Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Blood soaked through the VHS tape, turning the faded cardboard case soggy and smudging the purplish-blue letters. The pristine white helmet on the cover was gone, swallowed by an ugly red stain.

Arachnid froze, his breath catching in his throat behind the suffocating mask. His combat boots hovered over the growing pool of blood, trembling slightly before he set them down with a muted splash. The droplets spattered the cuffs of his tactical pants, but he couldn’t make himself move. Couldn’t look away. He knew this tape. He knew it.

Or… he thought he did.

Something about it clawed at the edges of his brain, scratching just enough to send shivers racing down his spine. The title? Gone. The plot? A blur. He couldn’t even guess the genre. But he felt it—deep in the pit of his stomach, a twisting, gnawing feeling he couldn’t shake. Like waking up from a dream and knowing it meant something important but forgetting it the second you tried to hold on.

His chest tightened, heart pounding painfully against his ribs. A memory tried to surface, but it was too slippery, too fragmented. Flashes burned through his mind:

Screams.

Gunfire.

Blood pooling on the staircase.

A man with graying hair yelling something he couldn’t hear.

A little girl with curly brown hair, her hazel eyes wide with terror, clutching something in her arms.

A masked figure—gleaming metal dripping red.

And then… nothing. The images twisted into static, leaving only the dull ache of not-knowing behind.

“Arachnid! Eyes up front!”

The shout hit like a punch, snapping him out of the spiral. Arachnid flinched hard, his heart leaping into his throat as his gaze shot to the officer barking orders. His breath hitched, and shame burned in his chest. Stop thinking. Stop. Thoughts were dangerous. Thoughts made you slow, made you weak, made you wrong. Hydra didn’t like wrong.

He swallowed thickly, forcing his shaking hands to clench into fists at his sides. His goggles flickered to life, filling his vision with cold, mechanical precision. Data scrawled across the lenses—names of the Hydra agents around him, coordinates for the exits, IDs for the bodies on the floor. Arachnid tried to focus on the facts. Facts were safe. Numbers were simple. The sharp edges of the scene dulled just enough for him to move.

“We’re done here,” the officer growled, leaning lazily against the kitchen island. The cigarette between his teeth bobbed as he spoke, the ash scattering to the blood-soaked floor. “Torch it. No evidence. We were never here.”

Arachnid nodded mutely, stepping forward like a puppet on strings. His boots squelched with every step, leaving bloody prints behind him. He hated the sound. He hated that he couldn’t stop making it.

The little girl was the first thing he saw. Her lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling, unseeing and empty. Blood matted her curls, forming a dark halo around her head. Her brother—a toddler, too small for this world—lay beside her, face down, his tiny arms twisted at impossible angles. Arachnid's stomach flipped, and his breath came short and fast as he forced himself to look away.

He balled his trembling hands into fists, curling his fingers so tightly they ached. Hydra didn’t like shaking hands.

“Arachnid, move!” the officer barked again, shoving past him with an impatient scowl. Arachnid stumbled to the side, heat flushing his face beneath the mask. The man didn’t even notice. He was too busy ripping a crayon drawing off the fridge—a colorful handprint turkey. The officer sneered at it, then lit the edges with the tip of his cigarette. He let the flaming paper flutter to the gasoline-soaked floor.

Fire roared to life, greedy and sudden, painting the walls and ceiling in flickering orange light. The heat slammed into Arachnid's enhanced senses, sharp and unbearable, making his skin prickle and crawl. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the smell—gasoline, burning flesh, blood—was worse with the mask filtering it in uneven bursts.

And then he saw her.

The mother.

Her body was slumped against the couch, her long black hair sticking to her bloodied face. Her sky-blue pajamas were soaked in crimson, clinging to her broken form. Her empty, unseeing eyes—red and swollen—locked onto his, still burning with a hatred so fierce it made him shrink back, his chest squeezing tight.

She hadn’t begged for herself. Not once. Not even in the end. She’d screamed for her children, fought for them, cried for them. But for herself? Nothing.

Arachnid's throat tightened as the officer’s words echoed in his mind. She should’ve cooperated. This was her fault. That’s what they told him. That’s what they always told him. If she’d just listened—just done what she was told—this wouldn’t have happened. Right?

Right?

His hands shook harder, fingers twitching as the questions buzzed louder and louder in his head. His gaze dropped back to the mother, and he felt sick—sick with shame, with anger, with confusion. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t—

“Arachnid!” the officer snapped, sharp and biting.

Arachnid flinched, his head snapping up. His instincts screamed at him, the tingle at the base of his neck flaring so hot it was almost painful. His body moved before his brain could catch up. He rolled his shoulders, the whir of machinery filling the air as gears clicked into place. Golden metal glinted in the firelight, heavy and cold and wrong.

He clenched his jaw, the taste of blood sharp on his tongue where he’d bitten too hard. His head was swimming, his chest burning, but he forced himself forward anyway.

Because soldiers followed orders.

Because he didn’t have a choice.

Right?

Chapter Text

Bright orange leaves skittered through the cool autumn air, brushing against the cracked sidewalk. Their twirling, erratic dance lent the graveyard an uneasy stillness, as if the world hadn’t realized Halloween was over and was stubbornly clinging to its eerie mood.

Bucky shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the chill. He felt ridiculous. This wasn’t going to help anyone.

The crunch of leaves underfoot followed him as he walked along the edge of the tree line. A flicker of a memory hit him—dry leaves scattering around a small, raked yard. He’d been rushing to finish before heading off to war, but he still stopped to make a pathetic little leaf pile for Rebecca. She’d jumped in headfirst, laughing, her curly brown hair catching stray leaves. The image of her heading off to school the next day, leaves still tangled in her hair and her grin too big for her face, squeezed his chest. He missed her.

Bucky forced the memory away. It didn’t help—not here, not now.

The noise of New York—the honking cars, the screech of the subway, the hum of distant conversations—cut through the quiet, ruining the mood. He glared at the skyscrapers jutting out against the horizon. Why anyone would bury their loved ones in Queens was beyond him.

He blew a stray tuft of hair out of his face, annoyed. Sometimes he missed the long hair—easy to tie back, out of sight. But the weight of it brought back too many memories he didn’t want to carry.

Bad memories. The kind he’d been running from for years. Now, he had no choice but to face them head-on.

Bucky slowed as he approached a row of graves. His boots dragged a little on the path, the sound of brittle leaves loud in the stillness. His eyes landed on the names etched into the headstones, and his breath hitched.

“Hey,” he muttered. The word felt heavier than it should. He winced. This is stupid.

The nearest tombstone stared back at him, cold and unfeeling. He turned away, hoping it might be easier if he wasn’t staring straight at the name and date. Four more graves stretched in a row, mocking him. He sighed, rolling his shoulders like he was about to step into a fight.

“You probably don’t remember me,” he said quietly. His voice came out stiff, robotic. Rehearsed. “But I’m… the guy who broke into your house.” He paused, his jaw tight. “Bucky Barnes. This is me… trying to make things right. Making amends, and all that jazz.”

The words hung in the air, empty and useless. Of course, there was no response—just the faint rustle of leaves and the coo of a fat pigeon waddling near his boots. He sighed, running a hand down his face. The whole thing was absurd.

Bright red leaves spun past in a tiny whirlwind, scraping against the gray stone marked Benjamin F. Parker.

“Alright. I said it. I can go now.”

But his feet refused to move. The weight in his chest grew heavier, rooting him in place. A battle raged in his mind, louder than any physical fight he’d been in. Guilt and shame were winning out over annoyance and embarrassment.

How messed up is it that I want to leave? The thought sliced through him. I don’t even have the decency to stay at the graves of people I killed for more than two seconds. His stomach churned. I don’t deserve to feel bad about this. I’m not the one who got hurt.

“Why’d you do it?” he blurted suddenly, his voice harsher than he intended. “Why didn’t you just tell me where it was? Was it worth it? Your family dying over this?”

The words echoed, raw and unfiltered. His heart pounded, anger surging up alongside the guilt. Anger at himself. At Hydra. At the world. At the fact that so many good people were gone, and he was still here.

“I’m losing it,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“Well, you’re in good company, then,” a voice called out.

Bucky spun, his hand snapping to the pistol hidden in his jacket.

Two teenagers stood a few feet away. A girl and a boy.

He exhaled sharply, his shoulders loosening. Not a threat.

The girl—lean and wiry, with long curly hair whipping in the wind—eyed him warily. She held a small bouquet of white and pink roses, some of the petals already wilting. Her army-green jacket and ripped jeans looked thrifted, her black T-shirt bearing a jagged band logo and a skeleton holding a baton. Creepy. Kids these days.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” she said dryly, brushing past him to the graves. Bucky took a step back, his metal hand brushing against the bark of a tree to steady himself. She knelt, dropping a flower on each headstone.

The boy, tall and gangly with shockingly red hair, hovered in the background. His eyes were distant, unfocused, with dark circles beneath them. Bucky studied him for a second—he looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Harry, come on,” the girl said over her shoulder, her tone impatient but soft. She crouched in front of the smallest stone: Peter B. Parker. 2001–2006.

Bucky’s heart sank.

The girl yanked a few weeds from the grave and looked up at Harry. He still hadn’t moved. With a sigh, she stood, grabbed his hand, and tugged him toward the graves. Harry followed reluctantly, his movements sluggish, like he was underwater.

A flicker of an idea surfaced in Bucky’s mind. He could tell them. These kids clearly cared about the Parkers. He could tell them the truth—what really happened. How the fire didn’t start naturally. How they didn’t burn to death. How he’d…

Nope. He shoved the thought away. Not risking it. Whatever these kids were dealing with, adding that weight wasn’t going to help. He watched them from a safe distance, hands jammed in his pockets, trying not to feel like a coward.

“You got a staring problem, old man?” the girl said suddenly, her sharp tone snapping him out of his thoughts. Both kids were now looking at him—her gaze cutting, his more unfocused.

Bucky cleared his throat. “Guess I do. Sorry.” He stepped back, raising his hands. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“It’s fine,” she said, standing again and brushing dirt off her hands. “But careful, staring at teenagers in a cemetery? That’s a fast track to getting put on a list.”

He frowned but didn’t ask what kind of list. He was already on plenty.

As he turned to leave, her voice called out again. “You knew the Parkers?”

Bucky turned back to face her. She wasn’t looking at him, her eyes fixed on the tombstone again. Harry was tugging at some weeds, his movements distracted.

“Met ’em once,” Bucky said carefully, his voice neutral.

She finally looked up, her gaze sharp and assessing, like she was trying to pull the truth out of him. “Once was enough,” she said after a pause. Her voice softened, but her words carried a bitter edge. “They were good people. May and Ben never fought. I was their neighbor. Used to wish they were my parents.” She hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Peter was my best friend.”

Harry, still crouched near one of the headstones, muttered, “Um, actually—”

“Sorry, Harry,” she interrupted, her tone clipped but not unkind. She turned back to Bucky, crossing her arms. “He thinks he was Peter’s best friend, but the only person who could confirm that is, well... dead.” Her mouth twisted into a faint smirk. “Guess that makes me right by default.”

“That’s cruel, MJ,” Harry said, looking up at her with a faint scowl.

“Bite me, Osborn.”

Harry pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense, his pale face breaking into a faint smile. “Picking on the mentally ill kid? Real nice, Watson. What would Pete say?”

“He’d probably ask for a juice box or a coloring book or something, because he was five.”

“False,” Harry shot back, shaking his head. “He was preaching about right and wrong before he was even potty trained."

“I hate you sometimes, you know that?” MJ said, though her tone was light. Her smirk softened as she looked back at the grave. “Honestly, you’re just the wor— Hey, guy, we scare you off or something?” she called, noticing Bucky had started to edge away.

He raised a hand over his shoulder in a lazy wave but didn’t turn back.

When he rounded the corner of the path, out of their sight, his pace picked up. His thoughts spiraled, twisting into a tangled mess of guilt and memories. If Peter hadn’t died that night, what would he have been like? Sarcastic, funny, happy, like those kids? Or would the world have chewed him up and spat him out like it had done to everyone else Bucky cared about?

He stopped walking and leaned against the nearest tree, squeezing his eyes shut. His breath hitched, his pulse pounding in his ears. Get a grip. Stop. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to focus.

Sam’s voice echoed in his mind: “Five things. You just need five things.”

Okay, fine. Bucky opened his eyes, scanning his surroundings. Five things he could see: the cracked sidewalk, the skeletal branches of the trees, a pigeon pecking at a discarded coffee cup, the graves behind him, the jagged tear in the corner of his jacket sleeve.

Four things he could hear: the distant honk of a horn, a bird chirping somewhere overhead, the faint crunch of his boots on the ground as he shifted his weight, the wind rustling through the trees.

Three things he could feel: the rough bark against his gloved hand, the weight of his jacket, the cool metal of his arm brushing against his side.

Two things he could smell: wet leaves and the sharp tang of exhaust fumes.

One thing he could taste: nothing.

His chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate breaths. The spinning in his head began to slow. The tightness in his throat loosened. He rubbed a hand over his face, shaking his head. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here.

The distant honk of a horn suddenly grew much louder. HONK! HONK HONK HONK!

Bucky jolted to the side, his hand flying to his pistol before he even realized what was happening. His heart slammed against his ribs, adrenaline flooding his veins.

“Dude!” Sam Wilson’s laughter erupted from the cab of a silver truck parked nearby. He leaned against the steering wheel, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. “How broody do you have to be to not notice a giant truck pulling up next to you? World’s best assassin, my ass.”

Bucky glared at him, lowering his hand from his weapon. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“What do you think?” Sam snorted, unlocking the truck with a loud click. “We’re here to pick you up.”

“We?”

Bucky opened the passenger door, and there was Natasha Romanoff, reclining with her boots propped on the dashboard. Her aviators hid her eyes, but her smirk was unmistakable. She popped a bubble of gum and tilted her head at him. “Shotgun. You’re in the back.”

Bucky huffed and slammed the door shut. Circling to the back seat, he muttered, “I’m not sitting behind Sam.”

“Don’t be so touchy—it was a joke,” Sam said as Bucky climbed in. “Jeez, someone’s moody today.”

“I know you’ll lean your seat back as far as it goes.”

“What, you mean like this?” Natasha quipped, hitting the button to send her seat sliding all the way back until it nearly crushed his legs.

“Stop.”

She laughed, adjusting the seat again. “He is moody today. You were right, Sam.”

“Would I steer you wrong?” Sam asked, taking a wrong turn almost immediately. “Ah, damn it.”

Nat smirked. “Apparently, you would.”

While his friends bickered, Bucky gingerly flipped open to the last page and clicked his cheap, plastic pen. Five names glared up him: R. Parker. M. Parker. B. Parker. M. Parker. P. Parker.

With a heavy heart, he crossed them off one by one. Amends made, he supposed.

But when he got to the last one, he hesitated. It was the very last name in the entire worn notebook, but that wasn’t what gave him pause. Bucky studied the hastily scrawled name like it could tell him the secrets of the universe.

With jerky strokes, he scribbled out the name, forgoing his neat method of crossing them out with a simple line. He just didn't want to look at it. Thinking of the boy's scared brown eyes wrenched his heart from his chest.

He snapped the notebook shut, shoving it back into his pocket.

“Hey, you alright back there?” Sam’s voice broke through his thoughts, softer this time, filled with concern.

Before Bucky could answer, Natasha lowered her phone and frowned. “Got some bad news,” she said, lowering her phone. “Another ex-SHIELD agent and her family were found dead.”

Sam frowned, glancing at her. “How?”

“House fire,” she said. “But there were accelerants. And all the bodies were in the living room—near multiple exits.”

Bucky stared out the window, his stomach sinking. Doesn’t add up.

“Doesn’t add up,” Sam echoed.

Bucky said nothing, but his grip tightened on the notebook in his lap.

Chapter Text

“I hate stealth missions,” Bucky griped.

He stretched his arms over his head — the snug security uniform pulling uncomfortably over his shoulders — as he leaned back in his seat, the wheels on the freezing metal chair squeaking in protest. He studied the multitude of screens in front of him. The dull light being emitted from them was doing very little to brighten the dark, cramped security control room. 

“Well I love them!” Scotts overeager voice crackled loudly through his ear piece. Bucky winced. “Great plan, Cap! Honored to be a part of it!”

“Just stay on target, Scott.” Steve’s even voice replied. “And no one forced you to come, Buck.”

“What, stay behind and let you get killed?” Bucky scoffed, pushing his legs off the wall and rolling across the room in the spinning chair. He nudged a computer mouse, allowing a sleeping screen to light up. On the grainy footage he could see Nat and Steve marching shoulder to shoulder down a large, empty hallway. Steve wore a dark green army uniform, and Tasha was wearing a billowing white lab coat.  “What kinda plan is that?”

“He has a point, y’know,” Nat responded. On the screen, she quickly slugged Steve in the arm. He shot her a disapproving stare. “You don’t exactly look before you leap. Or take a parachute.”

“Oooh burn!” Clint cackled. Bucky’s eyes darted to another screen. He could barely make out the archer’s bright yellow hair sticking out from between the bars covering an air vent.

“Whose side are you on?” Steve replied.

“Tasha’s. Always,” Clint retorted.

“I’m on your side, Cap!”

Steve sighed. “Thanks Scott.”

“You’re welcome.” 

Bucky could practically hear Scotts goofy smile. He rolled his eyes.

Steve looked over his shoulder for a moment, before slowing to a stop in front of a large, reflective glass door. He crossed his arms and leaned back, obviously trying as hard as he could to look innocuous. Natasha ducked behind him and began fiddling with the lock. After a few seconds, the door effortlessly slid open. 

“And… you’re dark,” Bucky said as they ducked inside and closed the door behind them. He quickly flipped through all the channels. “No cameras in that room. I can’t see you.”

“I got eyes on them,” Clint called. Sounds of clanging metal filled the air as he crawled through the vents.

“And I’m in the system! Just give me the word!” Scott piped up.

“Scott, can you manually bypass the—”

“Already done!” he chirped. Bucky grimaced and turned down the volume on his earpiece, a killer headache beginning to throb behind his eyes. “Marie Ant-oinette and I took care of it!”

“Don’t you know it’s rude to interrupt?” Nat chided, though there was no malice in her voice.

Scotts voice returned, hesitant and much quieter: “...sorry.”

Nat hummed, followed by the clicking of a keyboard. Bucky zoned out as Clint began laughing and talking to the former thief about his pet ants names, choosing instead to flip through more channels. Nothing. At least he also didn't see any of the lab's inhabitants; Clint and Scott would be fine, but Steve and Tasha didn't exactly have a clear exit plan. If push came to shove, he’d activate an alarm on the other end of the facility, drawing the hostile attention away from the two Avengers.

After a few minutes, he asked: “How’s it going in there?”

““I’m not finding the list of sleeper agents,” Nat said. Though anyone else would have perceived her voice as deadpan, those that knew her could detect the trace amounts of annoyance underlying her tone. 

“Buck, are we clear?” Steve asked.

Bucky's eyes scanned the screens. “The closest agent is four rooms down.” Bucky watched as the tall, grey-haired man poured himself a large cup of coffee. Sighing, the super soldier leaned back in his seat again, crossing his feet on the table and clasping his hands behind his head. “I’d pick up the pace if I were you. With our luck, they’re bound to figure out something’s off soon.”

“Speak for yourself;” Clint remarked. “I’m full of luck. Found ten bucks on the way here!”

Nat snorted. “Clint, I literally saw you eat pizza out of the garbage the other day.”

“Stay focused. We don’t have time for distractions,” Steve replied. “Widow, see if the files were moved to—”

Click.

The line went dead.

Bucky froze.

“Hello?”

No response.

Bucky dropped his feet back to the ground, the pounding echoing in the small room. One hand darted to his earpiece, turning it up, as the other hand flipped the cameras back to the empty hallway. Nothing. The glass door remained closed. His heart slammed into his throat.

“Rogers, come in.” He tapped the earpiece.  It beeped. “Romanoff, status.” Again, dead silence. “Barton, do you have eyes on them? …Scott?” Nothing.

Just as he began debating the logicalty of trying to contact Marie Ant-oinette, his earpiece crackled and the door shattered, cracks running through the glass like a myriad of spiderwebs. He caught a flash of dark green slamming into the far wall and crumpling to the floor.

His blood ran cold when he realized who it was.

“Steve!” Bucky leapt to his feet. The chair rolled away and toppled over. He leaned forward until his nose was brushing the screen. Red flashing lights filled his vision. A piercing siren jumped into action. “Steve, are you okay?”

A blur of dark colors bolted from the room, followed shortly by Nat. She soared through the broken glass and rolled to a stop before darting after the former.  “The file’s been stolen!” She yelled. “Target took down Rogers. I’m in pursuit!”

Bucky’s breath got caught in his throat.

“I’m fine!” Steve  groaned, his voice strained. He leaned onto his elbow and pushed himself off the floor, pausing for a second to painfully gather himself, before running after them.

Bucky’s fingers danced over the controls, switching cameras so he could keep an eye on them. “Where are you guys headed? I’ll meet you down there; cut him off.”

“Negative. Negative.” Nat declared. “”Try to divert attention from us from there!”

Bucky fingers flittered over the controls, a familiar sense of panic dawning on him. He grabbed his chair and slowly lowered himself back down, not taking his eyes off the screens. Agents were beginning to flood into the halls in search of the cause of the disturbance. He swiftly started locking doors, keeping the few agents on that floor trapped on the other side of the facility. “There aren’t many agents on your floor,” he said, fighting to keep his voice calm.

“I’m deactivating the elevator!” Scott called. “Are you guys okay?”

“No, don’t!” Bucky snapped. “How are they supposed to get out?”

“We’ll figure it out as we go,” Steve barked. ““Scott. Clint. Slow him down.”

“On it, Cap!”

“Where is he?” Clint panted, sounding winded and out of breath.

Bucky's fingers again danced over the keyboard, searching for a glimpse of the thief on any of the screens. Unfortunately, every single time he caught a glance of him, he was already gone. This guy was fast.

“I can’t get a clear visual, but he’s headed to the East end,” Bucky commented. “Lang, he’s coming to you.”

“Me? Really? Oh, man.”

Bucky switched cameras, stopping on the end of the east corridor. Besides the dead elevators and a now-barricaded door leading to the stairs (most likely courtesy of Scott and his ant minions), it was a dead end. He watched as the man clothed entirely in black sprinted into the room, something gold glinting off his back.

Then, something strange happened.

The man jumped and flipped backwards, his legs stretched out as if he were kicking an invisible soccer ball.

Bang!!

The sound reverberated throughout the air, shaking Bucky’s bones, as part of the metal elevators dented, caving in and groaning as if struck by the Hulk. Scott appeared — fully grown — in front of the elevator a few seconds later. He pushed himself on his elbows, looking as if he was going to stand, but then slumped back to the linoleum floor. 

“Oh, yeah. ‘Dats gonna leave a mark,” Scott groaned. His words were slightly slurred. “I ‘tink I bit my lip.”

“How did he know where you were?” Bucky asked incredulously. His question fell of deaf ears.

The thief — who landed in a pose eerily similar to Natasha’s — was now back on his feet and making a beeline for the stairs. Just then the spy burst into the room, skidding to a stop and leveling her pistol at his chest. The thief stopped dead in his tracks. Some of Natashas bright red hair flopped out of her high ponytail into her face. She didn’t waver. Her eyes were burning with an unbridled intensity

She flicked the side of the gun, the safety clicking loud enough that even Bucky could hear it. The man faltered. Bucky had a clear view of the thief's back, and saw what looked to be a golden backpack. “Hand it over.”

Simultaneously, four things happened at once: Steve appeared behind Natasha, the thief leapt to his left, an arrow buried itself in the ground where he had been standing, and Natasha fired her gun.

“I missed!” Clint sputtered indignantly. “I never miss!”

Natasha gracefully whipped around and fired again, only for the man to kick the gun out her hand. Steve darted forward and threw a punch, which the thief ducked by bending so insanely far that the back of his head brushed the ground and Bucky had to reevaluate what he thought was humanly possible.

The thie spun, kicking Scott — who was currently making a pitiful attempt to get back to his feet— in the ribs. Scott yelped and shrunk, disappearing from view. 

Effortlessly, the mystery assailant planted a foot on the broken metal doors and flipped backwards through the air, avoiding an arrow that whizzed past his head. He didn't even have to look at it. 

Clint let loose a spew of curses. “This guy is really getting on my nerves!” he hissed.

Steve tried sweeping his leg, only for him to leap over him. Natasha used his momentum to aim a blow towards his face, but ended up striking his shoulder. The thief stumbled backwards, froze as if shocked, and then his elbow randomly shot up. The wall behind him cracked and once again Scott appeared.

“How does he keep doing that?” Scott moaned.

The image on the staticky screen dissolved into a flurry of fists and legs as both Nat and Steve tried pummeling him at the same time; the old security cameras were too slow to pick up on every quick movement. Every so often Bucky heard a yelp or a crack through his earpiece. He rubbed his mouth nervously, tapping on the screen with his other hand. His chair creaked as he leaned forward.

“Clint?”

“I can’t get a clear enough shot,” the archer grumbled. Bucky huffed.

The fight seemed to be slowing down slightly as the thief struggled. Both Nat and Steve were getting in some clear hits when the assailant stiffened, rolled his shoulders strangely, and the golden backpack unfurled. Four gleaming spears began bending and shooting out of his back, making Steve back off a few paces as the thief focused entirely on dodging Nat's punches. Steve struggled to get close. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Bucky said. Clint responded more colorfully. 

The thief threw himself backwards to the ground, causing Nat to stumble forward. He caught himself with only his hands (something Bucky was certain was impossible) and launched himself back up, did the splits upside down midair, kicking Nat in the chin and Steve square in the chest.

They both flew backwards, proving this guy was way too strong to be human. Nat smacked into the elevator with an audible clang, and Steve skid across the floor and back into the hallway that he came from. He disappeared from view.

The thief landed in the same strange pose as before; right leg behind him and bent at the knee, left leg kicked out infront of him, right arm firmly planted on the ground in front of him, and left arm posed back and into the air. The glistening spears surrounded him like extra arms.

His hand raised behind him shot up higher into the air, catching an arrow moments before it made contact with his face. He swiftly raised his other arm and pointed it towards the ceiling. What appeared to be a white net exploded from his hand.

Great. Another magic dude.

Clint yelped. “Wha— are these webs?!”

The thief gracefully leapt to his feet, pausing for a moment to stare at the fallen Avengers. His chest was heaving. 

He turned to face the camera. For the first time, Bucky got a clear look at him.

The super soldier's blood ran cold. 

The thief's face was obscured by a thick black hood and a black metal half-mask exactly like the one Hydra had forced him to wear. Bucky's mind vividly flashed back to the way the freezing metal dug into his skin. The way the strap pinched his hair. The way it forced his jaw into place, rendering him unable to move his mouth; leaving him muzzled and mute like some sort of caged animal.

Black goggles sat on the assassin's eyes. Unlike the Winter Soldiers, however, there were four gleaming red circles sitting on each lens, growing and shrinking slightly as he took in his surroundings.

He wore dark combat boots up to his knees with red laces, black tactical pants, and a black leather vest pulled tight with buckles across his chest, sides, and arms, looking eerily similar to a straight jacket. Gloves, elbow pads, and knee pads effortlessly blended into the rest of his gear.

The red hydra logo sat vividly over his heart.

The four spears were still attached to his back, catching the light ominously, and hooking and curling in on themselves with razor sharp edges, resembling the twisted, bent legs of a spider. The bottom two buried themselves into the ground, lifting him slightly into the air, the tips of his toes barely grazing the floor.

Bucky felt like he couldn't speak. He was frozen. His mouth was dry. There was a lump in his throat.

What?

Before his brain could even comprehend what he was seeing, Natasha was back on her feet and lunging forward. In a flash she was on him, and he was stumbling backwards. Steve joined in, narrowly avoiding the claws, and throwing his elbow into the thief’s side. 

He stumbled again, but did not lose his footing. Instead, both of his arms swung up and two more nets shot out, one of them sticking Natasha’s leg to the ground.

Steve grabbed his arm, ducking out of the way of the net and blocking the claws with his other arm. The thief rapidly clung onto Steve's arm and wrapped his legs around his waist, falling backwards and flipping them both. Steve lost his grip and went flying into Scott.

In retaliation, Nat raised her wrist and shot her widows bite, only for him to dodge it again and the electric blast to fly out of Bucky’s sight. Evidently, however, it landed somewhere important; it caused the lights to flicker, and for a second — just a second — the room was engulfed in thick, pitch-black darkness. 

When the lights came back on, he’s gone.

“Uh, where'd he go?” Scott asked. He got to his knees  

Steve pushed himself up, his hair falling into his face. 

Clint muttered something Bucky couldn't quite catch. 

Nat’s whole body twisted around as her eyes scanned the room, her ripped lab coat contorting around her awkwardly as the end of it got stuck in the net.

Bucky leaned towards the screen. He could hear his heartbeat. His eyes caught something. A quick movement, blink and you’ll miss it. A shiny metal claw, hidden in the shadow of the ceiling.

“He’s on the ceiling. Romanoff, ten o’clock!”

Nats arm immediately whipped around and began firing as the words were coming out of Bucky’s mouth.

The thief spirited forward on the ceiling — he was running on the ceiling — seeming to dance as his body jerked to avoid the blasts. He disappeared around the corner. 

Silence fell over the group. No one could speak. Natasha lowered her arm.

Bucky quickly snapped out of his stupor and began switching cameras, searching for the thief. Nothing. He disappeared. A ghost. 

He heard pounding footsteps through the comms as Scott and Steve both sprinted into view, searching the surrounding hallways. Their eyes were glued to the ceiling.

Giving up for now, Bucky switched the cameras back over to the area in front of the elevators, wanting to check on the two former shield agents. He couldn't seem to find his voice.

Nat had ditched her shoes and her lab coat, apparently unable to detangle them from the net, and was helping a furious Clint down from the vents. He tripped, barely being caught by Natasha. The archer's left arm was bent backwards as if he were reaching for an arrow, but was instead plastered to his quiver and back by a thick section of netting.

Scott scampered into the room, peeling off his helmet and looking more nervous than Bucky had ever seen him. Steve followed shortly after, his eyebrows pushed together and his expression a stone wall.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky saw a few agents getting past the locked doors. They’d find the Avengers soon.

He wanted to warn them, but couldn't. Words wouldn't come. He was frozen. Shocked.

Had Hydra done it?

Had they made another Winter Soldier?

Had he missed something? Was this his fault?

“What was that?” Scott rasped.

“I don’t know,” Steve replied, his gaze once again locked on the ceiling. “But whatever it is, it’s going to be a serious problem.”

Chapter Text

Crack!

Stars erupted across Arachnid's vision — twinkling and flashing brightly and so extensive in number that if someone studied them they’d be sure to find constellations — leaving him momentarily dazed. 

For a moment, he didn't hurt. He was merely shocked. He blinked slowly, trying to dissipate the white dots fluttering in front of his eyes; it felt like he had stared directly into a hundred lamps. The boy hesitantly brought a hand up to his face, lightly pressing his gloved fingers under his eye, the rough leather scratching the sensitive skin.

Before he could even process this, however, rough fingers dug into the flesh on his jaw hard enough to leave bruises and harshly jerked his head forward. 

A pair of icy pale blue eyes glowered back at him, boiling over in fury. 

“ Did I say you should look away from me?” The taller man seethed.

Arachnid narrowly caught a whimper before it slipped from his mouth. He held his breath.

This was a test.

It had to be a test.

His handler, Mr. Colt, asked a question, but he hadn’t given him a direct order to speak. If he spoke out of turn, he’d be punished.

This was a trick. A test.

One he desperately wanted to pass.

The next blow Arachnid saw coming; he sensed it. In a split second the hair on his arms stood up. His entire body stiffened and he felt like a hook was buried in his navel, trying desperately to pull him to the side as his body's natural instincts urged for him to move away from the danger. To run. To jump. To dodge the incoming blow.

Instead, he clenched his jaw.

His handlers fist connected right under his right cheekbone. His head whipped back to the side, a loud thwack! echoing across the small room and more dots swimming before his eyes. A dull ache bloomed in the muscles between his top and bottom jaw.

Arachnid went to face Mr. Colt once more, but was evidently too slow. Fingers painfully buried themselves in his scalp and he got yanked to the side by an excruciating pull of the hair. He felt like he could feel every piercing tug of each individual strand.

His eyes burned. 

His heart was slamming into his ribcage so hard he thought the bones might break. He could hear his blood rushing through his veins. 

Still, he didn’t dare let a single emotion cross his face. He kept his face blank and mouth shut.

“ Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused us? ” Colt hissed, shaking the hand he had used to punch him but not peeling his eyes away.

The boy gulped. 

Another rhetorical question. Probably.

He always struggled deciphering tone.
Speak, or stay quiet? If he guessed wrong, he’d be punished. 

No, not punished, he reminded himself, corrected. He needs to correct my behavior. It’s my fault. I shouldn't be bad if I don’t want to be corrected.

Well, his behavior would be corrected no matter what. But he learned from a very young age that talking — especially without being ordered too — would get him nowhere good. He repressed a shutter at the chilling memory of having his jaw bolted shut years ago, to “teach him a lesson about speaking out of turn.”

Even though his muzzle was currently sitting over a meter away from him, it might as well still be on. Hydra had trained him to fear words from the very beginning. The muzzle wasn’t even needed at this point. It was an unnecessary but constant reminder that Hydra owned him; every aspect of him. Even his voice. 

The fist clenched around his hair pulled his head back; Arachnid went with it effortlessly, not wanting to make any of this worse. His neck bent back like a crescent moon. The way his throat was bared made his stomach squirm and his blood ran cold. He felt as though a hundred bricks were sitting on his chest.

“Ten years,” Mr. Colt growled.

The pressure in his hair slackened as the elder man backed away. Arachnid kept his head bent in the awkward, uncomfortable position, even when his muscles began trembling from the stain. He didn't have permission to move.

His eyes followed his handler as he walked to the center of the room. His left eye hurt to move, the skin around it beginning to throb.

They were in some sort of conference room; the carpet was scratchy and had caught on the boy’s heavy boots when he came in. There were no windows. He briefly mused that this claustrophobic atmosphere was probably what being buried alive felt like.

The only furniture was the sleek black conference table and the few high backed chairs surrounding it. 

Arachnid stood at the far end of the room, Colt and the table between him and the door.

Physically, he probably could overpower him and escape if he wanted too. The fleeting thought made the boy want to vomit his insides out with guilt and shame. This is why he had to be corrected. He deserved to be punished. He deserved to be hurt. After everything they had done for him, the thought of leaving crossed his mind?

He was despicable. Ungrateful. 

Even if he left, where would he go?

He didn't have a home. He didn't have a family. No one had wanted him when Hydra had taken him in.

Arachnid blinked, trying to disperse the thoughts.

He hadn't taken off his gear yet. He was achingly aware of every scratch of fiber against his skin; of the way the straps pinched his shoulders. A hot, throbbing pain was shooting through his right shoulder from where the red-head in the lab coat had struck him; she had been shockingly excellent at combat for a scientist.

His mask sat on the conference table, next to a tray with a large bottle and two glass cups on it. A menacing black pistol sat next to that. He hated guns. they were loud; terribly loud. They were horrible on his enhanced hearing. But it was protocol that he made sure his superiors were armed at all times, especially when they were alone with him. Just in case he needed to be corrected. The gun stayed.

The thick hood was pulled down to his shoulders, and his matted, curly hair was tickling the back of his ears. Sweat was trickling down the back of his neck. By some small mercy, his goggles had been allowed to stay on, filtering some of the overly bright lights. Nothing was being done to stop the plague of sour cleaning chemicals that was assaulting his nose.

The loud hum of an air conditioner was drowned out by the sound of his heartbeat; he could hear some other Hydra agents walking past in the hallway and muffled voices from the floor above him.

He watched as Colt flicked the lid of the bottle with a loud pop and poured half the crystal glass full with something light brown, translucent and smelling strongly of wood. The elder gingerly picked it up, swirling it and observing as the ice cubes clinked together. The brown liquid swirled as if whisked by a tornado.

“Ten years,” Mr. Colt repeated. This time his handler sounded much less angry and much more disappointed. His tone said he was talking to a disobedient child. 

Humiliation and embarrassment flooded Arachnids mind, twisting his gut again and overpowering his fear. He messed up. He failed. He wasn’t sure how, but he did. He deserved whatever was coming his way.

The handler turned back around, his thin red tie swinging as he moved and sticking out vividly across his white suit. He sighed into his cup and took a long sip. The ice cubes once again clinked.

He set the glass back down with a clank . 

He leaned back against the table and stared down Arachnid disdainfully, as if he was something stuck on the bottom of his shoe.

“We put ten years into training you, and this is how you repay us?” Colt shook his head, not a single strand of his platinum blond hair falling out of place. He stalked forward like a spider approaching a fly stuck in its web.

Arachnids heart leaped. He messed up. He messed up so badly. The burning behind his eyes grew more painful.

A long, cold finger pressed against his jaw, exactly where he had been punched. Fire erupted across his skin. He held back a wince to the best of his abilities. The handler pressed his jaw enough to make him straighten his neck and stare him directly in his cold, unrelenting eyes.

“I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation.” Colt's voice was deceivingly calm, as if he were explaining something to a small child. “If you did, you’d be a lot more apologetic .” The words slid smoothly over his tongue like syrup.

Arachnid shivered at that; he couldn't help it. A pain bubbled in his throat. 

“You were supposed to get in and out with the information. No one was supposed to even know you were there.” A hand tenderly brushed a lock of curly brown hair out of the boy’s face; the gesture almost was fatherly. Arachnid blinked, finding himself longing to lean into the touch and having to use all his willpower not too. When his handler pulled back, his skin tingled. 

“Our intel says you were seen by no less than four Avengers.”

His brain seemed to short circuit. His blood ran cold.

Avenger . 

He knew that word. He knew it in the same way he knew about the VHS tape. Something fluttering in the back of his mind that he couldn't quite grasp. His heart skipped a beat.

Mr. Colt walked back to the table, picking up his glass and taking another long sip, but not before adding one last warning. 

“Let's hope for your sake, they’ll keep their mouths shut.”

“He was on the ceiling!”

“Clint—”

“I’m serious, and he was shooting these spider webs and had these robo claws—”

“It’s true.” Nat mused. “We all saw it.”

Sam shook his head. “C’mon. Be serious.”

Bucky watched silently from his seat at the kitchen island. Most of his teammates were sitting in the living area; Sam’s hands were gripping the back of a grey recliner and he was leaning forward, arguing with the annoyed Clint perched on the coffee table. The archer had gotten most of the netting — webs? — off in the shower, but some of his blond hair was still sticking up on messy clumps.

“Sam—”

“I’m telling you, there's no way—”

“I know what I saw,” Clint shot back, interrupting Sam mid sentence. “Guys, back me up here!”

“My everything hurts,” Scott moaned, sprawled out across a lavish black couch and clutching his ribs.

Nat was sitting on the arm of the couch, typing away on her laptop, her eyebrows furrowed.

Tony pushed his sunglasses up and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m too sober for this,” he muttered.

The billionaire climbed up the two stairs into the kitchen area and headed straight for the cupboards, rummaging through them for a moment before pulling out multiple tall wine glasses.

As Sam and Clint continued to bicker, Bucky watched Tony pull out a large bottle of dark purple wine. He picked at the foil for a moment, before seeming to grow bored and rip it off like a band-aid. He then gripped the neck of the battle with one hand and shoved a corkscrew into the cork with the other.

“Want some Merlot?” Tony grunted, putting way more force than necessary into twisting the corkscrew.

After a few seconds of listening to the two Avengers bicker Tony paused and glanced at Bucky quizzically over his sunglasses. 

Oh. He’s talking to me.

Bucky shook his head ever so slightly. He was still shaken, struggling to find words even hours after arriving back from the failed mission. Tony shrugged. “Suit yourself. More for me.”

He smirked, generously pouring a few inches of the dark purple liquid into the tall glass. Bucky wrinkled his nose. It smelled like the overly spicy fruitcake his grandma always used to make during the Great Crash of the 30’s. Or the Great Depression, he supposed. Whatever people call it nowadays.

“Tony, don’t even think about drinking that entire bottle,” Nat said, not even glancing up from her typing.

“Eavesdropping is rude,” Tony quipped, but set the bottle aside all the same. 

“I know you think you saw that,” Sam said, shaking his head, “but—”
“I am this close to just taking out my hearing aids and leaving this conversation.” Clint snapped. 

Bucky stiffened when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, his instincts screaming at him to grab a weapon. His heart calmed, however, when he turned to see his best friend patting him on the shoulder. Steve’s face was grim and his brow was furrowed. He wore the same expression he did when they were younger — back when you were considered futuristic if you had a rotary phone and when Steve was still a shrimpy little thing — and sitting at Bucky’s mothers kitchen table, listening to FDR declare war against the Japanese Empire over his grandmother's staticky radio. Bucky has come to know it as Steve's “something is terribly wrong” face.

Steve didn't say anything. He just walked down the stairs into the living area and surveyed the Avengers with his arms crossed.

Clint perked up.  “Steve, back me up!”

“We should call a team meeting,” Steve said instead.

“Newsflash, Capsicle. Teams already here.” Tony replied.

 “I mean the entire team.”

“If thats the case, then theres a simple fix,” Tony shrugged, his eyes darting to the ceiling. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., be a dear.”

Bucky jumped when the A.I.s filled the air, seeming to come from every direction at once. 

“-- of course, Boss --”

“Did the mission really go that bad?” Sam asked.

Scott raised his hand in the air.

“Yes, Scott?” Steve sounded exasperated.

“Yeah, uh, so we really hafta call a meeting?” Scott replied. He tried to sit up, froze, winced, rubbed his side gingerly and sank back down. He hadn’t even changed out of his suit yet. “We already did those report things. Can’t we just call it a day?”

Bucky had forgoed his mission report. Somehow, he thought the words “ Hydra made another Winter Soldier. I missed that during the whole Sokovia Accords debacle. Oops. Sorry. That's my bad.” wouldn’t go over real well with Nick Fury.

In lieu of contributing to the conversation, he reached across the island and grabbed a wine glass, waving it in Tony's general direction. The billionaire winked, smirked, and deftly picked up the bottle, giving him a generous pour. 

“This is more urgent. It needs to be addressed sooner rather than later.” Steve replied.

Bucky downed half his glass in one swallow. He sputtered, putting a fist to his mouth and forcing himself to swallow. It was sickening sweet, like cherries covered in an excessive amount of chocolate. He grimaced, setting the glass back down and pushing it away. He wasn’t even able to feel any of the effects. It wasn’t worth it.

Tony was barely holding back a laugh at Bucky’s reaction. He shot him a glare; it did nothing.

“ -- Boss, Colonel Rhodes is at a press meeting in Sacramento, California, and wishes for me to tell you that unless this is an emergency, he cannot attend. --”

Tony tilted his head and squinted at the ceiling. “You’re paraphrasing, aren’t you?”
The A.I. seemed to hesitate; Bucky wasn’t sure if robots could hesitate. Maybe it was just loading?

“ -- Those were not the Colonel’s exact words, no. Would you like me to be exact, boss? --”

Tony shrugged again, taking a small sip from his cup. “Nah, just tell him to fly his toosh back here whenever he’s done. Cap’s got his panties in a bunch.”

“Tony—”

Tony held his finger up at Steve, taking another gulp, and lowered it again. “And in those exact words, please, darling.”

“ -- Yes, Boss. Miss Maximoff and the Vision are also currently away from the compound, viewing a musical on Broadway in NY City--”

“They got to go see a musical while we got beat up?” Scott whined. 

“ -- and I am unable to locate Mr. Maximoff --”

Perhaps Bucky was just stressed and tired, but he could have sworn that the disembodied voice actually sounded annoyed at Scotts interruption. 

“I’ll text him,” Clint said, pulling out his phone.

Seconds later, the elevator doors chimed and slid open. A tired-looking Bruce Banner wandered into the kitchen, wiping his glasses with the end of his dark blue sweater. 

Unfortunately for the Doctor, his spectacles were almost immediately knocked out of his hands by a blur of blue whooshed past, sending papers flying in its wake and causing wine to slosh out of Tony and Bucky's glasses. 

Pietro plopped down on the recliner Sam was leaning on, knocking him off balance. The speedster kicked his feet over one of the recliners arms, ran a hand through his white hair, and checked his wrists watch with the other hand.

“Woo! New personal best!”

Bruce seemed a little put off as he slid his glasses back on his nose, reaching across the island for the wine. Tony grinned a shark-like grin and slapped his friend on the back.

Bucky turned in his seat, watching the floor-to-ceiling windows, waiting for the inevitable. Right now the blue lake was calm, waves slowly rolling over the brown sand. Most of the trees were barren; the few leaves that hung on were a bright yellow. The grass was still a lush dark green, but that was probably going to change soon with the weather.

Then the peace was disturbed. There was the crack of thunder (even though the skies were clear) and a flash of light, and a Norse god fell from the sky.

Bucky sighed as Thor hopped onto the patio and pulled open the sliding glass door. When did his life get so crazy?

“My friends!” Thor yelled, grinning broadly and obviously not familiar with the term “inside voice.” He swung his hammer playfully. “You called for my aid?”

“We’re having a team meeting, point break,” Tony said, gesturing at their surroundings. 

“You called me here for a meeting?” Pietro scoffed. In the blink of an eye, he was on his feet. “Eh, hard pass.”

“There's a new supervillain,” Clint said.

The speedster paused, seeming to consider. “I… am interested.”

Bruce set down his glass and walked over to the railing dividing the two rooms, looking down at Steve. “Uh, Steve?” he said. “Care to explain?”

Before he could say anything, however, Nat beat him to it. “We’ll have to explain on the Quinjet.” She said. She closed her laptop and rose to her feet. “My tracker got a hit on the target. Lets gear up.”

Chapter Text

The freezing air pierced into Arachnid's chest like a knife.

A perpetual cloud hung around his face as his hot breath spilled out from the corners of his mask. It was impossible to tell where the metal covering stopped, and his skin started; it felt as though they were fused together. He was freezing to the point his very bones were trembling and snot turned to ice inside his nose.

A half-hearted attempt was made to wave away the frustrating flurry of snowflakes fluttering around his face and obscuring his vision, but to no avail.

The sky and the ground were the same pale grayish-white. Trees and plants alike sat dead and covered in a thick layer of sparkling frost that reflected the sun. Thick trees all curved like crescent moons, bending and twisting with the whistling wind. Heavy layers of snow were drifting along the ground. More snow was twirling around his legs like mini tornados. It was difficult to keep his balance; Arachnid dug his gloved fingers into the hard bark and planted his feet more firmly on the teetering branch, trying to stick to the best of his ability.

Cold air shot like a bullet up his nose and down his throat with every breath. His insides were drying out. His mouth was as dry and brittle as the spiky tree he was perched on. 

Howling wind kept wrapping its frosty fingers around his hood and pulling it down to his shoulders; it ran spikes of frost through his hair and caused it to flop around wildly. Arachnids exposed skin on his ears and forehead was being pricked by a thousand needles. 

The boy quickly reached up and used a bit of his webbing to secure his hood back into place, sticking the ends of it to his freezing metal goggles and mask. His hands darted back to the tree as soon as it was done.

With a sickening twist of his stomach, he realized his webs would most likely be useless in this weather. 

He let out a shaky breath and pushed himself harder against the teetering tree.

After the unpleasant — but not undeserved — meeting with his handler, Arachnid had been sent to be checked out by the medical team. The pain in his shoulder had vanished, but the skin around his eye was still throbbing and his jaw was aching. 

But his handler said it was for his own good, and he knew more than him, so…

It is what it is, Arachnid mused silently.

Nothing sounded better than spending the night in his quarters — a room so small that if he stood in the center he could reach out and touch any of the white walls, and with a narrow cot covered in gray weighted blankets — and stare up at his ceiling and think. Then, hopefully, sleep.

Most nights he woke up screaming. Blankets would tangle around his flailing limbs and pin him down. When he finally would jerk out of a particularly painful memory, he’d usually find himself covered in sweat with tears gushing out of his eyes like blood from a wound. His voice was always hoarse from shouting.

He was never able to remember exactly what happened in his dreams that made him scream.

Some were memories; that he knew. But often they were mixed with something else. Instead of terminating a S.H.I.E.L.D agent, for example, he’d be sent to track down a young woman with long brown hair and glasses; he’d know her — in his dreams buried memories would surface and he’d know her; he’d know her name and who she was to him and… and everything… even if he couldn’t remember any of that or her face when he woke — but he wouldn’t be able to stop from carrying out his mission.

Those weren’t real memories, he knew. His mind would play cruel tricks on him on replace his usual victims with people from his past. People whose names never quite reached him.

It would all jumble together in his mind until all he remembered was the dawning horror and horrible emotional pain. Pain worse than anything he’d ever felt physically.

Sometimes, at random times during the day, images would flash through his mind: Laboratories. Fire. Needles. Scientists. Blood. 

Frequently, a man with a metal arm.

Anything could trigger them: A scientist’s lab coat. An expensive watch. An old Lego figurine. A spider. A destroyed VHS tape.

No matter what, the man with the metal arm was a constant.

He seemed to work himself into every one of Arachnids nightmares. He was in all the images that flickered through his waking mind during the day.

But that was all they were: images. And images they would remain. 

Oftentimes Arachnid would attempt forgoing sleep all together; a tiny act of rebellion that would anger his handler should he find out. 

He’d lay with his eyes closed, take measured breaths in an attempt to feign sleep should someone look at the cameras, and slowly feel his heart calm down. 

Then, he’d think. 

Well, he supposed it couldn’t exactly be called thinking, because in those hours he wasn’t ever able to sew together complete sentences. Instead, ideas and unfinished concepts would flow through his mind as quick as a rumbling river.

What he did wasn’t quite wishing, either, because he didn’t know what he was wishing for.

Sometimes his victims would beg when they died, but they wouldn't beg him. They’d cry out to a higher power, begging and pleading hysterically. They’d pray.

In those quiet moments on his cot, Arachnid wasn’t praying. For starters, he didn’t know how. Also, much like wishing, he wouldn’t know what to pray for. The soldier had seen enough unanswered prayers to be doubtful that anyone actually heard them.

However, his thoughts — if they could be called thoughts — would often turn as fervent and desperate as those choked, hysteric prayers.

So, he prayed and wished in his own way. He’d never actually been able to form a coherent plea. The only word he ever could manage was “please,” but who he was asking for help and what he was asking for remained a mystery to him.

He was incomplete. Broken. Something was missing from his life.

Arachnid may not have known what it was, but he knew he needed it more than he needed oxygen. Needed it more than water. Needed it more than anything.

Sometimes — rarely — he’d be so consumed with longing and hope that he’d unwittingly slip back unconscious.

But then it was only a matter of time before he startled awake again.

Then the cycle would repeat itself.

Eventually he would get dragged out for excruciating physical training or tests that involved needles jamming into his skin and being pushed so far past his limits he would crumple from exhaustion.

