Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The constant, rhythmic dripping of water, like every evening, lulled Soldier 218 to sleep. Or maybe it was just exhaustion, starvation, or weakness? He couldn’t be sure.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Why was it always so cold in the cell? So damp?

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Would the leaking water pipe running through his musty room ever be fixed? Probably not. Who would waste time and resources on such an insignificant part of their society?

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Soldier 218 sighed, turning onto his other side and curling up, wrapping his arms around himself in a desperate attempt to conserve heat.

He didn’t have a blanket—only good soldiers deserved such a luxury. The dirty, moth-eaten, hole-ridden scrap of fabric that once had been a mattress was the only insulation from the icy concrete floor where he had slept for many years—until a facility doctor pointed out that without a bit of warmth, Soldier 218 wouldn’t survive the week. His possession of this “privilege” was solely due to his utility.

He gritted his teeth and shivered, trying not to think about why he was in this situation in the first place.

“You should’ve followed orders!” — the trainer’s voice echoed in his head.

“You useless pest! Why are we even keeping you here?!” — the superior had repeated for years.

It was a good question. Why did they keep him?

Soldier 218 knew he was nothing more than a cost. The only one among the combat trainees to never succeed. Not a single victory, not one kill, not even a damn win in a sparring match with the trainers.

As they often reminded him—he was worthless. Why couldn’t he hit anyone? Why did he only ever defend? No one else would have lasted this long being such a complete failure. Why was he still here, despite the lack of results?

In the back of his mind, Soldier 218 knew the answer: they were keeping him for his spider powers.

It only made his trainers more frustrated that he had more potential than others, yet still failed. Soldier 218 himself didn’t understand why he always cowered in the corner, unable to hurt another person—even if it meant returning to his concrete cage battered and bruised.

His room, cell, or whatever one might call the space he was confined to, was far from luxurious. Musty, reeking of filth, cold, dark, concrete, damp, and dirty—a 2-square-meter hellhole with only a pair of metal doors. No windows, no airflow aside from a narrow gap beneath the door that kept him from suffocating.

He had heard stories that life could be different, better. But having spent his entire existence in this place, Soldier 218 couldn’t even imagine the kind of conditions the trainers claimed he could earn—if he succeeded.

He was always cold. He knew he should be grateful for having a short-sleeved shirt and long pants, but on freezing winter nights, it was hard to bear the temperature that settled in his room.

His only goal was to survive and overcome his block against harming others. Only then would he be rewarded. Then they would send him on missions where he could prove himself and earn even more privileges.

The problem was, he was too afraid of the power granted by the radioactive spider’s bite to use it against another human being. That’s why he knew it was only a matter of time before he would succumb to the harsh, soul-crushing conditions designed to break him, which had been killing him day by day for years.

*** 

He could’ve sworn he’d just closed his eyes when a loud banging on the door woke him.

“Get up!” yelled the guard who never liked him because he had to take care of him. Soldier 218 didn’t care much for him either.

He especially hated being woken up by metal batons slammed against the metal doors, causing the entire room to vibrate in a way that was unbearable for his hypersensitive ears. It literally hurt, and once, his ears had even started to bleed.

Soldier 218 knew he wasn’t allowed to respond without permission, so he endured the noise until the guard finally opened the door. A hint of warmth drifted in from the heated part of the facility. That was the only upside to opened doors.

“Let’s go!” the guard growled, roughly hoisting him up with one hand and slinging him over his shoulder without warning.

It was humiliating. The soldier would’ve preferred to be dragged by the collar like usual. As if there were anywhere to run—there was no escape from Hydra. But today, he was too weak to even stand, and the guard knew it.

Soldier 218 hung limp in the guard’s arms as they walked through the same familiar corridors.

They were in the section designated for student rooms—the trainees still in training. There were eight of them in total. Soldier 218 was the youngest and smallest, and he also lagged behind in skill. Still, he wasn’t an outcast. No friendships were allowed; everyone focused solely on survival. They were to be entirely dedicated to training or resting in their rooms.

They reached the medical office—one Soldier 218 knew far too well. He ended up there almost daily with new injuries or, like today, to assess if he was fit to resume training. In most cases, even if he wasn’t, he was forced to train anyway. But in rare, extreme cases—ones he could count on one hand—he had been in such poor shape that he was allowed a day off for recovery.

On one hand, everyone wanted a break. On the other, no one wanted to be that close to death just to earn it.

“Guard,” greeted the doctor in a white coat, nodding politely. He never greeted the soldier. Soldier 218 wasn’t important enough to warrant acknowledgment.

