Chapter Text
The Winter Spider walks silently and concentrated, his eyes set forward on the paved path before him.
Two guards march by his side, armed with enough weapons to blast the heads off of multiple presidents. They change every mission that requires his transportation to another state. It’s not his place to ask why, nor is it important to him. They do their job, he does his. He’s not interested.
One thing The Winter Spider is curious about, however, is what mission could possibly require a folder the thickness of the doors of his housing unit in the HYDRA compound he’s often kept in between missions. The folder, which is tucked under the arm of the guard to his right, is overflowing with paper.
They keep walking until they reach an open roofed area with a large jet awaiting them. The Winter Spider knows how this will go. Once he climbs inside, he’ll be seated near the back, and be given the folder to read over. The folder will inform him of his mission, and all the necessary details to go with it. With a folder this big, The Winter Spider can guess this will be one of the longest missions he’s ever gone on. Possibly the most important too.
The pavement on the ground turns into a metal grate as he is guided up to the plane. The guards stop at the entrance, but The Winter Spider continues, stepping through the door to greet the next HYDRA agent.
“Да здравствует Гидра” Long live HYDRA, says the HYDRA agent inside, giving him a nod as they pass each other; The Winter Spider heading to his seat, the HYDRA agent going to collect the folder from the other agent outside.
While the other HYDRA agents working with him tend to change often, this one has always remained the same. Agent Morozov, his handler. She’s been in charge of The Winter Spider from the earliest years of his training. She was the one to first introduce pain to his body, and the first to give him a mission. She’s been with him through thick and thin, though her behaviour towards him doesn’t reflect it. The Winter Spider can’t recall a single time she’s shown appreciation towards him. It’s for the best, though. Unnecessary connections to others are to nobody’s benefit.
Once he seats himself, Agent Morozov comes back, this time holding the folder. She presses it into his hands, and he takes it without argument.
“Это ваше следующее задание.” This is your next task. She says, lips pressed thin. “У вас есть один год, чтобы это выполнить.” You have one year to complete it. With that, she walks off somewhere towards the front of the plane, leaving The Winter Spider to go over the stack of papers.
The Winter Spider first learnt to read when he was four, looking at the words on the neon signs through the bars of his first cell. He can’t remember what he was doing there in the grimy jail like a prisoner. Soon after though, he’d been given tutors of all expertise to train him for his future as a soldier.
He opens the folder, carefully flipping it open. The paper sticks to his fingertips, which poke out from his fingerless gloves. For years, HYDRA has been working on a suitable design for gloves over his hands. The cloth needs to be able to protect him from injuries like ropeburn, but he needs to be able to shoot his webs from his palms, and have his fingertips available to stick to surfaces. Sometimes The Winter Spider wonders why they bother with gloves at all.
The papers finally stop sticking to his fingers, and he’s able to start reading. Within two minutes, The Winter Spider has read over the first five pages, and he’s starting to get the jist of the mission.
This is one of the most bizarre missions he’s been on, he admits to himself. The size of the folder makes sense now. He’s not even sure that one year is enough time to do this, but he doesn’t voice his complaint. Shuffling the first five pages to the back, he continues reading the papers.
Once he’s finished all the pages but the last, he sets them down on his lap, and stares at the floor again. He knows not to comment on his missions, but he finds the urge climbing onto his tongue. A wave of disgust washes over him, and he swallows the temptation. This is the longest mission he’s been assigned, and will be the most tedious.
The Winter Spider is to take on the identity of Peter Parker, a boy who has just witnessed his parents death recently, and has gone to live with his aunt and uncle, Ben and May Parker, who previously had no knowledge of his existence until recently.
The part that stands out most to him on the first few pages is the fact that Mrs. and Mr. Parker are not HYDRA agents, nor are they aware of any HYDRA activity at all. To them, their long lost nephew will be completely real, so The Winter Spider will have to be careful when around them. Any information revealed to them will result in their deaths– which are already inevitable. After the Winter Spider is finished with his missions, any outsiders involved too deeply with him or his character have to be removed.