Then he would be punished for daring to have limits.

Arachnid sighed heavily, more fog dancing around his eyes. He rocked back and forth on his heels.

Sometimes if he was good — if he behaved and passed all their tests — he’d be allowed to observe the scientists and technicians work. 

On occasion they’d even let him help.

He was restricted to only doing exactly what was explicitly asked of him, of course, and had to make sure one of his superiors was there and armed, but that was normal.

He’d be allowed to hold things others were too weak to hold, or fetch tools when the head scientists were too busy. It filled him with a surge of pride.

What a wonderful job, to be able to create all day; to build instead of tear down.

Putting things together was so much better than ripping them apart.

If only he could do that all the time.

It wouldn’t happen today, however. 

No sooner had he arrived at his quarters had a painfully loud alarm started screeching. Flashing lights illuminated the halls as agents and scientists alike scurried in every direction, scrambling like rats as they ran from the sirens.

And now Arachnid was here; forty feet above the ground in this creaking tree, tasked with locating and terminating the intruder as the team evacuated the premises.

His orders had been clear.

No witnesses.

No survivors.

Rendezvous after mission completion. 

Arachnid eyed the gray skies suspiciously. Scanners picked up on a modernized VTOL aircraft. Intel had reported it was registered with S.H.I.E.L.D.

That most likely meant backup would be close behind the incoming agents.

He had to move fast.

Almost as if the universe heard his musings, right as he thought the word “fast” his early warning sense jumped to attention. The short hairs on the back of his neck shot up and goosebumps that had nothing to do with the cold trailed down his arms. He felt the urge to look down.

Something whizzed past before he could get a good look, kicking up white powder in its wake and leaving a streak of disturbed snow.

Within seconds the blur whipped past again. It moved much too fast to see clearly.

Arachnid blinked.

Before he could process, the blur had been replaced with a man.

The speedster stood under an old birch tree a few yards to Arachnids right. 

He held his breath.

The man had scruffy stubble and tousled white hair that blended in seamlessly with the snow around him. Despite the harsh, subzero temperatures, he wore only a dark blue tracksuit and indigo sneakers.

As he turned, Arachnid got a better view of his face. The facial recognition software embedded in his goggles instantly activated, scanning his facial structure and searching Hydras database. 

“Pietro Django Maximoff”

Aliases: Not applicable

Age: 27 years 

Origin: Sokovia

Known Affiliations: S.H.I.E.L.D… The Avengers Initiative… 

Past Affiliations: Hydra… 

Abilities: Superhuman speed… Enhanced stamina… Enhanced reaction and reflexes… Rapid healing… 

Equipment: N/A

Weakness: Twin sister — see “Wanda Marya Maximoff.” Impulsive. Does not pay attention to surroundings. 

Danger level: … 70%... 

Arachnid tilted his head, zeroing in on the man. 

He was like him.

He had powers.

Arachnid had never interacted with someone like him before. Someone different.

He knew he was different;  he was told so every day. Among other things.

Abnormal. Freak. Monster. Abomination.

He was something detestable and wanted by none until Hydra had mercifully taken in him.

Arachnid could do things others couldn’t do. Feel thinks others couldn’t feel.

And this man… Maximoff… he could do these things too?
Arachnids eyes flickered down to the “Past Affiliations: … Hydra.,” itching to know more. Why wasn’t he still with Hydra? Did he desert? Was that even possible? Were there other places that cared about people like them? Abominations?

Suddenly the wordless yearning imprinted in his soul had questions. Those questions had hope.

Maximoff leaned back, cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled at the sky, his words slipping through a heavy accent: “Keep up old man!”

“Yeah, alert all of Hydra to your presence. Real smart, kid,” came the annoyed reply. 

Arachnid froze.

He knew that voice. 

The boy had heard the response through both the young man’s ear piece, and clearer farther away. His goggles scanned for a heat signature.

There!

A flash of a dusty purple jacket and blond hair, about ten feet below Arachnid and twenty meters away, also perched in a tree. How did he get past him?

“Clinton Francis Barton”

Aliases: Hawkeye

Age: 47 years

Origin: U.S.A

Known Affiliations: S.H.I.E.L.D… The Avengers Initiative… 

Past Affiliations: ….N/A...

Abilities: Hand-to-hand combat… Archery…

Equipment: Retractable bow… Trick arrows… Guns…

Weakness: UNKNOWN

Note: Separating him from his weapons does not make him any less dangerous.

Danger level: … 75%... 

Arachnid took a deep, slow breath and flexed his fingers. 

He hadn’t taken the time to observe any of the information when he fought the man a mere day earlier; perhaps that’s why he lost.

His eyes scanned the word “Avenger” written on both Maximoff’s and Barton’s files. That’s the word his handler had said. It must be some sort of highly trained field agent. Four of them had fought him yesterday.

But now there were only two Avengers.

He could take them.

No witnesses.

The boy wrapped his fingers around a higher branch so he could maneuver himself down. He sucked in a breath.

Besides the whistling of the wind and the groaning of the trees, it was silent.

The boy dared to peek around the tree again.

A shock of red hair had appeared under Barton’s tree, barely visible from under a fluffy black ushanka-hat. The woman wore a matching black fleece cape coat that ended a few inches above her knees, flowing serenely in the wind. Her face was obscured by a pair of binoculars.

For a moment, Arachnid’s heart jumped. It calmed when he realized she was looking past him, not at him.

They didn’t know he was here.

He still had the element of surprise.

The woman lowered the binoculars momentarily and peered at the horizon. Confusion cluttered the boy's mind. His eyes narrowed.

Wasn’t that the scientist? From yesterday? The one that fought really well?

“Natalia Alianovna Romanova”

Aliases: Black Widow…. Natasha Romanoff… Natalie Rushman… Nancy Rushman… Tatiana Sokolova... Alion Vans… Marya Konn… Irina Zlataryova… etc.

Age: 32 years 

Origin: Soviet Union

Known Affiliations: S.H.I.E.L.D… The Avengers Initiative… 

Past Affiliations: KGB… The Red Room… 

Abilities: Hand-to-hand combat… Deception… 

Equipment: Widows bite… Escrima sticks… Guns… Unknown but plentiful weapons…

Weakness: UNKNOWN

Danger level: … 100%... 

100 percent?! 

Arachnid ducked back behind the tree and pressed his forehead to the rough bark. No wonder she was able to hold her own. He’d never seen a 100 percent danger level before.

Still, it’s only three Avengers. He was fine. This was fine. Even if he wasn’t prepared, he would be able to…  oh you cannot be serious.

The tall, muscular blond man that had been wearing an army uniform the previous day had appeared next to Romanova, this time decked out in red, white, and blue leather.

“Steven Grant Rogers”

Aliases: Captain America 

Age:  99 years

Origin: U.S.A

Known Affiliations: S.H.I.E.L.D… The Avengers Initiative… 

Past Affiliations: The Allied Forces…  The Howling Commandos… 

Abilities: Enhanced strength, speed, stamina, durability, agility, and reflexes… Hand-to-hand combatant…. Accelerated healing… 

Equipment: Vibranium shield.

Weakness: Unfamiliar with modern technology. 

Danger level: … 80%... 

Okay. You know what? This is fine. It’s fine. Arachnid pursed his lips and began studying his surroundings more intently. The trees were dense, but there was a bit of an opening where Romanova and Rogers were standing; a towering cliffside loomed over them all.

This is fine. No witnesses. Take them out. This is fine. 

He let out a shaky breath. Totally fine. No reason to panic.

It’s only four Avengers.

It’s fine.

Putting one hand under the other, he slowly began climbing down the vertical surface as easily as climbing down a ladder. 

Maximoff’s back was turned. If he was quick, he’d be able to knock him out before he even realized he was there.

Arachnid’s traitorous thoughts once more drifted back to the “Past Affiliations: Hydra… ” and he briefly considered letting him live to get some answers.

No.

He shook his head.

What a stupid thought.

He had direct orders. No witnesses. No survivors.  The fact he considered bending those orders even a little bit made his stomach squirm in shame.

Who did he think he was to have that kind of authority?
It wasn’t his call.

Arachnid sighed.

He’d render Maximoff unconscious. After he took care of the other Avengers with higher danger levels, he’d come back and finish the job. 

Arachnid peered at the dense neighboring branches. He could easily swing from them towards Maximoff. The wind resistance might prove to be a bit tricky, but it could be useful in dodging the inevitable incoming fire from Barton.

He slid to a stop; there was still about twenty feet of open air that separated him from the ground. He and Barton were about equal heights up now. 

“Tony, do you have eyes on the compound?” Rogers asked.

Tony? Who was Tony?

Don’t tell me there’s another Avenger.

Shit. They were already at the compound?

Arachnid gnawed on his lower lip. His fingers twitched and tapped the bark.

“No such luck, Oh Captain, My Captain,” came the reply; it was garbled and buried under the mechanical whir and of turning gears. “Our old pals at Hydra moved their secret villain lair underground. Fri is running the schematics now.”

“It’s too quiet,” Romanova stated. “I don’t trust it.”

“It is just an old research facility, no?” Maximoff responded. His voice was heavily accented. He stretched his arms over his head, a bit of his jacket lifting to reveal his stomach. “It is unprotected. No reason for a fight.” He yawned loudly and dramatically. “Boring.”

“I’m just happy no one’s shot us yet,” quipped Barton.

“Watch each other's backs. Don’t let your guards down,” Rogers ordered.

The quiet crunching of snow reached Arachnids ears as two pairs of footsteps began creeping through the snow. 

“I agree. Silence is boring,” came the same voice as before. “Lucky for you, there’s a simple fix.”

Arachnid ducked under a particularly large branch as a flash of red and gold whipped by overhead.

“Anthony Edward Stark”

Aliases: Iron Man…  The Merchant of Death... 

Age: 45 years

Origin: U.S.A

Known Affiliations: …The Avengers Initiative… 

Past Affiliations: N/A 

Abilities: Genius level intellect… 

Equipment: Gold-titanium alloy suit allowing flight, armor, and an array of weapons… Arc reactor…  Nanotech… A.I. systems…

Weakness: Impulsive. Dependency on technology. Overestimating his abilities.

Note: Cannot survive without arc reactor.

Danger level: … 80%... 

Alright. This simple problem was quickly turning into a suicide mission.

An electric guitar along with the pounding of a drum set, hidden slightly under the humming of the Iron Man suit, blasted through everyone's earpieces. To Arachnid, it sounded more like angry shouting than singing, but every so often the words would stop and the guitar would pick up again.

The gears in his brain started turning to try to figure out the meaning of this. 

Was it a secret message? Interference? Did they know he was listening?

The information before him reported that Stark was a genius; certainly, there was a reason for blaring this music.

Still, the lyrics seemed nonsensical to him.

“Born with insight and a raised fist… A witness to the slit wrist… As we move into '92… Still in a room without a view.”

Huh.

It wasn't actually unpleasant.

Arachnid found himself subconscious tapping his fingers and bobbing his head as he surveyed the enemy, still trying to decipher whatever code was hidden in the lyrics.

“Stark, turn that off,” groaned Rogers.

“I like it,” replied Maximoff.

“The child has spoken, grandpa.”

“Tony, I swear—”

He made a note to add “antagonistic” to Stark's weaknesses, and perhaps “controlling” to Rogers.

“Know your enemy!”

The sing-yelling momentarily died out and was replaced only by erratic electric guitar and the two bickering Avengers. Every time Rogers told Stark to turn the music off it got louder.

Not by much, the change in volume was subtle and most likely noticeable only by someone with enhanced hearing.

If anything, this interaction flooded him with a surge of suspicion.

With the music combined with the nonsensical bickering between the two, he was certain they knew he was listening. There was no reason two renowned Avengers would play music during a mission and then argue over something so stupid unless it was interference.

Right?

There was the sound of something cutting through the air at impossible speeds as Maximoff took off running again, before skidding to a stop right under Arachnids tree. The snow he kicked up flew so high into the air it brushed Arachnids boots. 

Arachnid’s fingers danced over his wrists, making sure his web shooters were full. He’d have to move now.

“Stark, this is a serious mission,” Rogers chided. “We will be having a discussion abo—”

“Oof!”

The wind was knocked out of Maximoff as his face planted into the ground. His shoes scuffed loudly against the hard snow.

Arachnid yanked on his web, and the young man flew into the air by his foot, spitting curses in Sokovian all the way. His hands jumped to cover his face as he crashed into multiple branches, sending splinters flying. Shards of wood covered the once pristine snow like freckles.

“Kid!” Barton yelled.

The web went slack as an arrow thwipped past, searing the mesh as easily as a knife through a strand of hair. 

Maximoff fell over ten feet, but Arachnid never saw him land. The moment the young man's feet touched the ground, he was gone.

Arachnid leapt to a neighboring tree, trying to ignore the wind cutting into his flesh and the surprised shouts of the Avengers.

They all began yelling at once; much too jumbled for him to understand. The music continued —“…Now I got no patience… So sick of complacence… With the D, the E, the F, the I, the A, the N, the C, the E…” — though the volume was lowered. Heroes scurried like ants below him.

His early warning sense urged him backwards — sending chills up his spine and pulling him back as if dragged by the back of his jacket — as an arrow impaled a branch right where his head would have been. Then he was guided upwards, narrowing flipping over a blue and red shield. It severed the wood with an echoing crack. Bullets narrowly missed his legs.

Arachnid clambered up the tree, pausing only to snap the arrow in half.  He adjusted the straps around his shoulders.

A whirring met his ears. Gold and red swam before his eyes.

“Found the peeping Tom!” Stark called. The man raised a hand; a high pitched “weeeeee” echoed through the forest and his palm glowed bright blue as a repulsor charged up. 

Arachnid’s hand shot up, wrapping around the metallic wrist and jerking it aside. Stark cursed. The blast from his repulsor demolished a section of the cliff face. 

He heard a roaring rumble as shattered rocks tumbled down.

Before the Avenger had a chance to react, Arachnid planted a foot on frosty red metal and flipped backwards, falling through the howling wind. He shot a web towards Stark, but to no avail. The wind grabbed his web and tugged it in the wrong direction. His stomach flipped as he hurled through the icy air towards the unforgiving ground below.

I should've thought this through should’ve thought this through shit this is bad this is gonna hurt.

His hands scrambled to grab onto nonexistent handles as he plummeted, staring up at the lenses of the Iron Man mask.

Another arrow whizzed by his head. 

Before he splattered against the ground like a bug on a windshield something painfully rammed into his side. The air knocked out of him. He hit the ground harshly, rolling and skidding to a stop and eventually sinking into the snow.

“...The finger to the land of the chains… What? The "land of the free"?... Whoever told you that is your enemy…”

He tried to jump to his feet, only to get body slammed back to the unforgiving ground. Maximoff shoved him down onto his stomach. Something cracked under him. A sharp twinge shot through his side.

A panicked shock jolted through his body.

Please be a bone. Please be a bone.

If he came back with any damaged gear, he was as good as dead.

Still dazed from the fall, Maximoff was easily able to wrench his arms behind his back. The man straddled his back, a knee sinking into the crunchy snow on either side of him.

“I got ‘im!”
Arachnid jerked around and dealt him a blow to the gut, sending the Sokovian flying into a tree with a sickening crunch. 

“I don’t got ‘im.” Maximoff moaned. Blood dripped out of the corner of his mouth.

Likewise, Arachnid’s mouth was quickly filling up with something disgustingly metallic. He could feel it dripping out between his lips, plastering against the inside of his mask. His chest rattled as he sucked in another breath.

“…I've got no patience now… So sick of complacence now…”

Arachnid dizzily rose. The floor swam. He locked his knees. He tried to ignore the throbbing spasm in his rib cage.

No sooner had he climbed to his feet had his sixth sense pounced on him again, digging into him with metaphysical claws and trying to pull him back down.

Arachnid ducked — the pull in his rib cage screamed —  and narrowly missed a wild kick. Romanova lunged forward, whipping out two escrima sticks that crackled like tasers and swinging them in fierce, calculated strikes. 

He sidestepped the first assault and blocked the second, the electricity making all his hair stand up on end.  

Arrows flew towards his chest. Cursing silently to himself, his fingers wrapped around one and only just avoided being impaled. Unfortunately for him, that meant he left his side open to attacks.

Romanova didn’t miss.

One of her escrima sticks smashed into his side.

It burned. His blood was on fire. A nightmarish current of lighting jolted through his body. A thousand wasps converged under his skin.

He barely recognized the strangled yelp spilling out of his own mouth.

Romanova brought down another blow to his torso, but he was able to shoot a web and trap her in place. 

Brief sensations of panic flooded his mind again, warning him of looming danger. His fingers closed around Roger’s shield. The edges sliced through his glove and into his skin like butter. Biting back a groan, he chucked it as hard as possible towards Stark, who swiftly dodged. Still, it caught the edge of the metal suit, revealing sparkling internal wires.

Everything seemed to slow; once more, he felt the overwhelming impulse to jump to the side and evade an incoming attack.

Instead, he swung his leg up and caught Maximoff mid-run. The man flew backwards. His head thwacked against a rough stump and he crumpled to the ground.

This time, Maximoff stayed down.

A plethora of furious curses cascaded down from above, and a abundant array of arrows rained down upon him.

Arachnid ducked behind Rogers, who swung his shield.

He ducked and rolled, kicking at the captain’s legs as he did so. As Rogers whacked into the ground, Arachnid snatched the shield and bolted across the opening, holding it up as cover. Arrows clanked against it and bounced off.

Stark swiftly flew as if the laws of gravity were mere suggestions to him. Arachnid dodged another punch and leapt on the man’s back, sticking onto him as he swirled through the air.  

“...Yes, I know my enemies… They're the teachers who taught me to fight me… Compromise…  Conformity… Assimilation…  Submission… Ignorance… Hypocrisy…”

He raised the shield above his head and slammed it down into Stark's chest, cracking the arc reactor and causing the blue lights to flicker.

Stark swore. The music cut out.

Arachnid’s blood slicked up the shield and it slipped to the ground, clattering against rocks and rolling partially underneath the deep snow.

He leapt off Starks shoulders as the man tailspinned out of control.

He skidded to a stop in the snow — landing across from Rogers with the shield between them — and caught himself with his good hand planted into the ground. 

“That’s my thing,” Romanova said. Arachnid paused, tilting his head to meet her glare. 

Huh?

An arrow planted itself in the web containing her and an eruption of flame burst out from it, disintegrating the sticky mesh.

This guy had trick arrows? And one that incinerates?

His mind was stuck between awed and terrified. 

There was no time to consider this, however, because Romanova was charging back at him. 

Oh, forget this.

Arachnid darted to the side and used Rogers as a jumping platform to clamber up into a tree. His fingers wrapped around a branch and he catapulted himself upwards, landing next to a stunned archer. 

Barton twisted to the side and threw a punch towards Arachnid’s face. He blocked it and knocked the man from the tree.

Barton twisted midair and embedded an arrow into the thick wood with a thud, using it like a grappling hook to lower himself safely to the ground.

Arachnid was panting and trembling now. His chest was heaving. 

Blood steadily poured from his hand. A throbbing, burning pain engulfed his side. Dried blood pasted his dry, chapped lips to his mask.

Below him, Barton rolled to his feet and ran to the fallen Maximoff. 

Rogers reattached his shield to his back and Stark continued cursing up a storm; the lights on his suit continued flickering and a huge gash decorated the armor on his chest. 

Romanova was giving him a look that made him want to turn and run.

“Hey guys, we might need some back up!” Barton yelled, flashing a light in Maximoffs blank eyes.

A voice crackled through the earpieces: “I am over sixty feet underground in some weird evil lair. Can it wait five minutes?”

Arachnid’s heart sank. Someone got past him.

He failed.

Another voice appeared. “As much as I hate to admit it, Sam’s right. We’ll start heading back. Might take a few minutes.”

“Hurry it up,” barked Barton.

Arachnid let out another shaky breath. Something rattled in his chest again. He gripped his side and tried to keep himself from doubling over.

He might have not been able to stop everyone from finding the compound, but he can stop the rest of them from doing any more damage.

Lightning flashed through the air. Arachnid’s hands shot up, attempting to protect his burning eyes from the barrage of assaulting light. 

As soon as his eyes were covered, a sound like a cracking whip reached his ears and he got the instinct to duck behind the tree. He whipped behind it in the nick of time; bullets dug into the wood. A shower of splinters rained down. Romanova reloaded her gun.

Arachnids gulped and grabbed his arms. Keeping his back pressed against the tree, he peeped behind him — careful to keep himself securely hidden.

A muscular man with luxurious blond hair and a red cape floated above him.

“Thor Odinson”

Aliases: God of Thunder... 

Approximate Age: 1,500 years 

Origin: Asgard

Known Affiliations: …The Avengers Initiative… 

Past Affiliations: UNKNOWN

Abilities:  Superhuman strength, durability, stamina, reflexes, advanced healing, weather manipulation, and flight.

Equipment: Hammer of unknown origin.

Weakness: Impulsive. Underestimates enemies.

Note: Separating him from the hammer will take away some of his abilities — unknown which.

Danger Level: …90%...

Okay. This was just getting ridiculous.

“Fear not!” he shouted, his voice booming as if it was coming from speakers planted in every inch of the forest. Based on his accent, Arachnid briefly wondered if “Asgard” was somewhere in Australia. “I have come to provide aid!”
“That's great, Point Break,” Stark shouted. “Why don’t you be useful and hit that guy?”

“Which one?” Odinson's eyes scanned the forest.

He tried shielding himself with more of the tree. No such luck.

Odinson’s eyes locked onto him. There was something about the man — perhaps it was the way his eyes seemed to sparkle, or the way his face was perfectly symmetrical, or the way he held himself; whatever it was, Arachnid wasn’t quite sure — that screamed “not human” in the boy's mind. The alien’s face broke out in a grin seemingly too big for his face.

“This one? He is tiny!” Odinson swung his hammer in a hypnotic motion. “This shall hardly be a battle.”

Odinson brandished his hammer again and a blindingly bright bolt of lightning hurled towards him. If he didn't have the tingling warning in the back of his mind he would have died for sure. Arachnid leapt off the tree. Fire licked the side of his legs as the tree burst into flames.

A vile word slipped from Roger’s mouth.

Arachnid turned midair — once again plummeting down in a gut wrenching manner — to see Odinson’s hammer careering towards him.

His eyebrows shot up. 

The hammer. 

Separating Odinson from the hammer would take away some of his powers.

The world seemed to move in slow motion around him. He just barely avoided being crushed by the hammer, having to contort his body oddly around it. As it passed by his head, he shot a web, sticking to its handle.

He tugged it backwards.

A horrible pain engulfed his shoulder as it was almost yanked out of its socket. He yelped.

Instead of coming back to him, the hammer continued soaring; this time, with Arachnid attached.

This was a horrible idea!

Branches clawed into the exposed flesh on his forehead and shredded the fabric on his arms and legs, leaving stinging gashes. His warning sense would not turn off; it was sending tremors down his spine and was trying to urge him in every direction. His heart was slamming so hard against his chest he could feel it in his toes.

He kept trying to jerk the hammer back — going so far to use all his strength — but it was futile. It continued to crash through the trees, somehow managing to smack Arachnid's abused body against every single one.

A muffled, strangled shriek he barely recognized as his own passed his lips. 

Then, unexpectedly, it stopped.

The hammer froze and Arachnid paused in the air. He was weightless. For a split-second he was floating in that split second between rising and falling.

He let himself breathe again.

It’s okay. It stopped. It’s okay.

Then the hammer twisted and shot off in the direction it came.

Arachnid’s body whipped around. He swore he felt his feet touch the back of his head and another startled yelp escaped him.

He rolled his shoulders — the one attached to the web throbbing and stinging like it had been shot — and felt his pack unfurl.

Glimpses of gold flashed through his peripherals as the mechanical legs clawed desperately against the splintering wood.

Odinson was holding his hand outstretched in the distance, smiling as energy crackled through his eyes and over his fingers. 

Arachnids entire body jolted as the legs buried themselves in a particularly sturdy tree. Instead of the hammer stopping, however, Arachnid’s web snapped and he was thrown backwards. Metal legs struck his back hard enough to break skin. To the machines credit, however, they didn't falter and remained buried in the wood, leaving Arachnid dangling thirty feet in the air.

The hammer returned to Odinsons palm. He grinned, once again twirling the hammer like it was nothing.

Arachnid’s arms swayed lifelessly at his sides. His head was heavy and his neck weak. Even as the adrenaline slowly depleted from his body, his heart didn't stop its vigorous pounding nor did his small frame stop quivering.

Everything hurt.

He was so tired.

Every single inch of him felt like it was being pulled down to the ground. Gravity had chosen him and him alone to target. Arachnid wanted to melt into a puddle of the floor and never get up.

Until now the only thing keeping him going was fear. Fear of the enemy, but more than that, fear of his superiors.

But what if he just stopped?

He blinked slowly. More blood slipped between his lips. Sharp aches traveled up his sides. 

What if he gave up?

What if he let them kill him?

He swallowed, staring down at the Avengers as the golden legs lowered him down to sit on a branch. They were scurrying to and fro. One of them was yelling up at Odinson, and he was shouting back. Barton remained by the unconscious Maximoff’s side. Stark’s suit slipped from him easily as the nanotech folded in on itself; one arm of the suit remained. He and Rogers were desperately trying to do something about the fire.

The sparks had jumped to two more trees. Soon the entire forest would be engulfed in flames.

What if I give up?

He could, he realized. 

What would Hydra do? What could they do?

Nothing. He’d be dead, and they’d be without their most powerful asset.

A wry smile overcame his lips.

They’d be without their most powerful asset.

Him dying would be the biggest act of defiance he could ever make.

It sounded awesome.

He could sit here until they killed him. Maybe Romanova would shoot him. Maybe Barton would lodge an arrow in his skull.

Even if they didn't, it wouldn't be long until the flames reached him. He’d seen enough people die from fire — helped kill a good portion of them — to know that it was smoke inhalation that often killed them.

It couldn’t possibly be more painful than what he was doing now.

Much less painful than returning back to Hydra. 

As he considered his options — how painful and how difficult each way of dying was — the glint of something metallic caught his eyes. He looked.

Someone new was standing near Romanova.

Someone with a metal arm.

Chapter Text

As he considered his options — how painful and how difficult each way of dying was — the glint of something metallic caught his eyes. He looked.

Someone new was standing near Romanova.

Someone with a metal arm.

“ James Buckanan Barnes”

Aliases: The Winter Soldier… Serg—

Arachnid ignored the rest of the words. His vision swam. All thoughts of dying vanished from his mind, evaporating as quickly and suddenly as a blown out candle. All the fatigue sapped from his body as if a bucket of ice water were dumped on his head.

His thoughts were locked on one thing and one thing alone.

The metal arm.

It was different from the one from his memories. The one that haunted his dreams looked like cheap, welded metal with a hastily painted red star, whereas this one was a shiny metallic black with streaks of gold embedded in the joints. 

But it was him.

That was the guy.

He knew it. He knew it.

Arachnid tensed.

A tsunami of anger flooded through his veins; it was a rage unlike anything he had ever felt before. His face flushed. His mouth went dry. Fury pooled in a boiling pit in his stomach, threatening to burn him from the inside out and gnaw away at him until he was nothing but a pile of singed bones. 

He didn’t know why the sight sparked such passionate wrath. It wasn’t logical. Feelings never were.

Splinters slid through his glove as his fingers shattered a branch. 

This was the guy.

He’s responsible for… for everything.

All the nightmares. All the the pain.

Maybe if the man with the metal arm — this Barnes — died, so would the suffering.

Without thinking — without planning — Arachnid was on his feet and sprinting forward. He couldn’t feel his legs. He didn’t remember commanding them to move. He leapt from tree to tree at imperceptible speeds, getting closer to the ground with each jump. 

All that cycled through his mind was a broken mantra of “metal arm” and “kill” and “hate.”

Barnes' eyes went almost comically large. 

Romanova’s face gave nothing away. She attempted to step forward, but Arachnid slammed his elbow into her gut and sent her flying. Something sharp pierced his arm. He ignored it, lunging on top of Barnes. 

They both hit the ground with a resounding thud. Barnes' rifle went siding across the snow.

Somewhere behind him, someone yelled “Bucky!”  He heard shouting. He heard weapons being activated.

He didn’t care.

Arachnid wrapped his legs around Barnes torso, effectively pinning him, and slammed his fists down in livid, reckless abandon.
For the first time in his life, he didn’t calculate his swings. He just wanted to hit. To scratch. To punch. 

He wanted to make him bleed. He wanted to hurt him.

Metal clanged behind him. He briefly noted one of his mechanical legs denting as it deflected the captain’s shield.

Barnes' metal arm shot up, squeezing Arachnid's wrist in a painful iron grip and flipping them over so the super soldier was on top.

Arachnid hissed. Mechanical legs flexed and surged forward; one of them pierced Barnes thigh, making him falter enough for Arachnid to kick him off and scramble back to his feet.

He narrowly rolled out of the way of Rogers' fists. Romanova was coming towards him next; he grabbed her arm and shoved her towards Rogers. She skid to a stop, planting a hand in the snow. 

Arachnid stalked forward like a wolf approaching a deer. He didn't stop his advance or tear his eyes from Barnes even when his hand shot up to catch an arrow. He effortlessly snapped it between two fingers.

Barnes backed up, holding his hands out in front of him. The sight of the sun glinting off the metal sent another surge of anger through him.

“Listen.” Barnes voice was surprisingly smooth and calm. There was no trembling or despair that usually filled his victims’ tones. “My name is James Bucky Barnes.” Barnes swallowed. His light blue eyes never left Arachnids face. He seemed to be searching for something. He stared at him with all the desperation and hope as if he contained the answer to all the world's problems. “I know what you’re going through. I know what they're probably doing to you. This isn’t you. You don’t have to—”

Arachnid punched forward, bringing his fist down. Barnes rolled out of the way. His hand went straight through an old birch tree.

He was done pulling his punches.

He whipped around, shaking his hand to try to get some of the throbbing pain out of it. Arachnid lunged again. Barnes blocked and dodged, clearly on the defensive.

Another spark of angry darted through his mind.

Why won’t he fight me?

“I’ve been here before.” Barnes insisted. Another punch. A block. “I know how this ends.” Kick. Dodge. “Whatever you’ve done, it’s not you. You didn’t have a choice.” Slash. Block. “But now I’m giving you one.” Kick. Block. “I can hel— oof.”

One of Arachnid's kicks met his gut and sent him stumbling back.

“What are you waiting for, hit him!” Romanova snapped, whipping out one of her escrima sticks and springing at him.

He barely registered the burn of electricity this time. Rogers came in to deal another blow with his shield. 

Arachnid was able to get past them.

Barnes was his only objective.

Barnes — looking extremely conflicted — rolled his metal arm. “Sure you don’t want to talk about this?”

Arachnid lunged. 

“Guess not.”

Barnes aimed a blow at his face.

 Arachnid caught it. Easily. He maneuvered the metal arm aside, Barnes’ eyes once again going wide.

Arachnid kicked him in the chest, sending him flying back.

He hit the broken cliff face with a resounding bam! and tumbled down into a pile of shattered rocks.

Arachnid's chest heaved and his face burned. 

Barnes was not unconscious. On the contrary, he was getting back to his feet. 

Romanova’s commanding tone cut through his mind's angry haze.  “Hey, Banner, we got a code green out here.”

Arachnid didn’t know what a code green was, and he was too irate to care. They could throw whatever they had at him. As long as he took out Barnes, he'd be satisfied.

A timid, unknown voice responded, crackling over the earpieces. “Uh, are you sure? Didn't you say Piero had a concussion? Wouldn’t I be more useful here?”

“Sam, grab Clint and Pietro and get them both to the quinjet,” Rogers responded from farther away. “Clint can patch him up.”

“Translation: get your big breen butt out here!” Stark yelled, his voice faint and smothered by the crackling and popping of fire.

A roaring engine flew overhead and a blur of gray and red whooshed through the air. Arachnid kept his eyes locked on Bucky even as the annoying text scrawled across his vision.

“Samuel Thomas Wilson”

Aliases: The Falcon... (previously) Captain America…

Age: 38 years

Origin: U.S.A

Known Affiliations: The Avengers Initiative… 

Past Affiliations: The U.S. Air Force….

Abilities:  Hand-to-hand combat…. 

Equipment: Mechanical wings allowing flight and protection… Twin guns... Stealth drone… 

Weakness: Tendency to hesitate and doubt own skills.

Danger Level: …75%...

He tore his eyes from Barnes to catch a glimpse of the man scooping Barton and Maximoff off the ground. “Red Wings taking a look at the rest of the facility,” was all the man said, before taking off with two angelic wings.

He turned back to Barnes.

The man was staring him down. He was staring so intensely that Arachnid wondered if he had some sort of telepathic attack. Neither of them moved. 

“You don’t have to do this.”

Yes. Arachnid thought. Yes, I do.

He dropped down into position, one hand splayed out on the cold ground in front of him, leaving red streaks of hot blood that seeped into the melting snow,  the other hand raised up behind him.

Barnes' gaze flickered between Arachnid and something behind him.

“I guess we’re doing this.” His eyes narrowed. “Tony!

Tony?

What?

The tingling warning crept up in his mind again, but he was too slow to completely dodge it. Flames slammed into his side and he was knocked from his feet.

His hip throbbed. He dug his fingers into the hard ground, whipping his head up to get a better look at his attacker.

Stark lowered his hand so the repulsor was aimed at his head. Stark’s face was covered in soot, save for a subtle outline that was protected by his sunglasses.

“Word of advice, buddy? Stay down .” Stark's lackadaisical, sarcastic tone was gone from the last two words. It was replaced by something much more commanding. Something much more serious.

Instead, Arachnid bolted forward.
Every muscle in his body was pulling at him; screaming at him.

Stark’s hand whipped around, following his monument. “ -- wweeeeeee --” The repulsors charged up, and then: “ Ba-blam!”

Arachnid rolled behind Stark just in time to avoid being hit by the blast. Stark whisked around again, his fluffy brown hair falling into his eyes and sticking to his sweaty forehead. Arachnid grabbed the metal encased arm, and  — bending the metal easily underneath his fingertips — he wrenched the arm behind Stark’s back and kicked him in the back of his legs. He fell to his knees.

Pop!

Something in Stark's arm popped. He grit his teeth.

Arachnid brought his knee up and sent Stark rolling away.

“Are you alright?” Rogers asked, concern laced in his voice.

“Tony, I thought you were putting out the fire,” Romanova yelled at the same time.

Stark rolled to his back. He coughed, staring up at the sky. “Thought you guys could use some help,” he muttered. He winced.

“Good job,” Barnes called.

Stark weakly raised his middle finger.

The wind crackled as an electric current seemed to light up the very air. His hair stood up.

Arachnid felt the tug of his sixth sense as he saw the growing shadow beneath him.
He was barely able to jump to the side when Thor brought his hammer down onto the ground with a wham! sending shockwaves through Arachnids bones. His teeth clattered. 

Arachnid flew back. His mechanical legs pushed him back up to his feet before he hit the ground.

All the snow on the ground flew up into the air. The winds seemed to intensify to a thousand, and then freeze a split second after. All was calm. The storm around him seemed to slow down and snowflakes were suspended in midair. 

Rogers had darted forward to grab Stark and cover them both with his shield. Everyone was knocked off their feet.

“How ‘bout a warning next time, Point Break?” Stark muttered.

Arachnid swung his hand up, firing a web at Odinson’s hammer. If he couldn't separate the god from his weapon, he’d have to stick them together.

Without the wind resistance to interfere, the web effortlessly reached its destination and latched onto Odinson’s hand.
“What’s this?” Odison’s voice boomed as he held up his hammer, studying it closely. His eyes darted back to Arachnid. “A trick?” He laughed merrily as if this were all a game. Arachnid wilted. “You fight like my brother! I shall make an effort to introduce you two! Should you survive this battle, of course. Which isn’t likely.”
“Thor, you will introduce them over my dead body,” Rogers replied, panting.

“He fights cleverly.” Odinson shrugged. “And wily. Like a snake.”

“Or a spider,” Stark replied

“I… I suppose, yes.” Odinsons brow furrowed. “I know not much about spiders. Anyhow, I grow weary of this banter.”
Odinson raised his hammer towards Arachnid again, lightning dancing over his fingers and in his eyes. Even with all the energy crackling throughout his body, not a single strand of Odinsons hair stood up on end.

Instead of blasting towards him, however, the lightning traveled through the web and exploded outward in every direction.

BAM!

The Avengers were knocked down again. Odinson flew back. Arachnid held his ground, his mechanical legs holding him even as the entire forest jumped into flames.

The freezing cold quickly transformed into a sweltering heat. 

Putrid smoke attacked his senses. It smelled and tasted like a bonfire. All the dry, dead wildlife turned into a vivid glowing red. Lethal blazes moved faster than the average person could run, consuming tree after tree.

Odison floated down through the air slowly. His hand, now free, tossed the hammer up and down playfully.

Instead of looking towards his enemy, however, Odinson looked over his shoulder. Somehow, his grin got even wider.

“Banner! My friend! You’ve come to join us!”

A terrifying roar shook the trees.

Arachnid froze, his blood going cold.

Another tingling chill ran up his spine, warning him and trying to pull him to the side.

He turned.

A towering monstrosity of green loomed over him. The creature bared its ginormous teeth and roared again, the sound splitting the Earth beneath him.

“The Hulk”

Alias—

That was all Arachnid was able to read before the monster was barreling towards him, sending burning tree’s flying in his wake. He knocked them down as if they were nothing.

Arachnid dived out of his way.

He turned to watch him pound the ground as if he had a personal vendetta against mother nature — each strike making his bones tremble and knees buckle.

He didn’t realize he left his back open to attacks before it was too late. 

Barnes tackled him. 

They wrestled in the cold snow, sweating from the growing inferno around them. Arachnid fought for control, but Barnes was able to get on top and pinned him on his back.

He raised his metal arm. He hesitated. 

The second of hesitation was all Arachnid needed. He kicked Barnes with both feet and sent him airborne.

Barnes smacked against the cliff face again.

He refused to stay down, pushing himself to his knees and wincing. A thin trail of blood dripped down his temple.

The Hulk had turned back around and was now brandishing a smoldering tree like a dagger.  

He hurled it. It landed near Arachnids feet. He didn’t flinch. The mechanical legs lifted him over it effortlessly. 

The Avengers scrambled out of the Hulk's way.

Arachnid pressed his lips together in a thin line. Blood made them stick. His lips peeled when he parted them to let out a shaky exhale. His side pinched.

This was just the worst.

The Hulk raised his fists over his head and slammed them down towards Arachnid.

His warning sense screeched in his ear. He ignored it.

Arachnids hands shot into the air, catching the green fists before they could flatten him. His muscles strained from the effort. Every inch of him trembled and burned.

The Hulk continued applying force. Arachnid tried to dig his feet into the ground, but ended up sliding backwards in the rapidly melting snow.

Somewhere, someone whistled. 

“Well that’s terrifying,” muttered Barnes.

“Yeah, uh, if we all live, I vote we hire this guy,” Stark piped up.

“Shut it, Tony,” responded Rogers.

The Hulk ripped his hands away. Arachnid leapt, his stomach doing somersaults as he flew high into the air. He stuck to the creatures shoulder

Arachnid flinched as the Hulk roared. Sound pierced his skull like a knife. He pressed his gloved hands over his ears, pressing the rough fabric of his heavy hood into his skin. He darted across the monster's back.

The Hulk started swinging his fists in wild, furious blows. 

“PESKY BUG!” he yelled.

This thing talks? 

Awesome!

Arachnid webs from both shooters and stuck the Hulk to a tree. He growled and yanked his hand backwards. The tree was ripped from the ground.

Interesting.

Arachnid dove to the ground and rolled to a stop. Darting between the Hulk's legs, he fired a seemingly infinite amount of webs at his feet. He shot his webs until both shooters were empty and the Hulk's foot and the nearby pile of rubble were a giant pile of sticky white mesh. 

When the Hulk tried pulling his leg up, more rocks tumbled down from the pile, sticking together and adding more weight. the Hulk began thrashing angrily.

The sound of cracking whips filled the air as bullets rained down around him. One buried itself in his vest, knocking him back and no doubt leaving a nasty bruise.

Arachnid ducked under one of the wild fists and darted up the Hulk's back. The unrestrained flailing made it difficult to keep his balance. He crouched down and stuck onto the Hulk’s skin with his hands and his feet.  

He fiddled with his belt, trying to find the pouch with backup web fluid. Every time he got close to finding it, he’d have to move aside to dodge a flailing fist. His warning sense kicked in each time one of the monsters strike got too close.

Unfortunately for the boy, he forgot to account for the mechanical legs on his back.

Just as he produced the clear glass vial he was yanked back by one of the legs  — his sticky fingers ripped skin and dark green blood gushed forward and splattered all over them both — and swung violently through the air.

A panicked tingling was all the warning he got before being slammed onto his stomach into the cold, hard ground.

Breath fled from his lungs. An explosion of sharp pain ripped through his abdomen. He heard splintering metal as the Hulk chucked the shattered remains of two robotic legs into the sky.

Arachnid tried sucking a breath.

It didn't come.

The air got stuck in his throat. 

He couldn't breathe. Oh man, he couldn't breathe.

His mouth and nose felt smothered as if by a pillow.

Arachnid tried pushing himself up. His arms buckled and he crashed into the unforgiving ground.  Throbbing blossomed throughout his ribs and stomach as he fell onto his side. He coughed a wet, rough cough, hacking up slippery blood. Air struggled to get through his rattling chest. He wheezed.

The Hulk roared again.

Arachnid flinched. He pulled his knees up to his chest and threw his arms over his head. 

I’m going to die! I'm going to die! Please! Hey! Help someone help please help I’m going to die I can’t breathe please someone I can’t breathe I cant—

The Hulk roared again. Arachnid flinched, every single inch of his body screaming at him.

He laid there, spasming and twitching like a squashed, dying bug.

Cant breathe cant breathe going to die help please help someone please help—

“Hey, big guy, the sun’s getting real low.”

Arachnid peeked over his shoulder. The Hulk was screaming and shoving the trees around as Romanova tried desperately to talk to him with her hand outstretched.

Then, Arachnid saw it.

The glint of metal.

While the other Avengers were scurrying around the Hulk, Barnes was staring directly at him. He had climbed out of the rocks and had retrieved his rifle. It was slung over his shoulder, the barrel bent beyond use.

The two made direct eye contact. 

Neither blinked.

A beat passed. 

Another.

Okay. Okay. C’mon Arachnid. C’mon.

No one was coming to save him. No one ever had, and no one ever would. 

He had to get out of this by himself.

And that started with dealing with Barnes.

He rolled over on his back. He tried pushing himself up again, every inch of him trembling. He made it to his elbows. He panted. Gravity seemed to be clawing at him, trying to drag him back down.

Barnes frowned. His eyebrows pushed together. His eyes darted away from Arachnid, over to the Avengers, then back at Arachnid. He looked conflicted.

C’mon, Arachnid. C’mon. You can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

Before he could give himself more time to think, Arachnid shoved himself to his feet. 

The entire world wobbled and spun around him. He locked his knees. 

Arachnid lifted one of his fists in front of him. The other he couldn’t raise without a burning, spasming pain running up his side. Instead, he wrapped it around his smarting rib cage, hunching over slightly.

Giant towers of red and orange twirled and spun from tree to tree in a hypnotic waltz as the woods were consumed with flame. Thick black smoke smothered the sun. Shadow danced wildly in the remaining snow. 

Arachnid gulped and forced the putrid air down his raw throat. He felt as though he had gargled lava.

Barnes looked back at the Avengers. Romanova and the Hulk seemed to be holding hands now. Barnes opened his mouth and said something; Arachnid wasn’t sure what. All he heard was a ringing.

One foot in front of the other.

Arachnid took one shaky step, then another, meanwhile the entire world was spinning around him. He stuck. That was what he was good at. Sticking to uneven surfaces.

Arachnid took a second to ready himself, then lunged forward, keeping his sights locked on Barned and trying to ignore the world that danced around him.

Immediately Barned stepped to the side and swiftly evaded the assault. Arachnid stumbled.

He caught a glimpse of black and gold as metal fingers closed around his hood.

The sound of ripping fabric reverberated through the forest.

The webbing sticking his goggles and mask to his hood went taut, and then the metal was roughly ripped from his face.

He hit the ground.

He hit it hard.

Immediately everything became too much.

Too bright. Too loud. Too many noises.

He fell forward, barely catching himself and rolling to his side. His chest heaved irregularly. An agonizing stinging covered his abdomen.

I’m done. I can’t….  I can’t… 

His skin was too tight for his body. Everything was being pulled and scraped. He wanted out of his skin. It felt bad. Bad bad bad bad.

A sharp twinge rushed through his head. He was dizzy. The world wasn’t blurry, no, but clear. Agonizingly clear. Too clear. 

He could see every detail on every snowflake fluttering around his vision. He coils see individual strands of hair on his enemies head and every drop of sweat. He could hear every crackle of the fire and every superhero's frantic heartbeats.  He could feel every snowflake brush against his skin. He could smell everything. Taste everything. Sense everything .

It was too much.

All the sounds and sights, all the tastes and smells — all the everything — were competing for his attention; he couldn't focus. The fight at hand was unwillingly slipping away from his mind even as he frantically clawed at it. It slipped right through his fingers like sand.

Too much. Too much. Please. Too much. Stop.

His preemptive warning sense was dialed to a hundred. It wouldn't stop. Continuous chills ran down his spine. Tingles sizzles in the back of his mind like a fire. Every fiber of fabric was scratchy. He was trembling.

Stop, stop. Please stop.

He squeezed his eyes shut and covered his face with his good arm, waiting for the inevitable incoming blow.

It never came.

“What the hell.”

It didn't sound like a question. More like a statement of shock mixed with disbelief.

Arachnid peaked his eyes open. He flinched. Too bright. Too much. It hurt.

He squinted.

Barnes was staring down at him. His lips were slightly parted, his eyes were wide, and his eyebrows were once again scrunched together.

Arachnid culled in on himself tighter, doing his best to ignore the stabbing pain.

Just kill me already. Please. It hurts.

He had heard of SHIELD torturing their prisoners. He repressed a shudder. Was that going to happen to him?

Anything had to be better than this.

Whiiiiiir.

Gold and red swam before his eyes.

“Hey, RoboCop, what are you waiting for? Hit—” Stark froze, looking down at Arachnid. A single eyebrow raised. He slowly raised a finger and tapped the side of his sunglasses, not taking his eyes of Arachnid. ““F.R.I.D.A.Y, how old…”

“ -- Definitely a minor, boss --”

Not one of them moved. They all stared at each other.

Arachnid huffed, which quickly devolved into strangled coughing. He spat out a thick clump of dark, dark red. 

Forget this.

Arachnid bit down on his lip and repressed a whimper as he pushed himself to his knees. He raised his chin, staring them down defiantly.

If he was going to die, he’d do it with whatever remained of his tattered dignity. He didn’t need their sympathy. There was no reason to—

CLANG!

Bright flashes of light engulfed his vision.

Something blasted into his temple. He felt as though his very skull was caving in.

Shredded eiced of the mechanical arms went flying in multiple different directions. The ground rushed up to catch him.

Arachnid blacked lazily.

He layed in the snow, registering nothing. 

Giant flakes fluttered down to cover his nose. Snow covered him like a warm blanket.. He didn’t feel cold anymore. Interesting .

The pristine white snow was quickly becoming a vivid red around his head. 

Huh. Pretty.

Muffled yelling reached him. He couldn't make it out. Everything sounded like he was underwater. The unfocused world twirled around him.

He turned slightly. He didn't seem to be in pain anymore. That's nice. Everything was numb. Beautifully, blissfully numb. 

Hm. 

Blurs of Avengers were running around. There seemed to be multiple replicas of each person.

Huh. Scratch that. There were multiple replicas of everything .

Weird.

They all looked pretty surprised. Pretty panicked. They looked like their plans went wrong in the worst way.

Why were they upset? They won, right? He was down.

Wait, was he dead? Did one of them kill him? Which one?

Was it metal arm dude? Did he kill him?

Was this what being dead felt like?

Oh, man, he was dead.

Dead for sure.

He blinked. Tears pricked the back of his eyes.

I don’t want to be dead.

Slowly but surely, as if waking from a dream, the world slowly became more clear and focused. Everyone's clones began morphing into one.

Broken words floated through his hazy mind.

“... happened?...”

“....of…. ce!”

“...small…”

“... a kid….”

“This… ….not… ….not good…”

“....Sherlock…. first clue?...”

“... kid….”

“... medical care… …now!”

“...how…. …hit a kid!...”

“How… ….supposed to know?... ….all… …doing nothing!...”

“Maybe ask why…. …nothing?!....”

“Fury…. ….like this….”

“...cant believe… …this low….. I mean… …Hydra….”

At the word “Hydra” Arachnids brain painfully kicked into gear.

He sucked in a breath, the cold cutting the inside of his nose. Throbbing pain and aches slowly began blossoming over his entire body.

He winced. Not dead. Very much alive. 

Hydra. Right.

He had to get back. He had direct orders.

Something about witnesses. Survive. Rendezvous.
Right?

It was time for a tactical retreat.

Without even thinking, without even processing what was happening, Arachnid scrambled to his feet and bolted.

His body screeched in burning, stinging torment.

The surprised shouts and yells behind him faded away into nothing. He wasn’t sure if they were following him. He wasn’t even sure where he was going.

He bolted, branches clawing at his face. He kept his eyes shut, relying completely on his pre-warning sense to tell him when he was about to run into something. It was dull, but it was there nonetheless. A faint tingle in the back of his mind.

It was the only sensation that wasn't pain.

Chapter Text

Glaring lights flooded Arachnids vision.

He winced. Pulsating pain throbbed through his skull.

“Right eye is beginning to respond to light,” said a feminine voice with a German lilt.

The harsh light swung to the other side. 

“Left eye remains unfocused.”

Click.

The room dimmed.

The head doctor dropped her flashlight into the pocket of her white coat and scribbled something down on her notepad. 

Instead of the mandatory uniform enforced on all Hydra operatives, she wore red and black flannel pajamas under her coat. Chestnut hair sat in a sloppy bun on her head. Dark circles decorated the skin under her eyes.

It had been a long night.

Arachnid blinked sluggishly. His blurry vision was beginning to clear.

Every inch of him was wound tight. Tense. Ready for attack.

Agents and scientists alike fluttered around the impromptu base, which was little more than a hastily renovated warehouse, desperately trying to regain some semblance of order.

A thick black curtain had sectioned off a corner; providing a faux semblance of privacy for the makeshift medical center.

It had been the doctor's suggestion.

Arachnid shifted in his seat, wincing as sharp pains shot through his shoulder and up his side.

Stacks of cardboard boxes filled with various medical supplies cluttered the filthy, mud-stained floor. A pristine stethoscope peaked out from under a lid.

Arachnid perched gingerly on a foldable table.

He’d been poked and prodded more times than he wished to remember.