The room was small and bright, with a central table, instruments, equipment, and the doctor’s desk. There was no medical wing—everyone healed in their rooms. If someone didn’t make it, well... too bad. As the Hydra motto cruelly went: “natural selection.”

Soldier 218 shivered as the guard laid him on the lab table, strapping his wrists and ankles with vibranium restraints. He was too weak to resist. He rested his head on the white-sheeted table, staring blankly at the ceiling, not registering what was happening around him. He closed his eyes, waiting for the exam to begin.

He didn’t have to wait long. The doctor soon unbuckled the straps at his ankles, straightening and bending his legs. Without warning, he injected something into the boy’s arm, and suddenly it felt like lava was coursing through his veins instead of blood. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to adapt to the unfamiliar sensation as the doctor continued the exam.

He drifted on the edge of consciousness, struggling not to pass out—as if it were up to him.

Finally, the verdict came.

“Unfit.”

The word was muffled, and Soldier 218’s ears were ringing. He didn’t know how to react—he hadn’t been declared unfit in two years. He wasn’t used to rest. He barely registered losing consciousness, his eyes closing, drool wetting the sheet.

He must’ve blacked out, because he woke up in his room, with an IV in his arm and a bowl of food beside him.

He wasted no time, throwing himself at the mushy meal, eating in a frenzy. Though cold and tasteless, it was the best meal he’d ever had. He had never been this hungry before. He devoured the paste with his hands in under twenty seconds, licking the bowl and his fingers clean.

He sighed contentedly, knowing that now that he had eaten, it would be easier to heal—and silence his constantly aching, starved stomach.

With nothing else to do, he stared at the IV drip. Every two seconds, a droplet fell from the bag into the tube that fed directly into his arm.

He must’ve watched it for hours, hypnotized, as the IV was replaced two more times before evening came and it was time for the bathroom.

This time, Soldier 218 left his room under his own power. He leaned against the wall for support, but even that was progress—the day off, the food, and the IV had clearly helped.

They turned left, walking only two doors down into the shared bathroom with green tile. The other recruits were already there, each with their guard.

“You have two minutes,” one of the guards said, gesturing toward the row of toilets and sinks.

No one needed to be told twice. Everyone minded their business, ignoring the guards’ watchful eyes, which made sure no one smuggled anything or tried to speak to one another.

The showers in the opposite corner were off-limits. They were only allowed to shower once a week, with a strict time limit.

When someone finished, they stood by the wall, ready to leave. Once the last person was done, they all left—each escorted back to their room by a guard.

Soldier 218 approached the sink, washing his hands and trying to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. But the mirror was too high—he would have to jump, and he didn’t have the strength for that. He had to settle for his reflection in the dirty, mineral-stained faucet. He saw a black eye and a bruised face but quickly looked away—not wanting to draw attention with odd behavior.

He looked down at his filthy clothes—once gray, now a mix of brown and black. He wished he could take them off and wash them, but they’d have no way to dry, and wet clothes in that freezing room would be a death sentence. Literally and metaphorically.

“Ready?” the guard asked rhetorically, leading them out.

Once, when he was younger, Soldier 218 hadn’t finished in time and was dragged out by force. As punishment, he hadn’t been fed for two days. He learned quickly—two minutes meant exactly two minutes. Not two minutes and five seconds.

When he entered his room, the door creaked loudly and shut behind him. He knew he had to sleep before the next day, which certainly wouldn’t pass without training.

*** 

“Get up!” the trainer yelled as he fell to the mat during sparring and didn’t immediately rise.

He must’ve expected the boy to get up in a second. The ten seconds it took enraged him.

Soldier 218 tried to stand, but his arms gave out beneath him.

“You useless wretch…” the trainer snarled, kicking him in the stomach. The boy groaned, curling into a ball to protect his vital organs.

As always, the trainer vented his emotions… physically. Harsh words weren’t enough, apparently. Truth be told, all the trainers were at their wits' end with Soldier 218. They didn’t know how else to force him to fight. They’d tried everything—beatings, starvation, threats, humiliation… Nothing worked. Soldier 218 would rather die than use his powers recklessly, terrified he might kill someone.

It was no surprise that his training ended the same way it always did: with a beating. The other students returned to their rooms with ice packs on their faces, proud of the praise their trainers had showered on them. Soldier 218? He rarely returned on his own two feet—and had never heard a single kind word.

He already knew that today would be no different when he saw a large fist flying toward his face. The image blurred, darkened, and that was the last thing he remembered. 