It’s not the first time he’s had outsiders involved in his missions, but these ones seem rather entangled in his character. The last time he’d had to work with an outsider, he’d very nearly had his true identity broadcasted on live news. That was a mission that the Winter Spider never wanted to think of again. He’ll be happy if he never sees another journalist in his life.
The folder goes into deep detail about Peter Parker’s personality. He’s kind hearted and intelligent, but supposed to be deeply oblivious and awkward when it comes to dealing with children his own age, likely a choice designed by HYDRA to hide any missing slang or references in his vocabulary. He’s a nerd, which won’t be hard to fake, but he also has an extreme obsession over Star Wars, which will be. The Winter Spider has only watched one Star Wars film, and that was through the narrow gaps of a closet door when he’d been trapped inside someone's lounge for an hour after an unexpected toddler had made her way into a house that was meant to be empty other than the still warm body of some SHIELD official.
It’s clear HYDRA has been working on this identity for years, adding banking details and a light online presence which he’ll most likely have access to if they give him a phone. Interestingly, they decided to make him broke, with only 55.20 dollars to his name.
Back on track, The Winter Spider slowly picks up the last page of the file to read his final instructions.
Oh.
This will be a difficult task.
He places down the page once he’s finished reading it, tucking it into the folder and closing the cover. There’s no point in thinking of all the ways this mission could go wrong, if he tried to list them all, he’d be here for days.
But before he knows he’s doing it, he starts listing every step in his mind, exploring each way he could execute them, and what could go wrong. Everything needs to be accounted for. There are no second chances in major missions like these.
He’s there for hours, staring at his hands as his mind explores a completely different dimension, cramming every bit of information and idea it can. His senses go blank to the sound of the rumbling plane, and the discussion between the two pilots. It’s not often he finds the world muted to himself while he thinks, and unfortunately for him it's the only way he can truly escape the constant downsides of his enhanced hearing.
“Ты понимаешь свою миссию, Зимний Паук?” Do you understand your mission, Winter Spider? A voice snaps his gaze up from the floor to greet Agent Morozov, who is holding a red duffel bag in her right hand.
“Да.” Yes. He responds, keeping his words short. Agent Morozov does not tend to bother with pointless jabber, which the Winter Spider can appreciate.
“ Вот вещи Питера.” Here are Peter's things. She hands him the duffel bag, and points to somewhere past him at the back of the plane. “Ваш костюм будет ждать вас в комнате для подготовки.” Your costume will be waiting for you in the preparation room. With that, she takes a step back, ready to leave him be.
A nod of his head is all he needs to indicate he’s understood her command, and soon he is left alone.
He stands, leaving the duffel bag on his seat as he makes his way to the mission preparation room. Usually on missions, he’s given a suit with black, stretchy fabric and a mask to cover his face, but this time it seems he will need to wear different attire.
When the Winter Spider enters, he is presented with a flannel, black pants, and the familiar glasses that disguise his quote unquote “boba tea eyes.”The last undercover mission he’d worked on, he’d cornered his target in the bathroom and had his glasses promptly knocked off while his target struggled to escape. The illusion over his eyes had shattered, and he’d had to leave the mission half unfinished before suspicions could be raised.
HYDRA had not been happy with him.
The mechanic working on repairing it has done a good job, the illusion of warm brown eyes staring back at him in an uncanny accuracy to real ones. It’s some sort of hologram, or projection, because normal contacts wouldn’t blend properly with his real eyes.
He grabs the civilian clothes, turning to close the door to the small room and dressing himself in them. Once he’s finished pulling on the flannel –which is a hideous red colour–, the Winter Spider picks the glasses up and pushes them onto his head. In the mirror, he can see the illusion settling over his eyes and making them look human.
A tapping sound echoes around the room as someone knocks on the door outside.
“We land in five to ten minutes.” Agent Morozov says in English, her Russian accent crisp.