Anesthesia slowly slinked from his body. The numbing drugs mixed with his concussion clouded his hazy mind. 

The head doctor appeared next to him, swiftly deactivating a blood pressure monitor. He let out a sharp breath as she unwrapped the tight cuff from his arm; it had been squeezing him like a boa constrictor. 

The other arm was pulled tight across his chest and dangled helplessly in a rough black sling. Both his shoulder and wrist had suffered from sprains.

When she moved again, Arachnid was able to get a clear view of his handler. 

Mr. Colt glowered down at him, his arms crossed.

He wilted. His cheeks burned.

He quickly dropped his eyes to the floor.

Fingers twitched. Itchy dark blue stitches dug into the palm of his right hand. 

Used needles and tubes littered a nearby sink, bloody from when they had been used to drain the fluid in his lungs. 

Every time he took a breath his chest strained and the oxygen mask around his mouth expanded and deflated.

Dress shoes clicked against the grimy floor. Mr. Colt’s feet appeared in his vision. 

They were the shiniest shoes he had ever seen. He could see his pathetic reflection staring back at him.

Arachnid's boots, along with the rest of his clothes, had been taken from him during surgery. He wiggled his cold toes. Besides the sling, all he wore was flimsy white cotton shirt that did nothing to protect is sensitive skin from the chilly draft — which, albeit, while far from pleasant was nothing compared to Siberia — and an equally thin pair of pants with an elastic waist that dug uncomfortably into his skin.

He had no equipment. 

His tactical pants sat folded near the filthy needles and tubes, with his boots on top of them. The mask and goggles had all been left behind. His jacket and mechanical legs had been broken beyond repair. All vials of web fluid shattered with his ribcage.

For every piece of missing or damaged gear, Mr. Colt had ordered them to give him less and less painkillers.

Luckily the intimidating head doctor had snapped something about overstimulation and permanent damage and slipped him some anesthetic. He was eternally grateful.

But now that was gone.

Empty web shooters sat uncomfortably around his wrists; bruises donned them like bracelets. His sides were a mottled mess of bruises and burns.

“Leave us,” drawled Mr. Colt. 

The doctor didn't look up. She merely reached to grab the discard stethoscope, rubbed it against her hand to warm the freezing metal, then pressed it to Arachnid's chest. He melted. It was probably protocol, but that small act of kindness meant everything to him.

 “I’m checking his vitals,” she stated bluntly. 

“I don’t recall asking what you were doing.”

The doctor huffed. She wrapped the stethoscope around her neck like a scarf and tucked her notepad under her arm. “He has severely overexerted himself and is suffering from extreme overstimulation. I wouldn’t recommend—”

“Let’s not forget who's in charge here, Miss Em.”

“ Doctor Em,” she muttered. Giving him one last defiant glare, she pushed past the curtain. Arachnid didn’t hear her footsteps fade.

Arachnid pressed his lips together. 

Snap!

He winced at the noise, the throbbing on the side of his head magnifying and a bout of nausea washing over him.

Mr. Colt snapped again.

Arachnid glanced up. He kept his head bowed. Livid blue eyes met him.

“You were under strict orders.” Mr. Colts voice was deceptively calm.

Yeah, yeah. I know.

No witnesses.

No survivors.

“And here I find out that you didn't terminate a single threat.”

I’d like to see you go up against nine Avengers, Arachnid thought bitterly. See how well you do.

Mr. Colt placed his hands on the table on either sides of Arachnid’s thighs, effectively boxing him in. Trapping him. Mr. Colts red tie brushed Arachnids thighs.

Arachnid fought the desire to shrink away. Forced himself to stay as still as stone. Tried to ignore his handler's hot breath on his forehead.

“I don’t think you’re listening to me,” he seethed. He titled his head. “I’m not convinced you really care. If you cared, you would have done your job.”

Arachnid stiffened.

That wasn't fair.

He did his job.

He almost died for his job.

Mr. Colt brought a finger up to his chin and raised his head until they were nearly nose to nose.

His skin prickled where Mr. Colts finger met his skin. 

Arachnid held his breath.

“I know you’re capable, son.” He almost sounded sympathetic. 

Pride flitted through Arachnid.

He was capable.

Mr. Colt’s hands raised to cup Arachnids face, his hands rough and warm against his cheeks. Everywhere his sensitive skin was touched felt like an eruption of flames.

He wanted to get away. Needed to get away.

A tight panic burned through his throat and chest.

Arachnid was trapped. Claustrophobic. A fly stuck in a spider's web.

His stomach curled.

Instead of pulling away, he found himself sinking into the touch.

The boy longed to be touched in a way that wasn't painful. That wasn't bad. Even if it was just a pat on the back for doing a good job. A bit of recognition. 

Maybe then he’d stop feeling so empty.

Maybe if he’d stop being so bad, he’d get some more comforting attention, instead of constant punishment.

Wait. 

Was he bad?

He thought he did everything he could.

Thoughts fluttered away from him. His mind felt cloudy. The concussion. The anesthesia. The confusing fatherly treatment.

It was too much.

“I know you are capable,” Mr. Colt repeated. Arachnid blinked. His handler ran his rough thumb near the outline of the fading bruise around his eye. The thumb stilled over the bruise. Not enough to hurt, but heavy enough to make its presence known. Whether it was a threat or a reminder, he wasn't sure.  A tingling ricocheted through Arachnid's mind, urging him away from the danger. He shoved it deep down. “So why do you insist on purposely defying your orders?”

Arachnid frowned.

He didn't.

He tried his best. He did all he could.

Right?
He opened his mouth to say so. 

In a split second the hands were gone from his face. Arachnid saw, as though from another body, Mr. Colt’s fist swing out and connect to his face. 

Crack!

His head whipped to the side. The sprained shoulder and shattered ribs pulled. Then the pain hit him.

It blossomed out from his cheekbone as if hundreds of wasps were crawling under his skin. 

A sharp cut split his tongue and a tiny trail of blood bubbled over his teeth.

“What did I tell you about talking out of turn?” Mr. Colt spat. All sympathy was gone from his steadily rising voice. He shook his hand and stepped away from Arachnid, glaring furious daggers at him as if he were a feral animal that just lashed out and bit him.

Arachnid sucked in a shaky breath.

“You are to speak only when explicitly told!” he snapped.

Fear sunk its piercing talons into Arachnid. His blood went cold.

I’m sorry I’m sorry.

You were being so nice I thought it’d be okay.

I forgot. 

I’m sorry.

Please don't hurt me.

I’m sorry.

Arachnid fervently thought his apologies as if he could telepathically get them to his handler. Guilt churned in his gut.

“Don’t give me that look,” Mr. Colt snapped. “It doesn’t hurt that bad. Stop being so sensitive.”

Arachnid lowered his eyes, staring instead back at the reflection of himself in Mr. Colt shoes.

“Do you think I enjoy having to hurt you?” Mr. Colt glowered. “I don’t. You do this to yourself. I have to correct your behavior so you can turn out alright, because I care about you. Once you grow up, you’re not going to be able to act like a disrespectful brat all the time! What are you going to do then?”
Mr. Colt was yelling at his last words.

Quiet snickers cut through the air.

Arachnid's face burned with embarrassment and shame as he realized all the agents and scientists could hear his degradation. 

They all knew what was going on.

Mr. Colt began pacing back and forth angrily, pausing only to thwap Arachnid on the side of the head as he passed.

It didn’t hurt physically.

Emotionally, he felt like he was burning up from the inside out. 

“You love making me the bad guy, huh?” Mr. Colt scowled. “You love acting out and forcing me to hurt you. Purposely failing your missions. Speaking out of turn just to annoy me.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at him with a piercing stare. Tears pricked at the back of Arachnids eyes. “Why? So you can be the center of attention? The world always has to revolve around you.”

That’s not true. Arachnid thought. It’s not…

More sniggers accompanied Colt’s rant. Arachnid bit his bottom lip.

“You love playing the victim. Oh, poor you. You have it so awful,”  Mr. Colt sneered. “It’s not like we feed you, clothes you, give you shelter. Your own family couldn't stand you. They ditched you the first chance they got. I wonder why?”

His words sliced into him like jagged shards of glass.

A smoldering anger ran through Arachnid's veins.

At the same time, icy shame dragged him down like an alligator pulling it’s victim underwater.

“You were alone. Hydra took you in. We take care of you and barely ever ask for anything in return. And this,” Mr. Colt gestured around the makeshift medical center, “is the thanks we get? Superheroes knocking on our front door, destroying everything we worked so hard to create? You led them straight to us!”

Arachnid focused on taking slow, even breaths.

Even though his lungs were mended and his ribcage set, air was avoiding him. He was drowning. There was no way to come up for air. His lungs were filling up with nonexistent water. The cramped room looked warped like a fisheye lens. His heart was about to burst.

Something’s wrong, something’s wrong, something’s wrong…  

“No one has ever loved you, and no one ever will. Except for me.” Mr. Colt hissed. Venom dripped from his voice.

The illogical fear that he had been poisoned crossed his mind.

He genuinely felt like he was about to drop dead right there.

Loud, echoing knocking pulled Mr. Colt from his tirade.

A hand pulled back the curtain and a young doctor brought in a ceramic tray of food. As soon as it was set down, Mr. Colt waved them away.

The thick smell of burned meat, grease and garlic caressed his nose.

Arachnid sniffed. His stomach growled involuntarily.

He hadn't eaten since before he fought Romanova and Rogers the first time, over forty eight hours ago.

“Hungry?” Mr. Colt asked. 

Arachnids eyes darted over to the tray desperately. A lumpy pile of orange and brown sat in the center of the tray, emitting warm, inviting wafts of heat. A handful of square tan crackers with splashes of brown and decorated with holes in even lines sat next to it; they were squashed next to a pile of raisins and peanuts.

His stomach gurgled again.

Hunger was gnawing away at his bones.

Funny. He didn't realize he was starving until now.

Mr. Colt reached for the plate, scooping a knife off the platter.

Arachnids froze. The lump in his throat burned.

“See this?” Mr. Colt said patronizingly. He tapped the cool, sharp blade against Arachnid's cheek. “This here? This is a knife .” He spoke like he was talking to a naïve child. “You use this to stab people. You have one equipped on you at all times when in the field. It’s something you obviously have no idea how to use.”

Without breaking eye contact, Mr. Colt grabbed the edge of the tray and shoved it off the table.

CA-CRACK!

It crashed to the ground. The clattering echoed through the small facility. Shards of clay scattered across the filthy, mud stained floor and mixed in with the splattered mess of food. 

“Until you learn how to use a knife,” the dangerous, smooth edge was back in his voice. He stabbed the knife into the wooden table,  “you can eat on the floor.”

Arachnid sullenly stared at his dinner.

Mr. Colt straightened the sleeves of his white button up. “You’re lucky I’m a forgiving person. Let's not have this conversation again.” Before leaving, he flicked a curly lock of Arachnids hair that had fallen into his face. “You need a haircut.”

Then he was gone.

Arachnid was alone.

Voices distantly chattered on the other side of the curtain. No one came to check in on him. No one brought him a new dinner.

Even though no one was looking at him, shame continued to scorch his face. He sighed and pulled the oxygen mask off his face.

Swallowing over the lump in his throat, Arachnid slowly slid off the table.

Picking up the food was a struggle; with one hand awkwardly positioned in the sling and the other being pulled by sharp stitches, but he eventually got a pinch of meat into his mouth.

Glass pierced his tongue.

He spat it out.

The original bland taste was covered in grainy dirt. He rubbed his tongue with his pointer finger and gingerly sat on the dirty cement floor. Arachnid rested the back of his head against the table.

I’m so tired.

Energy drained from him like a faucet. 

To his horror, his eyes grew blazing hot. A painful lump was permanently stuck in his throat.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry .

He shoved his knuckle into his mouth and stifled a scream. It came out as a muffled, breathy whistle, like a kettle that hasn't yet gotten fully hot.

Arachnid gulped down air, fearing it would disappear again.

He didn’t know why he was feeling like this.

Was it true? Did he overreact just for attention?

Must be.

He realized with a panicked start the tears were welling up too quickly to wipe away. He desperately rubbed at them with his good arm, staring terrified at the thin sheet separating him from everyone else and desperately trying to suppress his choked sobs.

He hated crying. 

His entire life tears had been slapped, punched, pinched, kicked, cut and burned out of him. Tears were weaknesses. Tears deserved punishment.

“I’m worried about the boy.” The head doctor's voice hung low and quiet in the air.

Arachnid jumped.

He quickly wiped his face with the back of his hand, but more tears flooded down his face before he could smear the old ones away.

Her red and black sneakers were visible under the curtain, along with those familiar, foreboding shiny dress shoes.

His tear streaked face stared back at him. He chomped back down on his knuckle.

“The asset has advanced cellular regeneration,” responded Mr. Colt, no emotion in his voice. Arachnid ripped his hand from his mouth and pressed his lips together. He rocked back and forth, “He’ll be back in commission within a few days.”

She huffed. “Someone would be monitoring him.”

Arachnid raised his fist. Impulsive anger seethed through his veins like molten lava. It was a fury like no other. This anger was a grenade with a pulled pin and nowhere to go.

There was nothing to throw. Nothing to break. Nothing that wouldn’t alert them to his mounting panic.

Instead, he pounded his fist into his thigh in desperate, furious punches. His stitches screamed.

Arachnid's leg burned. It throbbed. He kept hitting.

“We can't spare any manpower right now. Besides, he’s damaged. What can he do?”

He needed a distraction. Something. Anything. He reached down and attempted to slide another pinch of food in his mouth. Something hard clattered against his teeth. Grainy dirt ran over his tongue.

When he tried swallowing, his gag reflex rejected it. He choked and spat it back out.

“I’m not worried about him getting into trouble. The kid just endured something traumatic. You dont think he should—”

“If I have to remind you who’s in charge one more time, doctor,” Mr. Colt stated bluntly, “I’m afraid we’ll have to call your future career with Hydra into question.”

“I—”

“Did the files survive the evacuation?”

“I’m not a mover! I’m a doctor!”

“Did it?”

“As far as I know, if it did, it’ll be in the back,” the doctor huffed. “You’ll have to ask someone who knows.”

Footsteps grew distant.

Arachnid waited until they were both gone, reached up to grab the counter, and used it to haul himself up. Thin trails of blood leaked out between his stitches and ran down his arm. He wiped it on his white pants, leaving vivid red streaks.

He needed to get out.

This tiny room was closing in on him.

Need out. Need out. Need out.

He didn't even know where he was going. He just needed to go .

The boy combed shaking fingers through his hair and slipped through the curtain. 

No one stopped him as he stalked through the abandoned warehouse; to himself, he felt like a scampering, skittish mess. Based on the looks of a few scientists as he passed and how they swiftly moved out of his way, he assumed he was unintentionally giving off an intimidating aura as he fought to keep his face neutral. 

They probably thought he had been sent somewhere by Colt. They probably feared he was coming to target them.

What other reason would he have to leave his area?

His mangled side ached as he walked. His stitches pulled.

The cement flooring was cold against his bare feet. Pebbles bit into his skin. The cold draft slithered down his thin shirt like a snake.

Maybe he should find the technicians. Get his backup uniform. They probably finished his web fluid.

But that would involve interacting with someone.

Slivers of sunlight slid through the ginormous windows installed high above him on the vaulted ceilings. 

He slunk through the halls and around tall stacks of cardboard boxes, between cement pillars and through intrusive scaffolding. His aching feet moved with a mind of their own. Arachnid didn’t realize where he was going until he paused next to a heavy gray curtain.

The back of his mind tingled. Chills ran down his spine.

He stiffened.

Danger?

He peered over his shoulder.

No one was there.

The nearest agents were scuttering around in the background, paying him no attention.

Nothing was amiss.

Still, his warning sense was tugging at him, trying to pull him forward with all the desperation and urgency of imminent doom. It dug into him like a fish hook.

He grabbed a heavy pipe from the ground and held it up menacingly, ignoring the pop of one of his stitches.
Then, he slipped behind the curtain as stealthy as possible.

The tingle turned sharp.

He swung.

Swoosh .

Metal sliced through thin air

Arachnid whipped around, brandishing the pipe like a sword.

No one’s here.

Computer screens blinked up at him. He winced at the bright light.

Headphones and keyboards and mouses were lined up in front of the screens; a seemingly infinite amount of boxes sat piled to the ceiling, each one filled with thousands of papers.

Arachnid's feet started moving without his direction. He was shocked when he reached up and pulled one of the storage boxes down from the stack.

After setting the box down on the ground, he backed up as if it had burned him.

What was he doing?

The tingling sensation was screaming at him now. Hundreds of fire ants crawled inside his bones. In his spine. 

In one fluid motion, he knocked the lid off with the pipe and raised it above his head to strike.

Nothing.

Just papers.

Papers and a USB drive.

Arachnid gingerly set down the pipe and picked up the small thumb drive. An electric current ran through his body, then the anxious blaze ceased like water dousing a flame.

He frowned.

What?

The prickling in the back of his mind usually only activated when he was about to be attacked.

What was so dangerous about a USB drive?

He turned it over in his hand. His torn stitches left splattered red on the black, scratched up plastic.

Wait.

I’ve seen this before.

Arachnid held it above him. A faint, iridescent S.H.I.E.L.D. logo glimmered in the light; a winged eagle made of sharp edges and angles, trapped in a circle.

The realization hit him like a fist.

This is the file I took from Romanova.

The knowledge was a sack of bricks weighing down on him.

His eyes flickered to the computer.

I could…

No. Don’t be stupid, Arachnid.

But I could.

Do you realize how much trouble you’re going to be in?

Only if he finds out.

He’s gonna know.

How would he know?

Arachnids thought wrestled with each other, fear and curiosity battling it out harder than boxers.

Curiosity won.

Arachnid slowly exhaled. His ribs shifted achingly.

It took him a couple tries to get the file in the computer; he put it in upside down at first and had to flip it over.

As the ancient computer booted up, he strained his ears.

No one was over here. No one could see him. No one could hear him.

Even so, he slid the headphones over his head, resting the cushion only on one ear and leaving the other uncovered.

The computer sprang to life.

Password encrypted.

Arachnids fingers danced over the keyboard. He’d seen hackers do this countless times. Within seconds he sent a virus to eat away at the fire wall.

The computer thought. It flickered.

- …Password Accepted… - 

A battalion of files cluttered the screen in front of him.

Man. Clean your desktop. 

As his eyes scanned the folders, the tingling slowly kindled in the back of his mind, dragging his mouse to one folder in the corner as if it were magnetic.

…HYDRA SLEEPERS…

Click. 

His eyes darted over the screen.

Hundreds of completed missions stared back at him; some of them dating back at far as two decades. The most recent one was dated a couple weeks ago, when he killed that woman. His stomach churned.

Was she a sleeper?

Or had she been betrayed by one?

The number of victims tripled after 2014.

After Hydra agents were exposed in S.H.I.E.L.D.

After Hydra lost one of their assets.

Arachnid rested his chin against his fist.

He had to hand it to them. Sleeper agents were an effective strategy. Spies that were completely ingrained into western society… ones that wouldn’t do anything offensive unless activated…

It was genius.

No one could detect them if there was nothing to detect.

Unfortunately, there had to be some record of the sleepers somewhere so Hydra wouldn’t lose track of them.

A brilliant plan with one massive hole.

And the Avengers had found that hole; which meant so had S.H.I.E.L.D.

But…  wait… 

He stopped the Avengers from taking the file. They didn't know what was on it. They didn’t know about the sleepers.

Arachnid frowned.

So why did he get punished?

He sighed and pulled himself from his thoughts. Thoughts for a different time.  

The names of terminated victims were scrolling across the bottom of the screen like a news ticker.

… William Collins… Abigail Brand (& family)… Sally Blevins… Mary Parker… Richard Parker (& family)... Bradley Beemer… Ted Bailey (& family)… Ken Avery (& family)… Earl Angstrum… Annie Wong… 

It kept going. There were too many to count. If he had to guess, they were all S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. 

His stomach felt sick.

Three thoughts were floating through his mind:

Why do I need to see this?

I am so dead.

What does this button do?

The prickling erupted across his spine. He whipped his head up. 

Talking and the clicking and stomping of footsteps grew close. His heart was hammering so loud they were sure to hear him. He held his breath until his vision swam; he didn't dare breathe until they passed.

Even after they left, the tingling dampened but didn't go away.

Too close.  

He slowly let himself breathe again.

C’mon, Arachnid. Wrap this up.

But his hand was moving of its own accord, almost as if it was the mouse that moved his hand and not the other way around, and clicked on the name of one of the agents.

Two of the agents.

Their files were connected.

…  Mary Parker… Richard Parker (& family) …

Arachnid blinked.

The names meant nothing to him.

Pictures of a couple he didn't recognize materialized on the screen. Their statuses at S.H.I.E.L.D. Their IDs’. Their research.

Endless blocks of text accompanied it.

“Summer 2006. Anonymous tip received: M. Parker and R. Parker were complicit in the recreation of the ‘Super Soldier Serum,’ a chemical solution originally created by Doctor Abraham Erskine in 1942. Properties of serum include…”

“Fall 2006. Targets made a suspected attempt to flee the country. Targets intercepted and searched. Serum not located. Targets terminated. Framed as an accident…”

“Fall 2006. Serum was believed to be left with brother and sister-in-law. Asset: WS sent to investigate and terminate. Serum not found. Subjects terminated…”

“Asset gained.”

“See Project Arachnid .”

His heart lurched.

That was him . That was his name.

This time, he didn't even need the voice in the back of his head to urge him along. He clicked on it faster than he had ever done anything.

Immediately he regretted his actions. Arachnid shrunk back from the screen.

Bile rose to his throat.

He saw… everything.

Every horrible thing Hydra had ever put him through.

The time his jaw was bolted shut. The time he was pumped full of a cocktail of drugs just to see if his body could take it. The time he was forced to train on a broken leg. The time they attempted to implant web shooters into his skin, resulting in a horrible infection.

He saw himself at all ages.

He never hated himself more.

Pictures of a weak boy stared at him. A boy with no spine and bags under his eyes. Something detestable. A monster.

His stomach twisted. He shrunk away.

This was… this was inhumane .

Seeing everything laid out like this really puts things into perspective.

He needed…

He needed to get out .

But where would he go?

Panic scurried through his mind. He looked away from the screen and scrolled. There had to be something. Had to be a reason his warning sense was pulling him to this.

He reached the very end of the file.

A video file sat unopened.

Taking slow, trembling breaths, he clicked play.

This is a bad idea. Bad idea. Bad idea. Need out. Bad idea.

Broken sobs and hiccups flooded the headphones. A hysterical child — probably five years old — sat on a foldable chair, staring at something behind the screen in terror.

In that second, he knew the sniffling boy was him.

His heart panged.

Whether it was disgust or sympathy, he wasn't quite sure.

Ash and soot were smeared across the child's face. Tear tracks cut into the filth. He wore a baggy white t-shirt decorated with cartoon atoms that was much too large for him and hung near his knees; the short sleeves ended near his elbows. His scrawny collarbone was visible. Thick, round, dirty glasses sat on his nose. The boy kept pushing them up to wipe at his tears.

One of the kids tiny hands’ was clenched around his neck, holding onto a necklace as if he was petrified someone would take it from him. His bony knuckles were turning white. A black six pointed star was attached to the silver chain. Like the shirt, the necklace was much too big for him.

Ginormous black pajama pants were rolled up to his ankles, the fluffy fabric decorated in tiny white helmets.

Arachnid's breath got caught when he realized it was the same helmet that had been on the VHS tape.

People were talking behind the camera, debating heavily in Russian. The boy watched on, not comprehending their words but petrified all the same.

“ Do you honestly think he’ll be of any use to us?” one of the disembodied voices hissed. Arachnid stiffened. That sounded suspiciously like Mr. Colt. “You should have let the asset kill him like the others.”

“Look at his DNA,” replied the second. There was a rustle of paper. “ Have you ever seen numbers like this before?”

“Uncle B-en…” the boy's voice cracked pathetically. He sniffed and rubbed his soot covered face.

The only response was the rustling of paper and a heated debate concerning mutations.

The kid’s eyebrows furrowed. He frowned, staring at the voices that were paying him no mind.

The boy lifted his chin and squared his shoulders, trying to look defiant even as a messy flood of tears gushed down his cheeks.

“I want my Abba!”

Arachnid squinted and tilted his head.

Was that Yiddish?

One of the voices snapped “ shut up!” in its native tongue, and continued arguing.

The little boy jumped from the chair.

His fists balled at his side.

“My Abba and Ima are coming back for me!”

“ Your parents are dead. Now shut up, or you’ll join them.”

“Abba! Ima!” he wailed.

The boy shrieked, whipped around, and kicked the chair with all the force in his tiny body.

CA-CRACK!

The metal folding chair was sent straight through the cement wall like it was made of butter. Shattered shards of metal and crumbled chunks of cement tumbled to the ground.

The voices went silent. Arachnid raised his eyebrows.

The boy crumpled to the ground in a heap and wailed louder, looking up every few seconds to make sure the voices were paying attention to his despair.

The first voice spoke up again, this time hushed and amazed. “What did you say his name was again?”

“Peter Benjamin Parker.”

Ice froze Bucky’s veins. His heart seemed to stop.

As Agent Hill spoke, she clicked a button on her laptop.

The slideshow in the front of the conference room shifted. Big brown eyes stared back at Bucky. Eyes he knew far too well. Eyes that had been following him; haunting him.

Oh no.

This is bad.

Chapter Text

“Peter Benjamin Parker.”

Ice froze Bucky’s veins. His heart seemed to stop.

As Agent Hill spoke, she clicked a button on her laptop.

The slideshow in the front of the conference room shifted. Big brown eyes stared back at Bucky. Eyes he knew far too well. Eyes that had been following him; haunting him.

Oh no.

This is bad.

This is so bad.

He looked exactly like he did in Bucky’s mind. Barely five years old.

Choppy brown hair with frizzy curls framed the kids head like a halo. Thick glasses magnified his already large eyes.

Those eyes.

Those big, innocent doe-like eyes, with chocolate irises so dark it was hard to tell where the brown ended and the pupil started.

Rebecca used to have those eyes.

Bucky leaned back in his seat, thankful for his spot in the very back of the room. 

No one would be looking at him to talk; to add suggestions or ask questions.

Not that anyone ever did, but still. Being in the back allowed him a bit of privacy, something he urgently needed right about now.

Initially, he and Sam had squabble over a seat in the front of the room next to Steve. Sam won. For the first time in his painstakingly long life, Bucky was thankful for the man's stubbornness.

The conference room was in complete disarray; if you could even call it a room. It was more of an entire floor, situated at the very top of the Avengers Compound and surrounded on three sides by enormous slanted windows. Tightly closed blinds prevented the outside from peeking in.

A large projector had dropped down from the ceiling, displaying Hill’s presentation and covering them all in a faint blue light.

Empty plastic bottles of water and empty boxes of pizza and Chinese takeout littered the room. A half eaten box of pizza from a kosher restaurant Bucky had never heard of sat between the Maximoffs. Wanda was leaning forward, absorbing every word Hill said, and Pietro was shoveling another two greasy pieces onto his stained paper plate.

A small white bandage sat above the boy's eyebrow. Bucky didn’t know the kid well, but he knew enough to know Pietro was being uncharacteristically quiet, speaking only to complain to his worried sister. If Bucky had to guess, he’d say the kid's ego was hurting from his quick take down more than his head ever could.

Hill picked up her laptop and flipped the keyboard back, effectively turning it into a tablet. Her brow furrowed as she reread over her notes.

Steve and Sam were the second closest to her, beaten only by Rhodey, who had appeared on a screen implanted in the wall.

The only one missing from the group was Thor, who had something to deal with in Norway. Something about his brother. 

Well, there were a few other alternate Avengers missing, too, like T’Challa and that sorcerer guy. 

But Bucky was pretty sure S.H.I.E.L.D. had wanted to keep this somewhat private.

Most of the Avengers were murmuring to each other, shock evident in their faces. 

Bucky’s gut churned. At what point was she going to go over what he did to the Parkers? How was this mess all his fault?

Were they going to lock him away?

Steve would try to defend him, try to justify his actions with “Bucky didn’t know what he was doing” and “it wasn’t him.”

But that would be a lie, even if Steve didn't know it. Even if he refused to believe it. 

Bucky killed all those people. He knew what he was doing. He knew it was wrong. Even if he didn’t have a choice, it was still him. 

It was his abilities as a sniper that made Hydra choose him. It was him .

It was his fault.

Bucky tore his eyes from the screen, looking instead through the horizontal spindles of a railing. A small staircase diverged from a wide hallway and led to a lower level, holding a small bar (Tony's idea) and some uncomfortable looking orange couches. An unfinished checkers game sat on one of the cushions. Red was winning.

Farther still, a thick wall of bulletproof glass separated them from a ginormous laboratory. Not Tony’s. He refused to let anyone but the team in his. Instead, what he could only assume were S.H.I.E.L.D. certified scientists were fluttering around like ants, blissfully unaware of the hard truths being faced above them.

Bucky had assumed he was on thin ice since the debacle concerning Tony’s parents. Maybe this was the last straw. Even the best people can give only so much forgiveness before it runs out.

Maybe the team was going to finally realize he was more trouble than he was worth, lock him up on the raft and throw away the key.

He’d deserve it.

It’d probably be safe for everyone.

The term “negative self talk” in his therapist's stern voice floated through the back of his mind.

Bucky exhaled. Just because it was negative didn’t make it untrue. 

Something hit Bucky’s foot. His leg jolted, causing the minor stab wound in his thigh to throb. He looked up.

Natasha swiftly tilted her head and raised her eyebrows, as if trying to telepathically ask him a question, before her face returned back to neutral.

Man, thought Bucky, I am not good at nonverbal cues.

He simply shrugged. 

A single eyebrow raised.

Bucky groaned internally. Talking was so much easier.

Three days prior. Siberia.

“Thor knows how to make an entrance, huh?” Bucky said dryly, staring at the blazing tree. The cold air sunk talons into his flesh, trying to tear up bad memories. He shook it off.

Natasha didn't lower her binoculars as he came to a stop next to her. “That’s one way of putting it,” she mused.

Bucky readjusted his grip on his rifle, watching curiously as Mjolnir returned back to Thor's grip. Besides the burning forestry, nothing seemed amiss. There was no sign of the threat.

“Did the big guy get him?”

“Not sure,” Natasha responded. “I wouldn't get comfy just yet.”

Bucky rolled his shoulders. “I’m just sayin’. I came all the way here from that freaky base. It’d be a shame if I missed all the action.”

“Awww.” Her smirk was audible in her tone. “Were Sam and Redwing not good enough company?”

Bucky snorted. “Don’t get me started on Redwing.” A quick movement of purple caught his attention. Clint was putting his jacket over Pietro's shoulders and shining a light in his eyes. He gestured towards them. “Do they need help? Or…”

“Barton's fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Y’know, when you say ‘don't worry,’ that automatically causes the other person to worry.”

“Does it now?” Natasha lowered the binoculars and shot him an amused glance.

“Yeah. Y’know, I wouldn’t be surprised if—”

That was all Bucky got out before a snapping branch yanked his attention away. 

The Hydra operative was barreling towards him.

For a split second, just a split second, Bucky found himself frozen. That hulk mask cut into his soul.

Natasha was not fazed. Whipping out her knife, she darted forward and sliced through the agent's arm like it was nothing. The agent slammed his elbow into her stomach.

Natasha!

Crack!

She crashed into a tree. Her hands flew up, protecting her face from the harsh ground. Snow slipped from above and piled on her head.

Before he could go towards her, he was body-slammed to the ground. His rifle slipped from his finger. Freezing snow began soaking through his pants.

“Bucky!” yelled Steve.

Wild punches came barreling down on him. Though it certainly hurt, the assault was more shocking than it was painful. 

The agent's blows were erratic and desperate. Hydra usually trained its operatives a bit more than that.

Bucky grunted and wrenched his metal arm free.

Before the agent could react, Bucky grabbed a flailing wrist and flipped them over. The agent twitched.

There was the sound of clinking metal, and one of the golden spears pierced his thigh. It tore through his pants and flesh like butter.

Bucky hissed, subconsciously loosening his grip.

The agent noticed.

Then Bucky was flying backwards.

Bucky blinked, his panicked thoughts trying to escape by diving back into the mission. His therapist would probably have a field day with that.

Natasha was still staring at him, waiting for an answer.

He just shrugged again and turned away.

After the tiring past few days of endless post-mission meetings and debriefs, Natasha was the only one not looking like a complete disaster. Sleep for everyone had been sporadic at best and nonexistent at worst, even now as it was quickly approaching three in the morning, and yet Natasha was still as collected as ever. 

He had seen her get knocked down a few times in combat and he knew she went to the med bay, but she hadn’t even let on about an injury.

He had no idea how she did it.

She went through horrible things just like him — maybe even worse — and acted like none of it affected her.

Maybe he just wasn’t as strong. 

He wondered if under that collected exterior, maybe she was panicked from time to time as well. At least on the inside.

“Parker was presumed dead in a house fire back in ‘06,” stated Hill, drawing everyone's attention back to her. “Our forensics team was just able to confirm that he’s our guy.”

Without peeling her eyes from the team, she tapped something on her screen and the display shifted again.

Parker's image was replaced by photographs from evidence: the metal half mask, the inside covered in rusty blood with clean stripes from where forensics took samples. The cracked goggles. A torn jacket hood. Splintered remains of the golden spears. Blood-soaked snow.

“Is anyone else concerned that we have some random kids DNA on file?” Scott asked. “No? Just me?” He fiddled with the sleeves of his sweatshirt — a baggy black sweatshirt much too big for him, with the words “X-CON” written over the chest in bold blue letters and a combination lock replacing the “O” —  and looked at everyone nervously. “Do you have my DNA on file?”

“We have DNA samples of everyone whose associated with S.H.I.E.L.D and everyone who has immediate family members associated with S.H.I.E.L.D.'' replied Hill. 

Scott nodded, obviously not on board. “Great.”

“A house fire,” stared Natasha. She rested her chin on her hand. “Any connection to the recent ones?”

“It’s hard to say since it was so long ago. The NYFD doesn’t hold onto records after five years,” Hill affirmed. “That being said, we are considering it as a possibility since both of Peter's parents were high-level S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.”

“ S.H.I.E.L.D. agents,” Steve reiterated, raising his eyebrows. “Why are you just telling us this now?”

“Because I just found out now, Steve,” she snapped. 

Steve nodded. “Fair enough.”

“You just found out now, but you had time to make this google slides powerpoint?” Sam chuckled. Hill glared at him. His laugh slowly died out. He cleared his throat. “It’s… it’s a nice presentation. Please continue”

Hill sighed and rolled her eyes. “It’s heavily altered from the one we have on file, but we were able to trace the DNA signature back to Peter.”

Click.

A hologram sprang into action, materializing before them as charts and double helices and an excessive amount of numbers and abbreviations that Bucky couldn't understand.

Tony’s feet dropped from the table. Both he and Bruce leaned forward in their seats.

Bruce's hand covered his mouth. 

It was the first reaction Bucky had seen from the doctor since the mission. Bruce had been shaken ever since returning from Siberia. It’s not often that someone walks away from the Hulk. It’s even more rare that someone successfully blocks a punch from the Hulk.

The Hydra operative stood, frozen, staring at the Hulk like his life depended on it. 

Bucky understood. The first time he had seen Doctor Banner's alter ego had been a nasty shock for him, too.

That being said, he had no intention of letting this opportunity go to waste.

Bucky sprinted forward, a thin trail of blood rolling down into his eye and the cut on his leg screaming at him. 

Right before Bucky reached him, the agent tensed, as if he knew he was there without even looking.

He grabbed onto his arms tight and forcefully tackled the agent. They tumbled into the snow. Moving so quick he barely had time to think, Bucky manhandled the agent around and slammed him onto his back, pinning him down. He raised his fist.

The agent's chest heaved up and down.

Expressionless goggles stared up at him.

Bucky saw his reflection in them and for a second, only for a second, he wasn’t there anymore. Wasn’t in his body.

Instead, he was onboard a crashing helicarrier, plummeting to the ocean as he restrained Steve and beat him senseless. Just like this.

He recognized Steve, but didn’t know him. He wasn’t able to stop himself.

Before Bucky knew what was happening, he was back in the dry Siberia air. The agent planted both feet on Bucky's chest and kicked like a jackrabbit, launching Bucky back.

“...radioactive material that has mutated Parker's DNA progressively,” Hill finished.

Bucky looked at her.

How long had she been speaking?

“So… he’s not human?” Clint clarified. He fiddled with one of his hearing aids. “What’s so special about that? What am I missing?”

Bruce stood, wobbling slightly, and walked over to the hologram. He stared at it like it held the answers to the universe, pausing only to wipe his glasses on his purple sweater.

“It’s like some weird combination of both the super soldier serum and the gamma radiation that turned me into the Hulk,” Bruce explained in an awe-struck voice and rubbing the back of his head. He turned back to face the group. “Only… not.”

“These numbers,” Tony said, waving his hand towards one of the DNA spirals. Bucky had no idea which of the seemingly infinite numbers he was referring to, “shouldn't be possible. The kid should be dead. You can’t survive with that much radiation in your blood.”

“That's what everyone said about me,” Bruce pointed out. 

“You’re an exception,” Tony argued. “This here? This breaks so many laws of science… and it’s awesome. ”

Rhodey snorted. Tony winked. Bucky could see the gears turning in the billionaire's head. It was probably killing him to not be able to run down to his lab right now and start running tests… or whatever it was that he did…

“It is similar to the Super Soldier serum, but forensics have ruled that out as a possibility,” Hill said. She crossed her arms. “Surprising, given the circumstances.”

“Why is that surprising?” Sam asked.

Bucky spoke before Hill could, hearing his voice as if it belonged to someone else. Detached. “Because Richard and Mary were recreating the super soldier serum.”

Multiple pairs of eyes darted over towards Bucky, some as if only realizing he was there. Steve’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Huh,” Nat said, giving him an odd look. 

“Correct,” Hill said, giving him a small nod. 

Scott shot him a thumbs up and mouthed ‘ good guess’ . Bucky forced a fake smile.

“Richard and Mary Parker were both head scientists in different branches of Shield,” explained Hill. She glanced back down at her tablet. “Richard was the head of Biological Instruments and Operations, and Mary — formerly a tactical agent — was in charge of Chemical Hazardous and Erosive Materials.”

“They sound like good people,” Steve said.

Vision tilted his head, hesitating. “...B.I.O and C.H.E.M.?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. loves their acronyms,” said Rhodey.

“Did they do it?” Sam asked. After a brief pause, he added, “did they recreate the serum?”

“All their research died with them,” Hill stated. “We have no way of knowing.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. has no way of knowing a lot of things,” Tony yawned. “Give me ten minutes and some internet connection and I’ll figure it out.”

”Let me get this straight.” Wanda moved her hands as she spoke. Her elbow knocked into her drink. Pietro caught it and placed it back on the table before she even noticed. “This… Mary… and her husband Richard… they were killed in a fire, along with all their very important research, and despite working for one of the most secret and most dangerous organizations of all time… no one bothered to look into this?”

“That… that’s where it gets weird,” Hill sighed.

“ This is where it gets weird?” Scott asked incredulously. “This? Right now? You’re saying all this other stuff wasn’t weird?”

“Keep up, Tic-Tac,” Sam said.

“Richard and Mary were killed in a plane crash. That same night, Peter and his aunt and uncle, who he was staying with, all died in a house fire.” Hill gestured to the pictures of all his broken gear. “Or so it was thought.”

“That's awful,” Wanda said, despair as thick as her accent.

Natasha rubbed her chin. “Were accelerants found at the scene?”

“Don’t know. Like I said, the fire department regularly gets rid of their records.”

“And the fact that they were S.H.I.E.L.D. meant what?” Clint asked. “Nothing?”

“Peter, Benjamin, and May Parker weren't S.H.I.E.L.D,” Hill replied, sounding exasperated. “ Mary and Richard were. Because the other three victims weren’t directly related to S.H.I.E.L.D., it didn’t show up on our radar.”

“There's also the fact that Hydra made up a large portion of S.H.I.E.L.D. back in 2006,” Natasha pointed out. “Someone could have made sure no one knew about it.”

“It’s possible,” Hill agreed. She swiped at her screen. “We’re looking into all possibilities.”

The projection shifted. Bruce jumped back as the graph he had been studying dissolved into thin air.

Two S.H.I.E.L.D. ID photos stared back at the group.

A young, lean woman with a round face, a subtle cleft chin, and bright blue eyes, framed with a curly brown bob cut and horn rimmed glasses, stood proudly. A light dusting of freckles covered her nose. She wore a gray blazer, a white button up, a black pencil skirt, and black pumps. 

Mary Teresa Parker.

A tall man with Peter's eyes, dimples, a sharp jawline, and gelled back hair was in the next one. Bucky could see the outline of nearly every one of his bones through his thin button up. The dude was a twig.

Richard Laurence Parker.

Bucky’s thoughts immediately turned to the kid.

He felt like a fool for not recognizing the resemblance sooner. He could easily see him in his parents. He had his fathers sharp jawline, but his mothers round cheeks. He had his dad’s big ears. His mom’s freckles. His mom's big almond eyes and his dad's dark eye color. His mom's dimples. His dad scrawniness. 

Even now that he was older, the kid just looked more like his parents.

Bucky wondered if he even remembered them. If he would recognize their names.

Fighting the Hydra operative was one of the hardest things Bucky had done post-Winter Soldier. 

Not because of the fight he was putting up, though that was certainly part of it, but because he was him.

The way the agent held himself. The way he pushed himself far beyond his limits, as if they weren't even there. They way he kept going, kept fighting the meaningless, futile fight.

A long time ago, Bucky swore he would kill any Winter Soldier he came across, if he ever did. Oftentimes he wished someone would have done that to him. Put him out of his misery. Saved a lot of people.

That's what he planned to do with the ones cryogenically frozen… but Zemo had got there first…

But now…

Now that there was a living, breathing person in front of him… It was harder than he initially thought.

He kept trying to give the agent the chance he didn’t get for a long time. The one he didn't want.

When the agent darted forward, stumbling and struggling to stay on his feet like a baby deer learning how to walk, Bucky’s hand shot out to grab his neck. He missed, his metal fingers instead wrapping around the back of his jacket.

The mask and the goggles buried themselves in the snow near his feet.

The agent rolled away, eventually coming to a stop, twitching and spasming. He stayed down.

Bucky had drawn his pistol, fully intending on ending it. 

But then there was that curly mop of hair… those big ears… that startled, pained frown… those big brown eyes…

He was a kid.

Bucky said exactly what he felt. 

“What the hell.” 

How could he not realize?

In Bucky’s defense, however, he had never actually seen Mary and Richard in the flesh. Only photos.

Most of them were proudly framed in Ben and May's home.

Sensing his thoughts starting to tumble down a dark path, Bucky turned away from the pictures, focusing instead on Scotts water bottle.

Geez.

How many stickers does one guy need?

And why does one say “World's Greatest Grandma”??

“Parker's neighbor, Michelle Watson-Jones — then five years old — reported Benjamin Parker, Richard's brother, carrying Peter out of the house the night of the fire,” Hill read. “This was not confirmed or denied.”

Bucky didn't even need to look at the display to know it was projecting a picture of the curly haired girl from the graveyard. Michelle Jones. MJ.

This just kept getting better.

“No one listened to her,” muttered Steve.

“Why attack the aunt and uncle if Mary and Richard were already dead?” Sam asked. “It doesn't make sense.”

“Maybe they were involved somehow,” Rhodey suggested.

“We’re looking into it,” assured Hill.

“Did Richard and Mary ever show any signs of disloyalty?” Natasha asked.

Sam looked at her. “Do you think they were involved somehow?”

“I don’t like the idea that they’d kill their own family and hand their son over to Hydra,” Steve said.

“Weirder things have happened.”

“I know,” Steve assured. “I’m not saying it’s not possible. I just don't like it.”

“Mary and Richard never showed any signs of disloyalty. Not once,” Hill said. “On the contrary. They showed ample loyalty and respect for their positions. Almost perfect attendance. They only ever missed one week about a month before their deaths, and that was because their son was sick.”

“Their son? As in spider boy? Pete?” Tony asked. “That son?”

Hill nodded.

“Was it something traumatic?” Natasha asked. “Something that possibly hints towards his future at Hydra?”

Hill shook her head slowly, reading something on her tablet. She shrugged. “It says here he was pulled from school, but wasn’t hospitalized. Probably a stomach bug or whatever it is that kids get.” She looked at Nat. “Doesn’t seem relevant.”

“Can we talk to Jones-Watson?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. already sent someone to deal with that,” Hill explained. “We don’t want this to become public knowledge.”

“Are you implying that we’re not subtle?” Tony asked, putting a hand over his arc reactor in mock offense.

“You burned down Siberia,” Hill deadpanned.

“Ah ah ah,” Tony wagged a finger, “we burned down part of a Siberian forest. And even so, that was all Point Break.” He stopped and pursed his lips. “Y’know, now that I’m saying it out loud, I’m seeing how that could be…”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, that’s our bad,” Tony said. 

“How’s S.H.I.E.L.D. handling it?” Steve asked.

“With great difficulty.” Hill sounded stressed. She set down her tablet and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fury is in D.C. now, trying to deal with it. The Russian government is not happy.”

“ Fury went as a diplomat?” Clint asked. “The “I recognize the council has made a decision, but given that it's a stupid-ass decision, I've elected to ignore it.” Fury? That Fury?” Clint shook his head and leaned back in his seat. “Prepare for World War Three I guess.”

A few wry snickers filled the room.

Bucky wasn’t in the mood for laughing.

“Fury can be really good with people when he wants to be,” Hill argued, though a small smile was on her lips. “He can read them.”

“He just has very little patience for idiots,” Natasha mused.

“Did Peter have any other family members we could talk to?” Bruce asked. “It might be good to get an idea of who he was before… well, before. ”

“Good idea, Brucie Bear,” called Tony. He wolf-whistled.

Bruce shot him an unamused glance.

“Uh…” Hill leaned on the table, scrolling through something on her screen. “Yeah… here it says he had a godfather named… named Norman Osborn…”

“I’ve heard that name before,” Tony interjected. 

Osborn.

Osborn.

I know that name , thought Bucky.

“... head of Oscorp Industries,” Hill finished. 

Tony blinked.

“Tones, Oscorp is one of SI’s biggest competitors,” Rhodey explained.

“Oh,” he leaned back in his seat, crossing one of his ankles over his knee. “Pep takes care of that stuff nowadays.”

“Could Osborn have been involved?” asked Steve. 

“You just really don’t want it to be the family, huh?” Sam asked.

“Do you? ”

“Rest assured we’re looking into every possibility,” Hill said.

“Why were two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents getting all buddy-buddy with a billionaire?” Rhodey asked.

Hill scrolled some more. “It looks like they met through… lets see here… they met though Peter, actually.” She picked up her tablet as she scanned the information with her eyes, offering a summary every few seconds. “Peter befriended Harold, Norman Osborn's only son, and then the Parkers naturally befriended Norman…. Not only was Norman Peter’s godfather, but Mary and Richard were Harolds…”

Where have I heard the name Osborn before?

She pressed her lips together and read for a few minutes, before setting it back down. “We’re running off very little information right now, but it seems like Harold and Peter were just best friends. They’d sleep over at each other’s houses, play together, that kinda thing. Mary might have even been a mother figure to Harold.” 

Osborn.

Was it at the graveyard?

The girl, MJ, had called her red-haired friend something weird like that…

Osborn…

Hill shrugged. “There doesn’t look like a reason to suspect foul play right now, but like I said. We’ll look into it.”

The room went quiet as everyone absorbed all the information. Quiet questions and musings were muttered to each other.

It was a lot to take in.

Bucky clenched and unclenched his fists.

Clues were slowly fitting together in his head like a puzzle. Things that he learned at Hydra… fuzzy memories that had resurfaced after time with his therapist… Hill’s assessment…

Still, there were gaping holes.

He was sure someone smarter than him like Tony or Bruce or Natasha could figure it out. Hell, maybe even Scott. He’d proven himself resourceful enough times.

But it wasn't like he could get up and say “Hey. I know that kid. I kidnapped him over ten years ago and now he haunts my dreams. Also I killed his family. Oops.”

Not unless he wanted a repeat of the Sokovia Accords debacle.

He had to repress a shudder just thinking about it.

No, Bucky would piece together what he knew first. Then he’d tell someone — maybe Steve, but the last thing Bucky wanted was for him to lose more friends and allies defending him — everything and let them decide how to deal with it. With him.

He just needed to get his thoughts figured out first.

Clear his head.

“Well, this is terrifying,” Scott said. “I sorta miss my jail cell.”

“That can be fixed, Scott,” Hill drawled.

“I take it back! It was a joke, I’m honored to be here.” Scott forced a smile. His eyes were panicked. “Please don’t arrest me.”

Hill rolled her eyes. “I know this is a lot to take in, but we shouldn't let this cloud our judgment,” she said sternly. “Peter is a threat. He needs to be dealt with accordingly.”

A tense air hung over the room, like humidity on a rainy summer day.

“What reason would we have to have “clouded judgment”?” Tony asked. There was a dangerous edge to his voice. “It’s not like you’re telling us to kill a kid or something, right? ”

“I don’t like it either,” Steve offered. “But we have to do what’s best for everyone. Bruce, Tony, could you two create a way to neutralize his powers?”

“Statistically impossible,” Bruce replied bluntly.

“With my eyes closed,” Tony claimed at the same time.

“Neutralize him if you can, but kill him if you must,” Hill demanded. She frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t like this anymore than you do. These orders come from higher up than me, there's nothing I can do. Besides, Steve's right. We have to do what’s best for everyone.”

“Right,” Pietro muttered, resting his chin on his folded arms. “A kid made into working for Hydra obviously deserves to die.”

The room went silent as a sealed tomb.

The only thing Bucky heard was the buzz of Tony’s arc reactor and the pounding of his own heart.

Wanda was looking at her brother, horrified.

“ Kid ,” Steve said softly.

Steve… oh, man, Steve looked like he just got kicked in the gut.

No, worse than that. If someone kicked Steve he’d look pissed off. Steve looked like he just watched a puppy drown.

Bucky didn't know much about the twin’s story, but he knew it wasn’t too far off from his. From Peters.

Only while Bucky and Peter had no choice, they willingly went with Hydra. Bucky would never understand it.

“That’s not what I said,” Hill said coldly. “Melodramatics aside, we are currently looking into a way to capture him without killing him. He has important information that we need. There's still the matter of the Hydra sleeper agents taking our retired Shield agents and their families.”

“Not to mention,” Bruce said, borderline hysterical. “His DNA. And how… why?”

“ Yeah… ” Hill said slowly. “That too…”

“Could Hydra have used the mind stone?” Wanda asked. “Could they have given him his powers along with Pietro and I?”

“Gave him stupid powers,” Pietro muttered. His sister swatted his shoulder. He stuck his tongue out.