Chapter Text

The metallic clatter of a baton striking the brass door echoed like a mantra in his head. Each individual bang, caused by the impatient and particularly vindictive guard, hit Soldier 218 like a blow below the belt. He felt helpless, as the sound was unbearably loud no matter how tightly he pressed his hands to his ears. If the guard didn’t stop, it was only a matter of time before he went deaf.

“Waaaake uuup,” the guard called out in a sing-song, sickeningly sweet tone laced with malice from behind the door.

The banging ceased, and the loud creak of the door opening followed. Soldier 218 sat up, curling into himself against the cold wall. He looked smaller than he really was — on purpose. The less space he occupied, the harder it was to notice him, to pay attention to him — and therefore, he was left alone.

The guard stepped in slowly, whistling cheerfully as if working in this place brought him immense joy. His heavy leather boots, with thick soles and metal tips, thundered with each step. Two breaths could be heard — one short and trembling, the other deep and loud.

Unable to see anything in the darkness, the guard cursed under his breath and pulled a large flashlight from his pocket. He turned it on, accidentally shining it straight into the soldier’s eyes. Soldier 218 turned away, unable to look into the beam — it felt like staring into the sun, though he had only seen it a few times in his life.

He had spent his entire life underground, in darkness and dampness. Outside, he felt uneasy. He wasn’t used to the sight of the blazing ball in the sky, nor the vastness stretching before him. How could anyone find their place in such a huge world? How did anyone feel safe without familiar four walls around them?

The guard clapped his hands to draw the soldier’s attention and looked him over, letting his gaze settle on the soldier’s bruised, swollen face.

“You look like shit,” he clicked his tongue, making a disgusted face.

That was an accurate description of how Soldier 218 felt. His face hadn’t given him a moment's peace since he woke up. Actually, what woke him was a radiating, burning pain, spreading in all directions. Since then, the numbing throb hadn’t stopped; the bruised areas seemed to swell more with every passing second.

He was used to discomfort, but this time the pain felt different. Sharper. He could feel every cut, every scrape more clearly. His usually quick healing process seemed to have slowed—or even stopped. The constant hunger was taking its toll, and the wounds had stopped healing.

The guard stood still, not dragging him out of the room by force as he usually did. And just when it seemed like his hesitation was out of pity for the battered boy, he pulled a sour face and muttered in disgust:

“You’re walking on your own today. I’m not touching you — might catch something,” he brushed invisible dust off his shoulder, even though his uniform was in pristine condition, completely at odds with the place they were in.

“What are you waiting for? Get up!” he sliced the air with his baton, swinging it as a warning.

Soldier 218 gasped in pain, stood shakily on trembling legs, and winced as the movement doubled the burning throb in his face. Gritting his teeth, he leaned on the wall for support and exited the room, brushing past the guard.

He knew the way by heart. He knew exactly how many turns, how many pairs of doors, how many steps. He had walked this path so many times that he had counted everything there was to count.

To the training room: 23 lamps, mounted high on the walls, secured with thin metal grates. To the bathroom: 6 lamps — but only if you turned left instead of right, where the center of the facility was. To the room of the most isolated trainee — number 37 — going left, you passed 11 lamps.

Out of boredom and monotony, with nothing else to do, he made this his personal pastime during a life spent in this place. He focused on counting instead of thinking about how he’d survive the next day.

14 lamps to the right — he stopped. He was standing in front of the doctor’s office.

“Not today,” the guard said curtly, jabbing him in the back with his rifle and pointing the barrel toward the corridor on the other side. “Keep moving.”

The last functioning brain cell responsible for survival overruled the rising questions in Soldier 218’s mind, commanding his muscles to walk in the indicated direction — lest he get shot.

“I’m not going to the doctor?” he asked, confused by the break in routine.

“No.”

The guard didn’t bother to explain, and Soldier 218 hated surprises. He felt compelled to ask.

“B-but we're n-not going outside, right?” he stammered, terrified at the idea of facing the unknown dangers beyond the facility.

Once, when he was very small, a then-still-living soldier told him a story. Soldier 218 didn’t remember the title or even the moral, but he took one lesson from it: the surface was dangerous. Wild animals lived there — wolves and bears that would tear a person apart, hunt them down purely out of instinct.

Ironically, even bruised and battered, he felt safest underground. This was his place, his home.

“No,” the guard snorted. “We’re going to the training room. Your trainer said he’s very disappointed in you and has no more patience for your defiance. So he’s going to try a different training method. Just needs to toughen you up first.”

Soldier 218 shivered at the words. What did that mean?

“W-what?” he croaked.

“You’ll see soon enough,” the guard sneered, pressing the rifle to his back to make him walk faster.