“Understood.” The Winter Spider replies, his voice clear of any Russian accent, and instead mirroring that of a New Yorker. He’s been trained in languages for years, and English is his second best language next to Russian (thank goodness, most of his missions ended up being in America).
A small victory for him is the fact that no Spanish will need to be spoken from him this time– last mission he’d needed to speak Spanish, he’d been called out for not sounding native and it had almost spiralled into disaster.
He takes a moment to adjust some hidden weapons in his clothing, before opening the door and exiting to the main section of the plane.
The plane starts to descend a few moments after the Winter Spider sits down in his seat again, setting the duffel bag under his elbow and the folder in a subtle pocket on the side. He waits patiently with his head bowed, staring blankly at his lap as the engines outside his window continue their loud humming. The attempt to go back to the peaceful blank state of mind fails, but he knows he doesn’t have time to relax anyway, so it’s hardly a loss.
When the plane lands, the Winter Spider stands up and heads to the exit. Agent Morozov is waiting for him, her spindly fingers tapping impatiently on the door as she leans against it.
“Name?” She barks, stopping her leaning to cross her arm.
“Peter Parker, nephew of Ben and May Parker.” The Winter Spider –Peter, now– responds.
Agent Morozov gives a nod of approval, and steps back to let him through. She tests him each time he steps out the plane door for a mission with an undercover identity. He doesn’t know why, it’s not like he’s ever mixed up his names or forgotten them.
Peter Parker steps out, letting himself be guided out of the plane yard by the two new HYDRA agents awaiting him. He’s taken to a black car, and invited to sit in the back row.
“Peter Parker.” This HYDRA agent has no Russian accent, and she doesn’t bother to turn and face him while speaking. “I am Laura Philips, your social worker. Refer to me as Ms. Philips. You will report to me once a month. Details will be sent to you later.” She’s given him a false name, and addressed him with his. Either she’s extremely high up in the ranks of HYDRA, or she doesn’t have the clearance to know he’s the Winter Spider, though the first option is more likely. If Peter doesn’t know her agent name, he can’t slip up. Not that he would ever say anything confidential on accident, but it’s HYDRA standard protocol to use code names.
Peter nods to let her know he understands, before realizing she doesn’t quite have eyes in the back of his head. “I understand.”
Ms. Philips doesn’t respond.
They drive the rest of the way in silence, not stopping for two hours. It’s only when the sky starts to turn dark, and the streets start to become busier that Ms. Philip announces they’re finally there.
Peter opens the car door, and the city air rushes to meet him dizzyingly. It stinks of petrol and people and rotten lasagna, and he misses the air of the HYDRA compound in Russia immediately, even if it constantly smelt of blood. Everything is loud too. He thought the plane was bad, but in the city he can hear every car engine, every coin dropping on the ground, and all the dull muttering coming from the surrounding streets.
He curls his fingers tighter around the straps of his duffel bag, joining Ms. Philips outside where she’s walked up to the door of some apartment complex.
“The Parkers will be waiting for us.” She says. It’s the first thing she’s said in hours, but it’s not like Peter has been awfully chatty either.
There’s a beeping noise as Ms. Philips taps at the keypad by the door, and then the doors open. Peter follows her into the building, taking note of the cheap red carpet laid down over the floor of the hallway. It’s a laughable attempt at looking expensive and important. Peter gets the feeling the place he’ll be staying won’t be as luxurious as his last missions, where he often acted as a young son of some important CEO.
Ms. Philips stops at the bottom of the stairwell, looks at the amount of steps, and promptly walks into the elevator. Peter follows after her, not commenting on her decision. He supposes not all HYDRA agents are willing to train endlessly for higher stamina.
More buttons on the wall are pressed, and the elevator starts to move up slowly. Painfully slowly, with a high squeaking noise every time they pass a floor. Ms. Philip turns to Peter with a strained smile plastered on her face.
“Get ready.” She says harshly as the doors open.