“The genetic makeup is all wrong,” Bruce said, peering at Hill's tablet over her shoulder. “Peter’s genes have been mutated through some sort of radiation. And based on this, it happened some time ago. Probably some time during his early developmental years.”

“So, they dropped him off in Chernobyl? What are we talking about here?” Clint asked.

“Imagine if the super soldier serum was based on a radiation component like gamma rays. But even then…” Bruce ran a hand through his curls. “That can’t be it. It’s the only thing I can think of that would be similar. That doesn't even begin to explain why his DNA is structured like this.”

“Like what?” Natasha asked.

“Like… I don't know, something not human.”

“So what's with his gimmick? Why can he walk on walls?” Sam asked. “And are those webs coming out of him?”

Bruce shrugged.

“From what we can tell, the webs aren’t made of organic material,” Hill responded, pulling her screen away from Bruce’s prying eyes like a mother taking away a child's toy. “S.H.I.E.L.D. could use a consultant in figuring out what it is. Bruce? Tony? Tony . Tony, mind joining the conversation?”

Annoyance laced her tone like arsenic.

Tony held up a finger, rapidly typing away on his phone. “One sec. I’m texting Pep I won’t make it to Thanksgiving dinner.”

Oh. Right.

Thanksgiving.

Bucky had forgotten.

A few weeks ago, he’d been worrying about how he’d spent it. He was planning on staying home and watching documentaries, but his therapist was forcing him to interact with someone. 

He was going to do something with Steve, of course, but S.H.I.E.L.D. was making him do some publicity stunt with some member of congress. America’s poster boy doing something on America's birthday. Or something patriotic like that.

Anyways. As stated in his pardon, Bucky wasn’t allowed to go near any politician without their explicit permission and the permission of their security team, so that was out.
He had been debating if he should ask Sam to spend it with him. Or maybe just text Sarah directly. Or just show up.

That all seemed so trivial now. 

He couldn’t care less about the stupid holiday. Or his therapist.

Tony rose and made his way to the door. The overpowering smell of grease and expensive cologne attacked Bucky’s nose as he passed.

“Agent, send me everything you got. If anyone needs me or just misses me — who am I kidding, of course you will — I’ll be in my lab. Platypus,” he saluted Rhodey, who shot him a peace sign back.

“Brucie, let's go.”

“Oh, me? I’m coming? Okay, yeah,” Bruce grabbed his computer bag.

“I’m sorry about your Thanksgiving, Tony,” Natasha said. “I know you were hoping to spend it with Morgan.”

“Don’t be. This saves me from a disastrous dinner with the in-laws,” Tony said cheekily. “Besides, Morgan and I got our father-daughter time in. We stayed up the other night eating popsicles and watching Paw Patrol. Great show, by the way.”

“I bet Pepper loved that.”

“It’s Morgan and I’s little secret,” Tony winked.

Sam caught Bucky’s eye from across the room. He covered his face with his hand so no one but the two of them could see. “ You okay?” he mouthed.

It was in that second Bucky realized how bad he was shaking. How his face burned. How his heart was in his throat.

This was too much.

Bucky curtly nodded and excused himself, slipping out of the room quietly.

He needed some air.

Bucky leaned his head against the wall, staring up at a spiderweb in the corner of the ceiling. A tiny arachnid scurried along.

If he were a religious man, he’d take it as some sort of sign. Probably a foreboding one. But he wasn't. It was just a spider.

There were multiple in the small enclosed staircase. No one ever came here. Why would they? It seemed like there were more elevators than there were people. This probably wasn’t anything more than a fire escape. At least it offered some privacy.

Bucky’s chest was tight.

The scars on his shoulder where skin met metal itched. 

A burning, twisting pain consumed the space where his arm once was. His muscles were doused in gasoline and lit on fire. Skin was being pulled to the point it was ripping.

All of it was in his head, of course.

His arm was gone.

No matter how painful it was, no matter how it felt like the arm was still there — shriveled and bent awkwardly… paralyzed… — it was all in his head.

All in his head.

It’s all in my head.

Bucky wished knowing that would make it stop hurting.

He sighed.

Phantom pains would come and go.

Every so often, he’d go a full week feeling okay. A blissful, good week. Maybe he’d get a jolt or a sharp jab, but nothing unbearable.

But then he wasn't. There were times when he was stressed: When he jerked awake from an excruciating night terror. When he was forced to endure a particularly awful therapy session. When Tony or Sam or someone made a lighthearted, friendly joke about his past, not realizing how it affected him. 

In those times, his arm would once again be engulfed in flame.

His therapist wanted him to work on it.

He told her the phantom pains didn't exist.

She saw right through it.

Bucky grimaced and rolled his arm. The pain stayed.

The kid dominated his mind. Peter was all he could think about. He was just a kid. A kid who was forced into a life that Bucky wouldn’t wish upon his worst enemy.

And Bucky was partially responsible.

He felt like his head was being shoved underwater. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't come up for air.

Maybe it would have been better if he just killed the kid all those years ago. If he hadn’t hesitated. If he had just listened to his orders. At least then Peter wouldn't have had to endure the closest thing to Hell this earth provided.

He exhaled, blowing a tuft of hair out of his face. It was starting to get long again, long enough to get in his eyes and annoy him but still not long enough to tuck behind his ears. 

Bucky didn’t know if he could do it now. It was one thing to pull the plug on those Winter Soldier’s frozen by Hydra… This? This was something else entirely. 

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut.

Okay, he reasoned. His thoughts were flying all over the place.

Okay, this is the start of a panic attack. Alright.

What would Doctor Raynor say?

Not sure, I kinda tune her out.

What about Sam?

Box breathing. He said something about box breathing one time.

Now that I think of it, Raynor said something about that too. Okay. Alright.

Bucky sighed.

Inhale for four seconds…

Hold for four seconds…

Exhale through my mouth for four seconds…

Inhale…

Hold…

Exhale…

Inhale…

Hold…

Exhale…

Bucky kept going. He lost track of how many times he did it. Slowly but surely, his heart stopped pounding so loud. His thoughts stopped spiraling so out of control.

He was okay. He was fine.

Bucky only stopped when the sound of a door opening and closing interrupted him. Click. Squeeeeek. Thud. High heels clicked across the floor, then stopped tight next to him.

“Are you okay?”

Bucky opened his eyes.

Natasha was perched on one of the top stairs, eye to eye with him despite sitting down. Bucky tapped his foot. She was leaning slightly forward with her hands clasped on her knees, staring at him with all the intensity of someone who truly cared.

Even though the battle had bruised them all, Natasha continued carrying herself as gracefully as a ballerina. A ballerina who could kill you with a paperclip and a sticky note. She didn’t even have a single hair out of place.

As far as Bucky knew.

His knowledge on a dame's hair was limited to helping his little sister with her curls.

Not that he thought Natasha was a dame.

Man, that term was as outdated as pin curls. Stupid future.

He glanced back up at the spiderweb. It jiggled. Something had gotten stuck. 

Not knowing what to say, Bucky shrugged.

Natasha shifted. “I know that people like us… we’re not really good at sharing our feelings, but you’re allowed to talk to me.”

Bucky smirked humorlessly. “People like us,” he repeated. “Are you referring to the fact that we’re both Avengers, or the fact that we both used to be the bad guys?”

“I was actually talking about our star signs, but you do you.”

He could hear her smile. “I just needed some air.”

“Understandable.” Natasha looked over at Bucky’s spiderweb, apparently deciding it was her turn to avoid eye contact. The spider had returned, doing a happy little dance as it discovered its prey. She rubbed her ribcage absentmindedly; the first notion Bucky had that she was even sore from the fight. “This…. This is a rough one.”

“You know of easy ones?”

Her smile returned, but this time it was bittersweet. “No, no I guess not.” She exhaled sharply. “The ones with kids are the worst.”

“Hm.”

“I was a kid,” She remarked. “I was in his shoes. I got out. Some people weren't so lucky.”

Bucky bowed his head. The stairs went down a really long way. He could barely make out the bottom.

“Finishing this one is going to be hard. On all of us.”

“Hm.” By ‘finishing this’, Bucky assumed she meant killing the kid.

“”Why don’t you call it a day?” Natasha suggested, looking back at him. She nudged his leg with her foot. “I’m sure F.R.I.D.A.Y. can whip up some reruns of “The Honeymooners” or whatever it is you old folks listen to.”

Bucky snorted. “I like Downton Ab—”

“ -- I am capable of gathering a wide assortment of any digital media you wish, across any platform -- “

Bucky flinched.

Natasha laughed quietly. “Still not used to F.R.I.D.A.Y., huh?”

Bucky quickly thanked the A.I. Natasha snickered again.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get a handle of this new fangled technology one of these days,” she teased.

“Very funny,” Bucky deadpanned.

Nat smiled and looked down to her hands.  “I really think you should call it a day, though. It’s late.”

“Are you all calling it a day?” Out of everyone, why was she suggesting this to him?

Nat’s eyes were back on him, sharp and calculating. He met her gaze. He knew she had picked up on the defensiveness in his voice.

“Some of us,” she said, all teasing and humor gone from her voice. She spoke like she was giving a mission report. “Scott needs to get back to his daughter, Thor is still in Norway. Rhodey is getting on a plane to come back here. Clint’s on facetime with his family. The twins are both headed to bed.”

Bucky nodded. “And the rest of you?”

Her eyes narrowed. “We’ll be working.”

‘So I’m the only one being sent home like I’m damaged,” he said bitterly.

“You’re the only one whose traumatic life experiences perfectly mirror our latest threat,” she replied sharply. “So, yes, I’m respectfully asking that you go home. Ask again and I’ll bring up my concerns to Fury.”

“You’re kicking me from the case.”

“Not yet.”

He stiffened. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“This is traumatic for you, James,” she stated. “You need to take breaks. I need to know you’re not going to do anything rash.”

“What?” he scoffed. “ Like murdering someone on the team?”

“See. That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” she said. “I know you wouldn't actually do something like that. But the very fact you’re saying that tells me you’re not processing this right. It’s going straight to your head. Digging up some bad memories, am I right?” she asked. Bucky stayed silent. She sighed.. “You need some time to get your head on straight. Process how you’re feeling. Talk to someone.”

“Hypocrite.”

It slipped out. He’s so used to banter and easy insults with Sam, but he knew he shouldn't have said it as soon as it was coming out.

Natasha seemed unfazed.

“I do talk to people, James. It would eat me up if I didn’t. Which is how I know that you —” she poked him in the chest. “—need to talk to someone. How about your therapist?”

Bucky snorted. The last thing he needed was for his shrink to dig through his mind and tell him what he already knew. He loathed how she saw straight through him as if all his carefully constructed walls were made of glass.

“Sam?” 

He snorted louder. Sam saw through him more than his therapist ever could.

“Steve.”

Bucky shook his head. All Steve would do is worry and try to fix a problem that couldn't be fixed. He loved picking impossible fights.

“Me?”

Bucky stayed silent.

“I’m pretty good at keeping secrets.” The subtle humor was back in her voice.

Bucky pursed his lips and shrugged again.

“Just a suggestion.” She smiled and winked. Even though she looked happy, Bucky knew she was studying him. Natasha had a way of staring at people as if they were jigsaw puzzles with a single piece missing. “I do have a question, though.” 

Bucky stared back at the ceiling. The spider was wrapping up the bug. Suffocating it. “Oh?”

“And you don’t have to answer. Though I feel like not answering is an answer in and of itself.”

He turned his head back to face her. “What is it?” he sighed.

She tilted her head, her gaze piercing into him like a knife. “How’d you know?”

Bucky waited for her to finish. When she didn't, when it was obvious that was the entire question, he repeated her words. “How’d I know? How’d I know what?”

“Their names.”

“Whose names?”

“Richard and Mary,” Natasha explained. Bucky's stomach plummeted. He quickly turned back to the spiderweb, not wanting her to see his face. Wait. Was turning away more suspicious?  “Peter’s parents,” she added, as if Bucky didn't already know. “You said ‘Because Richard and Mary were recreating the super soldier serum.’ Not ‘Peter’s parents’ but ‘Richard and Mary.’” She gave him a look. The spider finished with its panicking prey. The spiderweb stopped moving. “Hill hadn't told us their names yet.”

Bucky bit his lip. “Good guess,” he offered.

Natasha nodded. “It’s okay. You don’t owe me an explanation.”

What was it with people always seeing straight through him? Bucky needed dumber friends.

She stood back up, stretching her arms as she did so. “Besides, don’t you have a cat to get back to?”

"Neighbors watching Alpine,” Bucky responded. “Lady has so many cats she barely notices one more.”

“An Alpine’s all right with that?”

“Not really. She’s not overly fond of socializing.”

“Takes after you, then,” Nat joked. 

“Heh. Yeah.” Bucky forced a smile. 

He knew what she was doing. Changing the subject from an uncomfortable topic to something lighthearted. It was the same thing agents were trained to do with traumatized victims. He despised that she was doing it to him.

“Yeah, well, guess I’ll just head back then,” he said, pushing himself off the wall. “Relinquish the old geezer from her cat sitting duties.”

It was a lie. He couldn't very well go knocking on the lady's door at three or four in the morning, but it was an excuse to get away from the conversation.

Nat’s smile didn't quite reach her concerned eyes. She patted him on the back as he passed. “You take care, okay? We’re just a phone call away.”

Bucky nodded curtly.

Yeah. 

Sure .

The train ride from the compound to Brooklyn took a little over an hour. As always, Tony offered to lend him a car or have one of his drivers take him, but Bucky found a strange comfort in the NYC subway system.

In a weird way, even though it was packed full of people, he was completely alone. No one talked to each other. No one looked at each other. Bucky had the right intimidating stare to put off anyone wanting to hassle him for money.

It was the perfect time to put in some headphones, stare at the wall, and zone out. Try not to think about the day.

After a long session of Rosemary Clooney and a couple Benny Goodman songs still mixed in from when Steve had borrowed his phone, he was feeling a lot better.

Well, not better per say, but a lot more detached from reality and apathetic. For him that was more or less the same thing.

The chilly ten minute walk to his rustic apartment complex was uneventful. 

Bucky slid his bent key in the lock and pushed it open.

His apartment was small and humble, but he didn't need much. The little studio was given to him with the understanding he didn’t go homicidal and regularly checked in with Doctor Raynor.

Speaking of which, he swiftly picked up his home phone and slammed it back down, ignoring the incoming call from the shrink. She had already left two messages. He tossed his keys and cell phone next to it.

She was persistent, he’d give her that. He was doing his best to ignore her on his personal phone, too emotionally drained for therapy. He’d talk to her at the session on Wednes…

Yesterday.

Today was Thursday. 

He missed his session yesterday.

Oh, well. What’re they gonna do? Put him back in prison?

At least then he couldn’t do any damage.

Bucky sighed and opened his fridge with the broken light, pulling out a cold glass bottle of Coca Cola. The nostalgic drink wasn’t exactly like it was in the 40’s, but it tasted like home nonetheless. He had fond memories of sharing the drink with the commandos after grueling missions. Usually they dumped rum in it, or Jagermeister, or whatever they could get their hands on.

A cool breeze washed over him as he used a scissors to pry off the bottle cap.

After freezing in Siberia — not to mention all the unpleasant memories that little escapade had brought up — November in New York was nothing. 

Bucky paused. 

Why was there a light breeze?

His apartment was small; besides the bathroom, it was all one big room. He could see everything from his spot by the kitchen peninsula.

The large bay window on the far wall was wide open. 

Bucky set down his bottle and scissors, cautiously stepping over his makeshift bed on the floor and stalking towards the window.

He looked out. 

Nothing seemed amiss. Old, decaying bricks from the next door building stared back at him.

That’s… weird…

Bucky reached up and pulled his window closed.

He never left his window open.

Maybe his neighbor had to come grab something for Alpine and did it? It didn’t seem likely. The geezer could be a bit much at times, but she was responsible. 

Click.

Bucky froze. His blood chilled.

He turned. 

Dark brown eyes and the gleaming barrel of a gun greeted him.

Chapter Text

Click.

Bucky froze.

He turned. 

Dark brown eyes and the gleaming barrel of a gun greeted him.

Time stopped. Silence covered them like a heavy blanket.  The only sound was the distant rumble of the subway system and the muffled footsteps of the upstairs neighbors.

Neither spoke.

Bucky’s feet felt like they were welded to the floor. His eyes flickered from side to side. Slowly, ever so slowly, he reached into his jacket for his pistol, keeping his eyes locked on Peter.

Peter didn't pull the trigger, but he didn’t lower the gun either.

His hand grasped empty air. S.H.I.E.L.D. had taken it into evidence.

Bucky glanced over the teens shoulder. His phone was sitting on the kitchen counter. He raised his hands in front of him in a placating manner.

“Hey, Pete.”

Something flickered in the kid's eyes. Confusion, definitely… but maybe recognition? He looked taken aback, as if no one had ever called him by his name before. Bucky took a hesitant step forward, the floorboards creaking loudly under his weight. Peter didn't react.

“Do you recognize me?” 

Just keep talking. Keep stalling.

The kid’s normal gear was gone. No pack. No goggles. No mask. The only thing covering his face were faded yellow spots and a vivid dark violet bruise smeared across his cheek. Besides the gun, he didn’t appear to have any other weapons. His other arm was dangling in a sling.

Heart pounding, Bucky pressed himself against the wall and gradually tried to shimmy past Peter. Peter turned with him, keeping his face blank and his gun leveled at his chest.

The kid looked worse for wear. Bucky knew Hydra didn’t exactly keep good care of their assassins. 

Besides, Peter probably wasn’t here alone. Hydra agents were undoubtedly on their way. Maybe they were already here.

Why hadn’t Peter pulled the trigger yet?

Did Hydra want him alive?

The thought twisted his stomach and turned his heart into a block of ice.

No.

No way.

He’d fight tooth and nail. He’d die before going back there. He’d do anything.

A newfound panic boiling through his blood, Bucky sprinted forward. In one fluid motion he lunged over his chair, grabbed his phone, and slid behind the kitchen peninsula. The kid could jump over the counter with ease, but at least it would provide him with more time to react.

Bucky ripped a boning knife out of the chopping block and whipped back to face Peter, brandishing it like a sword.

Peter passively watched.

His fingers scrambled over his iPhone. There was a switch somewhere. A tiny, black, subtle switch. One flick and an alert would be sent to each of the Avengers phones. One flick and this place would be swarming with S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.

Bucky finally found the switch.

He didn’t hit it.

Instead, his eyes zeroed in on the pistol. A black MP- 443 Grach. Standard procedure. The gun itself wasn’t what gave him pause. Peter's fingers weren't on the trigger. In fact, he was barely touching it. The pistol was loose in his grip, as if he was trying to make as little contact with the gun as possible.

The realization hit Bucky like a train.

Peter wasn’t threatening him. He was giving the gun to him.

Suddenly the knife felt heavy in Bucky’s hand. His mouth went dry.

Right. Protocol. He remembered it all too well. Everything Hydra had imprinted upon him was seared into his mind like a brand.

Assets are to make sure their superiors are armed at all times when in their presence.

His face burned. Did Peter think he was his superior? Did he think he was still at Hydra?

No. That’s impossible. They fought in Siberia. They attacked each other. Peter made it well known that he was aware they were on opposing sides.

Then why?

“Is that for me?” Bucky asked, gesturing with the knife.

Peter didn't respond. He only continued holding it out.

Is this a trick? A trap?

Am I walking right into it?

He stared into Peter's dark eyes, trying to decipher what was going on behind them. Something. Anything . He came up empty.

Bucky wasn’t a fool. Neither was Peter. They both knew the significance. A superior was supposed to be armed so they could put an asset down anytime they wanted. So they could murder them.

Peter was quite literally putting his life in his hands. He was trusting him.

Why?

A small voice in the back of his head was nagging him to flip the switch. 

Maybe this was a mission. Maybe Peter was here to kill him. But Bucky didn't think so. More likely, Peter was asking him for help. He was asking for help in the only way he knew how.

Bucky’s conflicting thoughts wrestled for control.

Even if by some small miracle Peter was here for help, if he had gotten away from Hydra somehow, Bucky knew it wasn’t so simple. You can’t just walk away from Hydra.  Peter wasn’t free.  Still, Bucky vividly remembered being arrested by Shield. Being placed in that claustrophobic glass box. Being bolted to that chair.

Zemo.

Losing control again.

Being used again.

Hurting his friends.

Hill's orders echoed through his panicked mind. “Neutralize him if you can, but kill him if you must.”

His fingers itched at the switch.

The kid wouldn't survive a day at Shield.

What would they do to him?

What would the other Avengers do? How would they react? Would they even care?

At the meeting opinions seemed to be divided. It was the perfect set up for another civil war. Bucky refused to be responsible for another. 

He swallowed, slowly lowering his phone back down and sliding it into his jacket pocket. Peter’s eyes followed it for a split-second, before snapping back up to his face.

He wouldn’t hand Peter over to S.H.I.E.L.D. like some common criminal.  But he also couldn't just ditch him or kick him out. Did he not just nearly have a heart attack at the thought of returning to Hydra?

Hydra would catch Peter. And they wouldn’t be so merciful as to kill him.

Bucky leaned across the counter separating them, swiftly snatched the gun and jumped back. It was warm and heavy in his hand. 

Peter's hand dropped to his side.

Without breaking eye contact, Bucky dropped the magazine from the gun and let it clatter to the hardwood floor. He kicked it and sent it skidding away, before pocketing the empty shell of a pistol.

There. No more gun.

Bucky cautiously crept away from the counter, shuffling sideways and not daring to take his eyes from Peter as he passed him, and backed towards the window once more. It was somewhat difficult to accomplish without looking, but he eventually managed to yank the blinds shut, covering them in a shelter of darkness. The only light — emitted from a plethora of street lights and headlight  — slipped through the cloudy privacy windows on the door leading to the miniscule patio. He double checked the lock.

Peter, to his credit, didn’t panic about being locked in. He didn't try to run or to fight, seemingly content to observe silently.

Should he check for bugs?

Probably. It was Hydra after all.

The only problem was he had no idea what to look for. Maybe he should Google it? 

Yeah. Great idea. That wouldn’t be suspicious at all. Typing “ how to make sure your home hasn’t been bugged with a listening device” into a search engine definitely wouldn't show up on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s radar.

Bucky bit his lip. He had no idea what to do. Not a clue. It was as if he got thrown into the middle of a conversation with complete strangers.  Even as he was trying to formulate a plan, every rational part of him was screaming “ this is a bad idea!! ”

Okay. 

This is fine.

It’s fine.

He could fix this. He’d just have to hide Peter until he could figure out what to do next. Yeah. Okay. He could do that. Just keep him alive and hidden.

Bucky tapped his hands against his thighs.

What do teenagers need?

They need… um… they need… food! They need food. 

Bucky went back to his small kitchen. “You hungry?”

Finally — finally — Peter reacted. His eyebrows knit together in confusion, his eyelashes fluttered rapidly and his eyes darted to the ground. Suspicion and worry was etched onto his uncertain face. Peter’s eyes darted back to Bucky, then back to the floor, as if waiting for something.

Huh. Kids are weird.

What do teenagers eat?

Bucky reached behind him, his metal fingers peeking out from his fingerless glove clanging loudly against the toaster. They both jumped. 

Bucky briskly grabbed a woven basket filled with fruit and slammed it down on the kitchen counter with a lot more force than intended. A clementine bounced and rolled away. He deftly snatched back up and tossed it into the basket, before pushing it across the peninsula towards Peter. 

His stomach growled loudly. Blush sieged his face and wide ears.

“You can have some.” Bucky gestured to the bowl. It wasn’t very full — the woven bark was visible even on the bowl's bottom — but it had a variety nonetheless. Apples… clementines… plums… peaches…

The kid had options.

Maybe too many options, Bucky wondered. Has he ever made a choice about what to eat before?

Peter’s eyes darted down to the knife in Bucky's grip. He had forgotten he was holding it. Without speaking, Bucky sheathed it back into the chopping block. Best to keep Peter away from that corner of the apartment.

Immediately Peter seemed to untense, even if only by a fraction. Fear sapped from his face and his shoulders dropped from their defensive stance. 

Peter glanced at the food, back down to the floor, then up at Bucky expectantly. He leaned across the counter and peered at the cheap hardwood.

Nothing.

Weird.

He stepped back and gestured at the food. “Help yourself.”

Hesitantly, as if approaching a frightened, rabid animal, Peter inched forward and reached a shaky hand towards the fruit. Right when his fingers were about to close around a plum, he retreated. He changed his mind, strongly resembling a deer in headlights.

“That’s fine. I, uh, might have something else in my fridge,” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, “if you’re, um, interested.”

Peter avoided eye contact and picked at the palm of his hand.

“Okay. Yeah… why don’t you…” Bucky waved his arms like a marshaller, trying to direct Peter over to the small alcove enclosed on three sides by the wall, his front door, and the door leading to the bathroom. “I’m not having my back to you, so if you want to eat you need to work with me. So… off you go…”

After a few more minutes of coaxing, he finally got Peter to move aside. 

Peter tensed when they were no longer separated by the wide countertop, as did Bucky. It appeared neither of them were thrilled about losing the barrier, no matter how ineffectual it actually was.

Still. There was no way Bucky was having his back open to the assassin.

Keeping close watch on Peter with his peripheral vision, he pulled open the loud refrigerator. The light flickered and died. Great.

Bucky pressed his lips together.

He had some bright red Jell-O cups, one pack of generic hot dogs, a plastic bag filled with uneaten coleslaw, some grits smothered in cheese leftover from when he was over at the Wilsons, the remains of what once was Chinese takeout, three cold slices of margherita pizza in a Ziploc bag, some stale, burned chocolate chip oat cookies he and Steve had attempted to bake, half a container of milk, applesauce, a cardboard egg carton, and a bag of sliced cheese.

He pressed his forehead against the cool metal, a wave of crisp, cold air wafting towards him. Food wasn’t enough.

He gets Peter fed now, but then what?

Peter had to get out of the state. Out of the country. He couldn't stay here.

But how?

It’s not like Bucky could dump him at a train station, even if it would solve his problems. He was responsible for this entire mess. Now he had to face the consequences. He had to make amends.

“How ‘bout pizza? Teens love pizza, right?”

Peter showed no recognition.

“Listen,” Bucky muttered, leaning on the fridge door and rubbing his face, “I know you’re starving. I can hear your stomach from here.” As if on cue, Peters stomach grumbled again. The teen flushed.

He sighed and shut the rickety fridge. 

Bucky remembered what it was like when he got out. When he finally escaped. He recalled being offered his first choice.

It had been spring and he was sopping wet, having just pulled his best friend of ninety years from Potomac River. He ran. But then the lady at the bus station had asked where he was headed. He had nothing to tell her. No answer.

Even the simplest of things threw him for a loop when he spent as long as he could remember without the luxury of choice. It was like a documentary he watched last week, that talked about how ex-cons had trouble readjusting to society after being behind bars for so long.

For all intents and purposes, Hydra was a prison. Their prison.

Peter probably didn’t even know what he liked.

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, his hair prickling against his fingers, and studied his cabinets.

He had some plain Cheerios, Ritz crackers, three boxes of Kraft's Mac and Cheese, some scattered Sky Bar wrappers, crushed Lays potato chips, and a bag of York Peppermint Patties. 

Oh! Chocolate!

He perked up.

Kids love chocolate.

Now that he thought about it, he had some Nestle's chocolate chips left over in the freezer from Steve’s and his disaster cookies. Maybe he could just feed Peter that?

“Here.”

Peter skeptically accepted the bag of chocolate mints from Bucky’s offering hand.

“They’re good,” Bucky explained. When Peter didn't respond, he added, “they’re for, y’know, eating?”

Nothing.

An idea struck Bucky’s mind like a bullet.

Was the kid deaf?

Oh, man, he didn’t know any sign language.

Crap. Uh… okay…

What are some signs he’s seen Clint use?

Bucky started cycling through all the signs he could remember, hoping for some sort of acknowledgement from Peter.

He tapped his finger tips together.

No, that didn't work… How about…

He pointed to his chest, then to his chin, then to Peter. Clint did that to one of his teens once.

Upon no response, Bucky pressed a fist to his forehead.

No? 

He made a peace sign then curled his fingers.

Nothing.

Well, that might be a good thing. Clint signed those at Tony when he was mad one time.

Um… what else…

He stacked his fists on top of each other and started grinding the top one back and forth. Both Nat and Clint had signed that to each other in the past. Usually in the kitchen.

Peter watched impassively as if he were flipping through the channels on the TV. Bucky groaned. Maybe he wasn't deaf. Maybe Bucky was just making a big fool of himself.

Giving it one last try, Bucky touched his lips before swinging his arm down like a drawbridge.

Peter blinked.

“Alright, not my best, but you get what I’m saying, right?” Bucky asked.

The teen exhaled sharply, before digging through the bag and pulling out candy. He delicately peeled it open, before pausing and looking back at Bucky curiously. He nodded in response.

Peter sniffed it and reeled back like it burned him, a frown pulling at the corner of his lips. Then, all of a sudden as if he was terrified of Bucky taking it from him, Peter shoved the entire thing into his mouth.

A pale shade of green washed over his skin. His hand flew to his mouth as his lips curled and nose wrinkled.

Bucky grabbed the trash can. “Here, spit it out if you don’t—”

Despite his obvious disgust, Peter forced himself to swallow the patty. He gagged.

Bucky rubbed his temples. “Okay, see, now we’re getting somewhere. If you would have just said “ I don’t like mint” or “ I don’t like chocolate ” that would have been fine . No one’s forcing you to eat food you don't like… anymore.”

Peter glared at him.

Hey! At least it wasn’t that horrible dead look anymore.

Bucky would take it.

He crossed his arms and turned back to the shelves. 

What do teenagers need?

Fruits and vegetables. Obviously.

He had some canned tomatoes and canned corn somewhere… frozen carrots maybe… 

But they also needed meat and bread, right? And dairy?

Didn’t kids need those things?

So… pizza?

Pizza had all those things, right? Except for fruit. Unless, of course, some sociopath put pineapple on it. He shudders at the memory of Natasha forcing him and Steve to try that monstrosity.

He wouldn't stand for it. Not in his studio apartment.

Well, it technically wasn’t his, he supposed.

Not in this studio apartment being paid for by the government.

As Bucky dug the cold margarita pizza out of his fridge, the brief realization fluttered through his mind that he was currently harboring a wanted terrorist on government property.

Oh, well. It’s not like he hadn’t done worse.

What would they do? Lock him up? 

Yeah, cause that worked out so well last time.

Bucky grabbed a paper plate. 

His therapist would probably be mad at him for this. Now that? That made him shiver. The US government he could handle, but his therapist?

Best not to get caught.

Bucky dumped the pizza onto the plate. He cursed when he realized it didn’t have meat. 

Peter flinched.

“No, no, I’m not mad at you…” Bucky said quickly. Peter remained tense and backed up against the wall, staring at him like some sort of wild animal. He sighed.  “Do you like your pizza warm or cold?” Peter's brow furrowed, as if Bucky was asking him to recite the entire periodic table of elements. “You don’t know. You’re getting it warm.”

He slid it in the microwave, hit plus 30 seconds, and reopened his fridge.

Meat.

Meat.

Were eggs a meat?

Yeah… they came from… chicken…

He pulled the egg carton out. Empty. He sighed and tossed it aside. 

How did he not own any meat?

Bucky shut the fridge again and turned back to Peter, nervous that he had been ignoring him for too long.

Peter was clenching and unclenching his fist, desperately attempting to scratch his dirty nails against his palm. They locked eyes. He froze and his face paled, as if he just got caught breaking and entering.

Red drops were dripping from his hand onto the floor. Now that Bucky looked, he could see droplets of blood splattered all over where Peter had been standing. 

Bucky stepped forward. Peter retreated. The kid's eyebrows shot up and his eyes went cartoonishly large, swimming in fear. His back smacked against the wall.  Bucky hesitated. He raised his hands out in front of him placatingly. “Your hand is bleeding. I want to look at it… Do I have your permission to touch you?”

All the terror drained from his expression, being quickly replaced shock and confusion. Peter eyebrows pushed together. His lips parted slightly.

He looked as if no one had ever asked his permission before touching him. Bucky’s heart dropped when he realized that's probably not far off from the truth.

After a moment's hesitation, Peter slowly held out his trembling hand, much like he was trying to pet an angry lion. He seemed more petrified showing Bucky his hand than he did giving him the gun.

Beep beep beep!

Beep beep beep!

The microwave screamed.

Peter jumped back. Bucky caught his wrist.

Irritated, gory stitches dug into a swollen cut on his palm. Torn string sat in matted clumps of dried, rust colored blood. Bright red blood dripped between pulled stitches. 

The wound itself looked mostly healed, as if it were a few weeks old, but the stitches apparently had never been pulled and Peter developed a bad habit of picking at the itchy stitches and ripping it open again and again.

Bucky sighed.

Beep beep beep!

Beep beep beep!

He dropped Peter’s hand, who quickly yanked it to his chest protectively.

Bucky shut off the microwave and set the plate on the peninsula.

He rubbed his chin. He didn't have anything to clean that wound… maybe he could borrow some Band-Aids and Neosporin from the neighbor?

Even if he got that stuff, it wouldn't do much good. Those stitches needed to come out. He doubted Peter would trust him enough to pull them.

While he contemplated, he slid the pizza across the table. Peter slunk towards it.

He couldn’t fix the problem, but maybe he could dull the pain a bit? Bucky fetched the frozen carrots from his freezer and placed the pack in Peter's hand.

“Hold onto that.” Bucky pointed at it. Peter studied it curiously. “It’ll help with the pain and itching. In the morning I’ll get some Benadryl to… um… now you can’t eat.”

Bucky trailed off. One of Peter's hands remained trapped in the sling. The other was now holding frozen vegetables.

Peter gave him a dead glare with a single eyebrow raised.

Bucky snorted.

How could one look hold so much sass?

“Don’t give me that lip,” Bucky said sarcastically. “Just eat and hold onto it when you’re done.”

Peter caught himself mid eyeroll. He ducked his head and picked up the pizza.

Bucky laughed again and got a cup out of his cupboard. “To drink I got milk, or.. Kool-Aid packets… I just started my last coke, but you’re welcome to have some if you want. You got a preference, Pete?” No response. He turned on his faucet. “Water it is.”

Bucky set down the plastic cup and picked up his room temperature Coke. Might be good to keep glass away from the kid. He stepped away, choosing instead to walk to his closed window. Hopefully Peter would feel a bit more relaxed without him looming over his shoulder.

As soon as the pizza slipped through his lips, Peter's entire face lit up. It was like his entire body melted , all the stress pouring away from him. He held it in his mouth for a second, eyes closed, before he couldn't hold himself back any longer. He wolfed the entire slice down in a couple bites, already reaching for the other one.

“ Mmmmm!”

Bucky smiled. 

Nice to get a reaction out of him that wasn't terror or apprehension. If Bucky didn’t know the situation, he might even assume Peter was a normal teenager. 

“Yeah. It’s good.”

Bucky promptly ate his words.

Peter went stiff. He snapped back to reality as if he forgot that Bucky was there, dropping the pizza back on the plate. Color drained from his face.  Panic flashed through his eyes like sirens.

“Woah, it’s fine,” Bucky exclaimed. “Why’re you upset? What did I say?”

Peter pushed the plate away. He backed up until he smacked against the brick accent wall. The floor held his undivided attention.

Bucky huffed.

Holy mackerel. This was way harder than he thought.

Was this what he was like? How did Steve put up with him?

He racked his brain, trying to think back on on his time at Hydra and come up with something — anything — to explain what set Peter off. He came up blank. I ronic. The one time in the past decade he wasn’t running from his memories, they were running from him.

Maybe Peter thought that little ‘mmmm’ counted as speaking? And now he was going to be punished?

Bucky tapped his foot.

If Peter didn’t want to talk, he didn’t want to talk. Nothing he could do.

“If you’re not hungry, I’m not going to force you to eat,” Bucky stated.

He knew the kid was starving. Peter was all skin and bones. He was a thin sheet draped over a skeleton. Peter stayed pressed between the counter and the television, not moving.

“Good talk,” Bucky muttered.

At least the kid ate something.

He probably needed sleep, too, if the bags under his eyes were any indication.

Bucky pulled some blankets out of his closet. If he had a bed, he’d give it to him. But he didn’t. Instead he dumped a pile of sheets and quilts and throws in front of the TV, before collecting the cushions of his little, cheap accent chair and the decorated pillows that came with it — one of which he had been using for his “bed” — and constructed a makeshift bed that was hopefully a bit more comfortable than the hardwood floor.

Bucky checked his watch.

He’d figure out what to do with the kid tomorrow. Or, later today, more like it.

Once the sun set again, maybe he could move him to a different location. Find a safehouse or something. 

Maybe he could get the kid across the Canadian border. Hydra had less of an active presence there. It might be a bit safer.

He patted the bed.

“I don’t know if you sleep or not, but I get the feeling you’re not gonna tell me…” He shook out the heavy quilt, causing an eruption of dust to attack his nose. He coughed. 

The red and black blanket had been a gift from Sarah. Also Sam, though he denied involvement. Sarah just so happened to “coincidentally” need to get rid of the quilt the day after Sam saw what Bucky was using for a bed. Petrified of damaging it, the quilt had stayed in his closet ever since. Apparently it was handmade by one of their deceased relatives. 

But now was as good a time than any to use it. It delicately laid it over Peter's impromptu bed.

“It’s like, five in the morning. I need my three hours.” Bucky stood and stretched his arms. “Bathrooms over there. Kitchen's there. Help yourself to whatever. Please don’t kill me in my sleep.”

Bucky went back to his bed, which was now just a two throw blankets in a pile at the base of the salvaged chair. He stopped. 

“Pajamas. Kids need pajamas. You don’t have those, right?” Bucky turned back around. Peter looked at him now, his brow furrowed, but remained silent. “Of course you don't.”

Man, Bucky hated this. He was used to being the quiet one. Stoic. Just observing. He had been good at conversation before and during the way, but… talking really wasn’t his thing anymore. The strategy of saying whatever popped into his head really wasn’t doing him any favors.

“I don’t own any pajamas,” Bucky said. “I usually just sleep in my underwear… I shouldn't have said that. You didn’t want to know that. Um… Let me see if I can find some sweatpants or something.”

It might have been his imagination, but Bucky could have sworn he saw Peter repressed a laugh.

He sorted through his closet again. A red and gold silk button up from Wakanda was tucked away in the very back; it looked like pajamas. He snatched up a pair of gray sweatpants with the Brooklyn Dodgers logo. Man, he missed that team. Pity they abandoned Brooklyn for LA, of all places. No loyalty.

When Bucky turned back around, Peter was inspecting his bed. He stopped dead in his tracks when he caught Bucky’s eye.

This entire interaction felt like one giant game of red light green light or something.

Bucky handed him the clothes. Peter remained uncertain.

“It’ll be more comfortable than what you’re wearing, if you— oh, you’re just going to change right here. Great.”

Not comfortable enough to turn his back to him, but wanting to give the kid some privacy, Bucky looked at his popcorn ceiling while he changed. Peter was able to pull off his combat boots and tactical pants easily enough and tightened the baggy sweatpants around his scrawny waist, but the sling proved to be a hassle.

“Here, let me.” Bucky moved to help him with a shirt. Peter jumped back, a wild look on his face. 

Bucky slid his hands into his pockets. This was a neutral position, right? No need to cause him panic?

Peter eventually got the shirt over his good arm, and attempted to pull it through the sling.

Riiippp!

The fabric shouted as the shoulder tore.

Time stopped. Peter's breathing ceased. He turned to stone. Rigid.

“It’s fine! It’s fine! It was cheap. It’s supposed to do that!” Bucky blurted. He could sense the incoming panic. “That's how those shirts are designed. It’s… yep.”

Still shaken, Peter avoided his eyes and draped the fabric over his shoulder like a cloak. He didn’t run away or start crying, so Bucky counted it as a win. Peter rolled up one of his sleeves to his elbows, plopped down on the quilt and rolled up the sweatpants. Both the articles were way too big. He was drowning in them.

Bucky slowly lowered himself to the ground, pressed against the wall opposite of Peter. They looked at each other in silence.

A helicopter roared somewhere overhead. Police sirens sang in the distance. Broken guitar blasted through one of the apartments below them.

What now?

Peter looked like he was about to crumble from exhaustion, but Bucky assumed he didn’t trust him enough to sleep while Bucky was awake. Bucky wasn’t fond of the vice versa, either. 

Bucky’s eyes traced the patterns on Peter’s shirt. Shuri had thrown it at him one day after inviting him to dinner with her family; he had revealed he had nothing to wear other than his goat farming robes. 

A thought occurred to him.

Maybe Wakanda could help Peter.

He was still in hot water ever since busting Zemo out of prison — for good reason — but T’Challa would never turn away someone in need. He cared about everyone.

And no matter how much she jokingly complained, Shuri did too.

They could help him!

The only problem was how to contact them. A phone call would definitely appear on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s radar, and maybe even Hydra’s.

He knew Wakanda had people everywhere. Maybe he could get Peter somewhere secure, and then go to the Wakandan Embassy. It was just in Manhattan, right?

Yeah. That could work.

An upbeat melody pierced through his thoughts; a repetitive loop of the same tune played on a xylophone.

Both Peter and Bucky tensed. His iPhone was lighting up his pocket.

“I’ll be right back.” Bucky grabbed his phone and ducked out of his apartment. Hopefully Peter wouldn't get into too much trouble alone.

The scratchy gray carpet snagged on his boots. The apartment complex smelled of must, sweat, and bug spray. He wrinkled his nose. Stalking past multiple doors, Bucky eventually sat down at the very end of the hall next to a foggy window, away from prying ears.

His phone continued to sing. 

“Punk” was calling. A picture of him and Steve sat in the corner.

He picked up.

After a long pause, Steve’s voice shot through the air, as clear as day. “ Buck? Are you there?”

“Yes.” He tapped his knee idly. “Hey, Steve. What do you need?” 

“ I just wanted to check in. Tasha said you took a powder.”

Bucky chuckled quietly. “Somehow I doubt that's what she said.”

“ C’mon, Buck. Don’t make me feel like an old man, here. ”

“Technically, you are.”

“ Technically, you’re older than me, so watch it.” 

Bucky could hear the humor hidden in Steve's stern voice. He could also hear the concern. 

“ Alright, she told me you left. That better?”

“Eh.”

“We should bring back the good slang. The stuff these days,” Steve laughed. “ Tony said a party he went to was "lit" the other day. Now you tell me if that makes any sense.”

“It means exciting,” Bucky leaned back against the window and crossed his ankle over his knee. “Or, knowing Tony, he got super drunk. It could be either.”

“How do you know that?”

“You gotta get with the times, Captain America. It’s not 1940 anymore.”

Steve laughed, and Bucky smiled even though he couldn’t see him through the phone.

“I suppose you’re right. In that case, how’s it hanging Bucky?”

“Don't. Don't do that.”

“Is your time lit?”

“Steve, I’m begging you.”

“I’m being hipster.”

“Please no.”

They both laughed again. Bucky pressed his mouth against his hand.

It was nice to know the world hadn’t completely turned upside down in the past hour. There was some normalcy left.

“In all seriousness, Buck, are you doing okay?” The sharp, serious edge was back to Steve's tone.

Bucky sighed. “Having an absolute gas, Steve.”

“Buck—”

“I’m fine. Really. Grateful to not be stuck in the same room as Wilson anymore.”

“Buck.”

“What? You know I don’t like him,” Bucky lied. “I’m gone for, what? A hundred years? And that's who you replace me with? Honestly, I’m offended.”

“You like Sam.”

“No, I— yeah. You know I was kidding.” Bucky uncrossed his legs and stretched them. They were getting stiff.

“I know.”

An awkward silence hung over them like a cloud. Silences with Steve never used to be awkward. They used to be just as comfortable as talking. Bucky wondered if Steve could tell he was hiding something.

Probably. Steve always had known him better than he knew himself.

“Well, I’m, uh… I’m tired. I’m gonna go to bed.”

“Bucky, why do— hang on, what? I’m on the phone… Buck… No, I… don’t touch that…”  Steve's voice grew distant. After a few minutes of muffled conversation, he returned. “ Hey, buck, I gotta go.”

“You need to take a powder?”

Steve chuckled. “Yeah. That. Hill is calling us back into the meeting. Fury’s on a conference call. He doesn't sound happy.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Thanks. You’ll call me if you want to talk, right? If something is bothering you? I’ll leave the meeting, you know.”

“Yeah. I know.”

That's exactly what Bucky didn't want. Steve sacrificing for him, putting him first… The guilt gnawed at his bones.

“So long, Buck.”

The phone hummed, letting him know he was disconnected.

Bucky slid the phone back into his pocket and went back to his apartment.

Even though he didn’t lie to Steve, he still felt icky. Like he needed to take a shower and scrub until he got his own skin off. He pushed open the door. He didn’t deserve Steve as a friend. He was always—

Peter was gone.

Bucky stopped in his tracks. His heart slammed against his chest.

Peter’s gone.

He kicked the door shut, panic bubbling inside him like molten lava.

Oh no. Oh no.

Did Hydra get him? Did he willingly go back? Did he take something?

His head whipped from side to side, searching. Peter's bed was untouched. The pizza was still on the table. So where—

Bucky tripped. His stomach flipped. He barely caught himself with a hand on the wall.  

He had tripped over one of Peter's legs. The kid’s eyelashes fluttered and he rolled over, still asleep. 

Bucky allowed himself to breathe. He was still here. He didn't loose him. It was fine. 

He couldn't help but notice how young the kid looked. The way he carried himself gave him the aura of a battle-worn soldier, but in reality, he couldn't be older than thirteen. Fourteen, max. All the stress and fear dissipated in his sleep. Bucky’s heart hurt.

The kid was curled up in the fetal position next to the chair. Evidently, he had opted for Bucky's two throw blankets instead of the bed he made for him. 

Bucky’s stomach curled. Did Peter know the other bed was for him? Did Bucky ever say that it was for him?

Great.

Way to be direct, Buck.

He’ll have to try harder to work with the kid. Direct orders are probably all he’s used to. But he also didn’t want Peter to think he didn't have a choice…

Bucky didn't trust himself to be able to move Peter without waking him, so instead he set the cushions next to the boy in the hopes he might accidently curl up on one in his sleep. He delicately tucked the pillows under his head and wrapped him up tightly with more heavy blankets.

It wasn’t until he was finished he realized he forgot to leave any blankets for himself.

Oh well. He fought in the trenches of WWII. Sleeping in uncomfortable positions is what he was good at.

Bucky lowered himself to the floor and leaned against the kitchen peninsula, positioning himself to be able to keep an eye on Peter. He pulled his jacket tight around himself. 

As he reluctantly drifted off, he couldn't help but remember how he used to tuck in Rebecca the same way.

Chapter Text

Bucky had come to expect many things when he woke up.

Gunfire. Trenches littered with the bodies of fellow soldiers. Faceless doctors. Gore. Knives. Needles. Every unpleasant thing he's ever seen.

What he was not prepared for, however, was to wake up only to be face to face with two giant, unblinking eyes the color of coffee grounds.

Bucky jumped. The back of his head smacked against the counter he was slumped against.

Peter didn't move. He stayed crouched on the ceiling, upside down as if the laws of gravity suddenly shut off while Bucky was asleep. His curly mop of hair hung towards the ground, standing straight up as if he had been electrocuted. Footprints surrounded him, clear impressions made in the disturbed stipple ceiling.

The kid was barefoot. Huh. Bucky had assumed the crawling on walls thing had been some sort of tech. Evidently not. 

They stared at each other, neither keen on breaking eye contact.

Okay. Bucky thought. That’s one of the most disturbing things I’ve ever seen.

Bucky got to his feet, careful to avoid bumping his head into Peter’s shoulder as he passed. White specks of the popcorn ceiling littered his floor. All of Pete’s blankets were folded in an immaculate pile. The chair had been put back together.

Huh. Thoughtful.

Also thoughtful of him not to murder me.

Bucky grimaced at the thought. Did people think that about him? He sure hoped not.

He rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms over his head. Something popped in his lower back. Ugh . He might be used to sleeping in odd positions, but it really wasn’t doing him any favors. The muscles around his shoulder blades pulled painfully. 

“How’d you sleep?” Bucky yawned, rubbing his eyes. He checked his watch. Ah, man. It was already well past noon. He’d gotten almost six hours of broken, nightmare ridden sleep.

In lieu of a “good, how about you?” or a “horrible, your floor is super uncomfortable,” more white flecks of ceiling drifted down on his shoulder like snowflakes as Peter shifted.

He turned on the coffee maker and pulled out a worn ceramic mug. It was gray with tiny paw prints dotting the chipped paint. “I’m Not A People Person. I’m A Cat Person.” was written in bold black letters, and the small doodle of a cat was peeking out from behind the words.

He poured himself a generous cup of black coffee and glanced up at his houseguest. “You a coffee drinker?”

Peter tilted his head, now perched above the kitchen peninsula.

Wait.

Can kids have coffee? Is that poisonous to them? Like chocolate to dogs?

Bucky frowned. 

His parents always used to hoard their coffee. He and Rebecca had never had it growing up. Steve always used to drink it, but he had so many health issues… maybe caffeine was the cause of some of them. Who knows?

Bucky fished his phone out of his pocket.

His unkempt appearance stared back at him, reflected from a black screen. Dead. Great. That’s just great.

Bucky plugged his phone into the charger, chugged his coffee in two boiling gulps, and poured himself another cup. Instead of coffee, he poured a glass of milk — pausing briefly to sniff the jug to make sure it hadn't spoiled — into his unused “WWII Veteran” mug.

It was a gift from Natasha.

She found it funny.

Peter impressively took the mug into his hands and was able to sip it upside down.

Hey, the kid was accepting offerings with less resistance now. Was that an improvement? Bucky had no idea what could have changed overnight, but he wasn’t about to complain.

“Usually I’d make company eggs and bacon or something, but I don’t have that, so… Cheerios?”

Bucky usually skipped breakfast — or, er, lunch, he supposed. Man, it was late. — but he made himself a bowl. Didn’t want Peter feeling singled out.

The now-freezing pizza was still sitting on the table. Bucky wrinkled his nose and slid it into the trash. He hated wasting food. Parents who grew up during the great depression tend to instill that mindset in their kids. Usually he’d suck it up and just eat it, but he didn’t want Peter to eat it and get sick… so… 

Into the garbage it went.

While Bucky was debating whether or not to pass the bowl up, Peter lowered himself down across from him by only the tips of his fingers.

Huh. Weird. Also impressive.

White dust from Bucky’s ceiling covered tufts of Peter's hair like dandruff. Without thinking or even really looking, Bucky absentmindedly reached over and ruffled the kids brown curls, sending the powder flying. He felt Peter stiffen under his fingers.

He jerked his hand back in a panic.

Peter kept his surprised eyes pointed towards his bowl. Without comment, he walked over to the side of the peninsula opposite of Bucky and slowly began picking at his Cheerios.

Okay. That’s fine. It’s fine. Still…

“Sorry, I didn’t think. I should've asked first.” Bucky picked at his cereal. Man. These cheerios were stale. 