**********

Someone shook Tony's shoulder, waking him from sleep.

“W-what?” he asked, disoriented, lifting his head from the hard conference table.

He looked around with sleepy eyes until his gaze landed on the source of the disturbance.

“Admit it, how much sleep did you get?” Pepper asked sternly, standing over him with a disapproving expression.

Tony snorted. The assumption that he had slept at all was optimistic — and extremely naive.

“I was going to sleep, but Spangles had to call a meeting,” Tony shrugged, ignoring Pepper’s stern posture.

It was none of her business how much sleep he got, no matter how much she still cared. They had broken up long ago, and even though they were on decent terms, she had no right to scold him for sleep deprivation. He was a grown man, not her child.

“It’s important,” Steve sighed from the other end of the table, reacting to the nickname.

Super-hearing or not, Tony had never been subtle about badmouthing others, so everyone in the room had heard him loud and clear.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony muttered, rolling his chair away from Pepper, who was standing far too close for his liking. “Then get to the point — not all of us have three free hours for nonsense.”

Natasha rolled her eyes from across the table, though she was used to Tony’s arrogant and snarky behavior. The more Tony teased someone, the more he actually cared. His sharp tongue was how he expressed concern and attachment.

“We’ve been here for two minutes,” Steve pointed out, clearly not reading Tony like the open book he was to Natasha.

“See!? Two whole minutes! Whatever happened to good old minimalism? I don’t have time for your midlife crisis.”

Clint chuckled, elbowing Sam, since Falcon was clearly struggling not to laugh out of loyalty to Steve.

“Bucky and I found a Hydra base,” Steve lowered his voice, addressing everyone and continuing as though he hadn’t been interrupted. “It’s forty kilometers north of New York, in a straight line.”

Tony fell silent this time, listening intently. He knew this wasn’t the time for jokes.

“They used to run human experiments there.”

Steve paused dramatically, prompting Tony to roll his eyes. Let the listeners decide when to gasp — that wasn’t something Capsicle should dictate.

“We combed through old records, hacked into encrypted files. But the data is over ten years old. Since then, they’ve upgraded the system — we don’t know what’s inside anymore or what the situation is.”

“So we assemble a team, scout the place, and cut off another Hydra head,” Bucky cut in, uncharacteristically vocal — but anything involving Hydra was personal.

“Let’s get to it,” Tony clapped his hands, standing and taking a sip of the cold to-go coffee left on his desk — a gift from the gods, or more likely himself, when he first slumped into the chair.

“Get the Quinjet, call SHIELD, Bruce, Rhodey, everyone who’s not here. This is going to be big — we’ll need everyone.”

Chapter Text

The trainer stood tall, proud, and pleased at the sight of Soldier 218 entering the training room. The look of fear on the swollen face of the student only widened the trainer’s smile—a smile that promised nothing good.

“Soldier,” the trainer began, his blue eyes flashing like a wild animal spotting its next prey. The guard exited, closing the door behind him and leaving them alone. “We’ve been through years of training, countless techniques and exercises. None of them worked.”

Soldier 218 swallowed hard, lowering his gaze to the floor to avoid looking at the satisfied man training him.

He stared at the gray tiles, with a drain in the center—one that, in his opinion, had seen far too much blood, his own and others’. Everything in this building was gray or so dirty that it was hard to tell its original color.

It was oddly comforting in a way—that predictability and repetition. Anything new was dangerous. The unknown carried pain, risk, and fear that nobody needed more of. The rulers of Hydra had already given them enough of that for a lifetime.

But Soldier 218 didn’t know that. He didn’t understand how the world worked, not even the hierarchy within his own home. He had never met the rulers—wasn’t even sure they existed. His only concern was survival and avoiding injury. Life went on from one day to the next, and not knowing there was another way, he clung to what he already knew.

“I kept wondering why every trainee, even the most resistant, eventually succeeds,” said the trainer, pacing the room from wall to wall. “Every one... except you.”

Soldier 218 lifted his eyes, hugging his emaciated body as if to comfort himself. No one had trained him how to hide fear with body language. An ideal Hydra soldier didn’t feel fear, so he didn’t need that kind of training. Too bad he couldn’t fit in like the others. He wished he could decide to look out for only himself. But his stupid heart wouldn’t let him.

“I questioned whether my teaching methods were flawed. Or maybe you’re just a hopeless case—beyond saving.” The trainer stopped and turned to face the awkwardly standing soldier. “And then a month ago, I finally had an idea. I decided to go further—try something new. Force you to fight.”

The soldier furrowed his brow, knowing that no matter the torture or threats, he could never intentionally hurt another person.