They’re on the top floor, number 8. Peter curses his luck, and thanks it at the same time. Leaving through the main doors in a subtle quiet matter will be difficult to do, but sneaking out via rooftop might be easier. Ms. Philips doesn’t seem to care, or notice for that matter.
There are multiple conversations going on that Peter can hear. The two flats parallel to each other are both empty, but the one directly above him and to the left both have two or more people passionately chatting. This is nothing new, Peter is used to being able to hear others talking from far away. He often accidentally eavesdropped on confidential HYDRA meetings, but that wasn’t his fault. Whoever decided to put the meeting room right on top of the sleeping room of a person with infamously advanced hearing needed to get fired.
Ms. Philips stops sharply at the first door on the right, and brings her knuckles to rap against the wood– which, looking closer now, might be plastic.
Peter rests his face muscles and adopts a nervously sweet expression that would usually be expected of an orphaned teen meeting his new foster parents. The same innocent face he’s used a million times before in his past 11 years with HYDRA.
There’s some scuffling noises coming from behind the door, along with a hushed ‘Shoot, already? I’ll get that-’, and then the door swings open.
Facing him is a lady, likely in her late forties or early fifties. She has a wide smile that stretches to her eyes, which are a deep brown, similar to the ones his glasses show. This must be May Parker.
“Hello, hello, come in!” She chirps, stepping inside and holding the door open for them.
Peter takes a moment to look around the flat as he walks in. It’s crammed, but not suffocatingly so. There’s a kitchen, a small table, a hallway leading to somewhere, and a couch on which a man with blue eyes sits upright on. Ben Parker.
May rushes them to sit down by the table, pulling out a chair for herself. Ben makes his way over and does the same.
“Sit, sit!” She gestures at the table. “I’m May, this is Peter’s uncle, Ben!”
Ms. Philips holds out her hand with a smile. “It's so nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Parker. I’m Laura, Peter’s social worker.”
Both Ben and May reach out to shake her hand at the same time, and they both pull back in sync before either can actually grasp it. There’s an awkward moment of silence before May just laughs and reaches again to shake Ms. Philips hand.
The tension completely dissolves; or at least it does to May and Ben. Peter is well aware of the sweat trickling on the back of Ms. Philip's neck as she hands the two civilians a stack of papers. HYDRA isn’t one to mess up often when it comes to paperwork, but when they do make a mistake, it ends badly for both sides.
Peter doesn’t talk, still trying to finish fully piecing together this character's personality. It’s difficult to decide how nervous he should be acting right now. First impressions are important, and if he ends up messing up how the Parkers are meant to view him, it could cause some problems in the future.
Meanwhile, Ben runs a hand through his hair, exhaling at the amount of paperwork.
“I can do it, Ben.” May starts.
“No, it’s alright–” Ben tries to argue back, but May cuts him off.
“I insist! Go talk to Peter on the couch while me and Laura work through this.” She dismisses him with a wave, fondly pushing at his side to get him to stand up.
“Laura and I.” Peter finally blurts out, correcting May’s grammar. He inwardly grimaces, and then speaks again. “Sorry.” That was a convincing thing for a nerd to do, right?
May seems surprised for a moment, but brushes it off. “You’re a smart boy.” She says with amusement. “I'll let you and Ben get introduced.”
Peter nods, and stands up, the chair making a screeching noise against the floor. He goes to apologise again, but stops himself before he opens his mouth. No point establishing himself as the type of person to fall over himself every five minutes.
The couch is barely four steps away from the table. Ben is already there, back in the spot he was originally in when Peter first saw him when he entered the flat. Peter sits down next to him, but leaves a few inches of space between them.
Ben is the one to break the silence, speaking with a warm smile. “Peter, right? I’m Ben.”
He clearly already knows Peter’s name. If Peter wasn’t undercover, he wouldn’t dignify the question with an answer. “Yeah.” He opts for instead.
“Right.”
They sit in more silence, the background chatter of Ms. Philips and May being the only thing filling the space.
Ben looks like he wants to say something. He’s looking at Peter with a politely confused bug-eyed stare.