Out of his peripheral vision he caught Peter pausing for a second. Only a second. Then he resumed eating.

The two sat in silence. Bucky was content with it. Small-talk really wasn’t his forte.  Instead he shifted through a pile of letters on his counter. Mostly bills. Something about getting a dental check up. Kohl's coupons. Something with the Target logo on it. 

In the corner of his eyes he caught Peter picking up the mail he set down and mimicking his actions. Bucky stifled a laugh.

Interesting enough, he found a red and yellow postcard with a smiling cartoon crawfish waving at him. “Greetings From Delacroix, Louisiana”  in goofy bubble letters surrounded the crawfish like an umbrella.

His brow furrowed. Delacroix? Sarah?

Across the counter from him, Peter copied his expression.

Bucky flipped it over. Wobbly sparkly orange gel pen scrawled the lengthy message: 

“ Dear Mister Uncle Barnes.

In my class today we have to write a letter to a relitve who lives far away so I chose you. Cass is helping me mail it. I picked out my own stamp. Do you like it?”

He chuckled. The stamp had a small reindeer in a Santa hat.

“I was gonna going to write a letter to Uncle Sam but mom said you were alone and sad so I should write one to you.”

Bucky nodded. Yeah, that figured.

He turned the postcard. Apparently Sam's nephews had run out of space and opted to write sideways in the margins.

“Anyways please come over for Christmas my mom is making gingersnap cookies. There techanickally for Santa but I won’t tell if you don’t. 

Also, I know Santa comes to New York a lot, so if you see him please tell him I want my own Captin America Lego becus Cass won’t let me use his..”

Bucky tilted the card again. The writing was upside down now. Words were smooshed together.

“ Okay I’m runningoutofspacenowlove you bye. Sinceerley, AJ WIlson.”

Bucky smiled.

Cute.

As soon as his phone was done charging he was going to smugly send a picture of this to Sam. He’d crop out the “alone and sad” part.

Peter was eyeing it curiously. Bucky slid the postcard across the table.

“You can look at it if you want. It’s from a friend.”

Peter delicately picked it up as if it were made of glass.

Bucky swirled his spoon around his soggy Cheerios. He briefly wondered if he could get some pointers on kids from Sarah without being too suspicious. Her oldest was what? Ten? Eleven? She’d know something at least, and that was more than him. 

He quickly flipped over a piece of junk mail and sloppily scrawled “ text Sarah for advice” in clumpy blue ink. He paused for a second, then added “let sam know about the letter. Ha ha.”

Equally important, those two things.

Peter flipped the postcard.

Oh, yeah. That too.

“ Get you-know-who to you-know-where” joined his makeshift to-do list.

There.

Now all he had to do was figure out the quickest way to Manhattan and… The Wakanda Embassy was in Manhattan, right?

He reached for his phone to Google it.

Ah. It’s dead. Right.

That's fine. He had a map somewhere, he could—

Knock knock knock!

The duo froze, their comfortable silence dissipating before their very eyes.

Peter slowly set down both the card and his spoon. His eyes frantically darted between the window and the door.

Knock knock knock!

How’d they get into the complex?

Bucky’s heart leapt. He ripped a knife out of the chopping block and pressed his back against the vibrating fridge. He peered around the corner at his innocuous front door.

Hydra wouldn't knock, right?

Who was he kidding, of course they would. They loved luring people into a false sense of security. Besides, they hated leaving evidence. They were probably hoping on him letting them in so they wouldn't have to worry about cleaning up the broken door they kicked in after murdering him.

Knock knock knock!

It was getting louder. Angrier. Bucky jumped.

“Peter, duck into the kitchen, ” he hissed, heart hammering. His fist was sweating around the knife handle. “Peter!”

Peter was lost in his own world. All the color drained from his face. He stared at the window, most likely considering making a break for it.

No. No way. Hydra would kill him before he even hit the ground.

He huffed. “Peter! Kitchen!”

Peter leapt to his feet, his mug falling to ground and shattering. The pounding grew more intense. Instead of moving to the kitchen, Peter darted towards the window.

Nope. Not on his watch. He wasn’t going to let the kid get killed.

Bucky wrapped his metal arm around his waist and hauled him into the kitchen. Peter freaked out. He made a guttural sound like a wounded animal and thrashed in Bucky's arms. Kicking. Punching. Scratching. Whipping his head back to clock Bucky in the jaw. His head snapped back. Blood spurted between his teeth. Bucky dragged him into the kitchen. Peter snapped his teeth.

“I’m trying to help you!” Bucky whispered.

The knocking turned into pounding. The very walls were trembling.

Peter jerked around and shoved himself away from bucky. He smacked into the dishwasher. 

Instead of fighting back, however, all the fight drained out of him. Peter dug his knuckles into his hair, rocking back and forth as unshed tears sprang into his eyes. He whimpered. The kid was as white was the milk now dripping down Bucky’s counter.

“ Just… stay here… It’s going to be fine…”

Peter showed no sign that he had heard him.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCKKNOCKKNOCK!

Bucky steeled himself. Now or never.

Pressing the knife behind his back, he slowly opened the door.

Alpine the cat darted between his legs. A furious Puerto-Rican woman stared down at him. He let himself breathe, slowly loosening his grip on his knife.

Not Hydra. It wasn’t Hydra.

She was tall, maybe even an inch or two taller than him, and wore her dark hair pulled tightly against her scalp. Not a single hair — dark brown or silver — was out of place. Angry lines covered her face like a mask.

“Uh, hey, uh Gloria. How—”

“Do not “hey Gloria” me, hijo, ” Gloria said, putting her hands on her hips. Her ginormous golden hoop earring glared with her.

“Sorry, Mrs. Morales, I totally forgot—”

“You want me to watch the cat? I watch the cat. Do I complain about your odd work hours? No. No hay problema. At least you have a job,” she snaped. 

That was a bit uncalled for. Bucky heard something clatter in the kitchen. He tried backing away. His frustrated neighbor wasn't having it. She waved a finger bedazzled in golden rings in his face.

“But I have a life, hijo . It’s my nieto's birthday today! My grandson!”

Alpine hissed from the kitchen. Something metal clinked.

“I know, you told me, and I’m so sorry but I really have too—”

She grabbed hold of his sleeve and yanked him forward until he was half in his apartment and half in the hall.

“Do you want to explain to my nieto why his abuelita is late?” Gloria snapped.

“No, I’m so sorry. I should have come earlier, but we— I overslept.”

Her eyes narrowed. “We? Do you have a novia in there, hijo ? A novio? ” 

“No, nothing like that. I, just… I don’t… um…” Bucky rubbed the back of his neck while simultaneously trying to block the old woman's view of his destroyed apartment. She continued trying to peer past him. He quickly racked his mind, desperately trying to find anything to change the subject. “Your, uh, your grandson still into art? Uh, Milo, right? Did you end up getting him that art kit you were talking about?

Her eyes snapped back to him. “Don’t you change the subject on me, hijo. You pick up this cat on time, or no more babysitting, hmm?” She let go of his arm. “And my nieto’s name is Miles.”

“Right, I knew that. I was close,” Bucky sighed. The kitchen went dead silent. That scared him to his very core. “Listen, I am very sorry I forgot to come pick up my cat. Truly. It won’t happen again. And happy birthday to your grandson!”

“Hmmph.” She fluffed her hair. “I’ll let it slide this one time. Si si si. Just this once.”

“Thank you,” Bucky slowly started sliding back into his ill-lit apartment. 

“Oh, and hijo? ” She gave him a sly smile.

“Hm?”

“You bring your pareja over for tea, si?” Gloria winked, before slowly sashaying away.

Bucky blinked.

Well, Gloria Morales was certainly a handful, but he’d take his neighbor over Hydra any day. Speaking of…

As soon as his door clicked shut behind him he bolted into his tiny kitchen. 

Peter was crouching sideways on the fridge, brandishing his spoon like a dagger. Alpine, assuming it was a game, stood on her hind legs and swiped her fluffy white paws at the shiny silverware. Peter jumped and inched farther up the fridge.

Bucky picked up his cat and backed away. Alpine swung in his arms like she had no bones. He held her protectively against his chest. She peered at him curiously with shocking blue eyes.

“She’s a cat.” Bucky said after a long pause. ”Do you know what a cat is?”

Peter scowled. 

“Okay, you could just say yes,” Bucky huffed. Alpine, as slippery as a wet noodle, twisted out of his grasp and slithered onto his shoulders.

Peter cautiously climbed down from the fridge, not taking his eyes off Alpine.

“It wasn’t Hydra at the door, by the way. So that's… nice.” 

He rubbed the back of his neck. His kitchen looked like a hurricane went through it. Milk dripping down his cupboards, splatters of blood from the night before dotting the floor, a fine blanket of white dust from his ceiling…

The milk was soaking through the mail. Bucky bit back a curse and picked up the dripping letters. The postcard was ruined beyond repair. Alpine leapt onto the peninsula and eagerly started lapping up the spilled milk.

“Also, that jump-out-of-the-window thing you were planning?” Bucky muttered, tossing the ruined paper in his trash. “Don’t ever… just… just don’t. Please?”

It was tiny Steve all over again. The kid didn’t have a single self-preservation instinct.

Peter crept towards the counter, staring at the cat with wide eyes.  Bucky sighed. “You can pet her. She doesn’t bite.”

The teen made no motion to pet the cat, instead seemingly content just to watch. Bucky rolled his eyes and pulled out a map of New York, stretching it out on his floor in front of the TV. He crouched down. He tapped south Manhattan. Pulling the cap off a red Sharpie with his teeth, he circled his apartment in Brooklyn, and then the Wakanda Embassy in southern Manhattan. It wasn’t too long of a trip.

They would head over as soon as the sun set.

A startled squeak drew his attention away. Alpine, milk dripping from her whispers, was purring and nuzzling against Peter’s torso. Peter wore the same expression as someone who was holding a ticking time bomb.

Bucky chuckled. “It means she likes you. Give her a scratch behind the ears, she’ll be your best friend.”

Slowly, carefully, Peter started raking his fingers through Alpines fur. She purred louder. His lips turned upwards in a tiny smile.

Bucky grabbed his phone. Twenty-six percent. That’ll do.

As far as living in the future went, the twenty-first century sure did make public transport a whole lot easier. Within two seconds he had all the bus schedules for the day. Had Peter ever been on the bus before?

Before Bucky could ask him — not that he actually expected an answer — a blaring bzzzzzzt! stole the words from his mouth.

Five minutes. That's all he wanted. Five minutes without being interrupted.

Bucky grumbled bitterly to himself as he trudged over to his apartment intercom. 

Holding down on the “speak” button, he muttered: “Who is it?”

Click.

“Good morning to you too.”

He stiffened.

Natasha? Why was she here?

Tilting his head, he asked: “Natasha? Why are you here?”

“ Gee. You sure know how to make a girl feel special.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Tasha, that’s not what I meant.”

“ I know. Buzz me in. We gotta talk.”

Bucky’s eyes widened.

He turned back to his destroyed apartment. Peter was happily stroking a blissful Alpines fur, oblivious to his conversation. 

“Uh, I, uh. How about I come down there?”

“ It’s freezing out here. I’d much rather be in the heated building. Why?” her voice took a teasing turn. “Do you have someone over?”

“No!” Bucky blurted. Too fast. Much too fast. “I mean, no. I just… my heater exploded. So. Yeah.”

The other end went dead silent. Bucky held his breath. 

“ Okay… are you going to let me in or… oh, thanks! Be right up!”

Huh?

Bucky recoiled.

His traitorous fingers had hit the ‘buzz in’ button instead of the ‘speak’ button. Why would they put those two so close together?! Heart hammering for the second time in the past hour but for a completely different reason, Bucky whipped around. Peter looked up at him, his eyebrows pushed together in confusion.

Oh no.

No no no no.

This was bad. Bad.

He frantically searched for a good hiding place in his tiny apartment. He could practically hear Natasha getting closer and closer.

Um… uh…

“Peter! Get in the bathroom!”

Peter blinked. He dropped his hand. Alpine mewled in annoyance and leapt from the counter, wrapping herself around his legs like an adorable tripping hazard.

Not wanting to cause Peter to panic again, but also wanting him to move, Bucky started frantically waving his arms at his tiny bathroom. “Peter! Someone is coming! You need to hide while I get rid of them! Bathroom!”

Why won't he just listen?!

It took all Bucky's patience and all his willpower to get the teen into the cramped bathroom. The knocking on his door came at the same time he pleaded with Peter to stay quiet . Bucky stepped away from the closed door, running his fingers through his hair and trying desperately to calm himself down. Any tiny inconsistency Nat would pick up on. 

Slowly exhaling, hands trembling, he pulled his door open.

Natasha was scrolling on her phone, her vibrant hair pulled back in a tight Dutch bun. She looked up when he appeared, pushing her dark sunglasses up to the top of her head.

“Hey,” was all she said.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, refusing to open the door all the way and keeping his apartment blocked from her view. “Hey,” he croaked.

She gave him a once-over. “You look like you’ve seen better days.”

“Thanks.”

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her brown leather jacket. “Are those the same clothes that you wore yesterday? Did you sleep in them?”

Bucky suddenly felt very self-conscious about every aspect of his appearance. “Um... well… Laundry day.”

“Uh huh. Well, I just wanted to stop by and chat. Mind if I come in?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He shrugged. “Generally speaking.”

Natasha pressed her lips together and nodded stiffly. “So you’re still mad at me, huh?”

Bucky stood up straighter. What would give her that idea? “No! I’m not. I never was.”

“Mmm hmm. That’s why you’re trying so hard to get rid of me. Because you’re not mad?” Natasha sighed sadly, crossing her arms tightly like she was trying to give herself a hug. “It’s fine. I was… out of line yesterday.”

“No. You were right. I had to go home. I had things to take care of here.” Bucky drummed the pads of his fingers against the door. “You were right.”

She laughed humorlessly. “Yeah?” Nat shook her head slowly. “Still, I shouldn't have doubted you like that. I was just worried… and then Wanda told me she sensed you panicking during the meeting… I just came over to say I’m sorry. You’re welcome to come back to the mission. I won’t tell Fury anything. I was bluffing anyways.”

“You’re good at that… Anyways, I… think you were right. I need to focus on something… somethings . Multiple things. Not just one,” Bucky rambled. “So… I will meet you back there… tomorrow.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Okay… Are you alright?”

Bucky forced a smile and nodded enthusiastically. “Never better! Doing just great. Your advice did me wonders. Now if you don’t mind I have to get back to my… stuff.”

She tensed. All the casualness slowly slid from Natasha's face, being quickly replaced by a blank mask. Her suspicious dark green eyes peered over Bucky's shoulder. 

“Right…” She tilted her head. “Well, I should go then. You think it’s gonna rain? I thought about bringing an umbrella.”

Bucky bit his cheek.

It was code. Natasha thought someone dangerous was with him, telling him what to say. Different responses correlated with different threat levels.

“Clear skies over here,” he claimed. Translation: no threat.

“Uh huh. Mind if I come in?” Natasha asked, still not convinced. “I need to use the restroom before I leave. One of my wings smeared a little.”

“No!” Bucky snapped. Suspicion flooded her features. Oh, I’m bad at this , thought Bucky. “I mean, uh, no… no problem. Just, my pipes… burst… so, no going in there. But please come in.”

He stepped aside, pressing his back against the bathroom door. Tasha crept in, scanning his disheveled apartment with her hands on her hips. Bucky knew she was probably resting her hand on a pistol, ready to whip it out at the slightest movement.

He held his breath. Her back was to him. 

Could he get Peter out without her seeing?

No, that was impossible. He’d just have to keep her away from the restroom. The very reason she came in.

Lovely.

Natasha crouched down, grieving Alpine a quick scratch. She darted away and pressed herself behind Bucky's legs. When Tasha stood back up, she was holding something.

“Here, you dropped this.” She tossed it to him as she walked past. 

His stomach flipped.

The magazine. The magazine from Peter’s gun.

He kept his features calm and followed her farther into his apartment, setting the evidence on the countertop.

“Looks like you’ve had a rough night,” she commented, scratching at the floor with her sneakers. “Is that blood?”

“Uh, yeah. Cut my hand.” He waved his left hand, before remembering it was made of vibranium and therefore impossible to cut. 

“Mmm hmm. Not judging. My old apartment was, like, twenty percent bloodstains.” She peered at the map. “Planning a trip?” Bucky wasn’t sure how to respond. His brain cells quit working at that exact moment. Natasha glanced at his disaster of a counter. “Two bowls of cereal?”

“Yeah, Alpine knocked one over.” Bucky lied. “As you can see…”

“Uh huh. Speaking of Alpine, how is she?”

“Alpine? Good. Great,” Bucky forced another smile. Why won’t she just leave? 

“Hmmm. Usually when I come over she’s all over me," she said slowly. She came back to stand next to Bucky and squinted her eyes at him. “Why’s he so fixated on your bathroom?”

Oxygen got trapped in his throat.

His brain short circuited.

The only sound between them was Alpine mewling and frantically scratching the closed door.

Before Bucky could formulate a response, Natasha darted around him.

“Wait, no, Nat, don’t!”

He futilely grasped at her arm, only to meet thin air. She kicked the door, sending it flying open with a BAM!

“I can explain!”

He ran in.

He slid to a stop.

There was nothing. No one .

Natasha glared at him. “What’s going on, James?”

“I… you owe me a new door," Bucky said. Alarm sirens were screeching in his head. Bucky stared at the ceiling, searching, as if he could figure out where the kid went just by willing it.

Alpine sprinted in between them and scrambled behind the blue shower curtains. Someone yelped. Natasha tilted her head, raising her eyebrows at Bucky, asking another one of her silent questions.

Bucky stared back. 

Neither spoke.

The curtain wiggled.

“Please don’t,” Bucky whispered.

Without comment, Natasha whipped the curtain open.

Peter sat in the tub, wide eyed with his knees pressed against his chest. Alpine tried to squirm into his lap.

Natasha slowly slid the curtain back, staring deeply into Bucky’s eyes as if she was peering into his very soul.

This time, Bucky could make an educated guess on what she was asking.

Watching Natasha with Peter was like nothing he had ever seen before. It was a whole new side of her. He was in awe.

In a short half hour, she was able to get more out of him, make him more comfortable, than he could in a day. It was shocking how fast Peter had warmed up to her. The hesitancy Peter continued to display around him disappeared with her after a few short minutes.

It was awesome.

It was also infuriating.

Bucky swallowed his jealousy and went back to cleaning his kitchen. It was stupid. He shouldn't be envious of something good . Something that helped Peter.

Still. It was annoying how she somehow knew exactly what to do.

Peter sat on the cushioned chair in the living/bedroom, while Nat was reclining casually on the floor, her arms behind her and her legs crossed. It was probably the least threatening pose possible.  While he cleaned up, Bucky listened to her comment to Pete on how much Alpine liked him, and how brilliant his fighting skills were, and how nice his smile was. She didn’t ask any questions. Didn’t press him to talk. Peter smiled his first real smile when she noted how intelligent he must be. He ducked his head to try to hide it.

Bucky scrolled through bus tickets on his phone.

Natasha kept talking, telling him about how he looked like he could use a second chance. How both she and Bucky were in his place once. How they could help him.

Peter was intently hanging onto every word.

Bucky despised it.

He despised himself more.

Guilt ate away at his bones. How horrible of a person was he? He was just the worst. Someone better than him was helping Peter, and here he was wallowing in jealousy and self-pity.  Self loathing burned through him like molten lava. 

He was happy Natasha was making such good progress with him. Really. He was. That small, selfish part of him continued nagging, wishing it was him. He tapped his fingers against the marble counter. 

“What's in Manhattan?” Nat asked. Bucky glanced up. She was leaning against the counter, giving him the side eye.

Bucky shrugged. “Hopefully… a second chance.”

She nodded. Both of them turned to look at Peter, who was gleefully scratching under Alpine's chin. She hummed, loving the attention, and stretched over his lap. 

“Well, my schedule is clear,” Natasha stated, picking at her fingernails as if this was all perfectly normal. “I’ll keep you company.”

Taken aback, Bucky frowned. “That’s not necessary.”

“I insist.” Her tone left no room for argument. “Besides, I know an adorable little diner we can stop at.”

SoHo was completely unlike the rest of New York. It was as if they stepped into a completely new dimension. One that was clean and didn't smell like sweat, rats, grease and broken dreams.

The bustling Manhattan neighborhood was full of stores and restaurants Bucky had never heard of before. The three of them had even passed a bright pink building called “The Museum of Ice Cream.” Bucky could barely believe it was a part of New York. The paved brick roads were spotless. Young people in trendy clothes flocked together in small groups. The usual noisy New York traffic was replaced with the tweeting and chirping of the few birds that had yet flown south. Tourists with giant cameras darted past.

The smallest of things would catch Peter's eye. A dog. A camera flash. A bird. A mannequin. He was bounding from storefront to storefront, staring in wonder and awe at everything inside. One would think Footlocker and HotTopic were a part of DisneyWorld based on his reaction.

It was obvious that this neighborhood put a high price on fashion. Suddenly feeling self aware in his old blue hoodie, sunglasses, and baseball hat, Bucky lower his head and tried to avoid catching anyone's eye.

Could be worse. He could be Peter.

Natasha had tried — bless her heart — to make him an outfit. 

She had given him her long sleeve thermal undershirt, claiming she didn't mind the cold all that much. After all, she grew up in Russia. The black material hugged his arms tightly. Over that Peter wore an extremely baggy gray and gold t-shirt that belonged to Bucky. The fabric almost reached his knees. Nat tucked it into his belt (also stolen from Bucky's closet) and had Peter put back on his tactical pants and combat boots, before finally draping an old blue and white flannel over his shoulders. Peter was drowning in the fabric. It was ripped in some places and covered in white splotches from when he helped Sam paint his family's boat.

To put it bluntly, Peter looked ridiculous.

At least Natasha was able to coax him out of the sling, Turns out the bone had already set, he had just never taken it off. Like the stitches. Nothing could be done about those. Tasha ended up just giving him her fingerless motorcycle gloves to cover them up.

Natasha had called it “grunge.” Bucky thought it just looked baggy and lazy, but she swore up and down that all the kids were dressing like that nowadays. To her credit, Bucky did see a couple kid’s in somewhat similar clothes.

Maybe she did a good job after all.

Bucky raised his eyebrows as Natasha herded him and Peter across the street. Oncoming traffic actually stopped for them. Huh .  He wondered if there were any secret coves like this in Queens.

Bucky hopes were dashed when he caught sight of the dingy diner she was pulling them towards.

A small gray and sky blue building with a revolving crescent moon on top sat in between towering buildings, small and cramped in comparison. “Moondance” was written, bold and sparkling, under the moon. Flickering lights danced in the windows. Plastic chairs and tables and bicycles crowded the patios. A red motorcycle was leaning against the reflective wall.

Briiing!

A bell rang as Natasha pulled the clear door open. The three of them stepped into the warm restaurant, smooshed together between two glass partitions. Bucky rubbed his good arm, thankful to be out of the chilly air. Warm wafts of grease and baked goods floated towards them.

He wiped his shoes on a black mat. Peter copied him. The shiny tiled floor creaked beneath his feet. 50’s music danced through the air. The entire restaurant was decorated like something from seventy years ago. 

He caught sight of chefs calmly walking around each other in the back. Trays of mouthwatering food were being carried to and fro. Peter’s eyes locked onto it. His stomach growled.

Despite it’s minuscule appearance, the Moondance Diner was considerably larger on the inside. There were enough tables to easily fit a hundred people. Despite this, there was barely anyone here. 

Natasha pulled them along to a shiny table surrounded by four metal chairs. Bucky's hip bumped into one of the bar stools as he passed. She took the seat closest to the door. He sat down across from her, his back to the wall. To Bucky’s immeasurable surprise, Peter plopped down next to him.

He was startled. 

Did the kid trust him? He’d rather sit with him than Nat? Even after all their heartfelt bonding?

His hopes were promptly dashed for the second time in five minutes when he saw Peter scoping out the restaurant. Ah. Of course. Both of them had been trained to keep their backs to walls to avoid anyone sneaking up behind them and to get a position where you can easily see all your surroundings.

Natasha had probably been trained the same. Did she give up being comfortable for them? She looked out the window. Generous amounts of light flowed through, brightening the diner past the need of lightbulbs and causing every surface to reflect and shine.

Taking a page out Pete’s book, he, too, studied his surroundings.

There was one visible exit, and that was behind Nat. Probably ten feet away. He could be out quick if needed. There had to be another exit somewhere, as per code. It was probably in the kitchen.  He tapped his foot.

Muffled voices drifted by from the kitchen, smothered by the hum of ovens and the whir of overhead fans. “ Where da hell is Jones-Watson?” snapped an infuriated voice. “‘er shift started a’ haf hour ago!”

Bucky turned his attention to the other patrons of the diner. Besides them, only five people were occupying the open space. No one spoke to each other.

Nearest to them, sitting at the bar and hidden in the shadows of the wall was an older, skinny man with one arm and pale, pasty, peeling skin scribbling furiously on a piece of paper. Glasses, crumpled straw wrappers, and shredded napkins littered the counter next to him. Bucky tensed. He slowly moved closer to Peter, trying to shelter him from the guy. Just in case.

On the other end of the bar was a young woman with a shock of white hair, tanned skin, startling emerald eyes, and a tight black leather outfit. Her attention was completely consumed by a large stack of bills she was clawing through. A sly grin pulled on her lips.

Bucky wasn’t too sure about her, either.

Near her, on the opposite side of the diner from Bucky, he could make out two teenage boys. They were sitting on their backs to each other, completely oblivious. The only clue Bucky had that they were associated was the fact they wore the same dark blue and yellow letterman jacket. 

The shorter one — a heavy-set Filipino-American teen with a Star Wars shirt and a fedora — didn’t have a single patch on his jacket, but he had multiple shiny pins Bucky couldn't quite make out. He was hunched over his sticker covered laptop, typing away rapidly and sucking noisily on his straw. The beverage was obviously empty. He didn't seem to notice.

The other teen — an insanely tall kid with broad shoulders, a sharp jaw, and skin like coffee — had golden football patches covering the sleeves of his jacket. He gave off a calm and laid back aura, gingerly flipping through a book as he slowly picked away at his fries, careful to wipe away any grease before touching the paper.

Finally, a young man — perhaps nineteen or twenty — was sitting a few tables away from them and attempting to play paper football by himself. Short, spiky blond hair, sneaky blue eyes, and a mischievous grin covered his features. His legs were kicked up on multiple chairs until he was taking up as much space as possible. A bright red motorcycle helmet sat among his dirtied dishes. He wore a black leather jacket with the word “STORM” written in flaming letters.

Bucky didn’t trust him.

To be fair, he didn’t trust anybody.

He had the urge to get up and switch spots with Pete. To place himself between Peter and everyone else. 

“Where'd you find this place?” Bucky asked.

Natasha folded her arms on the table. “Clint and I used to come here after grueling missions. We had this tradition of getting breakfast no matter how late it was.” She laughed softly at the memories and cocked her head. Her smile turned bittersweet. “Hasn’t happened so much since the Avengers.”

Bucky didn’t know how to respond to that. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” She fiddled with her napkin. “You should try their orange juice sometime. It’s homemade and to die for.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“They also have the best selection of omelets you’ll ever see.” Natasha glanced up. “Here comes the waitress.”

A young woman around Peter's age, perhaps a few years older,  was approaching their table, wearing a blue uniform with a pink apron. Her vibrant red hair looked like flames licking the side of her head. “Angelica” read the nametag.

She paused before them and handed out suspiciously sticky menus, grinning far too brightly to be real. “Afternoon! My names Angel and I’ll be your server today. Can I get you started with any drinks?”
Peter played with his menu, looking unsure on what to do with it. He watched Bucky open his, and then followed suit. 

“I’ll get a herbal tea,” said Nat. Angel nodded and jotted it down. “Thank you.”

“Iced tea,” Bucky stated simply.

“Y’know, I hear that's good for senior citizens,” Nat teased. Her eyebrows wiggled over her sunglasses.

Bucky didn't react. The waitress seemed not to understand or even notice Natasha's jab, turning instead to Peter. “And for you young man?”

Bucky scoffed. Young man? They were practically the same age.

Peter looked at the waitress before turning quizzically to Bucky. Whether he was asking for help or permission, he wasn’t quite sure.

“He’ll have a hot chocolate,” said Bucky.

Now it was Nat’s turn to snort. He shot her a small glare. What was wrong with hot chocolate? She turned her dazzling smile back to the waitress. “Do you have a kosher menu?”

Angel looked as confused as Bucky felt. Kosher? Why would Nat need kosher?

“As in… Jewish food?” Angel said slowly. Nat nodded. “Um, I don’t think we have a specific menu for that, but most ingredients are labeled on the menu. If you’re not sure what something has, you can just ask.”

Natasha thanked her, and she went on her way.

Bucky raised his eyebrows. “Kosher?”

She resumed fiddling with her napkin. Bucky saw Peter watch her out of the corner of his eye, the teens fingers running over his own napkin as if he wasn’t sure whether or not he should be doing it too. 

“Peter’s Jewish,” stated Natasha. She folded it into a tiny triangle and pulled one of the corners out.

Bucky stiffened. How’d she know that? Did Peter tell her?

Aw man, did he feed the kid something anti-Jewish? What did that mean? Bucky looked in confusion to Peter, only to find he was mirroring the same puzzled look back at him. “How’d you know?” Bucky eventually asked.

She unfolded part of the napkin, while making sure to keep one corner how it was. “I read his files. I read everyone's files.”

On the word “everyone” she shot him a calculating look before turning back to her project. Bucky didn’t know what it meant. His blood ran cold. “I don’t think Peter cares about whether or not his food is kosher right now,” Bucky guessed, looking back at the kid. “Do you care?” 

No response.

“You’re probably right. But it might matter to him later if he chooses to pick the lifestyle back up,” she explained. “You don’t want him doing something he might regret, do you?”

“Yeah, I think it’s ten years too late for that.”

“ Pffft. ” Peter attempted to muffle a laugh.

Both Natasha and Bucky froze, mirroring each other's small shocked smile. If there's one thing Bucky learned, however, it was not to call attention to Peter’s “comments.”

Pretending like he didn't hear it, but in a considerably lighter mood, he set his arms on the table and watched Natasha’s napkin project. “So… what counts as kosher?”

“Why?”

“Just want to make sure I didn’t feed him anything that's gonna get him excommunicated.”

“Wow. You’re really clueless, aren't you?” Natasha laughed. There was no malice in her tone. Folding back a fourth of her diamond shaped napkin, she added, “that’s not how the Jewish religion works. You don’t get kicked out of the religion for breaking your diet. It's between them and their God.”

“So, it’s fine?”

“Depends. What did you feed him?”

Bucky searched his brain. “Um. Pizza. Leftover pizza, it wasn’t fresh.” This would be so much easier if he knew what counted as kosher. Then he’d know what to specify. So many of his friends and kids in the neighborhood had been Jewish when he grew up, but that was so long ago. He drew a blank. Maybe he’d head to the library later and pick up some books on Judaism. “Cheerios. Not the honey kind, the regular kind… milk. Water.” He thought for a moment. “Oh, and one of those York Peppermint Patty things. He hated it. Did you hate it because it wasn’t kosher? I’m so sorry.”

“James, relax.” Natasha placed her hand on his arm, stopping his incoming panic. “It’s good that he expressed to you that he didn’t like something. It shows that he’s expressing his own opinion and learning to trust you.”

Peter made a face.

“I saw that, mister,” she teased. Natasha flipped the diamond in half, pulling back one of the sides. “Was there meat on the pizza?”

The panic resumed. Oh, no, can Jewish people only eat pizza with meat? Did he mess up?

“No. No, no meat.”

Natasha nodded thoughtfully. “Good. It’s against kosher to eat dairy and meat together.”

Bucky felt himself age ten years. “Why couldn’t you just say that? Do you enjoy giving me heart attacks?”

“Maybe I do,” she said cheekily “Viola.”

She threw her hands in the air.

Before her sat a small origami bird made of a napkin. It’s head bobbed up and down when she pulled on the tail.

Hmm. Impressive.

Peter looked at it as if he was beholding the Mona Lisa. Natasha slid it across the table to him just as the waitress came back with their drinks.

Peter seemed oblivious to the outside world as he poured all of his undivided attention into the little paper bird. He didn’t even seem to notice as Angel put a steaming mug of hot chocolate before him, wisps of steam fluttering through the air like smoke from a fire. Bucky knew it probably wasn’t an accurate assumption. Peter perceived a lot. He perceived things others could not. Things people should not be able to perceive.

Maybe having something small to focus on, like the origami bird, helped him relax? Maybe it helped him be less overwhelmed by this new world he was experiencing for the first time. He thought about asking Nat to make more.

“Have you decided on your orders yet, or would you like some more time?” Angel asked, smiling sweetly.

“I think we’re ready,” Nat responded.

Bucky hadn’t even read at his menu yet. He quickly started speed reading it, like a kid who procrastinated his homework until right before class.

“Any appetizers to start you off?”

“I think we’ll all split your buttermilk onion rings. That sound good, boys?” Upon receiving no answer from either of them, Natasha continued. “Your brisket looks amazing. I’d like a large one of those, please, with extra barbeque sauce.”

“Sure thing, doll,” chirped Angel. She scribbled something onto her notepad. 

“I thought you always got breakfast food,” Bucky muttered.

“I always get breakfast food with Clint. Who am I to break tradition?” she drawled, not looking up from her menu. “I’d also like to replace the side of potatoes with french fries."

“You got it.”

“Thank you.” Natasha smiled at her again and sat down her menu, folding her hands over it.

Peter carefully placed the bird aside and picked up his cup, sniffing it cautiously. 

“And for you, sugar?”

“Hm?” Bucky realized with a start she was speaking to him. “Oh, um, I’ll have the Sunrise Sandwich.”

“Sure. How would you like your eggs?” she inquired.

“Fried.”

“It’s served with American cheese. Some dietary restrictions were mentioned before, is that alright with you?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Would you like bacon, ham, or sausage on your sandwich?” 

“Sausage.”

“And for your side?” 

“My side?”

She tapped the bottom of the menu with her pen. 

Bucky picked the very first side he saw. “Oh, um, a cup of fruit is fine.”

Angel scribbled it down. She turned then to Peter, her fiery flames of hair whipping over her shoulder. “And you, hon?”

Peter’s head shot up. Sticky brown chocolate was smeared over his lips. Clumps of white melted marshmallow clung to the tip of his nose.

Bucky tried to repress a laugh — he did, he truly did — and grabbed his napkin. “Pete, you got a little something…”

Peter turned around to face him. "Hm?" There was something off putting about how Peter still could stare into him like he could read his mind, even when wearing a chocolate milk mustache. 

Peter wiped at his mouth his sleeve, causing strings of brown and white to grab onto the flannel like webs.  It was getting harder to repress a laugh. “Here, let me,” Bucky offered.

While Bucky attempted to wipe Peter’s face — seriously, what did they put in those marshmallows that made it impossible to come off of skin — Natasha ordered for him.

“He’ll have a large greek salad and… what's in your side of vegetable stew?”

“Oh, it’s just delicious. Lets see here… it has onions, garlic, celery, mushrooms, carrots, tomatoes, potatoes, peas… a base of various vegetable broths and balsamic vinegar…   It’s really good. I especially like it during the cold weather. Warms you right up.” 

“Sounds amazing. But that and the salad might be too many vegetables. Thoughts, Peter?”

“Peter’s having technical difficulties right now,” grunted Bucky, frantically trying to pull his napkin off of where the marshmallow had glued it to Peters cheek.

“I agree. He’ll have your garlic challah bread.”

“That’ll be right out,” Angel replied in a sing-song voice. Natasha collected their menus and handed them to her. Before leaving, she glanced at Peter — who was contently sipping at his hot chocolate as Bucky attempted to scratch little pieces of shredded napkin off his face — in concern. Then she was gone. 

“I love this song,” Natasha commented dryly, pretending not to notice Bucky’s struggle. She jiggled her foot and half-sang-half-hummed the lyrics. ” Well since my baby left me… hm hm… found a new place to dwell… hmm hmm hmm… end of Lonely Street… it’s the Heartbreak Hotel…”

Her voice was angelic. Bucky had never heard her sing before. He wondered why.

“Never heard of it,” Bucky muttered, washing his hands of the marshmallow situation. Good enough. 

Nat rolled her eyes, licked her thumb, and reached across the table to finish getting the tiny napkin pieces. Peter lowered his mug and shrank away.

Interesting, though Bucky. Why’d he let him help him but not Nat? Didn’t he like her more?

“It’s Elvis. How do you not know Elvis?” 

“I know Elvis,” Bucky defended. “I just like 40’s music.”

“This is fifties music. It’s basically the same.

“I can’t believe you just said that to me.”

Nat shook her head, a couple strands of blood orange hair falling in her face. “Such a dork.”

Bucky huffed, crossing his arms and looking out the window. A gaggle of tourists flocked past like geese. “He’s not going to eat all that, y’know.”

“Oh, well, then he can save some for the road. Wakanda's a long ways away.”

Bucky stiffened. The words slowly clicked together in his mind like a puzzle.

“You knew.”

“Of course I know, James. You had the embassy circled on your map.”

Feeling rather foolish, Bucky focused on his iced tea. Well, tea. The ice cubes had mostly melted, leaving the drink a dark orange-brown on the bottom and nearly clear on top. He swirled it with his straw.

“Nothing gets past you, I suppose.”

Natasha hummed in agreement. “How’d T’Challa take all this?” Silence. “He doesn’t know, does he?”

“I’m working on it.”

She frowned, her eyes suspicious. “Does Peter know?”

Peter perked up. It was the first time Bucky saw him actually respond to his name.

“We were… we were going to talk over the logistics,” Bucky stuttered.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Natasha muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose and sending her sunglasses askew. “And I suppose there’s no convincing you to do this through the proper channels?”

Bucky tensed even more, like a snake ready to pounce. “There are no proper channels for this.”

Natasha ignored him and faced Peter. He tilted his head.

“Peter, you have a choice here,” she whispered and leaned forward across the table. Peter mirrored her until their noses almost touched. Bucky rolled his eyes, staying how he was. For a super spy, Natasha wasn’t exactly being the most subtle.

But then again, people in this diner didn’t seem to particularly care. No one paid them any attention. There weren't enough people that they’d be easily overheard, and not too few people that they stick out like a sore thumb. Maybe that was Nat’s plan all along?

“I’m not going to make you choose now, Peter, but I want you to think about this, okay?” Natasha explained.  "We can get you safe. We can get you a new identity, a new life. Anywhere you want to go, anywhere at all, you can. We have contacts. We can get you out of the country…” she paused, letting the information roll over in Peter's mind. “On the other hand, we also have contacts in the states that can help you.”

“ Nat —”

She continued. “Instead of getting you another fake life, we can help you with the one you already have. We can help you dig up stuff from your past. We can find any living relatives or friends you might have. Help you with your powers. We can give you a second chance at this life. Your life.”

The table went quiet again. Peter’s brow furrowed. 

“Of course, the second one might include more risk. But you’re never going to be truly safe from your past with the first option, either. Trust me. You can’t run from the past. We’ve both tired.” Nat sighed. “It’s up to you. We’ll help you either way.”

She leaned back in her seat. Peter sat up straight, staring off into the distance, his face blank.

“Great,” Bucky drawled. “You broke the kid.”

“Oh hush,” Natasha said, swatting his shoulder. 

“You’re wrong you know,” Bucky muttered bitterly.

Natasha narrowed her eyes. “And why is that?”

“This garbage?” Bucky pointed to the speakers in the ceiling. “Is nothing like forties music.”

Her face broke out in a ginormous grin. “C’mon, it’s good!”

“No.”

Natasha sang along and did a dorky little dance in her seat. “ Just finish cleanin' up your roooooom… Let's see that dust fly with that broooooom…”

“Nat, people are staring.”

The young white-haired woman gave them a quick look as she left, but otherwise didn't comment. The motorcycle teen was openly staring, rolling his eyes when Bucky caught him.

Natasha didn’t seem to care. “ Get all that garbage out of siiiiight… Or you don't go out Friday night… Pete, lets dance!”

Peter smiled shyly.

“We are in public.” He forced a fake smile at their waitress, who was giving them an indecipherable look from the kitchen. She laughed. 

“Yakety yak! Don't talk back!”

“Those lyrics are meaningless.”

“Wow,” Natasha chuckled and took a long sip of her tea. “Someone got up on the wrong side of the floor this morning.”

“Very funny.”

“I’ll have you know I taught that song to Wanda. She appreciates art.” Nat winked.

“Good for her.”

Natasha laughed again and dug around in her jacket pocket before producing a gray and purple Hawkeye themed billfold. “Peter, why don’t you think over what I’ve said — my proposition, not the song — and go grab a couple muffins for the table.” She passed him a twenty. “See that clear case over there? Just walk up to it, pick out which ones you want, and hand the person behind the counter the money.”

Peter slowly got to his feet and looked at Bucky, perplexed. Bucky waved at him. “It’s fine. Go.”

The second he was out of earshot, Natasha’s entire demeanor shifted. She sat up straight and rigid in her seat; her easygoing smile was replaced with a skeptical frown. It was as if someone flipped a switch on her personality.

“What the hell are you doing, James?” she hissed.

He raised his eyebrows. “Can I have the nice Natasha back?” 

“Do you realize how many S.H.I.E.L.D. protocols you’re breaking? If you got found out you’d be—”

“Arrested. Yeah, I know, I’ve thought this through.” He has not, in fact, thought this through.

“Thought what through? How you want to decorate your cell on the raft?”

“He just showed up in my apartment!” Bucky hissed back, leaning forward and trying to keep his voice down. “What was I supposed to do? Throw him out?”

“Call us, James! You call us! You have panic buttons for a reason! You’re a part of a team for a reason!” Nat argued.

“Sure, call you. So you can kill him.”

She gave him a look of pure disbelief. “Seriously? How little do you think of me?”

Bucky knew it was wrong to say, but he refused to back down. He couldn't care less about defending himself, but this was Peter they were talking about. For whatever reason, Bucky felt like it was his job to keep the kid safe.

“That was Hill’s orders, right? Kill him? Well I’m having no part of that.”

She scowled. Before either of them could continue, angered shouting made them both jump. A chef was screaming at a waitress for being late. Peter watched. 

“Even if he’s not trying to trick you, which I’m not convinced of yet, no one just walks away from Hydra. You know that. I know that. This doesn’t have a happy ending.”

Resuming their argument, Bucky responded, “I can’t just turn him away, Nat. He’s... a kid. I can’t just…You don’t understand.”

“Actually, I do.”

"Then why are you trying to turn him in?”

“James, if I was trying to turn him in, we wouldn't be in Manhattan sitting in this diner right now. He’d be in custody.” Frustration seeped through her voice like poison.

“Oh, so you’re helping?”

“Yes. I’m helping. Against my better judgment, I am helping.”

A thought popped into Bucky’s mind. “You should take him, then.”

She started, shock briefly fleeting across her face. “What?”

“You’re better with him than me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“He likes you more.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Nat, you can help him more—”

“No, I can’t!”

“Why not!”

“Just because!” she snapped. “Besides, I doubt you’d be able to give him up, anyways.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Buck. C’mon.”

“Don’t call me Buck.”

She huffed. “I see how you are with him, James. You’re attached to him. You feel responsible for him. When we stepped foot into this diner, you immediately started looking out for him and even tried to position yourself in the best spot to protect him. I seriously doubt you could give him up now even if it was what’s best for him.”

Bucky scowled. “Even if that were true — which it’s not — I fail to see how that has anything to do with you.”

Natasha seemed to wrestle with a thought, and when she spoke she spoke carefully, putting weight into each word. The words seemed heavy, like she was setting down brick after brick. “I knew someone like him once.”

“Oh?”

“A kid. Young kid. Couldn’t even tie her shoes properly. She had these velcro sneakers with Big Bird from Sesame Street on them.”

Bucky didn’t know what Big Bird was, but he knew now was not the time to ask. Natasha was facing the window, but her eyes were distant and unfocused, as if she was staring into a memory. “I was a kid, too. I swore to protect her.”

The words were a weighted blanket pressing down on them.

“And?’ Bucky asked.

“And I failed. The Red Room got her.”

“What was her name?”

Natasha smiled then, a rare, genuine smile, not like the one she flashed at the waitress or Peter. “Yelena. Her name’s Yelena.” Her eyes met Bucky’s. “I’ve only ever told one person that before, so don’t go talking about it.”

“I won’t.”

“Good. I’ll beat you to death with your own femur.”

“Noted.”

Natasha nodded. “I see a lot of Peter in her.”

“So you understand why I’m doing this?”

“No, James, I don’t understand,” she sighed. “I told you that so you know I don’t judge you or blame you for it.”

Bucky cursed silently in his head. “Tasha, if you could go back in time, if you could save Yelena, would you?”

Her expression turned dark. Sharp. Dangerous. “I’m not going to tell you things if you immediately use them against me.”

“Would you?”

“Of course,” she snapped. “Of course I would. If I could have stopped the Red Room from taking her when we were kids, I would have. If I would have known that they still had her after Clint and I—” she stopped, obviously realizing she said too much. She shook her head. “My point is, it doesn't matter now. There's a proper way to go about this, James.”

“There’s nothing proper about any of this.”

“No. I suppose there’s not,” she conceded. They both fell quiet. Neither wanted to continue the conversation. After a few excruciating, painfully long seconds that felt like hours, she broke the silence with: “Does he know?”

“Does he know what?” Bucky mumbled. He rubbed a hand over his face. He was tired. Fighting Natasha was the last thing he wanted to do right now. Just the thought of—

“Does he know you killed his family?”

Bucky froze. His heart dropped to his stomach. They way she asked it… so deadpanned, so emotionless and matter-of-fact… it cut into Bucky’s soul.

“Does he.. What?”

“Does he know that you—”

“ Don’t repeat it! ” Bucky snapped, eyes frantically darting over to Peter. The teen didn’t seem to hear, too absorbed in the fight between the two employees.

“Well?”

“How do you know about that?”

“I know you, James. You’re also not that subtle.” She rested her chin on her fist, studying his face as if he were a cold case. “You knew his parents' names. You knew their jobs. Doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”

“I didn’t kill Mary and Richard,” whispered Bucky.

“Mmm hmm.”

“I didn’t! Hydra sent someone else to take care of that. I killed… I killed Benjamin and May.” The confession hit him like a sack of bricks. Blazing self-loathing returned with a furious vengeance. ”And then I… I did a lot of things I’m not proud of. It doesn’t matter know.”

“Probably matters to Pete.”

“He doesn’t know,” Bucky stated. “As far as I’m aware, at least. Who knows what Hydra told him.”

“Well, I doubt he’d be all buddy-buddy with you if he knew the truth,” Nat noted coldly.

“Yeah. Doubt it.”

The twenty dollar bill wrinkled between his fingers. Peter had never touched so much money before in his life. He held it close to his chest.

A large class case contained stack and stacks of treats, most of which were completely foreighn to him. He felt his stomach rumble.

All the smells in the small restaurant almost overwhelmed him… grease, sweat, soap, coffee, cigarette smoke… And the noises. Ugh. A guy around his age noisily slurped at an empty cup and didn't stop, his straw making the most grating of sounds. Fingers tap tap tap taptaptaptaped on his laptop. Flip flip flip went the pages of a book. Scritch scritch scritch went some stressed guys pencil. Dishes clinked and crashed together, echoing through his head.

Everything was too bright. Too loud. He’d never gone so long without his gear. It hurt . Peter squeezed his eyes shut, trying to tune it all out. They burned.

He shouldn’t have gotten up. He should have stayed with Barnes. Should have handed Romanova back her money. Said no.

Would Barnes have gotten upset with him if he said no? If he refused? 

Peter had never felt so lost as he did standing in this bright, noisy, fragrant restaurant.

“Watson!!” roared a gruff voice.

Peter jumped. Opening his eyes, the world slowly readjusted around him. 

A tall girl was hastily tying up her curly dark brown hair. She held a notepad in her teeth. 

He crept closer to the glass case, hoping to shield himself. Even if it was only partially.

“Yer shift started a hour ago! You want this job or not?!” Peter caught a glimpse of the angry, potbellied man shouting from the kitchen.

The girl — Watson — tucked her notepad under her arm and glared at him. “I heard you the first time,” she grumbled.

Peter’s heart leapt. What was she doing?!  You never speak back to your superiors like that. Not unless you wanted to get beaten within an inch of your life.

Sure enough, her boss shouted back, “what was that missy?! You wanna repeat yerself?!”

“I said I’m working!” Watson snapped. 

“You better! Jones has been coverin’ yer shift!”

The red haired woman that had given Peter the hot chocolate appeared next to her. ”It’s fine! I don’t mind,” she called.

She quickly helped Watson tie her apron. “Your dad still giving you trouble?” she whispered.

“ Shut up ,” whispered Watson. She adjusted her uniform and pinned on a glinting silver oval with the name “Michelle” written on it. “ And thank you.”

What conflicting statements.

The furious, red faced boss appeared again. He shook a stubby finger. “I oughta fire you! Throw you back out on the streets!”

“Go ahead!” she snapped. “I’d like to see you find someone else willing to work in this hellhole!”

Peter nearly passed out on the spot. Did she have a death wish?

“I’m already lookin’! Trust me, princess! First chance I get, you’re gettin’ da boot!” He slammed the kitchen door.

Michelle huffed and flipped open her notepad, scribbling at something Peter couldn't see.

Time seemed to slow around him. He could barely make sense of what he just saw. Did she just… stand up for herself? And not get punished? He wasn’t aware that was possible. Her superior said he was getting rid of her. He threatened her. Still, Michelle stood her ground. She didn't back down. She… she…

She was awesome.

Peter was in awe.  This Michelle girl must be respected by everyone to get away with something like that. She was so cool and awesome and brave and courageous and pretty and…

Wait.

What?

“Badass, huh?”

Peter jumped, his heart exploding against his ribcage. He slowly turned.

The guy with the noisy, empty cup was standing next to him. 

Why hadn’t his warning sense alerted him? Was he getting weaker? Was he sick? Losing his powers? It always told him when there was danger. And this guy was dangerous, right? He certainly didn’t look dangerous, but still. Looks were deceiving.

“Yeah, she’s kinda my best friend,’ he bragged. Peter looked over his shoulder. It was just them. Who was he talking to? “We’ve only known each other forever.”

Peter blinked. He was looking up at him.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” 

Peter slowly shook his head.

The guy smiled. “Name’s Ned. Dig the clothes. ‘Specially the pants. You making a statement? Me too.” Ned flicked his fedora. “Cool, huh? It’s my grandads.”

Ned held out his hand. Peter stared at it. After a few awkward seconds ticked by, he lowered his hand.

“Not a handshake kinda guy. I respect that. Me neither. Unless it’s a secret handshake, in which case… awesome. But, y’know, I’ve never really had a friend to make one with. Not that I don’t have friends! I have plenty of friends! Lots of friends. Like MJ,” he rambled, waving his hand towards Michelle. “She just think’s secret handshakes are lame, and, I, well… Hey, MJ!”