“You’re probably wondering what I came up with, after all those years of failing to make you cooperate. You’ll see soon enough. I’ve been preparing for this moment for a long time.”

He left the room, leaving the soldier alone with his thoughts. Suddenly, the young trainee wished the trainer would return. He would rather dodge blows and cower on the mat during combat lessons than wait in silence for whatever horror the trainer had devised.

Soldier 218 had a bad feeling. Whatever it was that was meant to force him to fight—he was sure he wouldn’t like it. The question was: how much?

He tried to suppress the trembling that betrayed his fear. His lip quivered, so he bit down on it. He waited impatiently for the trainer’s return, desperate to get his “new method” over with.

After what felt like ten minutes, the trainer came back—walking backward, bent over, dragging something. Soldier 218 tilted his head curiously, trying to see through the small gap left by the half-open door.

The trainer stepped further into the room, revealing what he had been dragging—something that was actually moving. The terrified soldier could only watch as another trainee, Soldier 85, was pulled in, tied to a chair.

Soldier 85 was older, though no one but the superiors knew their real ages—not even they themselves. He had facial hair and visible muscles straining against his tight shirt. Tall and well-built, he was the complete opposite of the sickly thin Soldier 218.

Why he was tied to the chair and not struggling, 218 didn’t understand. Did it not bother him that he was being dragged into a mad training scheme? Or did he not have a choice? If so, why the restraints? And if not—why was he sitting so still? So many questions flooded 218’s mind that he only realized too late the trainer had been speaking.

A sharp slap brought him back to reality, and the trainer crouched in front of him, leveling their eyes.

“Don’t make this difficult!” the trainer growled, dragging Soldier 218 toward Number 85. The boy stood opposite the bound student, trembling, looking a few inches down directly at his face. “Ready for your task?” the trainer asked cheerfully, smiling at both of them.

The way his mood shifted so quickly—it was something psychological. Who hits someone and then smiles at them three seconds later?

“W-whaaat t-tas-sk, s-sir?” 218 stuttered from fear, which only worsened when he saw the mocking smirk on 85’s face. He didn’t need to speak—his look alone said it all.

The trainer stepped around behind him, leaning down to whisper in his ear:

“You’re going to hit him. Hard.” Soldier 218 shivered as the trainer combed a hand through his hair with fake tenderness. “Otherwise, I’ll kill him. And it’ll be your fault. Either you hurt him a little, breaking the barrier in your mind—or I hurt him permanently.”

Soldier 218 tried to back away and flee, but the trainer, knowing him too well, grabbed his shoulders, holding him in place. The soldier wasn’t strong enough to break free from the muscular grip. Even with enhanced strength, he was too malnourished and weak to do anything but squirm.

“No,” the trainer muttered, repositioning him where he had started, whispering again in his ear, “Let’s try again. Be a big boy and do your job.”

Tears streamed down Soldier 218’s face. He couldn’t hit Number 85. He feared violence—couldn’t explain it—but he simply couldn’t hurt another human being.

“He mocked you. Teased you. He deserves it. Still won’t do it?” The trainer’s voice slithered in like a biblical devil, whispering temptation over his shoulder.

Soldier 218 couldn’t strike him—but he didn’t want him killed either. There was no good option. Even though hitting him would be more logical, he still couldn’t bring himself to do it. What if he hit too hard and killed him himself? That was a risk he couldn’t take.

It shouldn’t be his decision whether 85 lived or died. Who was he to hit someone? He couldn’t get pulled into this game. He had to draw the line somewhere. If this became his weak point, he’d forever be Hydra’s pawn—hurting people so others wouldn’t be hurt.

It shouldn’t be his responsibility.

“DO SOMETHING!” the trainer screamed in his face, shaking him by the shoulders like he wanted to jolt him awake.

Not everyone could make such a decision so easily—but the trainer couldn’t comprehend that.

Soldier 218 wasn’t like everyone else in the facility. He wasn’t aggressive, selfish, or ruthless. He cared about people more than he cared about himself.

“No decision is still a decision. I’m giving you one last chance.”

The trainer pulled out a gun and aimed it at the sitting student, who now began struggling in his restraints—as if, up until now, he thought the trainer was bluffing. He should have known better. The trainer always kept his word.

Soldier 218 froze, shutting down even more under stress. If he didn’t hit him—he’d die. If he did—he might die anyway. And then the trainer would know his weakness: that he could be threatened, manipulated with a gun to someone’s head.

He swallowed hard, choked on a sob, and ducked down, slipping free from the trainer’s grip. He darted toward the door and out into the hallway. In the distance, he heard the guard chasing after him, shouting something the soldier ignored.