“Is everything alright?” Peter asks sheepishly, his head slightly tilted to mirror Ben.
“Nah, it’s nothing– I just thought that both Richard and Mary had blue eyes and…” Ben trails off, shaking his head.
Ah, shit.
From the file, Peter is actually fairly sure that at least Richard Parker had brown eyes, but even though Ben is remembering incorrectly, it can be just as dangerous as if he had been right. If Ben got suspicious and tried to dig further into Peter’s past and found something-
He blinks, realizing Ben’s waiting for him to respond. “Mom had brown eyes. To his dismay, the words come out a little harshly.
“I’m sorry, that was rude of me.”
“It’s alright, no harm done.” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to convey avoidance.
“No, I really am sorry, I know it must be really hard for you right now-” not really. “-I’m glad we managed to reconnect with you, kid. It must have been scary, being in foster care for years without knowing you had any other living family.”
He’s kind. He’s kind, and Peter doesn’t like it. It feels strange and unfamiliar, like many conversations Peter has with outsiders before. This time though, Peter will be spending a lot more than a few days without HYDRA and instead with a terrifyingly innocent guy.
“I–” Peter starts, but cuts himself off. “Yeah. It was.”
Ben leans over and gives Peter a comforting pat on his shoulder. “So, I heard you liked Star Wars?”
Oh no.
Peter cringes, and prepares himself to absolutely bluff his way through this conversation.
Luckily for him, Ms Philips is now putting down the ink pen and coming up to him from behind. He shouldn’t show that he notices her immediately, but the relief is probably already clear on his face, so he twists his body to look at her.
“Peter, I’ve just finished the paperwork, so if it’s alright with you, I’ll be leaving you with the Parkers now.”
It’s fairly obvious that Peter can’t object and tell her it’s not alright with him. Not that he’d ever jeopardize a mission like that but still. It’s unnecessary to act like Peter has a choice here.
“Yeah, thanks.” The same nervous smile from before is forced onto his face.
Ms. Philips is guided to the door by May, who shakes her hand again and bids her goodbye. With his sharp eyesight, Peter’s able to spot May grabbing something from atop a cupboard as she steps softly over to them.
The sound of the elevator activating rumbles behind muted walls after a few suspended seconds.
Another weight is added to the couch as May sits down with them, a card in hand.
“Peter, I thought I’d make something for you to welcome you home.”
He takes the card, softly turning it over to look at the image on the front. On it is a crayon drawing of three stick figures, all extremely proportionally incorrect in scale and details. It’s clear a toddler drew it.
“Who drew this?” Peter asks.
“You did.” Ben speaks up hesitantly.
Peter very much doubts that.
“Laura said you drew it when you were little. We wanted you to have it.”
It’s not important at all, just some false HYDRA prop to make Peter’s story look real, but something in his chest squeezes when he identifies who the people on the card are supposed to be. A mother, a father, and their son.
And suddenly, he’s five years old again, sitting in a chair too big for him in a room with dim lighting and shelves upon shelves of medical tools as he swings his legs, patiently waiting for Agent Morozov to come back and collect him from the unfamiliar room. The word ‘Mom’ is on the tip of his tongue. He’s not supposed to be speaking English here though, so instead he’s waiting for Mама.
Peter’s throat tightens at the rush of the memory. The card is oddly familiar. It brings up a time in his life it’s best he forgets.
His younger self was so embarrassingly weak.
“Thanks, Mr Parker.” The words choke out from his mouth, his Russian accent slipping through.
Ben visibly cringes at the title, but doesn’t seem to notice the slip up. “Ben or Uncle Ben is fine.”
May shoots Ben a look, clearly trying to communicate with him about Peter, but Ben is blind to it.
“Same goes for me,” she finally chimes in. “You don’t have to call me Mrs Parker, Aunt May or just May works for me!”
Peter nods slowly, and turns his attention back to the card. His thumb presses against the old paper, tracing the stick figure family. Numbing himself to the urge of an unfamiliar feeling, he opens the card.