Michelle looked up from her notepad, blowing a lock of hair out of her face.

“Got those notes!” Ned said cheerfully. “Mr. Harrington's lecture went on forever. And then he started crying. I’m not sure if it was because of his divorce or because he found out he’s moving up a grade so he has to teach us all again next year, but… be glad you missed it.”

“Harry already sent them to me,” she responded.

Ned frowned. “Harry takes notes?”

“He automatically gets them through his 504 plan.” MJ scratched her nose. “You’d know that if you were ever in the group chat.”

“We can’t just use Snapchat? Or Instagram? Or WhatsApp? Or literally any form of social media like normal teenagers?”

“I’d rather not support a billion dollar corporation that makes money by spreading false information, dividing people by class, and utilizing profiling,” MJ drawled. “But thanks for the offer.”

Ned went silent. “Okay. Well. Fair enough. See you tomorrow?”

“Working.”

“Day after?”

“School.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“I guess.”

Ned pumped his fist, shot Peter finger guns, and left the restaurant. Peter watched him go. Briing! cried the doorbell. His brain seemed to short circuit. What just happened?

“Sorry about my friend.” Peter whipped back around. MJ was leaning against the counter, somehow simultaneously scribbling in her notepad while looking at him.

“He tends to get a bit talkative,” she explained. “Hm. Cool pants.”

Peter looked down at himself. What was so interesting about his pants? They were just regular, standard, Hydra-issue tactical pants. Very effective for fighting. Lots of pockets. Was it the pockets? It was probably the pockets.

“What can I get you?”

Peter bit the inside of his cheek, tapping the glass container lightly. She pulled it open. Some of her hair brushed by his nose. It tickled. She smelled like pencil shavings and strawberry soap.

“Which one?” Which one indeed.

Four different types of muffins sat in rows on the top shelf. Some with white drizzle, some with specks of blue. Cookies, donuts, cupcakes, and all kinds of treats he didn’t recognize lathered with thick frosting were strategically placed on the shelves.

Romaova said to pick out some muffins. But which ones?

He glanced over to their table for help. Romanova had her back to him. It looked like she and Barnes were arguing quietly about something, their voices hushed.  Peter wondered what kind of muffin MJ liked. She seemed smart. 

“Hello? You with me, dude?”

Peter’s attention was pulled to a dark chocolate muffin with chocolate chips and an oozing chocolate drizzle. It looked like a cavity wrapped in happiness. Like hot chocolate, but better.

He pointed towards it. MJ nodded, grabbed a thin piece of tissue paper and fetched the muffin. “Anything else?”

Peter slid the dollar bill across the counter.

“ Okaaaay, ” she drawled. MJ clicked her tongue and started typing on a screen behind the counter. “Seventy-five cents is your total. Would you like to round up to a dollar to support charity? All proceeds go to St. Jude Children's Research Hospital. Kids with cancer. Good cause.”  

Peter leaned across the counter, catching a glimpse of her notepad. Was that a person on it?

“I’m gonna take that as a no.” She put the money in a drawer and started pulling out other dollars. “Smart. Companies like this always take a cut. If they say it’s for charity so then they can just write off a bunch of expenses in their taxes. Now, I’m not saying charity’s bad. You should always give to charity if you can. Just give directly to the organization, y’know?”

MJ passed multiple dollars, a quarter, a flimsy receipt, and a bag with the muffin to him. She followed his eyes.

“Oh, you, uh, saw that.”

Peter took his things and she held up her notepad. He was right. It was full of people. Two, to be exact. One was of a frantic, skinny mad rapidly writing something down. The same guy sitting at the end of the bar. The other, an unfinished drawing, was of a perplexed looking boy with big ears and curly hair that he had trouble placing.

“I like drawing people in crisis. This one,” she tapped on the top one, “is that guy over there. I was told he hasn’t stopped muttering to himself since he got here. Something about lizards. I dunno, New York’s weird.”

Peter pointed at the bottom one, his eyebrows raised.

“Oh, that?” She smiled mischievously. “Thats gonna be you.”

Peter’s mouth fell open. 

Me? She’s drawing me? No way. Why would anyone ever want to draw me? His thoughts scrambled in every direction like rats. He pointed to himself.

Her grin got sharper. “Yeah, you. You got that cute deer-in-headlights look, like this is your first time in public or something.”

She set the notepad down. Peter quickly wiped at his mouth, suddenly worried that he still had some chocolate or marshmallow on him. That's weird. He's never really cared that much about his appearance before.

His stomach fluttered. His face felt hot. The paper bag crinkled under his fingers. Stitches across his hand pulled uncomfortably. Oh no, was he sick? Why was talking to this girl making him feel sick? Was he dying?

“Watson, cut the crap an’ get back ta work!”

MJ grimaced. Peter wanted to say something. Anything . But the room was spinning, his heart was racing, the back of his mind was prickling and his hands were sweaty…

The back of his mind was prickling.

He tensed.

An eruption of chills ran down his spine. The urge to drop to the floor almost overwhelmed him.

Something was coming. Something was coming now.

Without thinking, almost as if it were an impulse hidden in his DNA, he leapt forward and tackled MJ to the ground as the entire diner erupted in a hailstorm of bullets.

Chapter Text

Something was coming. Something was coming now.

Without thinking, almost as if it were an impulse hidden in his DNA, he leapt forward and tackled MJ to the ground as the entire diner erupted in a hailstorm of bullets. 

RAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TATATATAT!

Fluorescent lights exploded. Windows shattered. Discarded cups and bowls burst into tiny pieces. Shining splinters of glass sliced through the air, pouring down upon them like rain during a hurricane. Peter and MJ slammed behind the counter in the nick of time. She screamed. That on top of the thunderous gunfire nearly ripped his ears apart. Peter frantically climbed over her, protecting her as best he could. Bullets clanked against metal appliances and ripped through booths, shredding foam and knocking over chairs. 

Then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.

Empty shells clinked against the hard tile floor. Heavy boots crunched over glass. Wails and shaky sobs cut through the silence like a knife. 

Peter’s heart slammed itself against his ribcage.

This is my fault. All my fault, his mind screamed.

But I didn’t know…

Of course you knew!

He pressed his lips together and squeezed his eyes shut. MJ’s soft, curly hair pressed into his face. She was trembling. Strawberry shampoo caressed his nose.

“Peter! Pete… Pete! Peter!” Barnes frantic voice shot through the diner.

His eyes shot open. MJ twisted and tried to shove him off of her. The push did nothing, but he moved all the same, pressing his back against the counter. She scrambled up to her knees, wrapping her arms around her torso. Blood dribbled from her temple and seeped from her knees, staining her light blue uniform.

TBBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTT!

They were reloading. It was starting again.

Icy claws of panic gripping his heart, Peter grabbed her arm and pulled her against the counter, doing his best to cover her. She stumbled and wrenched her arm out of his grasp.

“Everyone! Hit the ground now! Under tables!” Romanov screamed.

Click!

RAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TATATATAT!

Shredded splinters of wood and glass attacked them. More broken wails joined the noise. Peter’s heart was pounding faster than a cornered rabbit’s. It was too loud. Too much.

My fault. My fault. My fault.

Tears pricked the back of his eyes. The thick scent of blood stabbed his nose. How many people were dead because of him? How many people in the diner didn’t make it out?

My fault. My fault.

Again, the guns stopped. More shells clattered to the floor.

Peter panted. A heavy hand on his arm made him violently flinch. MJ stared at him with panicked, determined eyes the color of hot chocolate. Peter liked hot chocolate. She had pretty eyes.

He stiffened. Snap out of it Arach— Peter!! His conscience yelled. Focus, Peter.

“There’s an exit in the kitchen, c’mon,” she whispered. “We need to go now while they’re reloading.”

Peter shook his head frantically, moving out of her reach. He couldn't leave. Not now. Not when this was all his fault. He couldn’t abandon Barnes here, or Romanov. 

The urge to help everyone in this diner almost dragged him down and drowned him down like tidal waves. But he couldn't. He was frozen, paralyzed with fear. All he could do was listen to everyone's pain and terror.

He wasn’t scared of getting shot or killed. He was scared of making it worse.

Shoes rapidly crunched over shattered glass and  thick layers of debris rained over them as someone slid across the counter, dropping to their knees next to them.

MJ’s mouth fell open. “You’re… you’re…” she stammered. “You’re an Avenger!”

Romanov darted past them, being careful to keep her head ducked under the counter. Peter and MJ stared at each other for a moment before simultaneously scrambling after her. 

TBBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTT!

Romanova skid to a stop near the kitchen entrance. The red-haired waitress was whimpering and sobbing, dark red splattered against her side. 

“Angelica!” gasped MJ. Romanov immediately helped her lay down and pressed all her weight into her side, sticky, gooey blood spilling between her fingers. The injured girl wailed in pain. MJ crawled forward, wiping some of Angelica's hair from her face.

“You’re okay… you’re okay…” MJ's voice trembled as she spoke. She sniffed.

“Gotta be…” Angelica croaked weakly. “Who else… Who else would cover your shifts?”

Tingles ran down the back of Peter’s spine. He leapt forward, shoving Romanov's and MJ’s heads down and covering the three women as best he could. 

RAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TATATATAT!

Angelica screamed.

A shattered coffee pot crashed to the ground, sending a pool of boiling liquid over Peter's knees, scalding him like lava. He grit his teeth and took it. Shards of glass sliced through his gloves. A gash ripped through the bridge of his nose. Blood gushed down his face.

As soon as the bullets stopped and more empty shells clinked, Romanov turned to MJ. “Michelle, right?”

“Uh… uh, yeah,” MJ responded, panting as if she just ran a hundred miles.

Peter shrunk back, pressing his hands over his ears, trying to get the screaming and banging out of his head. It hurt. He wanted out! Out out out.  To his dismay and increasing panic, he still heard everything, even if it was slightly muffled.

“Is there a different way out of here?” Romanov's voice was so calm and collected, one would think this was a regular occurrence for her.

“Yea-yeah. Through the back.”

“Good. Can you lead everyone there?” Romanov asked. 

Angelica's head bobbed, her eyes slid half-shut. MJ’s pale, blood soaked fingers gripped her hand for dear life. “Me? But I… I’m just a kid.”

“Can you do it?”

MJ gulped. She nodded once. Twice. “Yeah. Yeah, but the bullets…”

“Everyone listen up!” Romanov shouted. Peter flinched. “Stay down! At the next pause, everyone gets to the back as fast as you can. Stay low. Follow the waitress! She’ll take you to a different exit.”

Another surge of electricity jolted through his spine and skull, warning him. Screaming at him. Peter’s hand shot out, wrapping his trembling fingers around the Avenger's wrist. She caught his eye. He could see she understood. She immediately tucked MJ’s head down. 

“Everyone get ready!” was all she was able to scream before another round of bullets tore through the destroyed restaurant.

If there was one thing Hydra was good at, it was sending a message.

Peter trembled, shredded pieces of plaster and tile whizzing past his head. Metal glinted out of the corner of his eye. He peeked. Hard, immovable metal wrapped around his torso and slammed him aside. The diner spun. Romanov, MJ, and the injured waitress were whisked from his sight. A startled yelp escaped his lips, completely smothered by the deafening roar of gunfire and anguished screams. Thrashing, kicking, clawing… all he got in return for his efforts were bruises.

A gloved hand wrapped around one of his flailing arms, jerking him back. Ice water replaced the blood in his veins. His stomach dropped. His heart wrenched itself out of his chest.

They got me, shot through his head like bullets in the air.

They got me.

I don’t want to go back.

No no no no no… No!

Writhing and thrashing like never before, screaming like a mother who just watched her child die, he did everything to get out of his assailant's grasp. Peter was unwillingly dragged into the kitchen — wildly kicking shattered plates and scattered food — and jerked behind an upturned table.

Clank clink clank clunk clink!

Bullets and debris ricocheted off the thick steel table, echoing loudly in his brain. CLINK CLINK CLINK CLINK CLANK CLINK! He slammed his hands over his ears. Metal tightened against his chest, pulling painfully over his sore ribs. Peter whimpered.

Anxiety continued rolling over his brain, his warning sense refusing to turn off. He tried to curl in on himself like a sleeping dog. Peter’s face rammed against something soft. Fleecy fabric brushed his bruises like kisses. Cold dog tags poked his bloody nose. Vintage cologne of sandalwood and cinnamon, smoky leather, and the sharp smell of aftershave bit his nose. He sniffed.

Peter looked back down at the metal wrapped around his torso. His own face looked back at him, reflected in the shiny black and gold vibranium. He looked up.

“Keep your head down!” Barnes hissed, crouching over him as he did for MJ. Barnes' sunglasses had fallen off his face leaving frantic, determined ocean blue eyes in their place. Without hesitation Peter ducked down and pressed himself against Barnes’ soft, worn sweatshirt, staining the blue a reddish-purple with his blood. Barnes' black leather jacket covered him like a blanket.

“Now you listen,” Barnes grumbled.

Peter buried his indignation at the comment and burrowed deeper into Barnes' side.

Clink clink clink clank! 

An ax was piercing his skull. He was sure of it. How else could he explain his piercing headache?

Multiple guns clicked at once.

It felt quiet.

“Now!” Romanov yelled. “Move!”

Peter felt himself shift as Bucky moved to look over the table, searching for who knows what. He tried squirming out of his grasp. The metal arm didn't budge.

A plethora of pounding feet bolted over crushed debris. Peter caught a glimpse of MJ as she darted past, holding open the kitchen door as everyone scampered through.

“Come on! We don’t have all day, people!!” She barked orders like a drill sergeant.

TBBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTT!

The teen in the letterman jacket was the first out, carrying the hurt waitress in his arms like a bride. Her head lolled to the side. Even during this, he turned to watch behind him as he walked, as if making sure everyone else got out, too. The one armed, sickly looking man ran along next to him, pressing soaking red napkins on the girl's abdomen, glasses askew and muttering seemingly random medical terms under his breath.

“You?” Barnes’ sudden voice caused Peter to startle. Seriously, what was it with his warning sense today, choosing when to warn him and when to let him get spooked?

MJ glanced over at them. Her brow furrowed. Suddenly embarrassed and not knowing why, Peter tried harder to wrench himself out of Bucky’s grasp. No use.

MJ wasn’t looking at him, however, but at Bucky. “You…”

In a blur the blond guy in the leather motorcycle jacket sprinted past, grabbing MJ’s arms pulling her along with him. “We gotta go!” he yelled.

“But what about—”

“Tried talking to her! She’s an Avenger. She’s fine !”

“But—”

Bang!

The back door of the kitchen slammed shut behind them. On cue, Romanov slid to a stop next to them, swiftly shoving Peter’s head down. His chest tightened. Before he could object, the thrills of panic erupted in the back of his mind once more, like an gnawing itch one simply couldn't reach. His skin crawled. He was suddenly hyper aware of every strand of fabric rubbing against his skin.

Thunderous gunfire roared through what used to be a diner.

Romanov and Barned pressed themselves to either side of him, yelling over the deafening blasts. Peters migraine wailed. The blurry world turned gray around the edges. Every inch of him burned and chilled at the same time.

“Hydra sure knows how to send a message!” she shouted.

“Tell me about it!” yelled Barnes.

“They’re not gonna stop anytime soon, will they?!”

“I’m pretty sure as soon as they realize everyone's dead or gone they’ll move onto a new target!”

Peter's head was on fire. And the ax was still there. It was an on fire ax. He shoved his hands against his ears until his muscles trembled from the strain. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Too much. Too much. Please stop!

“Meaning we have to stop them!”

Bucky gave her a look. “Obviously!”

Click click spiraled through his head. Peter glanced over to his side, seeing Romanov pull out two pistols from nowhere.

“Where’d you get those?!” shouted Bucky.

“My jacket has pockets!”

“What?!”

“Pockets! The jacket! Has! Pockets!”.

“What?!”

“She said her jacket has pockets now please shut up!!” screamed Peter. Barnes' jumped. He barely recognized his own voice. Scratchy and warped from disuse, and muffled under his hands. He could feel two sets of eyes burning into him.

Somewhere in the back of his mind alarm bells were blaring. You messed up you messed up you messed up!

He shoved it away, barely able to process the words. It was too much. Everything was too much. If the gunfire was loud in the real world, it was deafening inside his head. He couldn't take it. All the noises were jumbling together in one big mess, screeching in his ears like nails on a chalkboard. 

Barnes and Romanov apparently didn't understand.

“You could speak this whole time?!” Barnes asked incredulously. 

Peter slowly started rocking back and forth, not even realizing he was doing it until glass licked the side of his leg. 

Romanov shifted. Fabric rustled. “Next break you go left! Take this! Cover me!”

“Where did you get… You’re not the least bit shocked he just—”

“No, I’m not! Focus!” Romanov snapped. “I see six targets! All armed!”

“What about Peter?” Even muffled, Peter could hear the concern.

“Leave him here! This isn’t his fight!”

“I—”

Another hand landed on Peter's shoulder. He flinched, burying himself deeper in Barnes jacket. Smoky leather once against assaulted his nose, adding more gasoline to his brain's fire. Nausea rolled over him like a storm cloud.

Peter knew Romanov and Barnes were still yelling. Shouting. Screaming. He could hear their muffled words but couldn’t process what they were saying. It didn’t click. Slowly he was being pulled underwater. Sounds wobbled. Unbalanced. His senses turned to static like a dead TV channel.

“P… ter! Listen… ….listening?...” Romanov's voice filtered in and out of his ears, switching faster than channels on the radio. “ …have to fight. Un… and?... don’t have to fight..  …who you are… …more... …your battle… …here… …come back for… …okay?”

He pressed his face harder into Barnes' chest. “Pete… ay put… ...n’t move... …ot it?”

Without warning, Barnes was gone. Peter whimpered, his eyes flying open.  Big mistake. Big mistake. Opting instead for darkness instead of the terrifying, tilting world, Peter squeezed his eyes back shut and forced himself into the smallest ball as possible. One of his hand flailed around him, searching for something — someone — to hold onto before he surely blew away,

Memories and flashbacks clawed at his brain, digging their sharp nails into his mind. He could feel himself slipping… slipping… slipping…

A jarring pain cracked on his leg, bruising his flesh and pulling him out of the abyss in his head. The stitches on the palm of his hand throbbed.  He was aware of every pain, every tiny cut, every stitch, every bruise. The tags on his shirt and the seams of his pants dragged over his skin like needles.

Peter brought his fist down on his leg again. Again. 

Again.

Again.

As reflexive as jumping at a loud noise, he pounded his thigh with barely a thought. He could probably stop himself. But why?  He was alone and it hurt to stop. It hurt his brain. Made him tired. Out of place tears dripped down his cheeks. He didn't know why they were there. He didn’t want to…

A tormented shriek stabbed into him.

He turned just in time to see a hydra operative slam against a nearby stove, a knife flying out of nowhere and pinning his shoulder to the fiery burner. He shrieked, ripping the blade out. Red blood sprayed over his dark green and gold tactical gear. Before the operative could gather himself the bang! of a gun erupted through the diner and he crumpled to the floor. 

Peter stiffened, scooting back against the dented table and cautiously peeking around it. The first thing that caught his eye was the lifeless corpse of the angry chef from before, his eyes lifeless and his torso a gory mess. Bile rose up his throat when he realized one of his legs was missing, ripped to shreds. Gone.

He forced himself to look away. 

Barnes and Romanov were brawling the remaining five operatives. Whereas Barnes was all heavy punches and kicks, throwing his weight around and smashing nearby objects over gents heads, Romanova was as collected in her fighting as she was in speaking, moving as gracefully and tactically as a ballerina.

Someone grabbed Romanova from behind. Without hesitation she jumped onto the bar, flipped them both backwards and sent him flying out the missing window. Landing on her feet, she cocked her gun and fired it into another assailant's leg.

Barnes cracked his pistol over an agent's head before punching them straight in the face with his metal arm. Their head jerked to the side and they fell out of Peter’s view. Swiftly catching a knife before it hit his face, Barnes flipped it through the air, caught it, and stabbed an agent's hand to the bar. He shrieked.

Peter’s stomach churned.

I should help them. It’s my responsibility. I—

Bang!

A bullet whizzed past his head, causing a tuft of hair to flutter away. Peter flinched, dropping back down behind the table.

Nope. Nope. Not doing that. Stay here, Peter, they said to stay here.

His scalp burned as he tugged at his hair, but he only dug his fingers in deeper. This was bad. This was so bad. Guilt and shame hit him like a blow to the stomach. Here he was, cowering and shaking like an abused animal while other people fought his battle. He chomped down on his lip.

He should never have sent that distress signal. 

My fault. 

Every moment of his life was one screw up after the next. Pressing his face into his knees, he bit back a shaky sob. Why couldn’t he ever do anything right? 

Metal clattered to the floor. Glass shattered. Someone grunted. Another yelped. Punches and kicks drowned out the shaky 50’s music still wobbling from the smoking speakers.

How could he have been so stupid?  Walking away from Hydra had been so easy. They practically held the door open for him. No one watched him. No one questioned him. He wrote it off as all the operatives being too concerned about setting up the new base. How stupid he was. How foolish.

Appliances rattled as someone was thrown through a wall with a started squeal.

Finding Barnes file…learning he had escaped from Hydra… finding his address in the database…

Too easy. 

I’m so dumb. I’m the worst. Just the worst, Peter started rocking back and forth, sniffling. I’m so pathetic. Worthless. Good for nothing. It would be better for everyone if I didn’t make it out of this. I’m such a bad person.

“James, on your left!

“I see him!”

Metal gears whiired in Barnes arm. Clay tiles shattered. Someone screamed curses.

Peter had been so terrified when Barnes shoved him into that bathroom. He could hear him arguing with someone… with Romanov. Hiding in the shower was mindless and dumb, but it was the best he could do. He had been so scared , trembling and sweating and rocking from side to side, ready to be slaughtered right there in that tub.

It was an impulsive thing, chomping down on the distress signal embedded in one of his molars… a fleeting, panicked decision to take his chances with Hydra rather than whomever Barnes had seemed so worried about.

Why am I such an awful person? Peter’s thoughts spiraled out of control. Flames bit his eyes. Endless tears dripped down his cheeks and soaked his sleeves and pants. Why can’t I ever be good? I want to be good… I wish I wasn’t alive

Peter was so caught up in his shame and self loathing, he barely realized when the fire alarms started — grating into his throbbing head with every screech — and the fire sprinklers began drenching him with warm water, making his clothes cling to his body. He barely realized when distant sirens joined the orchestra of bombarding noise. He barely noticed the fighting stop.

More glass and rubble crunched under heavy boots, growing louder. Closer.

“Pete?  Pete, you alright?”

“He still here?” came Romanov's winded voice.

Peter sensed someone crouching down next to him. Everything still felt fuzzy… staticky… like he was slowly waking up from a dream.

“Pete, can you look at me?”

Peter pressed his face farther into his arms. The fabric clung to dried blood covering his nose. He didn’t deserve to be looked at. He wanted to just disappear. Barnes cursed quietly and shifted. Leather rustled. Metal clinked.

“Pete, I, uh… I don’t know how to help you right now. If you could tell me… speak again… that’d be great.”

“James, we don’t have time for this,” Romanov yelled, her voice distant. Sirens grew louder. He could hear the click of cameras and the shocked whispered of onlookers Even if Peter wanted to talk, he couldn't. He had the words, but there was a wall between them and his tongue. It was as if his mouth was paralyzed.

“She’s right. We need to get going… can you get up?”

Peter’s limbs were bricks. All the adrenaline and urgency was fleeing as fast as the water from above was soaking his bones, leaving nothing but emptiness and fatigue in its wake. Still, Peter nodded numbly. As much as he wanted to never, ever move again, the thought of making things more difficult for Barnes caused the excruciating flames of guilt to burn like never before. 

Barnes sighed a breath of relief. “Let me help you up.” It came out as more of a confused question than a suggestion.

Peter didn’t fight as Barnes grabbed his upper arms and hoisted him to his feet. Razor blades seemed to scratch his skin where he was touched. Panic from the contact rumbled in the back of his mind, but it was dull, as if someone was speaking to him from underwater.

Barnes tossed his non-metal arm over his shoulder, pulling him close against his side, and covering them both with his jacket. Drops of water hammered against the leather.

“James!”

“Coming, coming!” Barnes called, guiding Peter out of the demolished diner. 

One of the speakers gargled slowly and eerily at them as they passed, reverbing off the walls.” Are the stars out tonight… I don't know if it's cloudy or bright… I only have eyes for you, dear… ”  The bell clanked above the door as Barnes shoved it open with his shoulder, sending it flying and ushering Peter out. He stumbled along.

Vrooooom!

A sleek black car slid to stop in front of them and the passenger door flew open. “Get in!” shouted Romanov, leaning across the seats.

Without hesitation, Barnes opened the back seat and steered Peter inside before hopping in the front. Peter climbed in, his wet clothes squeaking loudly against the gray vinyl seats. He wrinkled his nose as he sat. It smelled like cigarettes, oil, and a really flowery perfume.

“Is this a Mercedes-Benz? Where'd you get this?” Barnes asked incredulously. He buckled his seat.

The car hummed as Romanov yanked the gearshift back and peeled out onto the brick streets, sirens and flashing lights growing distant behind them. Peter turned around and watched them disappear.

“Found it,” Romanov replied, her arms straight out in front of her and stiff as a board. They flew down the street.

“Where did you learn to steal a car? Peter, put your seatbelt on.”

Peter swiftly slid into the seat behind Romanov and pulled the belt over his shoulder, clicking it into place.

“Would you be surprised if I told you it was Steve?” Romanov sounded like she was trying to be lighthearted, but the tension in her tone gave her away.

“Unfortunately, no. How bout you slow down a bit?”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“We’re going to get pulled over and go to jail.”

“I know what I’m doing,” she retorted through gritted teeth.

Peter rested his head against the cool window, only to get jolted back and forth and for his teeth to rattle. Instead he leaned forward and pressed his head against the back of Romanov's seat. He watched water drip from his sopping hair into a puddle by his feet.

Blood was splattered across his combat boots.

He was a failure. He was worthless. He couldn't even help solve a problem he caused. Instead, his brain decided to shatter like the windows of the diner.

Worthless. Stupid. Peter thought. Drops of water began splashing into the puddle more fervently. Can’t do anything right. You’re useless. I’m useless. Make everything worse.

“Pete, you good?” Barnes asked.

“Mm,” Peter grunted. His voice was as wispy as a flickering trail of smoke. Words seemed so far away.

“Kid, you're cr…” Barnes hesitated for a second. “You need… anything?”

Peter didn't respond. His arms and legs were dead weight, pulling him to the floor of the car. His eyelids drooped along with his shoulders. He was tired . He just wanted to stop hurting.

“What I want to know is how they found us,” Romanov commented, pulling slowly to a stop at a red light.

Peter slumped against his seat, dropping his head back to stare at the car's smooth ceiling. Just kill me now.

“How would I know?” Barnes responded defensively.

Romanov flicked on the turn signal. Peter drummed his fingers against his thigh in time with the blinkers clicks. You know. I told them. You know that. You don’t actually trust me.

“Really?” scoffed Romanov, pulling into traffic. She slid her sunglasses on.  “You don’t have the slightest clue who could have possibly tipped them off?”

Peter turned to gaze out the window, his cheek squished against the flowery smelling car seat. Colorful chalk drawings lined the sidewalks. Graffiti donned garage doors. The car slowed near a nice little bodega. Pretty flowers lined the outside in big black buckets. An orange cat with a face as flat as a pancake stared back at him from inside the bodegas window, unblinking.

Huh.

Made him think of Alpine. Peter smiled. He was glad he got to meet Alpine. He had never held a cat before, or any animal for that matter. She was a good friend… probably the only friend he would ever have. He wondered if he would ever get to pet a dog before he died. Dogs were probably nice. Except for the ones Hydra made him fight that one time… big dogs with sharp teeth that tore his flesh open.

But maybe they were actually good dogs. Maybe bad people turned them into monsters. Like him.

“I don’t like what you’re implying,” Barnes replied sternly, breaking the long silence.

The cat turned its back to Peter as they pulled away.

“I don’t care if you like it or not,” Romanov shot back. “I’m right. You know I’m right.”

Peter wondered how they would kill him. It was inevitable.

Barnes was nice to him…  a different kind of nice than Mr. Colt. With Barnes, Peter felt like he actually meant it. Who knew why. Barnes would probably be nice enough to make sure whatever death awaiting Peer was painless. 

You don’t deserve a painless death, his mind whispered. It should be slow and agonizing. You deserve that. You want that.

“Don't try to get out of talking about this,” Romanova insisted.

“Fine, but… later. Please?” Barnes implored.

“Hmmph. I don’t trust hi—”

“You don’t have to. Trust me,” Barnes stated. “I got this.”

“Uh huh.” She sounded doubtful, but didn't press.

Peter toed off his boots and slipped his feet under him, crossing his legs, thankful for the hot blasts of air coming from the heater as he shivered. Even though his drenched clothes were making him cold, he was somewhat thankful for it. All the water soaking through his multiple layers was dragging the fabric down, adding pressure to it. Making it heavy. It felt like one of his weighted blankets back home. It was a comfort. He liked weighted things. It calmed him.

“We need somewhere to lay low,” Romanov noted.

His head lolled to the side, heavy.

“I have an idea. But it's a long drive," Barnes said slowly.

“I got a full tank of gas. Where are we headed?”

Peter blinked sluggishly. His eyelids were trying to glue themselves together.

Barnes sighed. “I get the feeling you’re not going to like this.”

Peter's thoughts slowly drifted into blissful nothingness as his eyes closed for the final time.

The sun snuck through heavy drapes and brightened the small bedroom, making Peter’s eyes hurt. He pulled his fluffy Cyberchase blanket over his head. He wished the sun would go away so he could go back to his dream. 

The sun’s just tryin’ to say hello, buddy, his abba always said. It will be sad if you don't say hello back. 

Then his abba would dramatically throw open the blinds, and his ima would rip off his blankies. They would take turns tickling him and blowing raspberries on his tummy until he woke up. He hated it. 

Well, actually, he loved it. But that was a secret between him and his plushie Marie Curie doll. She was good at keeping secrets. Auntie May had given her to him.

After a few long, tedious seconds of waiting, Peter peeked out from his blanket. Huh. Weird. Maybe they were busy at work? Peter rolled out of his bed. He plopped down on the floor, pulling his giant duck slippers over his feet. The fluffy slippers were super silly; they made a honking noise every time he took a step. 

Peter opened the blinds, wincing as the sun poured over him. He squinted. “Hello, sun.”  Peter didn't understand a lot about the world, but he understood that saying hello to the sun made the sun happy, and that made him happy.

He bolted over to his closet. Honk honk honk! Quacked his slippers. Peter giggled.

A big poster covered the wall, decorated in pictures depicting his routine. He dragged his tiny fingers over the smooth paper. Abba made it for him. He liked his routine. It made him happy. Sometimes when things changed suddenly, he would get irr-it-ab-le . Irritable. That was a new word he learned.

Peter loved learning.

Alright, the first thing on the chart was his glasses. Alright! Peter shoved on his red and blue glasses, wrapping the strap around the back of his head. Lately things had been a bit more fuzzy with them on than without, but the routine said to put them on so on they went!

Next is… make the bed! He could do that! Abba and Ima were going to be so proud when they saw he did this all without being asked!

When he turned to his bed, however, it was already made. Huh. Maybe he just did it and forgot?  Peter turned back to his closet door.

Dark red paint was splattered over the chart, marring the words. He jumped. The poster didn't let go of him. It ripped.  Peter yelped, trying desperately to pull it off his fingers. It broke more and more. Super glue was on his fingers. He couldn't get it off. 

Tears sprang into his eyes. “No, no no no no!” he whimpered.

Colorfully drawn pictures of his clothes and toothbrush fluttered to the ground in pieces. He accidentally tore the image of a plate in half.

“No!” he yelled, jumping up and down. Why did it break? Why did he break it? He was a bad kid! Bad! Bad! Bad!

“Abba!! Abbbaaaaa! ” he shrieked.

No one came. Why was no one coming? He was all alone. No one was there.

Sobbing, Peter darted into the dark hall. He could have sworn it was morning, but only pitch blackness greeted him. Peter whipped back around, heart pounding in his tiny chest. He was going back to bed. Bed was a safe place. Marie Curie dolly was there.

His room was gone.

Peter screamed again. His voice didn't come. The more he tried the quieter it got until it was nothing louder than the wind. Peter wailed, pounding his fists into his legs and stamping his feet.

No! No no no no!

Bad! Bad! Bad!

“Peter?”

Peter jumped again, sniffling and crying, searching for the voice. The sun peeked happily through a nearby doorway. Peter rubbed his snotty nose with his blue pajama shirt, creeping forward slowly and still smacking his leg.

“Ab-ba?” Peter croaked.

As he got closer to the glowing door, it got hotter. Sweat dripped down the boy's neck. His hands were slick. Peter dragged his fingers through his hair. He didn't like this. Bad. Bad.

He stumbled through the doorway. Confused, he glanced around from the top of the stairs. He was at Uncle Ben and Auntie May’s house. When…

Before the child could complete his thought, giant golden flames jumped to life. Peter screeched. The doorway behind him was gone. He was trapped. Stuck. He held onto the railing for deer life, tears falling from his face so fast it was like they were trying to douse the fire all by themselves.

The child gasped.  Well, tried too. The air almost immediately got stuck, unreachable, his mouth and nose smothered as if by a pillow. He squealed. Peter’s throat shot up in flames. His lungs. His mouth. All of it on fire. 

“Peter?”

There, that same voice.

He tried to call back. Couldn't. 

The stairs, living room and kitchen were glowing orange. Splashes of red dripped up and down the black burned walls, laughing in the face of gravity.

Cobwebs of cracks traveled up a shattered window and erupted across picture frames. A grandfather clock crashed to the floor, splitting in two. Stones on the fireplace were painted black with smoke. His Lego Star Wars space ship was in a thousand pieces scattered across the hardwood floors. Boba Fett’s severed head stared up at him. Fire warped and blackened VHS tapes until they caved in on themselves.

At the base of the stairs laid his aunt and uncle, bullets in their heads and dark blood pooled around them. Again, Peter tried to shriek. Sound didn’t come out. 

His uncle's lips were moving, his star necklace drenched in red. He was looking at Peter.  He tried to go to him, to help him, but his feet were welded to the floor. He couldn't move. He was stuck. Tears blurred his vision.

Peter wiped his eyes.

The boy nearly threw up when he opened them again.

More bodies were piled all across the blazing floor. Hundreds of them. People with faces he recognized, but couldn't remember.  Slashed throats and stab wounds decorated their bodies like jewelry. Children. Adults. Grandparents. The sickening, thick stench of death hung over him like a noose. Some moved, screaming and sobbing in agony, trying to pull themselves up only to sink deeper into the blazing embers. Some drowned in their own blood. Severed limps writhed and wiggled like nightmarish snakes. Flesh burned and peeled away, revealing cracked bones blackened by the fire.

A waitress sat in the middle, blood the same color as her hair pouring from a gunshot wound in her side, staring up at the ceiling blankly. Peter trembled. Something warm and sticky slid down his sweaty hands. Slowly, ever so slowly, he looked.

Blood was seeping from nonexistent cuts on his trembling hands. It dripped… dripped… dripped. Wet crimson splotches puddled around his feet, staining his duck slippers. Even his slippers were dead. Blood oozed from his hands and ran down the stairs like a waterfall, adding to the scarlet sea below him. 

It was all his fault… these people…

He did this…

It was him…

He… he…

He couldn't breathe.

“Peter.”

Click.

Peter froze. As his very core shook and his bones quivered, he tore his eyes away from his hands. In the center of the room stood a man... a man with a covered face and a metal arm, pointing a gun towards Peter. 

They stared at each other.

He pulled the trigger.

“Peter?”

Peter leapt out of his skin, his eyes snapping open. His heart hammered like a drum. Fire! There was fire! Everything was burning and his… and he… blood… 

“Woah, Peter, everything's okay,” Barnes said, sliding into the back seat with him. Cold, crisp air washed in from the open car door, cooling his damp forehead. They were parked. “It was a bad dream. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Safe?

What was going on?

Peter ran his stiff, wrinkled sleeve over his face. His chest heaved. He couldn't catch his breath.

“Its alright. You’re… you’re not there,” Barnes stated awkwardly. His eyes darted over him as if he was searching for injuries. The overwhelming urge to dive into Barnes arms, to be held, to just start crying, almost overcame him. Instead, Peter stiffened and hardened his resolve. Barnes reached out as if to touch him, only to change his mind and withdraw his hand.

Peter wrapped his arms around his waist. He was going to be sick. He was going to vomit. Oh, man.

“Are you… okay?” Barnes winced at his own awkwardness. Peter made an indignant noise. “Okay, yeah, stupid question. I know.” Barned settled into his seat, drumming his fingers on his knee. He looked out the window at Romanov. Peter ducked his head behind the seat. “Do you want to… talk… about it?” 

Peter panted, trying to catch his breath. There was nothing to talk about. The details of his dream were already fluttering away. Something about fire? Maybe? 

Realizing Barnes was still waiting for an answer, staring at him like he might break at any moment, Peter meekly shook his head. Barned didn’t look away from him. Peter slowly exhaled. Without thinking, he brought his hands up to his chest and started tapping his fingers together in a light, continuous clapping motion. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.

It helped him focus on something he could control. Moving like that didn’t immediately calm him down, per say, but it relieved him as if he were scratching an itch. Tap tap tap. Mr. Colt didn’t like it when he moved his hands like that. He wasn’t supposed to move without being told. He’d get hit. Or worse.

Barnes shifted next to him.

Suddenly remembering he wasn't alone, Peter dropped his hands to his side. Nervous energy coursed through his veins. 

“I hate to be that guy, but we’re here, so…” Barnes slid out of the car. They gazed directly into each other’s eyes, neither looking away. Neither moving. Neither talking. It was as if time itself slowed down to a stop. Peter found it somewhat… calming…

“How’s the staring contest going?” Romanov called.

Peter blinked. Barnes shot a glare over his shoulder. While he was distracted, Peter crawled out of the car. Surprise shook him when his feet landed in freshly cut grass and not pavement. 

“Welcome to Washington DC, Peter,” Romanov said. “I’m surprised you slept the whole way.”

Vibrant red and yellow leaves fluttered through the air, drifting down from tall trees. Identical white houses with angled roofs with big garages sat in neat rows between bushes and flowers, all somehow giving the illusion of space when they were actually really close together. Tall trash bins stood at the ends of driveways.

Multiple houses had various gourds and pumpkins decorating their porches. A smiling scarecrow with rosy cheeks was slumped on a swing, not doing much to keep birds away. Painted wood was stapled together to create a grinning turkey holding a welcome sign. In someone's window sat a sign reading 'Give Thanks. Be Grateful. Eat Pie.' Peter’s brow furrowed. 

“Have you actually been here before?” Romanova asked, walking away from the car and sliding her phone into her pocket. Barnes followed close by. Peter quickly followed him.

“Not really…”

“That’s a fun way of answering a yes or no question,” she mused. 

Peter jumped to the side when a Siamese cat darted past. As he turned to watch it go, fascinated, Peter stopped in his tracks. Someone had put a cutout of an old man in a red suit in their yard. Was that some sort of… …Peter didn’t even know. He tugged on Barnes' sleeve. Barnes immediately dropped his conversation and turned to him, eyebrows raised and concern in his eyes.

Peter pointed his finger at the fake man and mirrored his expression.

Barnes obviously tried to keep himself from laughing. He wasn’t very good at it. “That’s Santa. Well, a picture of him anyways. You know Santa?”

Peter shrugged.

Barnes rubbed his chin. “Okay, um, how do I explain this in a way that doesn’t sound creepy. Santa’s this guy… who breaks into your—  no… There's got to be a better way to explain this. Tasha?”

Romanov laughed, putting her hands in her coat jacket and walking ahead. “I'm good."

“It doesn’t actually matter because you don’t do Christmas. You’d do Chanukah right? That’s the Jewish… thing…” Barnes trailed off. “Tasha! Is there a Chanukah Santa?”

Crisp, colorful leaves crunched under Peter’s feet. Cool! He smiled to himself, purposely stepping on all the leaves he could. Crunch crunch crunch!

“You’re so clueless!” cackled Romanova. She slowed down and waited for them to catch up.

“Rude,” muttered Barned. “It’s… not important.”

Peter nodded. He had no idea what Chanukah was or who Santa was, but he was fine to let the matter drop. If Barnes said it wasn’t important, it wasn’t important. He trusted him. 

Peter slowed as the realization struck.

He trusted Barnes. 

When did that happen?

“You never answer my question,” Romanov added. “Have you been here?”

Barnes rolled his eyes. “No. I haven't. But I’ve been to his other house. Have you?”

“Yes.” Romanov hummed thoughtfully and smirked. “Believe it or not, last time I was here it was in a situation very similar to this one.”

They turned down a sidewalk, approaching a plain looking house with a shiny silver truck in the driveway. A small sticker sat in the truck's back window. Peter stopped to take a closer look at it. In the center of a circle were what appeared to be two wings, with the words “US AIR FORCE VETERAN” surrounding it.

“You’ve been in situations like this?” Barnes asked incredulously.

“You have no idea,” Romanov drawled, hopping up onto the porch. She put a hand on her hip and gave Barnes an indecipherable look. “You wanna handle our friend?”

“Right, Peter, come here,” Barnes said, backing away from the porch. Peter followed him. “Alright, Peter, you’re going to stand here, okay? Away from the door. Don’t come out until I tell you.”

Peter tilted his head, giving Barnes his best confused face.

“Because we don’t want to scare him away with…" Barnes gestured towards Peter. “...this. The whole ‘domestic terrorist slash serial killer’ thing might freak him out a little.”

Peter blew a tuft of curly hair out of his face. He glared at the description of himself — even if it was well deserved— and went to slide his hands into his pockets like Romanov, realized he didn’t have pockets, and crossed his arms instead. Barnes forced a fake smile and nodded before disappearing around the corner. He rocked back and forth on his heels. A bee floated lazily along by his knee.

Knock knock knock.

A pause.

“Maybe we should ring the doorbell,” Barnes suggested.

“Here he comes,” responded Romanov. 

Click click. A metal lock twisted. Screeeeee. The front door creaked open.

Peter held his breath.

“Hey, sailor,” Romanova greeted, way too calm given the circumstances. Peter picked some dry blood off the bridge of his nose.

“Heyyy,” replied a smooth, unknown voice. Peter started wiping at his face with his flannel sleeves. Flakes of blood fluttered to the ground. “How nice of you two to show up at my house… covered in blood… without a call…”

“You sound worried,” Romanova replied slyly.

“Worried? Why would I be worried? It’s not like the last time you showed up like this I ended up getting roped into dealing with his crazy robo ass. No offense.”

“Offense,” Barnes drawled. “Also, I’m telling Sarah you said that.”

The plump bee crawled around on Peter’s boot, buzzing happily to itself. Peter kept his foot still, not wanting to disturb it.

“Man, how many times do I gotta tell you, you can’t keep bringing up my sister like that.”

“I’m not—”

“How would you like it if I brought up your sister every two seconds?”

“My sister’s dead,” Barnes stated bluntly.

Silence fell for a good ten seconds.

“See, I bet you wouldn't like it—”

“We need your help, Sam,” Romanova interjected. “We need somewhere to lie low.”

The door creaked again. “You know my house is always open, but I gotta ask…” Again, silence. “You just not gonna tell me, or what?” Nothing. “What’s that weird look you two are giving each other? I don’t like it.”

Giggling and cheers soared through the air like music. A few houses down, three small children were gleefully squealing as they ran through a pile of leaves taller than them. An older man with white streaks in his hair laughed and continued raking the pile, fixing it every time the kids messed it up.

That was so… counterproductive.

Peter wondered if that was normal. If parents often worked purely for their kids' enjoyment. 

“Go ahead, James, this is your mess.”

Barnes huffed. “Alright, Sam, I want to run a hypothetical situation past you. Can I run a hypothetical?”

“Dear God, what did you do?”

“There's... no easy way to put this… “ Barnes sighed. “Peter?”

“Who?”

Peter took that as his cue. As soon as he stepped around the corner, the guy in the doorway spotted him. They locked eyes. His mouth fell open. He stiffened. Shook his head.

“Oh come on!”

Chapter Text

Fluorescent lights did very little to help Peter's migraine.  

“Hurts?” Barnes asked, digging through the giant first aid kit. Peter winced. “Yeah, stupid question. I know.”

He shifted atop the black marble sink, warily watching as Barnes soaked a fluffy blue rag in cold water. He let Barnes move his head up, freezing metal fingers brushing gently over his chin, and pressed the cold, damp rag against the bloody bridge of his nose. A piece of shrapnel must have caught it. Peter frowned.

Even if he wanted to fight back or struggle, he wasn’t certain he could. He felt so… numb . Empty. Hallowed out. Though he just took a four hour nap, he wanted nothing more than to crawl under a weighted blanket and pass out. Even if that meant nightmares. 

Barnes tossed the rag aside. “Looks good,” he muttered. He pulled out a small spray bottle and shook it. “One last thing, then we’re done. Close your eyes.”

Peter’s eyes slid shut without protest. 

Barnes cupped his nose with one hand, shielding Peters eyes, and sprayed a shower of stinging medicine.

Peter mewled, jerking his head away. His head smacked Barnes' flesh hand instead of the hard mirror. “Sorry, I know it stings,” Barnes apologized, “but it’s either this or it gets infected.”

Millions of fire ants were crawling over his nose, digging into his sensitive skin. It burned . He shook his head like a wet dog, trying to shed the pain like a snake sheds its skin.

“Sorry, sorry. It’ll feel better soon.” Empathetic blue eyes studied him as Barnes snapped the bottle shut and grabbed a small cardboard box. “Looks like Sam has either Hello Kitty Bandaids… or ‘Poke-ay-man’ Bandaids…” Barnes made a face. “Do you want a cat with a pink bow or a yellow rat with a lightning bolt tail?”

Seriously? Antiseptic burned Peter's nose, stabbing his skin and running into his wound like boiling water. His eyes stung. He was too busy trying to control his face — to not show pain — to worry about cats and rats.

“Hello Kitty it is,” Barnes sighed, peeling open a Bandaid with his teeth and placing it on Peter’s nose as carefully as one would defuse a bomb. “There.”

Peter kept himself frozen as cold fingertips — some flesh, some metal — slid down on either side of his nose, gently pressing down the sticky Bandaid. Rough calluses brushed over his bottom eyelid. His eyes fluttered shut. Without thinking, without even realizing he was doing it, Peter found himself leaning into the touch. Anxiety buzzed through his head like a panicking wasp, but for the first time in his life, his warning sense stayed silent. It didn’t scream at the contact. Didn’t try to drag him away.

Peter felt… safe.

“Um… done.”

Peter pulled away, heat rushing through his cheeks. Barnes studied him with furrowed brows and obvious concern. 

This was so similar, yet so different. How many times had Mr. Colt stitched him up, offered kind words, only to hurt him later? To be nice and then mean and nice again until Peter thought he was going crazy? Was that what was happening now?

No. No, Barnes was different. Mr. Colt would never have dragged him out of harm's way. He would have yelled at him and punished him for hiding like a coward.

Still, after being treated like that his entire life… after being manipulated and harmed and told he was loved all in the same breath… 

Maybe Barnes had good intentions. It wasn’t that he had given him any reason not to trust him. Peter just wasn’t sure if he could trust himself. His own judgment. His mind.

“Hey, you alright?” Two heavy hands weighed down on his shoulders. Peter looked away, not wanting to meet Barnes' eyes. Instead, he focused on the plethora of various soaps littering the marble counter. “You can tell me, y’know. You can talk if you need to. Hell, cry, curse, scream. Whatever you need, kid. I was in the army, I assure you I've heard worse.”

Barnes laughed dryly then, though Peter wasn't quite sure what was supposed to be funny. Barnes pressed his lips together. “I want you to know if it’s okay to cry. I’m not… no ones going to judge you for it.”

“I don’t need to cry,” Peter croaked, glaring at him out of the corner of his eye. Fleeting shock flickered across Barnes' face.

Tears were a weakness, and Peter wasn’t weak. He wasn’t even sad. Why would he be sad? He was fine. Completely fine. Even as this cycle of being fine cycled through his head, unwilling tears sprang into his eyes. Peter sniffed, turning away.

Stupid antiseptic. It was the antiseptics fault. It probably got into his eyes or something. There was no other reason for him to cry. He was fine. Fine! Completely and totally fine… so fine…

A warped sob tried bubbling out of his throat. Peter locked his jaw and held it back, air fleeing his lungs. More tears threatened to pool over. His vision blurred.

Barned sighed, and the giant first aid kit scraped against the counter and thudded against the tile floor. “Can I sit here?” Barnes asked.

Peter shrugged. It wasn’t his bathroom, it was Wilsons. Peter didn’t have a say. Still, the fact that Barnes respected him enough to ask before coming close to him… it meant a lot to him.

A warm body pressed up next to him, shoulder to shoulder. After a few beats of silence, Barnes asked: “can I… I want to give you a hug… side hug… I don’t know the right terminology. Can I touch you?"

His stomach squirming, he shrugged and focused on his hands. Staring at his disgusting, torn nails and the irritated, swollen scratches against his palm. So ugly. So useless. Just like the rest of him. A heavy arm slung over his shoulder, Barnes sweaty skin sticking against Peter's equally sweaty neck. 

It’s not a hug. Not really. Even Peter, who had never been hugged before, knew that. It was too awkward. Too hesitant.

But it was more than enough.

In a flash, as if his body were moving of it's own accord, Peter pressed his face into Barnes' chest. Soft white fabric from Barnes' tank top gently caressed the fading bruised on his face from Mr. Colt. Cold dog tags pressed into his cheek. He felt Barnes stiffen against him, and panic seized him for a second, wondering if he made a horrible mistake. If Barned hated him.

But then the arm disappeared. Fingers brushed over his shoulder, over the hairs on the back of his neck, and disappeared into his curls. Hesitantly, like Barnes was scared he’d bite him or run away, he pet his hair gently.

The sob in the back of his throat escaped. 

It came out warped and rough, his voice frail from never being used. Heaving, gasping for air through broken lungs, Peter cried into Barnes' chest.  Heavy tears ran down his nose, sliding off his face and causing dark spots to appear on Barnes jeans. Muffled wails rocked his battered body. Pathetic, dog-like whimpers that made his face flush in shame were torn from his mouth. He found himself sinking against Barnes, falling as if he were a puppet with cut strings.

Barnes, for his credit, didn’t say anything. Didn’t berate him. Didn’t yell. Just let him lean against him, let him cry and ran his fingers through Peter’s hair, treating the messy mop that Peter loathed so much like it was something beautiful.

Peter pressed his hand against his mouth, stitches scratching against his lips, trying to desperately muffle the humiliating sounds coming from him. 