He ran and cried, tears blurring his vision. He didn’t know where he was going—lost in a place he normally knew like the back of his hand.

A single gunshot echoed behind him, and Soldier 218 collapsed to his knees on the concrete floor, sobbing harder than ever. By fleeing, he had condemned Number 85 to death.

*** 

“What exactly are we looking for?” Clint pouted like a grumpy child, sweeping a flashlight across the dark forest.

“A gray hatch,” Tony’s armor let out a soft whir as he picked up the pace. He lit the path with his repulsor, realizing too late it wasn’t the best choice—he was exposing his location, making himself an easy target. “It’s well hidden, but FRIDAY is scanning for heat signatures, so it’s only a matter of time before we find the entrance.”

It was midnight, an hour into the mission, two days after the meeting that had assigned Hydra’s base as their next target. Fury, piloting the Quinjet, had dropped them at different edges of the forest so they could converge on the base from all sides.

Once they found it, they would signal Fury with the exact location and begin the assault.

“What do you think we’ll find inside?” Bruce asked, the only one dressed in civilian clothes. If danger arose, the Hulk would surface—he didn’t need armor.

“Nothing good,” Bucky muttered, clenching his jaw.

He hated Hydra in all its forms and grew increasingly frustrated knowing that even if this base fell, Hydra wouldn’t disappear. They had facilities all over the world. They were hard to root out—like cockroaches.

“If ten years ago they were testing on humans, and now their data is even more protected—as if working on something bigger—then I dread to think what they’ve evolved into, and who else has suffered.”

“One thing I don’t get,” Clint chimed in. “Where do they keep finding people? I mean, workers. Who the hell wants to work in a place like this?”

“Fanatics. People who crave control over others,” Sam replied, approaching from the east, opting to walk instead of fly—a rare move for him on missions.

“Disgraced scientists, wanted criminals—Hydra gives them sanctuary,” Tony added. “Anyone loyal to the organization probably has a lot to hide. For them, this place is paradise—a safe haven where consequences don’t apply.”

Silence fell over the comms. No one had anything else to add.

Suddenly, Tony stopped. On a private line, FRIDAY whispered in his ear—a thermal signature detected.

“There!” Tony shouted, pointing to a set of dark, nearly invisible doors among the trees. “Call Fury—we’ve found the base!” 

Chapter Text

Soldier 218 fell to his knees, pain flaring in his kneecaps. He had killed another human being. He leaned forward, surrendering to gravity, and would have collapsed if not for a pair of hands resting on his shoulders. He raised his head but couldn’t see who had caught him—they stood behind him, and the soldier’s tears blurred his vision.

He thought he heard himself sobbing and groaning in a pathetic manner, but the ringing in his ears was so loud, he couldn’t even hear his own sounds.

Numb, he felt the hands on his shoulders slide lower, grabbing him under the arms and lifting him just enough to hold him upright, except for his feet and calves, which dragged along the floor.

The guard moved forward, roughly dragging the incapacitated cadet across the cold, filthy ground.

He didn’t lift him higher into his arms—he was tired of constantly dealing with this problematic failed experiment. A disobedient, rebellious brat who kept getting them both into trouble.

The soldier didn’t see where he was being taken; he didn’t care. He was so lost in thought, he didn’t notice what was happening to him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered the loud creak of metal doors opening, and a moment later, he was thrown onto his mattress.

He instinctively curled up, resting his head at the edge where the mattress met the cold, hard wall. He shut his eyes, ready for another wave of tears and torment, when suddenly something soft was tossed onto his chest.

Blinking in confusion, he hesitantly picked up the item and realized it was food. A stale, dry roll, which he immediately shoved into his mouth without hesitation.

“Here. So you don’t die,” the guard said with disgust, shining a flashlight on him as the soldier devoured the food greedily. He snorted with amusement. “Even though we both know you don’t deserve anything to eat.”

The guard left, bolting the door behind him. Unmoved, the soldier swallowed the food in three bites, though it didn’t satisfy him. He was still starving—but maybe now he wouldn’t die.

Once he finished eating, there was nothing else to do. The intrusive thoughts returned—what he had done today. He had escaped and killed Number 85. He’d have to live with the knowledge that someone had died because of him.

He stared into the darkness for hours, time seemingly frozen. The only interruption was when he heard two guards in the hallway discussing whether to let him use the bathroom. That’s how he knew it was evening. He didn’t catch their decision, but nothing happened afterward, so he assumed they hadn’t allowed it.