There’s a line of odd squiggly shapes that Peter takes a moment to identify as writing.
‘HAPY NEW YEERS!!!!!!!!!!!’
The thing that surprises him is that Peter actually does have a memory writing this, and he has a feeling he knows why.
He turns the card over again, looking at the drawing on the front again. Sure enough, the stick figures he’d first thought were a mother and father had a striking resemblance to Agent Morozov and… Agent Majer.
Hm.
Agent Morozov had told the four year old Peter that she’d thrown away the foolish gift, but apparently she’d kept it. Trust her to always think ahead for future missions.
With a smile so forced he’s sure he’s not being subtle, he folds the card closed and puts it in his pocket. He will not look at it later. He will not.
“I… I’m really tired. This has been a big day.” His throat dries the more he speaks. Truly, he deserves an award for his acting. “Do you mind if I sleep early?”
If he’s correct with his calculations, it should be around 7:30. An early bed time for a teen, but Ben and May might be the least likely people to stop him in New York.
“Of course we don’t mind, but have you had dinner? We can order–”
“It’s alright,” Peter is quick to cut her off. “I already ate with Ms. Philips on the way.” A lie, but Peter will be fine living off his nutrition bars for one meal. For now, he needs to get himself organised and grounded. And preferably figure out how HYDRA will contact him for his monthly reports.
Ben is already standing up before May can protest, ready to lead him to his room. “Let’s get you to bed, hm?”
Peter nods, grabbing his duffel bag before following Ben down the hallway he’d spotted when he first entered the flat. It’s a short hallway, about 4 meters long at the most. Ben stops outside a door at the end, hand hovering over the doorknob.
“We tried organizing it as homely as we could, but feel free to change whatever you like” Ben smiles and twists the doorknob.
The door is pushed open to reveal a small but cozy room with a bed pushed into the corner and several Star Wars posters taped on the wall above it. Star Wars again? Just what had HYDRA told them? He’d have to watch all the movies now. What a waste of time.
“It’s…” Peter steps in, eyes flickering over the room to observe the effort put into it. There’s a lamp by his bed that spills golden light, illuminating the otherwise dim room. “Really nice. Thank you.” He turns back face to Ben, who’s anxiously hovering by the door. “This is really kind of you, Mr- Uncle Ben.”
Ben visibly releases a breath of relief. “I’ll tell May you like it.” He pauses for a second. “I can get you tea or hot chocolate if you want.”
“Thanks, I’m all good.” Peter replies, his attention shifting to his duffel bag.
“Alright, I’ll leave you to settle then.” Ben backs out of the room, closing the door with a soft click, leaving Peter to the soft lamplight.
Peter dumps his bag on his bed, immediately getting to opening it up. The zip doesn’t budge. Hm. Summoning an inch of his strength, he tugs sharply. The zip rips off the bag, and Peter is greeted with another duffel bag. Nice security, HYDRA.
And… surprise! Inside of the second duffel bag is a third duffel bag.
When he opens the third bag, he half expects to see a fourth. Instead lies a red ugly flannel, identical to the one Peter is wearing right now. He tosses it aside, focused on what else is bound to be in the bag.
A few science pun shirts and red flannels later, he finds it.
A small black case the size of his hands put together lies near the bottom of the bag, glinting innocently at him. Inside, Peter knows there are a wild assortment of knives and tech, but he’s more focused on the two phones taped to the bottom of it.
One burner phone, one “normal” phone. Neither of them look a day under 100. Thanks, HYDRA.
HYDRA will most likely try to contact him through the burner phone, so he hides that one under the mattress. The other phone can be seen in public without suspicion.
He turns back to the pile of clothing, picks up one of the flannels, and immediately regrets his rash decision.
About thirty little vials of something –probably poison– tumble out onto his bed. The other shirts are no better. The point of a knife sticks out from one of the science pun shirts, and Peter can see the very obvious shape of a gun from under a pair of pajamas.
Yeah, it might take a while to sort through this.