He didn’t even know why he was crying. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t sad. He had endured so much worse. Done so much worse. Barnes was helping him. Healing him. Finding a place for him to hide. 

Why was he crying at a time that was supposed to be good? Why was he so broken?

After what felt like hours but couldn't have been more than a few minutes, the tears dried up and stopped coming. His eyes were tired. His head was heavy and numb. Peter started sucking in deep, trembling breaths, trying to calm his screeching heart.

“It’s okay,” Barnes said quietly. The fingers in his hair tousled a couple curls. “It’s all going to be okay.”

Peter sniffed and wrapped his arms around himself. Nothing was okay.

As if he could read his mind, Barnes added: “I know it doesn’t feel okay, and that's… that’s alright. It will take a while, but I promise , this… all of this… the hard moments… they’ll become rare. Each day will be better than the last.”

Peter hung his head, staring down at Barnes' legs. The finger in his hair fell and started playing with the curls on the nape of his neck.

Alarm bells erupted through his mind.

Nope. Nuh uh. Didn't like that.

He immediately shrunk away. Mr. Holt and others had dragged him by the nape of the neck too many times… used it to shove him down, pull him up… make him… make him…

Peter didn’t like it.

Suddenly feeling cold and naked without the contact, Peter pulled his legs up against his chest, hiding his face in his knees and trying to make himself disappear.

Barnes sighed and shifted next to him.

“Pete, I… could you look at me?”

Still embarrassed, but not wanting to upset him, Peter peeked out between a few wispy tufts of brown hair. Barnes' lips were pressed together. He was staring intently. He looked… he looked like he was in front of a field of landmines, trying to figure out where to step so he didn't get blown to bits.

A hand rested on Peter’s knee. He flinched. It receded.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I… look. Listen to me. It’s over. It’s done. You are safe. They’re never going to hurt you again. Not while I’m here.”

Barnes sounded so earnest. So determined. Like he really meant it. Peter almost believed him.

Don’t make promises you can't keep, Peter thought dryly. 

Barnes' piercing eyes scanned over the rest of his body. “Does anywhere else hurt? Arm? Legs? Ribs? Are you breathing alright?”

His chest felt tight and there was a painful lump in his throat, but Peter merely nodded. He was fine. Barnes didn’t look like he believed him for one second, but just as he opened his mouth to say something else, a third voice interrupted them.

“I’m making supper,” Wilson said, leaning against the bathroom door. “If the kid eats… normal food.”

“ Sam ,” Barnes griped. Peter raised his eyebrows. Every trace of concern had vanished from Barnes toned, replaced with a flood of irritation. 

“What? Kid’s freaky. It’s a natural conclusion. Does he eat people food or not?” Wilson shot back defensively. He glared at Peter. “Do you eat people food?”

“Yes, Sam. He eats people food.”

“Good,” Wilson said, nodding. “Cause I don’t any of my neighbors to disappear, only to find that you wrapped them up in webs, digested them,  and then sucked out all their blood. Kay? Not acceptable. Not in my house.”

Barnes looked as disgusted as Peter felt.

Peter dropped his legs and leaned forward, studying into Wilsons eyes and trying to guess if he actually thought he did that. He was never good at deciphering expressions.

“What the hell?”  Barnes sounded very disappointed and very exasperated, but not all that surprised.

“That’s what spiders do!” Wilson insisted, pointing at Barnes. “I just googled it. They melt down their preys flesh into soup, and then they suck it all up through a straw connected to their butt.”

That's not what spiders do, Peter thought. They suck their food into their stomach through their mouth. Also, is he serious?

“He’s a person, Sam. Not a spider.”

“Debatable,” Wilson argued.

“Boys!” Romanov called from the other side of the house, her voice distant. “Don’t make me come in there!”

“He started it!” They both yelled in unison.

Wilson pretended to reach into his pocket for something, only to produce his middle finger. Barnes just glared.

“Nat says we should talk,” Wilson stated.

“Good. We should.”

“I know we should.”

“Great.”

“Great.”

Peter watched simultaneously amused, confused, and concerned. The two had a way of sounding like they were fighting even when they were agreeing. Neither broke eye contact in the silence that followed. It was as if they were having a telepathic conversation that only Peter was not privy to.

“I can hear you gazing into each other’s eyes melodramatically from here!” Romanov yelled. “Cut it out! The kids have been through enough without being forced to witness your weird relationship!”

“We don’t have a relationship!” Wilson snapped back.

“I can barely stand this guy!” replied Barnes.

Peter wasn’t so sure he bought that. Afterall, Barnes took them to his house. And after all, Wilson had let them in. 

Barnes grumbled something under his breath that Peter couldn't quite catch, shrugged on his jacket, and passed his blue hoodie over to him. Peter accepted it, the soft fabric running like water under his sore fingers.

“Case you get cold,” Barnes muttered. He rubbed the back of his head, shooting Wilson another glare before turning fully to Peter. “I’ll be just down the hall. Take all the time you need.”

“Woah woah, hang on. I don’t love the idea of leaving Jason Dean here alone in my house.”

“He’s fine.” Barnes stated bluntly. 

“You didn’t understand my reference, did you?”

“I understood it,” Barnes insisted.

“Yeah, right,” Wilson replied, before turning back to Peter. “No creepy spider shit! I’m serious, if I come back here and you’ve laid eggs everywhere, I… I'm gonna freak out. Seriously. You?” He stuck out his thumb in a poor imitation of hitchhiking. “Outta here. Got it?”

“You are so disappointing on so many levels,” Barned muttered, shoving past him.

Wilson turned and followed him out. “C’mon man. Dude shoots webs and climbs walls? You’re not worried he’s going to grow another limb or something?”

“No, no I’m not.” Barnes' voice grew distant and muffled.

“You should be. Because growing limbs is not allowed under my roof.”

“Good to know.”

“I don’t want him hypnotizing any women, either!”

“What women do you have at your house?” scoffed Barnes. “Your mom?”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” Wilson replied indignantly. “I’ll have you know the cute receptionist at the VA is all over this . And my mom is a delightful woman.”

“I never said she wasn’t…”

A door clicked shut, and Peter could no longer make out their conversation unless he strained his ears. Which he didn't care to do, since all they were saying seemed to be mindless, lighthearted bickering.

Instead, Peter hopped down from the bathroom counter and stretched his legs.  He should probably be feeling guilty right now, which he did, but it wasn’t the gut wrenching, self-loathing shame that usually burned through him. He was more… numb? Drained? Detached?

Who knows. Certainly not him. 

Emotions were as unclear as a dead, static tv channel. It felt like his body was moving without him in it. Like even though he was physically in the room, he wasn’t really there. He was watching from the sidelines. Peter sighed and pulled his dirty shirt over his head, swapping it for the soft blue sweatshirt. Psychologists would probably have a field day with him.

He turned the golden colored faucet and splashed some cool, crisp water onto his face, trying to snap out of it. To try to come back to his body.

Didn't work.

Sparing only a quick glance at the bright pink bandage covering his nose, Peter pulled up his hood, hugged the fabric closely around him, and crept down the hall. Might as well explore. See what kind of person he was dealing with here.

Pictures donned the greenish-gray walls. Though this was Wilson's house, he only appeared in a few, and only when in a group. There wasn’t a single picture of just himself. 

There was a clear, crisp image of Wilson with a woman who looked like him and two young boys, all of them laughing. A smaller picture of Romanov and Rogers, dressed in running gear and sweaty and out of breath, but smiling brightly. An old, faded polaroid of a white cat with black patches. A weathered frame holding the women and kids from before, and Barnes, who looked out of place in front of a rickety boat and surrounded by grinning fishermen. An official looking photograph of a young man with sandy brown hair, a blue air force uniform, and a ginormous, self assured grin, standing in front of an American flag.

And so it went on. Endless pictures of people Peter could only assume were Wilson's friends and family. 

He had seen family pictures before, of course, when Hydra took him to the homes of his victims… but this felt different…

Peter wondered what it would be like… to be loved by someone so much, that they took the time to take a picture of you, purchase a frame for it, and hang it up in a place everyone could see. To be so loved that someone wanted a constant reminder of you.

Instead of sadness, the cold, hollowed out feeling simply grew.

No one would ever want a picture of him. No one in their right mind would ever want to be reminded of him.

Even if he wasn’t painful to look at, scrawny with too big eyes and too big ears, uncontrollable, messy hair… he was a bad person. No one wanted to think about bad people. About monsters.

Peter squeezed his waist tighter, the hood falling down over his eyes. Barnes sweatshirt smelled like sandalwood, cinnamon, gunpowder and smoke. Its felt like safety.

Pushing up his hood and pulling his attention away from the framed images decorating the walls, Peter continued his trek down the narrow hallway, poking his head into an adjoining room every so often. An empty bedroom, bare of any clothes or personal items. A cramped laundry room. A gym with wide windows and a giant TV attached to the wall. A well organized linen closet.

Floorboards creaked under his feet.

Eventually he reached the last room. Deciding it was either stay here or go see whatever Barnes was doing, Peter slipped inside, softly shutting the door behind him. For whatever reason, he needed to be alone right now.

The room was small. More of a large walk in closet, really. A long black desk was pressed against two of the walls like a giant L. Matching cupboards and cabinets dropped down to the floor and reached all the way to the ceiling. Shelves filled with books loomed over his head.

Static electricity clung to his socks as stalked across the gray rug. 

Peter lowered himself into the red leather chair, slowly swaying back and forth. A few more personal photos sat in the corner of the desk. Two school photos of bespectacled young boys that looked like Wilson. Barnes, with an arm missing, long hair that reached his shoulders and unruly facial hair, and Wilson, sitting together on a log in the middle of a forest, surrounded by baby goats. Romanov perched on top of an indifferent Rogers' shoulders.

Wilson seemed to really love his friends.

It caused an aching pang of longing to pull at Peter's heart.

A few notes were pinned to a small bulletin board behind the photos. A To-Do list… a yellow sticky note with “R3dW1ng4Ever'' scrawled across it… a shiny postcard from Delacroix, Louisiana dated from a week ago, nearly identical to the one Barnes had received… A small calendar with the words “Halloween @ Sarahs,” “Thanksgiving,” “anniversary of Riley’s death,” “Tony promised to be done upgrading Red Wing,” all written down in neat, slanted handwriting. 

Nothing particularly interesting. 

A tall stack of books sat between a shiny black printer and a small black laptop. Having nothing better to do, he flipped through them.

There was a pocket sized New Testament Bible with annotated margins… a weathered book with a tree on the front called Cane River Lalita Tademy…  The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins... a brand new, untouched copy of The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien... a thin red book called Rage: A Step-by-Step Guide to Overcoming Explosive Anger…   a blue hardcover book labeled The Fault in Our Stars by John Green... a worn dark blue book with yellow letters reading: A Tree Grows in Brooklyn: A Novel by Betty Smith…

Peter flipped through a thick black and white copy of Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky. It was completely in Russian.

He set them aside, shaking his head. Either Wilson was really indecisive about books, or he kept a supply of stories he thought his friends would like. Based on what he knew of the man, Peter would be willing to bet the latter. This investigation wasn’t producing half as much as Peter had hoped. All he was learning was that Wilson was neat, cared about his friends and family, and…

That was about it. No secret motives. No double crossing.

It didn't fill Peter with confidence. If anything, suspicion surged through him with a renewed strength. No one was that nice just for the sake of being nice… right?

He slumped down in the chair, resting his chin on his hand. There had to be something. Anything.

Peter pushed off of a filing cabinet with his feet and spun the chair in a circle. Tufts of brown hair flopped over his forehead. He spun again. And again. Wind rushed around him like an uncontrollable river. His heart flipped the same way it did when he was swinging through the air with his webs. 

Something smacked his elbow. A bright light filled his vision. Peter dug his feet into the rug, coming to an abrupt stop, being thrown forward and just barely catching himself on the desk. The room spun around him. Nausea brewed in his stomach. 

A computer mouse sat knocked onto its side. The laptop  had turned on to reveal a locked screen.

Peter hesitated.

He shouldn't. It would be a bad idea.

The last time he snooped on a locked computer he found out his whole life was a lie, ran away, and caused a diner to be shot up. Barnes certainly trusted this guy, and Peter hadn’t seen anything to prove otherwise… 

But then again…

Peter spent a full thirty seconds staring blankly at the computer, debating with himself. As per usual, his curiosity won.

Pulling the chair up against the desk, Peter swiftly rolled up his ginormous sleeves and went through the same decoding process he had done at Hydra to unlock his files. The one he had seen hackers do countless times.

“ Password Incorrect,” the laptop stated.

He blinked, confused. Did he do it wrong? Hesitantly this time, making sure to observe each button he clicked, Peter sent another virus to eat away at the fire wall.

“Password Incorrect,” the computer repeated in its emptiness, dead voice. “ You have one attempt remaining. Then the computer shall enter emergency intruder protocol.”

That didn't sound good.

Peter bit his bottom lip. There was no way he had entered it wrong. It wasn’t until he flipped the laptop over, looking for any clue as to what was going wrong, that he understood. In tiny, engraved letters near the laptops fan, were the words StarkTech, Prototype V12.

Of course.

Stark was a world renowned engineer. Of course he would have added impeccable security to his friend's computer. Peter grimaced. If he actually knew what he was doing, and wasn’t just copying something he had seen other Hydra agents do, he could probably get through the firewall. After all, no castle was impenetrable. 

He tapped his fingers together idly and leaned back in the chair. As he was not at all fond of finding out what “emergency intruder protocol” was, the most logical course of action would be to give up. After all, Wilson seemed fine.

But then again, Mr. Colt had seemed fine to him, too. 

Peter's eyes drifted past the laptop and stuck onto the small bulletin board. An idea struck him. Well, in the worst case scenario he either goes to prison or gets killed. Both of which will probably happen anyways.

Last chance, Peter, he thought to himself. Last chance, and then it’s game over. Make it good.

Leaning back over the computer, Peter slowly entered: “R3dW1ng4Ever”

The laptop thought.

It thought about it some more.

And then…

“Password Accepted. Welcome Toucan Sam. ”

Toucan Sam?

Peter thought for a minute, and quickly decided he didn't want to know. 

Wilsons desktop was well organized, with everything in a neat spot and a label. Prototypes for his suit, for something called RedWing… A file labeled “Flag Smashers — Case Closed,” and a file labeled “VA Therapy Notes” immediately caught his attention, but after a few minutes of snooping he ended up empty handed. Peter huffed, clicking out of the files. There had to be something. 

It didn't take long for him to locate an encrypted messaging board. That was significantly easier to get access too. Wilson apparently didn't seem to be concerned with adding security beyond the initial password.

There were a couple chats… something with SHIELD, something with the VA…

But what really drew Peter to it, was a chat room with extensive conversation going back years. The most recent message was dated earlier that day.
Now I’m getting somewhere, Peter thought to himself.

Suddenly paranoid, he listened for a moment, stretching his hearing all the way to the kitchen. Barnes and Wilson were bickering, with Romanov adding commentary every now and then. Metal pans clinked together. Paper pages flipped back and forth. A fly buzzed.

They weren’t paying attention to him.

Without any more thinking, Peter clicked on “Avenge Chat” and scrolled back a couple weeks.

Oct. 15, 14:26

Old Man Jenkins: Tony, please change my codename back. Thank you. Steve.

You Know Who I Am: Dearest, beloved Steven.

You Know Who I Am: No.

You Know Who I Am: Love always, the guy who makes everything <3 <3

Platypus: Tones this is unprofessional.

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: Idk, I like mine :)

Platypus: Thats because you’re a nerd, Nat.

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: >:(

Katniss: Oh no you made her mad everyone run

Bird Brains: Ooh what's mine?

Bird Brains:...

Bird Brains: I hate you Stark

Old Man Jenkins: Tony, this is an official Shield communications device. Please follow protocol, and change our codenames back. This is a hazard. Thank you. Steve.

Six Million Dollar Man: Steve, you don’t have to sign your name each time.

Six Million Dollar Man: Also I don’t get mine.

Bird Brains: I do!!! I get it!!!!

Bird Brains: Hhahahahahahahahahahaa

Roadrunner BEEP BEEP: ha ha i undfweruestood theat references its cbeocaes hes a robitr perdon like the gu o in the film reight :::???

Katniss: Kid, take time to type.

Point Break: FRIENDS I AM SPEAKING TO YOU THROUGH THIS CELLULAR DEVICE CAN YOU HEAR ME

Point Break: BANNER AM I DOING THIS RIGHT

Jolly Green Giant: Yes, Thor. You’re doing fine.

In the words of Barnes… What the hell?

Peter wrinkled his nose, ignoring the sting of his cut. Who were these people? The first guy had been referred to as “Tony” and “Stark” respectively, so… Tony Stark? He rubbed his mouth, scrolling past that conversation.

C’mon. There had to be something useful here. 

These are the Avengers, Peter thought. Earth Mightiest Heroes. Hydras biggest threat. Weren't they supposed to be super formal and smart and stuff?

Oct. 31, 19:30

You Know Who I Am: HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!

You Know Who I Am: Morgan dressed up as her favorite superhero.

You Know Who I Am: Guess who?

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: Me?

You Know Who I Am: …

You Know Who I Am: No, but that would be really cute.

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: :)

Katniss: Me?

You Know Who I Am: Not even in your dreams, Legolas.

Woodstock: Ha!

Woodstock: Wait why is my name different

You Know Who I Am: changed my mind

Old Man Jenkins: Tony, I once again am requesting you change our names back. Thank you. old man jenkins.

Old Man Jenkins: old man jenkins

Old Man Jenkins: old man jenkins

Old Man Jenkins: why can’t I say old man jenkins

Six Million Dollar Man: I don’t want to be in this group chat.

Old Man Jenkins: Bucky I cant say my name

Old Man Jenkins: Every time I write old man jenkins it says old man jenkins

Old Man Jenkins: See?

Six Million Dollar Man: Bye.

Old Man Jenkins: Buck don’t leave

“Six Million Dollar Man” has left the chat

You Know Who I Am: Drumroll please

Sabrina the Teenage Witch: Tony, stop tormenting Steve.

You Know Who I Am: ME!!!

“You Know Who I Am” has shared a picture

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: awwww :)

Katniss: I would have been a better choice.

Tinkerbell: Awww. 

Tinkerbell: Cassie is going as Hope :)

Tinkerbell: I mean the Wasp

Tinkerbell: Was I supposed to say her real name

Woodstock: That’s cut Tony

Woodstock: *Cute*

Woodstock: Me, @JBBarnes and my nephews are going as the ninja turtles

Woodstock: My sis is April

“Six Million Dollar Man” has joined the chat

Six Million Dollar Man: I deny everything

“Six Million Dollar Man” has left the chat

Roadrunner BEEP BEEP: yikuygv asfew took ladfe ild m i already  toonb  her toi k or testing and also we eggsed somdonecs house

You Know Who I Am: huh

Sabrina the Teenage Witch: Pietro said you’re too late and he already took her trick or treating. Among other things.

You Know Who I Am: W H A T

Roadrunner BEEP BEEP: you snboose you loose!!!

Sabrina the Teenage Witch: He says you snooze you lose

You know Who I Am: WHAT

Tinkerbell: Seriously guys did you already know Hope was the wasp

Tinkerbell: Did I just expose her secret identity

Tinkerbell: Guys

Tinkerbell: Guys she’ll kill me

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: Clint remember when we used to dress up as each other

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: We should do it again

Katniss: Wish I could, but I can't. 

Katniss: Well, can, but won't. 

Katniss: Should, maybe, but shorn't.

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: :(

Woodstock: I understood that reference

You Know Who I Am: NOW SHE”S GOING TO GET TWICE AS MUCH CANDY SHE”LL BE UP ALL NIGHT

Roadrunner BEEP BEEP: llie faouterher lidk daughter

Sabrina the Teenage Witch: He says like father like daughter

You Know Who I Am: YOU LITTLE

Katniss: I’d dress up with you Nat but the kids, Laura, and Kate already pulled me into this video game themed costume thing.

Katniss: I’m Mario

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: Kate? Whose Kate?

Katniss: Kate’s Luigi

Tinkerbell: Guys???

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: No, I mean who is Kate. I’ve never heard you talk about her before.

Katniss: Kate is new. 

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: Barton, did you replace me??

Woodstock: Aw man she’s mad now

Woodstock: You better run

Katniss: Of course not

You Know Who I Am: DO YOU REALIZE HOW MUCH I’M GONNA HAVE TO BRIBE HER WITH TO GET HER TO SLEEP AFTER ALL THAT SUGAR

You Know Who I am: PEPPER IS GOING TO KILL ME

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: What’s her last name? I’m taking her down.

Katniss: Believe it or not, that wouldn't be the first time an ex-red room assassin tracked her down,

Katniss: Also no

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: I’m taking her kneecaps. She has lost knee cap privileges

Katniss: Nat, you don’t even know her.

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: You know what? You’ve also lost kneecap privileges.

Katniss: What did I do!?!?

“Roadrunner BEEP BEEP” has left the chat

You Know Who I Am: OH NO YOU DONT

You Know Who I Am: @PMaximoff

You Know Who I Am: @PMaximoff

You Know Who I Am: @PMaximoff

You Know Who I Am: @PMaximoff

You Know Who I Am: YOU GET BACK HERE I WILL KILL YOU

You Know Who I Am: IF I”M GOING DOWN FOR THIS YOURE COMING WITH ME

“Roadrunner BEEP BEEP” has joined the chat

Roadrunner BEEP BEEP: ypougv  wi.l fen veb riue fd me

Sabrina the Teenage Witch: He says you’ll never find him.

Sabrina the Teenage Witch: Also, he’s in Vision's closet.

Roadrunner BEEP BEEP: WAMMNNNDAAAAAAAA

Peter’s mouth was hanging open and his eyebrows were nearly at his hairline. This is what they were using this high tech, confidential messaging system for?

No. No way. He… He had fought the Avengers. They were smarter than this. There had to be some sort of code. Yeah, a code! All this nonsense actually meant something else.

Peter bit his lip and squinted his eyes against the harsh computer light, rereading a few sentences. 

Okay, they are threatening each other a lot. Friends don’t threaten each other, right? That’s bad. So it had to be a code? Right? He huffed. Okay.

This “@JBBarnes/Six Million Dollar Man” guy had to be Barnes. No question about it. It even sounded like him.

All the writing on the right from “Bird Brains” and “Woodstock” had to be Wilson, because this was his computer.

“You Know Who I Am” was Tony Stark. “Roadrunner BEEP BEEP” was Maximoff. “Ginny Weasley but More Scary” was… he wasn’t sure…maybe Romanov?

No, her name was Natalia, right? Maybe Nat was short for Natalia?

In Peter's confusion, it hit him.

These were codenames. Of course! Stark was a genius, he obviously gave the Avengers these fake names in case someone like him broke into their chat, that way they would have no idea who is who! And that, on top of whatever code they were currently using, would completely obscure whatever information they were discussing.

Of course. Of course. That had to be it. Yeah.

There was no other logical reason for professional superheroes to be teasing each other like children. Had to be code. Had to be…

Peter scrolled down a month, scanning for any ways to break the code.

Nov. 20, 13:42

You Know Who I Am: Has anyone seen Manchurian Candidate?? I want to try out some upgrades with the arm

Katniss: Who?

You Know Who I Am: Terminator?

You Know Who I Am: Robocop?

You Know Who I Am: Six Million Dollar Man?

You Know Who I Am: Inspector Gadget?

Big Bird: He means Bucky

Big Bird: He’s at the cemetery.

Big Bird: Also, “Big Bird”?? Really?

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: Y’know, I don’t think he actually knows our names

You Know Who I Am: I take offense to that, Redhead #2

Old Man Jenkins: Sam, why is Buck at the cemetery? Is everything alright? Steve.

Katniss: The way you text pains me

Big Bird: Some stuff his therapist recommended

Big Bird: Making Amends

Big Bird: Getting Closure

Big Bird: He’s fine

Old Man Jenkins: Sam, are you sure? Steve.

Big Bird: Totally one hundred percent sure

Alright, this was interesting… The conversation broke off here and led into a separate chatroom. Peter tilted his head and followed the trail.

PRIVATE CHAT

Big Bird: Dude you’ve been gone a long time

Big Bird: Are you alright?

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: What are you talking about?

Big Bird: Wait who is this

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: Nat

Big Bird: Crap I thought I was messaging Bucky

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: I thought you said he was fine

Big Bird: I’m just a bit worried that’s all

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: You should tell Steve

Big Bird: No

Big Bird: He’s been super freaked out about all the deaths lately

Big Bird: I don’t want to push more onto him when its probably nothing.

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: We’re gonna figure out whose going after the Shield agents and their families, Sam. It’ll be fine.

Big Bird: I know we will

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: Maybe you should go check on Bucky

Big Bird: I think I will. But I need an excuse

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: An Excuse?

Big Bird: Well yeah

Big Bird: I can’t just go check up on him

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: Why not?

Big Bird: Cause then he’ll think I care about him.

Ginny Weasley but More Scary:... You do care about him, Sam…

Big Bird: Yeah, but I don’t want him to know that.

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: You’re really dumb, you know that, right

Big Bird: hey

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: Go get your truck. We’re gonna go pick him up.

Peter exhaled.

Well, he was right about the one guy being Wilson, right about “Six Million Dollar Man” being Barnes, and a little more confident that “Ginny Weasley but More Scary” was Romanov…

On the other hand,  he was slightly less confident that these codenames served a greater purpose. He rubbed his chin and went back to the main chat.  Already in this deep, might as well keep going.

AVENGERS CHAT

Nov 20, 14:05

You Know Who I Am: Russ Thompson, Jr

You Know Who I Am: Thumbelina 

You Know Who I Am: Smurfette

You Know Who I Am: The Munchkin

You Know Who I Am: Snow Whites Missing Dwarf

Tinkerbell: wow he’s still going

Katniss: You asked. You brought this upon yourself Scott

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: Sam and I are going to Dairy Queen. Brb.

Katniss: Can I come??

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: No

Jolly Green Giant: Are you still upset he replaced you with that Kate person?

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: No

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: I met Kate

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: She’s perfectly pleasant

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: I just don't want him getting ice cream all over the car 

Katniss: :( 

You Know Who I Am: Thumbtack

You Know Who I Am: Tic-Tac

You Know Who I Am:  Bug Boy

You Know Who I Am:  Stuart Little

Old Man Jenkins: Tony, we get the picture. You can stop now. Steve.

17:28

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: Bad news.

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: Fury called.

You Know Who I Am: That is bad news.

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: Another ex-Shield agent was found dead with her family

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: Let’s all meet at the compound.

Peter sat up straight.

He might be completely lost with all the nicknames and bickering, but SHIELD information he would gladly sift through. When he rechecked the date, though, Peter’s eager smile slid off his face.

Oh. Oh no.

That was the most recent family he killed. They were talking about him. Bile rose up in his throat. His blood ran cold. Did they know? 

Peter shuddered. He clicked on the computer mouse with trembling fingers.

Nov 22, 12:21

Boss would like me to inform everyone that an emergency meeting has been called. All available Avengers converge on the second level of the compound, East Wing.

Jolly Green Giant: Emergency??? Friday, is it bad??

I cannot share at this time.

Jolly Green Giant: Crap. On my way.

Platypus: Fri, I’m on the West Coast in a super serious meeting rn. Unless the world is literally about to end, tell Tony where he can shove his meeting.

I do not understand.

Platypus: Then paraphrase

Point Break: FRIENDS I AM ON MY WAY

Point Break: I AM LEAVING MY BROTHER IN CHARGE

Jolly Green Giant: Thor, that’s an awful idea.

Point Break: WHO IS THIS GREEN GIANT AND WHY IS HE JOLLY

Many Avengers in this chat have not responded. I shall now check their exact location through their tracking devices in their phones.

Jolly Green Giant: Of course we have trackers.

Processing…

Processing…

Processing…

The Vision and Miss Maximoff are in New York, at a Broadway show. Her phone is off… Vision is also not responding…

Mister Maximoff is moving too fast to track…

King T’Challa is in Wakanda…

Mister Strange is in Nepal… He is in an area with no service…

Miss Danvers is off planet and unable to respond…

The Guardians of the Galaxy are off planet and unable to respond…

I will report back to the boss with my findings.

What?!

It wasn’t going to show him the actual meeting?!

Peter erratically ran his fingers through his hair. They knew. They definitely knew. They knew what a horrible monster he was. This was a trap. It was all a trap.

Air got trapped in his throat. He was going to throw up.

Peter rubbed his face harshly. If he had eaten at all recently, no doubt it would be all over the floor. As it was, though, he was only burping up hot chocolate flavored bile. This was a mistake. He should never have looked.

But, no. Wait. It’s better this way.

Now he knows this is a trap. They’re out to get him. They’re going to kill him. He would deserve it.

Peter continued reading, even as he felt like he was going to pass out.

PRIVATE CHAT

Nov. 24, 02:45

Woody Woodpecker: Hey, where did Bucky go?

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: ?

Woody Woodpecker: You two were talking and then he just disappeared

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: He went home.

Woody Woodpecker: Why?

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: He needed a break.

Woody Woodpecker: Don’t we all.

Woody Woodpecker: Hate this

Woody Woodpecker: Why’d it have to be a kid behind all this?

Woody Woodpecker:...

Woody Woodpecker: It’s really unlike him to just disappear like this.

Woody Woodpecker: Is Bucky taking it okay?

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: He’s fine.

Woody Woodpecker: Are you sure? Maybe I should talk to him.

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: He’ll be fine, Sam. Just give him some space.

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: All he needs is a little time to gather his thoughts.

Woody Woodpecker:...

Woody Woodpecker: Okay.

Woody Woodpecker: But I’m not happy about it.

“Why’d it have to be a kid behind all this?”

They knew. Peter’s stomach clenched.  Oh, he was going to be sick. 

But it wasn't all his fault! It was Hydra! And… and the sleeper agents. Did the Avengers even know about the sleeper agents? They had too. Then they’d know it wasn’t all him. It was more complicated.

But if they knew then why hadn’t they stopped them?

Peter's thoughts were pingponging around his brain faster than he could process them.

AVENGERS CHAT

Nov. 26 06:13

You Know Who I Am: I am a genius.

You Know Who I Am: … hello??

You Know Who I Am: HELLO

You Know Who I Am: AM I JUST SCREAMING INTO THE VOID

You Know Who I Am: I SAID

You Know Who I Am: I!!!

You Know Who I Am: AM!!!

You Know Who I Am: A!!!

You Know Who I Am: GENIUUUUUS!!!!!

You Know Who I Am:....

You Know Who I Am:...

You Know Who I Am: Fine. I’ve been left no choice.

You Know Who I Am: @everyone 

Feather Brain: why have you done this

Platypus: Tony I will kill you. I’m not even kidding.

Jolly Green Giant: What’s this about?

Sabrina the Teenage Witch: Tony.. it is… six in the morning.

Sabrina the Teenage Witch: We just went to bed a couple hours ago

Sabrina the Teenage Witch: If you don’t have a good reason to wake us up, I will hex you and make you think you are a frog.

You Know Who I Am: Noted.

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: I’m with the kid on this one, Tony.

Old Man Jenkins: Natasha, you were already awake. We’re still going over the notes. Steve.

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: I thought you were talking to Bucky on the phone??

Old Man Jenkins: Natasha, we need to continue going over these files. Hill is going to become annoyed. Steve.

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: Y’know, it’s really sad watching Steve type. He takes years to slowly hit each individual letter with his pointer finger.

Katniss: Lol dummy

You Know Who I Am: Guys pay attention to me

King T’Challa: What is the meaning of all this?

Katniss: Hi T’Challa :)

King T’Challa: Who are you?

Katniss: :(

You Know Who I Am: Oh we were just talking about this new killer spider hydra child whose killing everyone and no one was paying attention to my genius cause I figures out what makes his dna go all sticky and weird well kinda I don't know the exact reason why he started mutating like this but I have my theories and now i know how he does the things ith the stuff

Platypus: Tones, when’s the last time you slept?

You Know Who I Am: Yes.

Doctor Strange: This is ridiculous. Don’t send a notification to everyone again. Good bye.

Xu Shang-Chi: Woah. This is crazy :o

You Know Who I Am: Who is this person

Xu Shang-Chi: Hi I’m Shaun :) Happy to be here

Platypus: How did you get here?

Xu Shang-Chi: Wong added me incase of an emergency. Is there an emergency??

You Know Who I Am:...

“You Know Who I Am” has kicked “Xu Shang-Chi” from the chat.

You Know Who I Am: I don’t have the slightest clue who that was.

Katniss: Tony you have ten seconds to tell us what you want before I come to your room in your sleep and strangle you.

You Know Who I Am: Jokes on u buster I don’t sleep ever

Katniss: I will kill you

You Know Who I Am: I’m not scared of you

Carol Danvers: Stark.

You Know Who I Am: You I am scared of.

Carol Danvers: Start talking.

You Know Who I Am: okay okay okay so. You all know how the kid does all the sticky and the climby and the webs and the swingy and stuff.

Feather Brain: He’s delirious from lack of sleep

Platypus: What about it, Tony?

You Know Who I Am: WELL! Brucie bear and I ran some tests cuz the kids dna was all wonky, right? @DrBruceBanner?

Jolly Green Giant: Hm?

Jolly Green Giant: Oh, uh yeah.

You Know Who I Am: And when I say wonky, I mean twilight level zones of wonky. Like someone better get Scully and Mulder on the case!

Old Man Jenkins: Everyone, I’m so confused. Steve.

You Know Who I Am: We did the old test stuff and BOOM

You Know Who I Am: Kids a spider.

Katniss: ??

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: Tony, no one knows what you're saying.

Jolly Green Giant: Peter’s DNA has been combined with that of a spider, along with a significant amount of radiation. We’re still trying to figure out how.

Feather Brain: So those webs are coming out of him?!?

Jolly Green Giant: No, the webs appear to be an aesthetic choice.

Sabrina the Teenage Witch: So… how does this help us?

Jolly Green Giant: Beyond helping us understand his powers more, it doesn't as of now. Tony’s just tired.

Platypus: I literally just got out of the airport. I’m heading to the compound now. Tony, if you’re not sleeping by the time I get there, I’m gonna be ticked.

You Know Who I Am: I cannot sleep i am SCIENCING!!!!

Ginny Weasley but More Scary: I’m not dealing with this. Night.

Old Man Jenkins: Natasha, Hill wants you to come help with something on the computer. Would you like me to do it so you can get some rest? Steve.

Feather Brain: Night everyone.

They have my DNA?! Peter thought, aghast. What… what… are they trying to take away my powers?

That would be worse than death. Peter wouldn't let them. He was fine letting them take anything Hydra gave him. He was fine if they locked him up  or if they killed him. But his powers were the one thing he had before Hydra. Before… everything. The video he saw proved it. His powers were the only thing he had that were his. Completely, totally his. He wouldn't let them take them. 

Is that why Barnes was being so nice to him? This was all one big act? One big ruse?

How could he be so gullible?! So stupid?

He always trusted the worst people.

Nov. 26, 14:05

Jolly Green Giant: Um… has anyone seen the news??

Katniss: Psshhhh you watch the news??

Old Man Jenkins: I haven't picked up the newspaper yet.

Jolly Green Giant: When is the last time anyone's spoke to Nat or Bucky?

Toucan Sam: The other day. Why? What's going on, man?

Jolly Green Giant: This.

“Jolly Green Giant” has shared a link to www.Youtube.com

 “ WHIH Newsfront with Christine Everhart LIVE — Manhattan Attack”

You Know Who I Am: That newscaster looks familiar??

Jolly Green Giant: Just watch, Tony.

You Know Who I Am:...

You Know Who I Am:... 

Katniss: W H AA T

Toucan Sam: Is that Nat and Bucky?!?

Katniss: NO THAT’S MY FAVORITE DINER

Platypus: I’m making some calls.

Old Man Jenkins: Everyone, I cannot open the video. What’s going on? Steve.

You Know Who I Am: FFS Steve come down to my lab you can watch on my phone

Old Man Jenkins:

Old Man Jenkins:

Old Man Jenkins: Is that Bucky?!

Toucan Sam: They’re not picking up their phones.

Sabrina the Teenage Witch: What’s going on? Is everyone okay?

Roadrunner BEEP BEEP: howlefdcy dshit washt whayrsd did nat abd baredsn blwsd up   a resdrtsaunfdst

Sabrina the Teenage Witch: The news says it was Hydra. But who was the third person with them?

Toucan Sam: What?

Sabrina the Teenage Witch: The lady is saying there were 3 people seen fleeing the scene. If two were Nat and Bucky, who was the third? 

Old Man Jenkins: Pietro, grab Wanda and get down to Manhattan as fast as you can. Stop the fire from spreading and help civilians to safety. Wanda, get inside people's heads and see if you can figure out what happened.

Old Man Jenkins: Shield agents and more of us will follow shortly.

Roadrunner BEEP BEEP: on my wsy

Old Man Jenkins: Tony, keep trying to contact Bucky and Nat. 

You Know Who I Am: Three steps ahead of you Cap

Old Man Jenkins: Everyone who's at the compound, get to the control room now.

Toucan Sam: What about those of us not at the compound??

Tinkerbell: Yeah. What about us???

Old Man Jenkins: Sit tight for now. Keep this line of communication open. Call at the first sign of trouble and any message from Bucky and/or Nat. Steve.

“What do you got there?”

Peter shoved away from the desk, the back of his chair smacking into the wall. Every hair standing on edge, trembling, he frantically looked at Romanov. She was leaning against the doorway, taking in the small room. Peter's eyes flickered back to the computer. It was angled away from her, but the chat room was still open. She’d see it as soon as she walked in.

“Dinners ready,” Romanov stated simply, her tone and expression giving nothing away. Peter gulped.

She moved aside and gestured to the hall. 

Peter’s eyes flickered back and forth from her to the computer, to her, and then back at the computer. As he passed, he subtly reached towards the keyboard.

“Leave it,” Romanov demanded. Peter winced. 

All desire to defy her and cover his tracks vanished into thin air as he stared into her terrifying emerald eyes. “Danger level: … 100%...” rang through his mind. Peter slunk out of the room, watching fearfully as she studied the screen, typed something on the keyboard, and shut the laptop. 

What did she just type? Did she let the other Avengers know he’s here? Was a SWAT team coming? A SHIELD team? 

Was he gonna die?

“Sam made breakfast for dinner, so hope you like pancakes,” she commented, shutting the door behind her.

Peter stared at the door. He could rush in, lock it, and then figure out what she said. But there were no exits in the room. She would get in eventually. So would Barnes and Wilson. And SHIELD. He couldn't take them all.

“You coming?”

Peter nodded stiffly and followed her down the hall, feeling like a moth soaring towards a bug zapper. Maybe he should just run. Run as far away as possible. Get out while he still could. Where would he go? Hydra was sure to find him.  But if he stayed, SHIELD would get him.

It all came down to which one he was more scared of.

“...think he’s shell shocked,” Barnes' voice became clearer as they got closer. Peter tensed.

“It’s called PTSD now. I know you know that,” Wilson responded. Metal scraped against metal. “And I’m serious, like, how did he know where you lived? What—”

Their conversation ceased like water being tossed on a fire as soon as he and Romanov rounded the corner and appeared under the large archway leading to the kitchen.

Fiddling with the sweatshirt strings and avoiding everyone's watchful eyes, Peter crept towards the corner between the sleek black fridge and giant thin floor to ceiling windows. The blinds were tightly closed, but he’d still be able to get out if he really needed to.

Golden baseball trophies and a black speaker sat on a shelf above his head. Next to those, a myriad of half eaten condiments, such as mustard and ketchup, cluttered the top of the fridge. To his right was a wooden wine rack attached to the wall, with upside down wine glasses hanging from it. 

Food cluttered the counters. Flour, eggs, milk, sugar, bacon, fruit… things Peter couldn't even name. Everywhere. Wilson cleaned it up, every so often glancing over to give Peter an indecipherable look. Brown wooden cabinets were wide open, revealing a plethora of cooking utensils. The dish rack was stacked full of damp, freshly washed dishes.

Romanov pulled up a chair at the long dining room table, kicking her feet up on top of it and opening a small paperback book.

Barnes' eyes were locked on him. Peter focused on his dirty fingernails. Silence hung heavily in the air.

It was Wilson who eventually broke it. “You’re doing the staring thing again.”

Barnes blinked, his eyebrows pushing together. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You’re gonna creep the kid out.”

“Kid’s fine,” Barnes argued.

Wilson shook his head, tossing a rag aside and pulling open the oven. Heat rolled over Peter, clinging to him. As Wilson tugged on bright red oven mitts and pulled out a tray of… something  — little bumps of bread with purple dots — he turned to face Peter.

“He been staring creepily at you the whole time you’ve known him?”

“ Sam.”

Peter looked to Barnes for help. No such luck. Barnes was too busy glaring a hole into the side of Wilson's head.

“It’s a thing you get used to. Don’t take it too personally,” Wilson offered, setting aside his pan and pulling off the mitts.

It was true that Barnes stared a lot… Peter figured that out during their very first meeting in Siberia… He had just assumed it was normal.

“ Sam.”

“What? I can’t give the kid a word of friendly advice?” Wilson scoffed. He tore a piece of the steaming bread apart and plopped it in his mouth. After a few seconds, his face erupted in a grin. “Mm! Those are some good muffins. Thank you TiTi.”

Barnes made a face. “Seriously?”

“Don’t start on that,” Wilson scolded. “This is her recipe, and when you eat it, you’ll say ‘Mm. This is delicious. Thank you TiTi.”

“There is no scenario in this world where I would say that,” Barnes stated bluntly.

“He means his aunt,” Romanov added, flipping a page of her book.

“Yeah, I know. I know,” Barnes responded, sounding like he wished he didn’t. “We’ve had this conversation before.”

“Ungrateful cyborgs don’t get muffins,” Wilson added. 

Barnes rolled his eyes, and then caught Peters. He lifted his finger to his head and spun it in a circle, as if saying “this is crazy.”

Peter stifled a laugh.

He decided right then and there that he’d take his chance with Barnes. Maybe this was all an elaborate plot to hand him over to SHIELD… maybe this all was going to end in his death… he didn’t know. But Barnes actually had the decency to treat him with a kindness that didn't seem double sided. And even if he couldn't trust SHIELD, he felt like he could trust him. Trusting people had never worked out for him before, and he doubted this time would be any different, but he’d revel in the few fleeting moments of peace and kindness offered to him. 

“Alright,” Wilson said, pulling the muffins out of the pan and setting them on a large plate. “I got muffins, french toast, fruit, pancakes, waffles, sausage, bacon… the whole shebang.”

“Geez, Sam,” Barnes sighed, but began helping him set the table nonetheless. Wilson nudged Romanovs feet off the table as he passed. She raised an eyebrow and gave him an annoyed look, but dropped her feet anyways.

“Hey, I swear that serum gave you and Steve extra stomachs,” Wilson replied, returning to the kitchen to grab syrup and butter. “Thank goodness Tony’s a billionaire, or else you two woulda eaten everything in the compound a long time ago. Probably would have started gnawing on the walls, too.”

“Technically Thor eats the most,” Natasha commented idly. She placed a bookmark between the pages, set aside her book, and helped the two carry food to the table. “He’s the reason Clint started hiding Pop-Tarts in the vents.”

“Thor's a god. Doesn't count,” Wilson argued, passing her a large jug of orange juice. 

“Don't drink the orange juice,” Barnes warns. “Sam drinks from the container.”

“It’s my house. A man can drink his juice.”

“Didn’t take you for a germaphobe,” Romanov teased. Barnes rolled his eyes and passed Peter with a stack of thick toast covered in butter and sugar, making a show of carrying almost four times as much as Wilson.

The thick scent of dark, burnt coffee and fresh baked goods tickled Peter's nose. His hollow stomach growled loudly. Hunger hit him like a bus, consuming him, gnawing away at him.

When was the last time he ate? Days? A week?

No, Barnes had given him food yesterday. Pizza, and that vile peppermint candy that made his mouth burn. And then that morning he had cereal. They never actually got food at the restaurant, but that was fine. Peter was used to food being placed right under his nose and then whisked away.

“Kid,” Barnes said, nodding towards the table. He pulled out a chair next to him.

It took Peter a minute to actually sit down. Sitting down together, eating together… It meant they were equals. No one had ever wanted to eat with him before. Squashing the hope that grew inside him, Peter sat down. The wooden chairs groaned. Just because they were eating with him, didn't mean they liked him. It was probably just what was convenient. 

“Sorry, kid,” Wilson apologized half-heartedly.  “I don’t have any bugs or anything.”

Peter wore what he hoped was a disgusted expression, sitting down next to Barnes and across from Romanov. Cold, smooth wood grazed the tips of his fingers.

“He doesn't eat bugs,” Barnes muttered. “Right?

It took Peter a moment to realize he was talking to him — the harsh pangs of hunger were too difficult to ignore now that the food was mere inches away — and quickly shook his head. Bugs? No. He didn't eat bugs.

Not regularly, at least. Only when Mr. Colt took away his food for days, and he got so hungry he’d start to pass out. 

“See? Doesn’t eat bugs,” Barnes reaffirmed. He began piling sausages onto his plate.

Peters fingers twitched. Should he just start grabbing food? 

No, that’d be rude.

But Barnes was doing it…

Barnes and Wilson were friends, though. Wilson probably didn't mind.

Peter bit his lip, watching as Romanov bit a strip of bacon in half and grabbed a pancake with her fingers, ignoring the tongs Wilson had provided. Wilson started lathering butter on a muffin. 

Intertwining his fingers, squeezing until his knuckles turned white, Peter tried to resist the urge to just start grabbing everything. He was only supposed to eat what was given to him. To do otherwise would be stealing. To steal would mean to be punished.

He had mastered self control over the years, learned to stay silent as his superiors ate and he was left to starve, but it still hurt. It was as if claws were scraping the walls of his stomach.

“Peter, want a bagel?” Romanov asked, holding up a slightly burned bagel half with black and white seeds.

He nodded so hard his vision went blurry. Romanov smeared on a generous layer of white cream cheese and passed it over to him.

Within a second of touching it, the bagel was in his mouth. An eruption of sweet and salty, creamy and crunchy, swam over his tongue. Eating so fast he could barely taste it, he swallowed all of it.

“Small bites,” Romanov gently chided, pouring syrup over her pancake. “Don’t want to choke.”

“Did you put smiley faces on the pancakes?” Barnes' mouth was full and his voice muffled. “Cute.”

“Man, shut up,” Wilson said. 

Romanov cleared her throat loudly. Upon not getting a response, she cleared it again. 

“You need a throat lozenge?”  Wilson offered.

Romanov caught Barnes' eye and subtly nodded over in Peter's direction.

Heat flushed his face. What did he do?

“Pete, are you going to eat?” Barnes asked, raising an eyebrow.

Peter fiddled with his hoodie strings. He wanted too…

“Go ahead,” Barnes said, grabbing a couple orange slices and passing the fruit to Peter. He held the bowl of fruit in his lap, not sure what to do.

“You can just grab what you want,” Romanov added. “Just know the sausages aren’t kosher.”

Peter felt his eyes go wide. Wasn’t that stealing? Was this a trap?

Also, what’s kosher?

“Like I said, I didn’t have any bugs, so…” Wilson joked.

Peter grabbed an orange slice from the bowl. Citrus burned his cut lips and the fruit popped in his mouth, sweet and tart juice running over his tongue. Upon receiving no rebuking, he grabbed another. 

And another.

And another.

Peter filled his plate, devouring everything as if he would never receive another meal. French toast, custardy on the inside with buttery crispy golden edges, smothered in sticky, sweet, caramelly maple syrup. Soft, airy pancakes with rich butter and juicy strawberries. Fluffy, salty scrambled eggs covered in mushroom, onions, and peppers. Crispy apple slices and blueberries that popped in his mouth. Savory, warm muffins that seemed to melt in his mouth. Smoky, salty strips of crunchy bacon covered in grease.

It was the best meal Peter had ever had in his life.

How could he ever go back to rations?

“You don’t have real bacon?” Barnes grumbled.

“I do, but Tasha said no pork. Turkey bacon is the next best thing.”

“You made sausage,” Barnes pointed out.

“Yeah. You need sausage with breakfast. It’s a deal breaker.”

“It is…” Romanov checked her watch. “...almost five in the afternoon.”

“You can have breakfast anytime.”

Barnes picked up the red container of butter. “What is this?”

“Butter,” said Wilson.

“ Earth Balance, Soy Free, Vegetable Buttery Spread, ” Barnes read. He gave him a look. “It’s made of vegetables?”

Wilson shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s better for you than regular butter.”

“How do you milk a vegetable?”

“Boys, cut it out,” Romanov interjected. “You’re gonna give me a migraine.”

For a few, blissful seconds, it was quiet. 

“Why’d you make so much?” Barnes asked.

Wilson cut into a pancake. “Thank you, Sam, for opening your house to us to hide in, helping us hide a known terrorist with no warning, and cooking this delicious, incredible nutritious for us, while also keeping in mind said terrorists dietary restrictions,” Wilson said sarcastically. “Why, you are so very welcome. Anything to help a couple friends. I love being used as a free bed and breakfast for a wanted crim—”

“Alright, you’ve made your point,” Barnes interrupted. “Thanks.”

Romanov swallowed a gulp of purple juice and added: “I know I’ve already said this, Sam. But thank you.”

“You are welcome,” Wilson replied smugly. “You’d think growing up in the great depression would make you a bit more thankful about food.”

After a few seconds of silence, Barnes added: “Seriously, though. Why… all of this?”

“Because, as I already said, you eat everything. Plus, no one knows what Tasha likes besides PB&J and beef stroganoff, so I have to have options ,” Wilson explained. “Besides, it’s already half gone, so I think I did pretty good.”

“It’s not… oh, it is,” Barnes responded, looking at the table and sounding surprised.

“Have you fed the kid at all?” Wilson asked, gesturing at Peter with his fork. 

Peter glanced up, shoveling another slice of sweet french toast into his mouth, his fingers and face covered in sticky syrup.

“Take your time, малыш,” Romanov said. Peter chugged his tangy, sweet and bitter grape juice. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

He was nauseous, but had no intentions of stopping. If there was food available to him, he had to eat it before it got taken away.

“Let him eat. He’s all bones.” Wilson shook his head. “Man, does Hydra feed you at all?”

Not really, Peter thought, dumping more scrambled eggs onto his plate. They plopped into a puddle of syrup. 

“Here. Have another bagel,” Wilson offered. Peter greedily accepted it, and Wilson chuckled. “Guess he’s a New Yorker after all.”

“The diner got destroyed so we got our food, so…” Barnes shrugged.

“Yeah. About that. You two are all over the news. Every channel is covering it,” Wilson responded. Romanov got up and poured herself a cup of black coffee. “You two just are not going to explain that? We’re just gonna pretend everything's cool?”

“Hydra found us,” Barnes stated.

Wilson shifted in his seat and leaned forward. “And?”

“And what?”

“C’mon. You gotta give me more than that.”

“Hydra found us and shot up the restaurant.” Barnes shrugged. “Surviving civilians went out the back. Simple as that.”