Maybe that was for the best. He couldn’t bear seeing Number 85’s empty spot. And how could he face the others, who surely knew what he had done?

Another hour passed in lonely torment, his mind restless. Then came the explosion that shook the entire building. The walls and floor trembled, plaster falling from the ceiling.

Soldier 218 lifted his head, hearing screams from the hallway. Chaos erupted in the facility—gunfire, human cries, the sounds of destruction.

This had never happened before. He had no idea what to do. The noise grew louder, getting closer to his room.

His door burst open. A panting superior officer—one of the trainers, though not his—rushed inside.

“The Avengers are attacking! For once in your life, make yourself useful and help defend your home!”

He ran off, alerting other cadets.

Soldier 218 stood, peeking fearfully into the hallway. His door had been left open for the first time—a sign of how serious the situation was.

The Avengers were the threat he had been warned about his entire life. They killed civilians, tortured enemies for information and pleasure. Wherever they went, death followed.

His superiors had shown countless documentaries on the destruction in Sokovia and New York. The Avengers were capable of leveling cities with nuclear weapons.

Worst of all was Tony Stark—the Merchant of Death. He had manufactured so many weapons, killed so many people, and yet was still hailed as a hero. He lived in luxury, deceiving the masses and buying their favor with money.

Hydra had shown them footage of Iron Man strapped to a missile during the New York invasion. His superiors claimed he redirected the bomb to hit civilian targets. If not for Hydra, the city would have been annihilated. Hydra were the real heroes—the ones protecting ordinary people from self-proclaimed “saviors.”

Soldier 218 didn’t understand it all. Like, why did Hydra kill people if they were good? Was it a matter of “the ends justify the means”? If so, he felt lost—he didn’t belong here.

Noise echoed in the hallway. Two other cadets ran past him, shooting him looks of contempt as they headed toward the battle, armed with pistols and knives.

The soldier trembled, fear tightening in his chest. It seemed they were losing—the explosions were closer. Swallowing hard, he crept toward the noise to see what was happening.

After ten steps, he heard a scream and saw Number 143 fall, an arrow lodged in his arm. The soldier panicked and fled, realizing he had no weapon.

He slammed his door shut behind him and curled up in his familiar corner, trembling and rocking in fear.

He panicked again. Too scared to die in battle, slain by the Avengers. He listened to the approaching gunfire, clenching his jaw to keep from crying.

Then—silence. The quiet before the storm.

The door burst open with such force it hit the wall—no small feat given its weight.

Soldier 218 looked up, tears sparkling in his eyes once again. He trembled and whimpered when he saw the worst Avenger he could imagine: a red and gold glowing robot.

It was none other than the murderer, the Merchant of Death—Tony Stark.

*** 

“On three,” said Steve, standing with his weapon aimed at the sealed hatch they were about to open once everyone was in position.

Preparations for the operation had taken a long time. What was supposed to take five minutes had turned into an hour. As it turned out, FRIDAY couldn’t provide reliable information due to Hydra’s signal jamming.

Luckily, Tony was a genius and bypassed their firewalls in forty minutes. Now they had full access to the bunker’s layout and the number of people inside. The only thing they didn’t know was who among them belonged to Hydra and who were Hydra’s victims. That, they would have to determine on their own.

“One,” Steve held up his index finger to start the countdown.

They still needed to make sure there were no other exits from the building, which took another ten minutes. There was one emergency exit, guarded by Bucky, Sam, and Natasha, so at the signal, they would begin the assault, surrounding Hydra from both sides.

“Two,” the middle finger joined the first as Steve glanced at Tony, who was crouched at a computer, deactivating Hydra’s alarms.

Tony was to join them in the second wave, two minutes after the first attack began.

“Three!”

An explosion thundered as both entrances were blown open to allow them access inside. The walls shook and debris rained down from the ceiling.

The first team rushed in, descending the stairs into the depths of the base. The first obstacle was two Hydra employees.

They fired first, but the bullet ricocheted off Steve’s shield. Rage burned in his eyes—he had read the files, seen what these people had done. These were the worst scum of humanity.

Without hesitation, he threw his shield at one of them, while Rhodey shot the other. Both fell dead, no longer a threat. The team moved forward, taking down anyone who got in their way.

Two minutes later, Tony joined the fight, accompanied by Bruce and a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent whose name no one could remember—it was too unusual.

The mission felt too easy—or maybe they were just that good—as they advanced quickly, dispatching enemies with relative ease. That was, until they saw something that made their blood run cold.

Standing before them were not only Hydra employees but also young recruits—the youngest barely nineteen.

