you don’t, that’s fine too,” she always said as she ruffled my hair. “Just know that I’m right here. For talking, bad food, and black and white movies.”

And then she was taken, and suddenly she wasn’t right here anymore.

This was one of the moments I relied on my Hydra training the most. Surveil and monitor your surroundings for danger and potential risks to the mission. Stay on target and do not stray from the mission objective. Failure to complete mission will result in punishment. It was amazing how the General’s words could still ring in my ears after all this time.

One of the first things I did after my first night staying in this room was make a makeshift hiding space under the floorboards covered by bed headboard. Not the smartest or most secure place to hide something, but with how small the apartment is with two bedrooms, one bathroom, and the living room and kitchen blending into each other, I worked with what I had.

Gripping the end of the bed, I pulled it toward the opposite wall. A 12x10 square sized hole now glared at me where the three file folders full, sealed and full of secrets and information about things I’m not sure I want to know, rested fitfully. ‘If I felt cursed already with all the pain and death I seem to cause the people I care about, what could possibly be good about knowing what is in those Hydra files. Besides, Dr. Zakharov made me promise not to open them unless I absolutely had to.’ 

I rolled my eyes at myself. Keeping the physical copies of the files was an incredibly risky, boneheaded move in the first place. Carrying them around with me all over New York would be even more boneheaded. But I just couldn’t open the damn things. I’ve already lost two of the most important people in my life, and the five that I couldn’t remember but somehow know. I just…don’t want to hurt anymore.

Loud voices in the alley outside my window nearly made me jump out of my skin. A dull sense of panic started to seep it’s way through my mission mindset, signaling the time to go fucking go. I’ve already wasted too much time.

Shoving the three files inside my backpack, I put the bed back where it was and turned sharply out the bedroom door, back down the hall, and through the living room. I hesitated for a millisecond at the front door before running to May’s room. Storming toward her dresser, I ripped open the top drawer, pulled out a necklace hidden underneath her shirts, and ran back out the door and out of the apartment.

The cold metal of the necklace digging into my closed fists, I hurried down the street and out of sight of May’s, my, old home.

All the while I thought, ‘Later. I’ll read the files later.’ 

Zakharov wasn’t sure he believed in God anymore. There couldn’t be one if his beautiful girls were dead and left to rot. But he had to thank whoever put the idea into Mr. Pierce’s head to call the General away and leave his office just the way it was as New Year’s.

Moving the cabinet a few inches from its carefully positioned spot, Zakharov quickly picked up the file containing information on the Pyotr, as well as a file about the Soldat. 

Just as he was about to shut the compartment and move the cabinet back into place, another file hidden at the bottom of the pile caught his eye. 

                                                        Eksperimenty 001-005

Experiments 1,2,3,4, and 5. What was this?

Flipping open the folder, the doctor quickly skimmed through the contents. With each word his eyes grew wider with shock and horror. He knew the General and the rest of Hydra were a few of the most evil beings to walk the earth, but what this file contained was…monstrous.

Convulsively swallowing to push down the wave of nausea, the doctor placed the third file with the other two, and hid them under his worn and dirty shirt. ‘Hydra can’t have this either. They weren’t experiments. They were…” The doctor bit back a choked sob and clenched his trembling jaw shut as images of his daughters lying dead on the green grass of their home flew violently through his mind.

He rushed back to his cell, stopping occasionally for only a few moments at a time to listen for the heavy footsteps of guards walking through the corridors.

As he got closer to his own cell, he could hear crying and merry male voices in the same chamber as when he left for the General’s office. As much as it sickened him, it relieved him to know that the guards didn’t notice his absence. ‘How horrible a man I am to think such a thing,’ the doctor thought through a wave of guilt.

He slipped back into his cell, softly closing the door behind him. He removed the files from where he clutched them to his chest through his oversized shirt, and put them onto the medical table where Pyotr’s mother breathed her last.

He turned toward the sleeping baby, who was laying in the makeshift crib of dirty rags and gauze. 

“Prigotov'sya, malen'kaya obez'yanka-pauk,” he whispered gently to Pyotr, excitement lacing his words. “Nakonets-to vy smozhete uvidet' nebo.” (Get ready, little spider monkey. You will finally be able to see the sky.)