“Simple as that?” Wilson repeated.

Romanov set own steaming cup in front of both Barnes and Wilson, the smell of rich, dark coffee wafting over them. “Do you have any hot chocolate for the kid?”

“Hot choc… He’s a teenager, Tasha. He can handle coffee,” Wilson said. Romanov shrugged and poured another cup into a chipped ceramic mug. It warmed Peter's fingers. Wilson turned back to Barnes and added, “but how did they find you?”

“Manhattan's a big city. Someone could have tipped them off,” Barnes replied tersely. 

“Oh, yeah. I’m sure someone did tip them off.” Wilson jerked his head over to Peter in a not-at-all subtle manner.

Averting his eyes, wishing he could shrink into nothing, Peter sipped his coffee.

Ah.

Disgusting.

Peter ducked his head, trying his best to not let his revulsion show on his face. Boiling, bitter liquid scalded his tongue. It tasted like licking ash… like someone collected all the burnt food in the world and turned it into a drink.

Don’t be rude. C’mon, Peter. Just drink it. Don’t be rude. 

He forced himself to take another gulp. Yuck.

“He’s not going to listen to you,” Romanov sighed. “We already had this conversation on the drive here.”

“Dude, you can’t be so in denial that you can’t tell when someone is obviously betraying you.”

Peter knew he should be more concerned with their conversation about his obvious betrayal, but he was too focused on the revolting lava currently burning him from the inside out.
Gross. So gross.

Half way done. Half done.

“Sam, I need you to trust me—”

“I do trust you, but open your eyes, man,” Wilson insisted.

“Can we please talk about this la— Pete, you don’t have to drink that,” Barnes said.

“Thanks,” Peter croaked, his throat raw. He set aside the cup of poison, only for Barnes to pour it into his own mug.

Wilson jumped. “Hey! Hey hey hey! He just spoke.”

“He does that sometimes,” Barnes muttered. Peter scratched his tongue with his finger. The taste lingered.

“Wha— you’re not at all concerned?”

“No.”

“You’re not concerned about any of this?”

“No.”

Wilson leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms and leveling a glare at Barnes. “Dude, I hope you know you’d be the first to die in a horror movie.”

Peter scooped some more pineapple and strawberries onto his plate and snatched the last few pieces of turkey bacon. Barnes made a face. “What?”

“It’s true. If you, me, Tasha, and this freaky spider kid were all in a horror movie, you’d be the first to go.”

“That makes no sense,” Barnes argued.

“Ah ah ah, take it from me,” Wilson insisted. “The kid would be possessed, you’d trust him and get killed, Nat would sacrifice herself in some noble way—” Romanov nodded in agreement. “—and I’d be the first black guy to make it to the end.”

“You’d trip on your own two feet and die immediately,” Barnes replied dryly.

Wilson squinted at him. “Is it because I’m black?”

“No, it’s because you’re an idiot.”

“Ladies, ladies, you’re both pretty,” Romanov interrupted, rolling her eyes. “I hate to be that person, but we have more important things going on than your egos.”

“Y’know,” Barnes said between sips of coffee. “I miss when you were nicer.”

“And I miss when you had long hair.” She smiled sweetly, resting her chin on her fist. “Guess we both lose.”

“You did look nicer before,” Wilson added, taking a long sip of his coffee.

“Gee, thanks.”

Wilson grinned. “Don’t hate us for being honest.”

Barnes ran his fingers through his short hair as he rose from the table. “My hair’s fine,” he mumbled, collecting empty plates.

Peter tugged on the ends of his curls self consciously. Barnes' hair looked really cool, but if they didn’t like it, then what did they think of his? He tried telling himself it didn't matter. That it was trivial to worry about his appearance when his life was on the line. Still…

“Your hair is lovely, James. We’re just joking." Romanov patted him on the shoulder as he passed before getting up to help clear the table.

Peter swallowed a mouthful of bacon and began nibbling on the last piece of french toast, breaking off the crispy edges as white, surgery powder slid down his fingers.

Wilson watched him for a few quiet seconds. “So you like spiders?”

“Sam,” Barnes sighed, picking up his empty plate.

Peter tilted his head. Spiders? 

He thought they were cool, yeah. But he thought most living things were cool.

“What?” Wilson responded defensively. “He shoots webs out of who knows where and climbs walls and you’re not curious?”

“I don’t think he had a choice on his theme.”

Peter sucked the sticky syrup off his fingers. Wilson turned back to him. “Was one of your parents a spider?”

A loud crash emitted from the kitchen as Barnes dropped what he had been holding. “ Sam!”

“His parents were SHIELD agents,” Romanov added. “You know that Sam.”

Peter froze, his ring finger still in his mouth.

The three continued talking… bickering… but Peter didn’t hear.

His parents were SHIELD agents.

The use of past tense jumped out at him. Either fired or dead. Peter suspected the latter. Even though he already assumed that, it made his heart twist. 

Shield agents… 

After reading Richard and Mary’s file, he had suspected… He had suspected their involvement with SHIELD. His relation to them. There was nothing saying for certain they had actually been his parents or working with SHIELD. Nothing that Hydra had, anyways.

Peter gulped, watching the three Avengers bickered lightheartedly in the kitchen. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

He had to know. He had too.

They had access to SHIELD files, which meant they probably knew more about his parents than he did. They probably knew more about him than he did.

“ We can help you dig up stuff from your past. We can find any living relatives or friends you might have. ” Romanov had said that to him in the diner. What had she meant? Did she already know who his parents were? She must.

He sucked in a sharp breath, anxiety scraping his brain like thousands of needles. 

Just do it, Peter. Just get it over with.

“Were my… were my parents Richard and Mary Parker?” Peter asked. He didn't recognize his own voice. Shaky. Weak. Wobbly. Scratchy as a chain smoker.

They froze mid sentence. It was so quiet, he could hear his own heart beat pulsing through his ears. He fiddled with his baggy sleeves nervously. Three sets of wide eyes darted to each other, then over to him, then back at each other, and so on. 

“Uh…” Barnes started, both Romanov and Wilson staring at him expectantly. “They were yes. But now… they are dead.”

Peter nodded. The knowledge simultaneously was a weight off his shoulders and a crushing blow. He sniffed. That didn't make sense, he never knew them. How could he be so sad about never knowing someone?

“Great bedside manner, James.” Romanov pinched the bridge of her nose.

“What?” Barnes held his hands up defensively. “I’m not the licensed therapist in the room. Why doesn't Sam—”

“Uh uh.” Wilson backed away, crossing his arms. “Your spider child, your mess.”

“He’s not my—”

“Peter,” Romanov interrupted, leaning on the table. “Your parents were great people, okay?” She smiled kindly, though it didn't quite reach her sad green eyes. Peter kept playing with his sleeves. “They loved you very much, and they would have been very upset with how you’ve been treated. When they died… you understand how death works, right?”

Alright. This was patronizing.  Peter looked over to Barnes for help, much preferring the super soldier's bluntness. Barnes looked just as lost as him.

“Tasha, he’s not seven,” Wilson said.

“Well, I don’t see anyone else helping.”

Wilson crouched down in front of Peter, looking up at him with serious, intense eyes. “This is a lot to take in right now. Finding out your whole life is a lie, the death of your parents, Hydra… It's a lot for anyone, let alone a teenager.” Wilson leaned forward. Peter avoided his eyes. “It’s up to you to decide how you want to carry this. I recommend talking to someone. Someone you trust.”

Barnes. Peter wanted Barnes.

This was almost worse than the patronizing, sympathetic lecture. Now he was just being preached too.

Peter looked back to Barnes, hoping he was conveying the right emotion on his face. The right amount of panic. He didn't know how to ask for help, so he desperately tried to get the message across with his eyes.

It worked.

“You two are freaking him out. Back off,” Barnes interjected, pulling them both away. He sat down across from Peter, crossing his arms and his ankle over his knee. It was casual. Peter appreciated it. Somehow Barnes had a way of making Peter feel like an equal. Like he mattered.

He rested his chin on his arms, keeping tabs on Romanov and Wilson out of the corner of his eyes.

After a few beats of awkward silence where Barnes was obviously trying to come up with something — anything — to say, he clumsily asked: “How did you know their names?”

Peter rubbed his chin, traces of sticky sugar still lingering on his skin.

“Comforting,” Romanov said somewhat sarcastically.

Peter stiffened. He didn't need to be comforted , he needed the truth.

“They never told me anything when I was there… when I was with Hydra… We both know they have a thing for erasing pasts,” Barnes explained, ignoring his friends. “So… how’d you know?”

Peter shifted. Shrugged. Tapped his fingers on his knee. After a few moments of lingering quiet, he whispered: “read it.”

Man, he hated talking.

His voice sounded weird from neglect, as if he needed one more thing to hate about himself… and he couldn't get over the nagging anxiety that something horrible would happen. Like he was betraying himself just by speaking.

“Read it where?” Barnes asked.

Barnes was nice to him. Barnes kept him safe, and gave him a Bandaid, and fed him… Barnes seemed to care about him. If he was interested, Peter would force himself to speak.

“In the files,” Peter whispered again, his voice as frail as the wind. He tapped his fingers together.

“What files?”

“The one about Hydra sleeper ag—”

“You’ve seen the Schläfer File?!” Romanov leapt into the conversation, her tone surging with urgency.

“Nat—”

“James, I have listened to you, trusted you, and let you take the lead on this because I know how important this is to you,” Romanov jabbed her finger in Peter's direction, “but if he saw the Schläfer File, then this changes everything. ”

Fear gripped Peter, sinking it’s icy claws into him.

Oh no. Oh, shit.

“Wait, this ‘shlay-fa’ file… isn’t that the one he stole from you guys in the first place?” Wilson interjected. 

“Yes. It is.” Romanov leaned across the table, obscuring his view of Barnes. Peter backed up. “Peter, do you remember what was on the file?”

“Nat, ease up.”

“No. Every day we don’t have that file, another SHIELD agent and their family gets slaughtered,” Romanov snapped. All kindness and sympathy was gone from her voice. This was a completely different Romanov than the one Peter had warmed up too. This is the one he met on the battlefield. This is the one with the 100% danger level. Her eyes held so much intensity he was sure she could kill someone with just a look. “I was fine going along with this while it was your rescue/adoption/rehab project, but it’s bigger than that now.”

“Hey, hold on,” Wilson stated. “Why don’t we all take a deep breath. We can talk this out.”

Peter wanted to bolt out the door, but years of being trained to take punishment as it was dealt glued him to his chair.  Romanov stared him dead in the eyes. He hated it, but he couldn't look away. He was frozen, like a mouse in a trap.

“Peter. Do you remember what was on the file?” Her voice was as sharp and smooth as a knife blade. 

He blinked.

Did he? There were names of victims cycling through his head… codes to activate sleeper agents… a few pictures and locations of said sleepers…

Peter nodded sharply.

“If you saw a list of people, places, that kind of thing, could you remember which ones were on the list?”

Peter nodded again. He wasn’t completely certain he could — a photographic memory only helped him out so much — but if there was one thing he knew, it was to always pretend to be useful.  People without use didn't survive.

“What are you talking about?” Wilson asked.

Romanov stepped away from the table, whipped out her phone, and began rapidly typing. “Steve and I were putting together a list of all SHIELD agents and families that died in mysterious ways over the years. If Peter could narrow it down and pick out a couple of our suspects, even just one, we could solve this thing.”

How do we know we can trust him? No offense, kid.”

None taken. He deserved that.

“Can we please stop talking about him like he’s not right there?” Irritation flooded Barnes' voice. 

“Dammit!” Romanov hissed.

“What? What’s wrong?” asked Wilson.

“I’m locked out. I can’t access SHIELD databases.”

“What, why?” Wilson asked. 

“Probably because since nobody has heard from Bucky or I, they’ve assumed we’re kidnapped. Or dead,” Romanov muttered, tapping her foot. “SHIELD wants to make sure no unsavory people have access to our stuff.”

“Just use my computer,” Wilson offered.

Romanov shot Peter a brief, knowing look, and shook her head. “No use. Steve and I just set it up. You won’t have access.”

“So we’re just giving up? Just like that?”

“I’m thinking ,” Romanov shot back. She tapped her long black nails against the table. Click click click. “We’d have to physically get inside of a SHIELD base.”

“We’re in DC,” Wilson responded. “There's, like, four of them within an hour of here.”

“That's too bad, because that’s not happening,” Barnes argued, once again placing himself between Peter and the others.

Romanov looked at him sharply. She crossed her arms. “I fail to see how that’s your call to make.”

Barnes stiffened. Peter saw his metal fingers clench. “I’m not letting you drag him into SHIELD like a lamb to the slaughter,” he seethed.

“Barnes, have you ever stopped to wonder that maybe SHIELD isn’t the bad guy here?” 

“Right. Because everything worked out so well when they took me into custody.”

“For the hundredth time,” Romanov hissed, obviously frustrated, “it was the CIA that gave Zemo access to you, not SHIELD.”

“Same difference,” scoffed Barnes.

“Alright,” Wilson intervened, standing between them like he had a death wish. They glared daggers around him. “Why don’t we talk about this?”

“You’re not my therapist, I don’t have to listen to you.”

“Real mature, James.”

“Alright! Both of you, enough. We were all friends five minutes ago. Just take a minute,” Wilson held his hands up like stop signs. “We all good? Okay. Time for a little tough love.” He lowered his hands. “Bucky. You’re projecting.”

“I’m not—”

“Ah ah ah, I’m talking.” Wilson wagged a finger. “You are projecting your feelings about Hydra and SHIELD onto Peter. This aggression right now has less to do with wanting to protect him and more to do with you wishing you could change what happened to you. You think this is gonna bring you closure. Am I right?”

Barnes scowled. “That’s not—”

“I’m not saying that's the only reason you’re helping him. But you need to think about why you’re not thinking this through right now and just jumping to the defensive,” Wilson said seriously. Peter found himself drawn into his words. Into the confident way he spoke. “And by the way, this? Trying to undo wrongs? This isn’t going to bring you closure. I assure you.” Wilson turned to face Romanov. 

“My turn?” she asked, tilting her head with an eyebrow raised.

“First of all, I respect you.”

“I’m sensing unfair treatment,” Barnes muttered.

“I’m also scared of you, so… please leave me in one piece after I say what I’m going to say.”

She clicked her tongue. “I’ll consider it.”

“Not everything is black and white, Natasha. You have to accept that SHIELD isn’t all good. Hell, when we met, SHIELD was actively trying to kill you.”

“Hydra was trying to kill me,” she corrected. “SHIELD’s been rebuilt. It’s better.”

“Can you honestly say that if Peter were to be arrested right now, he’d be perfectly safe? That one of his old associates, who probably aren't too pleased with him right now, wouldn't be able to slip through the cracks? That SHIELD wouldn't realize he knows useful things and try to get it out of him?”

Romanov stayed quiet.

Wilson continued, his voice softer. “What’s happening to all those families is horrible. I understand. We all understand. But if you freak Peter out so much he’s not going to be able to help us.” Wilsons voice dropped to a murmur so quiet Peter wouldn't have picked up on it without his enhanced senses. “He’s a scared, traumatized kid, Nat. Now, I’m not saying to trust him, because frankly, I think that’d be a mistake. But treating him like the enemy isn’t the right option, either.”

“So then what are we supposed to do?” Romanov whispered back.

“Ask him,” Wilson responded. He gave them each a determined look. “In your bickering, you both failed to realize that Peter isn’t a little child who needs you to hold his hand and make his decisions for him. He can choose for himself what he wants to do.”

Both Romanov and Barnes began protesting, but Wilson waved his hands dismissively. “Nope! No more of that. From now on, all arguing happens outside of my house. Fighting in the kitchen ruins the food.”

Barnes rubbed his face. “You were doing so well until that last part.”

“Now hug it out,” Wilson commanded, stepping out of their way.

“I’m not hugging her,” Barnes replied.

“Yeah, not much of a hugger,” Romanov added.

“C’mon,” Wilson insisted in a cheery, teasing voice. “Set a good example for Peter.”

“Sam, I’m going to come over there and steal your clavicle,” Romanov threatened.

“I’ll help,” offered Barnes.

“Geez, remind me not to offer counseling to you two again,” Wilson chuckled.

The conversation died out and an awkward tension hung above them like a storm cloud, looming over their shoulders. Everyone was consumed by their own thoughts.

Did they really expect him to choose what to do? Peter had never made an important decision before. He wasn't qualified. Wasn't smart enough... A pit of dread formed in his stomach.

“So, Peter,” Romanov said, crossing her arms. “What will it be?” 

Chapter Text

“So, Peter,” Romanov said, crossing her arms. “What will it be?” 

Peter tapped the pads of his fingers together, looking away from the three sets of eyes impatiently waiting for his answer. 

He could say no, he realized. Say no and keep himself safe. He’d already suffered so much, been in so much pain… he wasn’t thrilled about the idea of trading in Hydra for SHIELD.
Peter tried harder to avoid their stares, feeling trapped like a butterfly pinned to a wall, and looked down at his twitchy hands. He paused. Strawberries had stained the ends of his fingers, leaving them a faint pink. Dark, blood-colored red was packed under his fingernails.

There was so much blood on his hands. So much he could never hope to get it all off. Countless innocent people were dead because of him. Countless families were broken up.
Peter gulped. He may not have been a sleeper agent and he may not have decided who was to die, but he still did the killing. Even though someone else always loaded the gun and cocked it, he always pulled the trigger.

So many people dead… and for what?

Even if he couldn't get all the blood off his hands, was it not worth it to try?

And by the way, this? Trying to undo wrongs? This isn’t going to bring you closure. I assure you .

Wilson had said that, had he not?
Even as his brain presented it as an argument, Peter knew it was weak and flimsy. He wasn’t looking for closure. Nothing he ever did could change his past. 

But maybe he could change the future. Prevent more murders from happening. It was his choice. His, and his alone. Probably the first real decision he had ever made. He wasn’t going to squander it. 

Peter looked back up, past Barnes, and locked eyes with Romanov. He nodded.

A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. A real one.  “Alright,” she said. “Let’s get to it.”

“Wait, wait, Pete,” interrupted Barnes. “You understand that her plan involves you walking into a SHIELD base?”

Yeah. He was well aware. The thought made his heart hammer in his chest as fast as a cornered rabbit’s, but he was willing to do it. He shrugged.

Barnes’ eyebrows raised and he looked back and forth between him and Wilson. “I can’t be the only one that sees this as a horrible plan.”

“After we get the information, can’t we use it to negotiate Peter’s freedom?” Wilson suggested. “Pull a couple strings?”

“You want to blackmail SHIELD?” Barnes asked incredulously.

“That’s not a good idea,” Romanov conceded.
“Aren't you the lady who told the entire government to kiss her ass a few years back?” Wilson shot back. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Besides, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying we can use it to prove he’s changed.”

“So it’s “we” know?” Barnes replied sarcastically. 

“It’s been “we” ever since you showed up on my doorstep with your crazy kid.”

“Great,” Barnes retorted, crossing his arms as well. “Because then it can be “we” when Natasha forces us to break into a SHIELD base.”

“Woah woah woah. I am staying out of this,” Wilson said sharply as he backed away. He shook his head.  “And that is final.”

Wilson did not stay out of it.

Peter could hear him angrily muttering to an equally frustrated Barnes somewhere above him, but it was too dark to see. He plastered his hands against the cool plastic surrounding him, feeling every jolt and wobble as the flimsy walls shook. The strong, sharp stench of Clorox and Windex pierced his nose. 

“Seriously? This was the best you could come up with?” Barnes griped.

“Shut up and act like a janitor,” Romanov hissed back. 

Peter’s body jolted and his cheek smacked the side of the trash bin.

“Sorry, kid,” Barnes muttered. “This thing’s not exactly easy to steer.”
“Alright, Sam,” came Romanovs muffled voice. Peter twisted uncomfortably, pins and needles traveling up his legs. “Give me your credentials and go distract the front desk. We’ll slip through the side.”

“I hate you both,” Wilson grumbled. Heavy footsteps grew distant, and Peter felt his hiding place jerk to the side. His head spun.

Oh no. Peter pressed his hand to his mouth, torn stitches scratching at his sensitive skin. His stomach boiled like bubbling magma. He was going to be sick.

“How’s it going in there, Parker?” 

Parker? Was she talking to him?
Peter tried to respond, but it came out as a confused whimper. 

The back of his head smacked against the plastic as he felt himself take another sharp turn.

Beep beep beep. Click.

He hears a door creak open. High heels clicked against the hard floor. He jolted slightly, and heard a door slide shut. The cool, crisp air immediately disappeared, and was replaced with something much warmer and much stuffier. Peter pulled his legs up to his chest.

He hated this. He hated not being able to see; hated being trapped in a small enclosed space. He felt like a rubber band pulled back, ready to snap at any second.

“The elevators are this way. We need to be on the twelfth floor. Keep your head down,” Romanov whispered.

“Really? I was planning on running straight to security, screaming. Maybe even shoot a guy or two,” Barnes grunted.

“Not the time for sarcasm, James,” Romanov responded. 

Muffled footsteps and hushed murmurs grew louder, and then passed. Romanov and Barnes’ conversation died out. Peter heard them hold their breath. Barnes stilled.

The clicking of Romanovs high heels grew distant, something beeped, and the loud sound of mechanical whirring filled Peter’s ears. Creaking metal groaning, and suddenly he was being pushed forward again.

As soon as he stopped, the groaning metal resumed, and his stomach swooped  as he felt himself being soaring into the air. The plastic walls trembled.

Before he could panic, however, there was light. Sharp, fluorescent light bulbs pierced his skull. He flinched as his eyes adjusted. 

“You alright in there, Pete?” Barnes asked, a few strands of dark hair falling into his eyes.

Peter nodded and raised his hands, grabbing the rim of the trash can. Barnes’ apparently took this as a cue to reach in, grab Peter under the arms, and lift him like he weighed nothing more than a malnourished kitten. He let it happen. 

“Sorry, kid,” Barnes muttered, setting him down. Peter wobbled, placing a hand on the cold elevator walls to steady himself. Barnes shoved the janitors cart out of the way. “We don’t really have any other options.”

Peter rubbed his sore eyes, still prickling from the sudden brightness. A dull, throbbing headache pounded behind his temples.

“Sam’s distracting security. We have a very tight window,” Romanov stated. She cracked her knuckles.

Barnes’ rolled his shoulders, his gray button up straining against his bulky metal arm. 

Peter had to grimace at their disguises. Jeans, great button-up shirts, sunglasses, and baseball hats? How had no one recognized them?

The numbers displayed above the closed doors slowly shifted as they rose, until they eventually stopped on “12.”

“Alright, Pete.” Barnes nudged him until he stood directly adjacent to the doors. “Stay out of sight.”

The creaking doors slid open. Barnes peered out, obviously trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. A few formally dressed agents walked past, some talking into their phones and some reading through stacks of files. No one paid them any mind.

“Get him to the computers. I’ll meet you there,” Romanov ordered. She slipped out of the elevator and darted down the hall.

Peter stiffened slightly when he felt Barnes hand wrap around his bicep. His heart slammed into his chest. Taking a few deep breaths to calm himself — Barnes isn’t a threat. Barnes isn’t a threat. It cycled through his mind like a mantra — He let himself be led out into the hall, staying pressed between the former assassin and the wall. He felt Barnes arm move and wrap around his back, as if typing to completely hide Peter away from anyone who would want to hurt him. Peter repressed a flinch. Though it was supposed to be calming, the touch felt suffocating. Claustrophobic.

Peter’s eyes were drawn to the large floor-to-ceiling windows. His stomach squirmed. Wow, they were… they were really high. He couldnt even make out the individual people walking below. He shuddered. Being this high without his webs as protection made an icy wave of fear crash over him.  

A small tingling in the back of his mind was the only warning he had before a screeching siren began blaring. It tore through Peter’s mind like a fiery bullet, ripping his skull to shreds. His eyes burned. Yelping, he quickly slammed his hands over his ears, trying as best he could to muffle the assaulting noise.

It was too loud. Too loud, too loud, too loud!

Agents stampeded past them towards the fire escape. Peter barely processed Barnes pulling him into a janitor's closet, hiding them from a crowd of people. He trembled. Tears slid down his cheeks. It hurt. It hurt so bad. He wanted it to stop. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop!

Barnes and Peter were pressed uncomfortably close together in the tiny closet, but Peter barely noticed. He just needed the noise to stop.

After a few agonizingly long minutes that felt like hours, the alarms abruptly stopped. Peter kept his hands clamped over his ears. It was going to start again. It was going to start again and it was going to hurt and he—

“C’mon, Pete,” Barnes said, tugging Peter out of the closet. The hallway was vacant.

SHIELDS control room was empty. An eerie, ominous atmosphere settled over him. Cups of coffee sat discarded on desks, some tipped over and spilling onto the ground. Chairs were toppled over. Computers sat unattended to.

WHAM! A door slammed open across the hall. Peter winced.

Romanov darted in, sliding to a stop next to them and leaning over a computer screen. Light from the screen illuminated her features. 

“That won’t keep them distracted for long,” she stated, rapidly inputting Wilsons credentials into the computer.

Barnes nodded, and just like that, he was gone. Peter felt cold, like a warm blanket got snatched off his shoulders. With Barnes away from him, he was alone. Unsafe. He but his lip nervously, watching Barnes closely as he went to keep an eye on the door.

“I’m going to click through some files, Peter.” Peter turned back to the screen. Romanov slid a small usb drive into the computer. ”Stop me when you see someone who is either a sleeper agent, or was sold out by sleeper agents. Or anyone who just looks familiar. Okay?”

Peter nodded, finally lowering his hands from his ears, and watched the screen intently. She rapidly flipped through pictures of people Peter had never seen. His gut twisted. What if he was wrong? What if he couldnt remember? What if—

There. He tapped her shoulder and pointed.

A tall girl with blue eyes and short blonde bobbed hair.

Romanov nodded and downloaded her file. A few more seconds passed before Peter recognized more faces.

A pale old man with thick glasses and a white buzzcut.

A Chinese woman, no older than twenty, with long black hair and large eyes.

A middle aged man with a receding hairline and vintage glasses.

Then, Richard and Mary Parker. His blood ran cold.

His parents.

Hesitating, Peter pointed at them. He could feel Romanov’s eyes boring a hole into the side of his head.

“Would it be cliche to say we have company?”  Barnes called, pulling their attention away as he locked one of the doors behind him.

Romanov swore in Russian. ”Peter. Last chance. Anyone else?”

His eyes skimmed through the pictures. There were too many. They were blurring together. He didn’t recognize anymore

He shook his head.

As Romanov ripped the thumb drive out of the computer, a swarm of agents started pounding on the doors. Suddenly, they were running. Peter had no idea where. His feet were moving without him thinking. He was being pulled by Romanov. Peter jumped as he felt Barnes gloved hands press against his ears. What—
“Another alarm,” Barnes said. “Cover your ears.”

Peter put his hands back up the same second a different but no less piercing alarm tore his head. He winced.

“I thought Sam was distracting them!” Romanov yelled, dragging them down the stairs.

“It’s Sam!” Barnes yelled back. “What do you expect?”

“This was a horrible idea!”

Peter silently agreed. 

He sprinted down the stairs, jumping from wall to wall so fast he quickly was far in front of Romanov and Barnes. He heard Barnes speed up, getting closer to him. 

When he finally reached the bottom he slammed into the exit, sprinting out into the cool air as fast as he could. He just needed to get away from the alarm. It hurt. It hurt it hurt it hurt.

“Peter, wait!”

Click-click-click…

“Freeze!”

Peter skid to a stop and tumbled to the ground, rough cement scraping away at his skin.

“Peter don’t— ah shit,” Barnes cursed behind him. Peter pushed himself off the ground, trembling.

Dozens of SHEILD agents had surrounded them. An angry looking woman with crossed arms glared down at him. Peter heard gravel crunch as Barnes' heavy footsteps grew closer to him. One of the agents' guns pointed at his chest. The footsteps stopped.

A surge of anger welled up inside Peter. His face grew hot. How dare they threaten Barnes.

“Hi, Maria,” Romanov said from afar, way too friendly and casual considering the circumstances.

“You four are under arrest,” the woman — Maria — stated. 

“Four?” Barnes said.

“Yeah, we’re kinda screwed,” called Wilson. Peter glanced. The man was in handcuffs and being pulled into a van with blacked out windows.

“Why don’t we all just talk about this?” Barnes suggested.

Peter held his breath. The sun reflected off the dozens of guns — all directly pointed at him — and hurt his eyes. What was he supposed to do? He couldn't fight off all of them. He didn't have his suit or his webs.

“You forfeited the chance to talk about it when you decided to harbor a wanted terrorist,” Maria waved a few agents forward. Peter watched, terrified, as they marched past him and grabbed Barnes and Romanov.

“Listen, the kid… he’s just a kid,” Barnes said, glaring at the agents as they slapped handcuffs on him. “There’s no need to—”
That was the last thing Peter heard before the butt of a rifle hurled towards him, an agonizing pain cracked through his skull, and everything went back.

Chapter Text

Bucky would rather be anywhere else in the world than right here. His barren apartment. Wakanda. WWII trenches. Siberia. Hell, he’d even be willing to trade this for another day on Sam’s boat.

But no.

He was here; sitting on an extremely uncomfortable metal chair, his hands handcuffed to the table in front of him (he could break them easily, but he’d rather not piss off SHIELD more than they already are), with nothing but a giant two way mirror to keep him company.

Not to mention it was fucking freezing. He didn’t know if the air conditioner was on full blast or they were trying to make him crack or what. Each icy gust of air sent his mind spiraling back to his time in Hydra. He grit his teeth.

Seconds turned into minutes. Minutes turned to hours. Each tick of the echoing clock above him was like another spike being drilled into his skull.

His thoughts remained locked on Peter the entire time. The constant buzz of worry ate away at his mind. He felt as though he had been socked in the stomach. 

Damn it. Why couldn't Peter have just stayed by him and Tasha?! Why did he have to run ahead?! The alarms couldn't have possibly been that big of a deal. Bucky went to rub his eyes, only to be stopped by the harsh sting of metal digging into his wrist. He huffed.

God, he hoped Peter was okay. 

He drummed his fingers on the table. Peter was probably so scared. There were so many SHIELD agents swarming the scene… he didn't see where they took him or if he was hurt or… or worse.

Bucky tried to comfort himself with the thought that SHIELD would want Peter alive to get information out of him. The thought sent shivers down his spine.

Nat was a SHIELD agent. Maybe she was already released and arguing on Peter’s behalf? Unlikely. She didn't trust the kid as far as she could throw him.

Bucky bit his lip. The fleeting thought that he had broken his parole and probably going to be sent back to prison fluttered through his mind. He ignored it. He didn’t care. He would deserve it.

He just wanted to make sure Peter would be okay before that happened.

Bucky barely spared a glance when the door across the room clicked and slid open. Two young SHIELD agents stared at each other, as if silently debating who had to interact with the insane assassin first. Eventually the shorter of the two lost whatever telepathic argument they were having and got shoved in first. 

To Bucky’s infinite surprise, the agent merely unlocked his hand cuffs and jumped back as if he had just released a wild animal. Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“You’re free to go,” said the one in the doorway.

Masking his surprise with a blank stare — his “I’m-about-to-kill-you” stare according to Sam — and shoved past the two agents. The one in the doorway squeaked and backed off. He rolled his eyes.

Where was Fury finding these guys? Were they all this skittish?

All Bucky’s complaints vanished as soon as he saw who was waiting for him. Shit. Suddenly he longed to run back into the tiny integration room.

“Bucky,” Steve sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

All of a sudden Bucky felt like it was 1940 again, and he had just pulled Steve out of another fist fight (if one could call it a fight). Only now it was Bucky receiving the tired lecture.

“Steve,” Bucky said simply, rifling through a small plastic tray with his phone, wallet, keys, and a few miscellaneous things.

“ Bucky .” The single word carried the weight of a thousand battles.

Bucky shoved his things in his pocket and turned to his friend. “Where's the kid?”

Steve gave him the eyebrows of disappointment. “What?”

“The kid. Peter. Where is he?” Bucky looked around them, but there were only agents milling around the compound doing who knows what.

“He’s in custody. He’s fine.”

“Yeah, because SHIELDs never let anything bad happen to someone in custody before.”

Steve looked taken aback. “Buck…”

“Forget it, Steve,” Bucky sighed. He rubbed his wrist where the metal cuffs had left angry red marks. “Is he okay?”

“He has a concussion, and they had to take out some stitches and patch him up here and there, but he’s alright.” Steve shifted on his feet, looking unsure how to continue. “He’s a terrorist, Buck.”

“So am I.”

“No you’re not,” Steve stated sharply, his stern “Captain voice” making an appearance. “That wasn’t you. You didn't have a choice.”

“And Peter did?”

“Thats not what I— Buck ,” Steve ran a hand through his short blond hair, looking more tired and older than Bucky had ever seen him. “Parker is a kid. He’ll be okay. Now that he’s in custody we can help him without worrying about him hurting anyone. Or himself.” Steve crossed his arms and leaned across the table, giving Bucky the same determined look he’d give while discussing a plan of attack. “He started hitting himself, Buck. When he woke up, he was panicked and—”

“Woke up?” Bucky stiffened. “What do you mean woke up? ”

“He was incapacitated for the trip to the compound.”

“What?! Why would you—” Bucky sputtered in disbelief. “He would’ve come, Steve. He woulda…”

Steve held up his hands. “I wasn’t there, Buck. It was the agent's call.” He shook his head. “The agent who took him into custody said he was acting erratic and—”

“He was probably acting erratic because he had a dozen guns pointed at him for no reason!” Bucky snapped. A couple agents glanced their way for a split second, only to turn and continue working. 

Steve’s mouth fell open. Bucky huffed. 

“Listen, Buck,” Steve said quietly, leaning in so only the two of them heard. “I’m on your side here. He’s a kid. We can help him. He’s not what Hydra forced him to be. I just dont understand why you didn't tell me.”

Bucky crossed his arms and leaned back against the table, resting shoulder to shoulder with Steve, and glaring at whatever agent had the audacity to come within ten feet of them. 

Steve didn't push. He merely waited, patient and understanding as ever, for Bucky to talk first. He huffed again. Peter needed someone like Steve, not him. Steve was caring and composed and Bucky was… 

Well, he was a mess.

“I didn’t want you to sacrifice everything for me again,” Bucky eventually mumbled.

Steve frowned. “What?”

“I said I didn't want you to sacrifice everything for me again,” Bucky repeated. “If I woulda dragged you into this, you woulda made a big deal out of everything and stuck your neck out for me again like an idiot and… and… who knows? Maybe we woulda had another civil war.”

Steve was quiet for a minute. He put a hand on Bucky’s arm. “Buck, I sacrifice for you because you’re my best friend. I love you. I help you because I want to.”

“Maybe you shouldnt.”

“Huh?”

“You should spend your selflessness on saving the world and less on someone so… broken.”

Awkward silence fell between the two. Computers beeped in the distant and muffled messages played over the intercom.

“ Buck ,” Steve said. There was so much compassion and love in his tone that Bucky had to turn away. “You’re not broken, Bucky.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Bucky, look at me.” Steve put a hand on his shoulder. Bucky sighed and turned back, a few strands of short dark hair falling into his eyes. Steve looked so earent and determined. He always did have that tendency to make whoever he was talking to feel smaller in comparison, even when he was a tiny little twig. “You are not broken. No one is ever broken. You were hurt and you needed help. Hell, we all need help at some point. Theres no shame in that. We’re family. Thats what family does.” Bucky’s heart ached. Who did Peter have to help him?  “You can't ever turn the page if you’re too focused on the previous chapter. If you really want closure, then you have to let it go. At some point you’re going to have to be able to move on.”

“The things I’ve done—”

“Happened. They happened, Buck,” Steve interrupted. “And there is no changing them now. Do you remember the first rule they taught us about injuries back in boot camp?”

“Use a tourniquet.”

“No.”

“Make sure you ration the morphine and use it on those who won't survive.”

“Also no.”

“Dont get hurt.”

“The first rule,” Steve said, “Is that you can't keep messing with a wound if you want it to heal.”

“I don’t remember being taught that.”

“Every time you dig up your past, Buck, you're reopening that wound. You can't get better unless you leave it alone and move on.”

“Sam would say it’s up to me whether I want to stop wallowing in self pity or pick myself up,” Bucky muttered.

Steve smiled. “Sam is wise. Though I’m not sure I’d use those exact words.”

Bucky chuckled. “Never say the words “sam” and “wise” to me ever again.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “I’ll make a note of it.”

After a few seconds Bucky asked: “The kid is really okay?”

“He’s fine. And from what Tasha said, it sounds like he’s really making an effort. Even if he did betray you.”

Bucky winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not his fault. He was probably scared.”

“It’s okay to be scared as long as it does not result in a diner getting shot up,” Steve said, sounding half-joking and half-serious. “Do you trust him?”

“Trust who? Peter?”

“Yeah.”

Bucky pursed his lips. Did he trust Peter?  The kid did betray them, but at the same time, he had looked so scared and shocked at the diner. He also had tried to help them.

“I trust that he’s trying to be better,” Bucky said slowly. 

Steve nodded in understanding. “Do you trust him not to betray you again?”

Bucky bit his cheek. “No,” he said. Everyone has relapses and lapses of judgment. “He might betray us again. I like to think he wouldn't, but I’m not that stupid. His brain’s been messed with so much…. I… I dont know.” He shrugged. “I trust him to try to do what he thinks is right. It just depends on whether or not he chooses for himself what’s right and wrong.”

Steve nodded again. “Why did you continue to help him if you thought he was going to betray you?” Steve spoke softly and kindly, as if there was not wrong answer and he was just trying to understand.

Bucky sighed. His chest was heavy. Ice ran through his veins. He turned away.

“Because I was him once,” Bucky said, struggling to keep his voice level. Upon receiving no comment from Steve, he continued. “When I was in Hydra… there was this scientist. I never learned his name. I guess he decided one day that the nazi’s were batshit insane.” Bucky breathed a shaky breath. “He broke me out. Years ago. Decades ago. He freed me.”

Steve’s brow furrowed. “But you didn't leave?”

“I wasn’t in my right mind,” Bucky replied, feeling like a chunk of him was being chiseled out with each word. “I… he tried to free me… to help me… let me out… and I… and I…”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut before tears could slip out. Hyrdas teachings whispered in the back of his mind. Tears were weakness. Tears would be punished.

“Oh, Buck. ” Steve wrapped his arms around him in an awkward side hug. “Buck, that wasn't you. It wasn’t you. The scientist understood that.”

Bucky stepped away, shrugging Steves arms off and breathed in a deep, trembling breath. “Point is, Steve. I’ve been in Peter’s shoes. I had no one right after I escaped, and… and I don’t want him to go through it alone.”

“And he wont,” Steve replied, sounding like he was giving an order. “He’ll be safe here. We can watch him. Help him. Get him one of those mind doctors.”

“A shrink.”

“A what?”

“A shrink. Psychologists. Mind doctors, they’re called— You know what, never mind.”

“Point is, Bucky, you’re not alone. Neither is Peter. We’re going to help. And with Peter's assistance we might be able to take down our killer before they get out of hand.”

“Yeah.” Bucky nodded. He felt numb. 

“It’s going to be okay.” Steve patted his shoulder again. Bucky nodded stiffly. Steve retracted his hand. “The rest of the team is going to have a meeting in about ten minutes. You want me to tell them you’re not feeling up to it?”

Bucky shook his head. “No. I’m fine.”  

“You sure? Theres no shame in needing to take a breather.”

“I’m fine, Steve. I’m fine.”

Peter rose up to awareness slowly, like a deep sea fish surfacing into dazzling wind and sunlight. The brightness was overwhelming. The first thing he noticed was that the screeching, throbbing alarms were missing , replaced with voices conversing calmly in a businesslike manner. A plethora of beeping and whirring sung loudly, as though right next to his ears.

The air itself seemed to weigh heavily, like an entire building crumbling and crushing down on him. He couldn't lift his hand. He couldn't move his legs. It took all his strength just to open his eyes.

The harsh lights immediately stabbed into his head like a knife. He grimaced.

Blurry shadows seemed to move around his bed, speaking in hushed voices. He couldn’t tell how much time passed. He couldn't do anything but lay there, helpless. Heavy.  His limbs were made of lead. His arms and legs ached as if they had just ran a marathon.

The strong scent of disinfectants and bleaches assaulted his nose.

Whimpering, Peter pushed himself up. Every inch of him screamed. A thin, scratchy sheet slid down his shoulder. Small, sticky pieces of medical tape pulled at the hair on his arms and held an IV in place.

Peter wiggled his fingers, looking at his hands. The irritating stitches on his palm were gone, replaced with clean white bandages. He could feel rough bandages rubbing against his ribs. Wiggling his nose, he felt thick fabric tug at his skin on his face. His fingers grazed the bulky bandages covering his nose. Another bandage sat on his hairline.

The gun. He flinched at the memory.

He frowned.

Where the hell am I?

Peter swung his legs over the side of his cot and carefully pulled out his IV — wincing as a sharp pain tore through his arm — and discarded it. Red drops of blood stood out brilliantly on the pale white sheets.

Peter blinked. 

He was in a box. The ceiling, floor, and walls were made of the same rough white cement. A toilet sat in the corner. Peter couldn't see any light bulbs, but the room was well lit.

Peter's stomach churned. Mr. Colt liked the color white. He wasn’t… He couldn’t be… Peter wrapped his skinny arms around his waist. Barnes. He needed Barnes. Where was… where was he??

He sucked in a deep breath.

Think, Peter, think, he thought. He stared at the blank walls. You know you’re never truly alone.

As if Peter had triggered it, the buzzing in the back of his mind jumped to attention, tugging him along gently like a wave lapping gently across sand. He let his eyes be led.

There. On the ceiling.

A tiny red light flickered above him, so small that he would have completely missed it if not for his unrestricted vision. 

A camera.

Peter dropped his feet to the floor — just now realizing that his clothes were gone and a white t-shirt, white pants, and white socks had replaced them — and leaned back.

Think, Peter. Think. How can I get out of here… He bit his lip. What would Mr. Colt say to do? Probably kill someone. Not an option. Okay, uh… what would my parents do? Peter blinked, thinking hard for a good three minutes. I have no idea. What about Barnes?

For starters, Barnes never let anything get to him. He probably didn't feel fear ever . Peter needed to be like that. He needed to be strong. 

Peter’s eyes drifted back to the camera before quickly looking away. He stared at his bandages. Small drops of blood ran down his arm from his IV poke.

I’m alive. Why am I alive? Peter thought. They could have killed me. They could have killed me, but they didn't.

With a start, Peter realized: they need me alive.

Whoever had him right now— whether that was SHIELD or Hydra or someone else — needed him alive.

Getting an idea, Peter swiftly stepped off his bed.

Turning his back to the camera, he rubbed his fingers across his inner elbow — collecting the small puddle of blood — and smeared it over his throat. He applied it extra generously near his jugular. 

After waiting a few seconds for more blood to leak out of his arm, Peter scooped it up in one hand and snatched the IV needle in the other.

In one swift movement — to swift for any normal human — Peter whipped around in view of the camera — making sure it saw the glinting needle — and pretended to slit his throat in one clean motion. With his other hand he flicked the blood, creating the illusion of spurting blood.

Peter gasped. He choked. He sputtered.

He put on quite the show if he did say so himself. After falling to his knees, he gave one last pained look at the camera, and crumpled to the ground. He laid face first in a puddle of his own blood. His cheek stuck to the cold floor.

He held his breath. 

Within thirty seconds the doors flew open and what he could only assume were three SHIELD agents sprinted in, dragging as much medical equipment as possible.

Hm. Another minute and I would have bled out. They’re slow.

Peter repressed a flinch when sharp nails cut into his arm and rolled him over onto his back.

“I need O-Neg, stat!” 

“Are you sure that's gonna work on him?”

“Just give it to me dammit!”

Peter’s eyes flew open. One agent screamed, another dropped her bandages in surprise. The third fumbled for her gun. 

In a split second he swung his legs, catching each of them and knocking them to the ground. As one agent fell, her gun flew out of her grip. Peter sprung up, caught it, and skidded to a stop in front of the door. 

He pointed the gun straight at their fearful, shocked faces.

Never, ever, would he actually pull the trigger. But they didn't know that. 

With one last look, Peter slammed his fist on a nearby control panel — causing the doors to slam shut — and sprinted like hell. 

Doors and lights blurred past him in his peripherals. An unfortunate man jumped in surprise as Peter darted past him, spilling boiling hot coffee all over himself. They shrieked in pain.

Bzzzzzzssstttt… buzzed the tingling creeping up his spine and into his skull. On instinct alone Peter slammed his hands over his ears, muffling the deafening alarms that jumped to life. 

Shitshitshitshitshit this was a bad idea.

Peter bolted into an open room, only to freeze and nearly fall to his knees.

A gradual dead silence fell over the room. Hundreds of eyes turned to face him. Peter gulped. Heat ran up his cheeks, suddenly realized how he looked. Covered in blood, panicked, and holding a pistol.

Without thinking he turned and flew back down the hall, ignoring the shouting behind him. As soon as he rounded a corner he flung open the first door he saw and dove in. 

A stampede of footsteps roared past. He pressed his hand against his mouth in the pitch black darkness, trying to force himself to be quiet. Minutes passed. He dared not move. Peter sat, trembling. They were going to kill him . He realized. If they catch me, they’ll realize how dangerous I am and kill me.

As Peter’s eyes adjusted to the darkness and he could make out the outline of a cramped broom closet, he lowered his trembling hand. I’m okay. I’m okay. A shaky breath rattled through his breath. Muffled footsteps and voices drifted under the door.

He needed a way out. He needed a way out and it wasn’t going to be the door.

Right before panic fully set in, the tingling in the back of his mind once again nudged him. He looked up.

A large vent stared back at him.

Metal dug into Peter's stomach as he army crawled forward. Spiderwebs and dust bunnies clung to his sweaty hair. He had never felt more claustrophobic. The walls were closing in on him. He was sure of it.  

There was no room to turn around. He had to keep his head down to avoid scraping it against the rough ceiling. 

Peter desperately focused on putting one hand in front of the other. Unable to lift his legs in the cramped vent, he relied on sticking with his fingers and pulling his body forward. His muscles trembled. 

Every so often he’d hear someone down below him and freeze. Thumpthumpthump. His heart would echo through his skull. Each time he thought: This is it. They found me. This is the end.

But no bullets ever came. No executioner cut him down.

After an hour the alarms shut off. Peter knew they were still looking for him. They were just waiting for him to come out. 

Maybe they knew where he was. Maybe they were about to cut off his oxygen. Maybe this breath would be his last.

Peter ducked his head, taking a second to be still and try to will his erratic heart to slow. I’m fine. I’m okay. One hand in front of the other, Peter. One hand in front of the other.

Upon approaching a divergence in the ventilation system, Peter turned to the right. He could smell something… sweet … down that path. His stomach growled loudly. Peter paused, hoping no one heard him.

After a few minutes he continued his crawl-shuffle.

Again, he reached another divergence. This time he turned left.

Right.

Right.

Left.

Up.

Up.

Left.

Up.

Right. 

The sweet smell got stronger and stronger, and suddenly Peter realized he didn't have to duck down so low anymore. In fact, he could crouch quite comfortably. Rolling his shoulder, he hesitated as something rough rubbed against his fingers.

Frowning, he picked it up. The sweet smell caressed his nose. It was coming from there. He squinted. 

It was a large blue box with a white rectangle printed on. He tilted his head, trying to make out the words in the dim light. 

“Bo… po… pop… tatts. Poptatts?” He whispered. Weird. 

In reflective permanent marker, the words: “THOR. DO NOT TOUCH.” were written. He discarded it, taking a good look at his surroundings. 

The ceiling was high enough that he could comfortably kneel. A purple bean bag sat in the corner, along with a stack of comics, a small portable video game player, and a pack of half-drank beer. A bow and a handful of arrows sat against the opposite wall.

Peter couldn't help but notice the distinct lack of dust and cobwebs. 

The small, stupid idea of staying there actually crossed his mind. He dismissed it just as fast. Whoever live up here would be back soon. He had to keep going. 

Peter got back on his stomach, ready to squirm down the vent.

Only… something caught his eyes. Something tucked, hidden, under the beanbag.

Peter pulled it out. 

It was a small metal picture frame holding a picture of a happy family. Peters eyes stung. Agony rippled through his mind. Whether he felt guilt or jealousy, he wasn't quite sure.

A middle aged couple — who looked vaguely familiar but he couldn't quite make out their features in the dark vent — stood in front of two teens and a little boy. A smaller picture of a young woman with black hair and a fluffy golden retriever was taped on.

He wondered what it was like…

He wondered what it was like to be loved so much that someone would cherish a photo of you, but that they would attach that photo to a picture of their real family. He sighed, holding the picture frame to his chest and squeezing his eyes shut. Two messy tears slid down his cheeks.

If he stayed perfectly still, he could pretend. He could pretend that was his family. His parents. His siblings. Any minute now they’d come looking for him. They’d find him, and they’d be happy. Because they won the game. This was all a game.

Please. Please. Please. Please.

The word cycled through him like a mantra. Though he was begging with all his soul, he had no idea who he was pleading with. Or what he was asking for.

What would it be like? To be hugged without being slapped immediately after? To play with another child and be forced to hurt them. To make people laugh, and not cry.

What was it like to be love?

Wham! A door flew open and hit the wall. 

Peter’s eyes flew open, snapping him out of his thoughts. A myriad of footsteps stopped directly beneath him. He held his breath.

“This iz completely unfair!” snapped a furious accented voice. Peter wrinkled his forehead. Had he heard that voice before?

“I know how you feel kid, but this is what has to happen.” Peter jumped. Hawkeye. He tried to stop the panic rising in his chest.

“Yeah, but we wanna help! C’mon, man! You need us! We’re pros.” 

Peter had no idea who that was.

“Kate, no. You’re not even supposed to be here.”

“I like zis one,” added the accented voice.

“I don’t care,” groaned Barton.

“You’re not even gonna let us—”

“No, you three are going to stay here, sit tight, and not kill each other until we find the threat.”

“Psshhh. I vould barely call him a threat,” laughed the first voice.

“He knocked you out,” drawled another feminine voice that he hadn't heard before. 

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

“Thank you, Wanda. Now could you please just watch each others backs for the time being?” pleaded Barton.

“Me? Watch these guys’s backs?” Kate repeated. “As in the most powerful witch who ever lived and.. . and this guy?”

“Hey!”

“I can do that,” Kate sounded a bit out of breath, as if she just ran a marathon. “Yeah, for sure. Yeah. Totally.”

“Good.” Barton said after a few seconds of silence. “Now why don’t we all—”

“Clint,” Wanda said slowly.

“—just take a couple deep breaths, and leave this to the Avengers for the time being. That way—

“ Clint .”

“—no one gets hurt, we neutralize threats, and everyone gets a happy ending. We’ll even—”

“ Clint!”

“What, Wanda? What?”