Steve clenched his jaw. He hated when kids were used in combat. They didn’t understand what they were fighting for and were usually the first to die.

“Don’t fight us, son,” Steve said gently, as if words could make the brainwashed youth surrender.

The boy smirked and spat at Steve, who barely dodged the spit. Steve looked offended, while Tony snorted. What kind of response had Steve expected?

“Leave us alone,” the boy growled.

“We can help you. You’re still young. We can give you a new life. You don’t have to fight us—we’re on your side.”

This time the boy’s response was more direct. He lunged at Steve with a knife, prompting Clint to sigh and shoot an arrow into the boy’s shoulder.

The boy fell, struggling on the ground. They rushed to subdue him, making sure he didn’t hurt himself or anyone else, and then carried him out of the building. They tried to save as many innocents as they could.

Everyone was so focused on the boy, they didn’t notice movement in the hallway—everyone except Tony.

“We’re not done—there are more,” Tony said, chasing after a mysterious figure.

They reached a hallway, and FRIDAY scanned the rest of the building.

“I’ve detected a heat source in the room on the left, Sir,” FRIDAY said. “Three rooms down, another threat—five heat signatures.”

“Keep going—three rooms ahead, they’ll ambush you,” Tony ordered.

“What?” Steve asked, confused and reluctant to split up.

“I need to check something,” Tony replied. Steve nodded, trusting his judgment, and they moved on, leaving Tony alone.

He threw open the door with more force than intended, realizing it too late.

“What the hell?” Tony muttered, staring at a small figure sitting in the corner on a filthy, stinking mattress. “FRI?” he called on the AI to scan the living being in the shadows, who stared at him in terror.

“Young male identified. Estimated age between nine and fifteen, depending on level of malnutrition. Multiple external and internal injuries detected…”

“Hey, buddy,” Tony said, crouching down so as not to intimidate the boy.

He stayed about five feet away—space constraints aside, he was certain the child would have backed further into the corner if he could.

Realizing the armor might be frightening, Tony exited the suit, revealing himself in simple sweats, appearing as just a regular man.

He focused fully on the boy, who was trembling like a leaf—so frightened and anxious that Tony couldn’t help but feel pity, even knowing the kid might attack out of fear.

But there was visible relief on the boy’s bruised, dirty face when he saw there was a human behind the metal.

“You don’t want to come out, huh?” Tony said gently, slowly reaching out his hand like one would to a wild animal. “You’re safe now. I promise.”

The boy didn’t move toward him, but he didn’t lash out either.

“Alright then,” Tony thought grimly about what he was about to do. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He sat down on the disgusting mattress, not too close, giving the kid space.

“I could sit here all day. Maybe we talk a little?” Tony said softly, trying to earn his trust.

The boy’s brown eyes, his dirty face, emaciated frame, and small posture looked so innocent. He was shaking—possibly more afraid of Tony than of the people who had hurt him.

“What’s your name, huh? I’m Tony. What about you?”

The boy didn’t reply. He watched Tony, trying to figure out if the man was a threat. Tony wasn’t even sure if he understood him. What had Hydra done to him? Could he even speak?

“Don’t want to talk? That’s okay. I’m not mad. I came to help you.”

The boy’s expression didn’t change—he was still trembling. Suddenly, Tony had a realization.

“You cold, kiddo?” he asked. No response. “Hang on.”

Tony stood and turned his back on the boy—making himself vulnerable—but gaining trust mattered more right now. He pulled a thermal blanket from inside his suit. Slowly, he draped the silver side over the boy to warm him up.

The boy closed his eyes briefly, enjoying the warmth, but quickly remembered his fear and began shaking again, watching the Merchant of Death with wide eyes.

Tony smiled at the moment of vulnerability but frowned again at the renewed fear. He didn’t understand why the kid was so terrified.

“You know what, since we’ll be spending a bit of time together, maybe I’ll talk for a bit,” he said, not waiting for the boy’s approval. “I don’t know if you’ve heard of me—I’m Iron Man. I help people. People like you.”

The boy snorted. Tony made a mock-offended face but was glad to know the kid understood him.

“What, you don’t believe me? Okay, fair. I did break into your… uh, residence. And yeah, I probably woke you up from beauty sleep, but that’s just bad timing.” He raised his hands in mock surrender and smiled.

Soldier 218 stared at him, trying to figure him out. Why was Iron Man so different—talkative, funny? That wasn’t in the documentaries. Why hadn’t he tortured or killed him yet? Why give him something warm? None of it made sense.

“But I’m here for the right reasons,” Tony continued. “Hydra hurt you. They’re a bad organization. You should be in a loving home, with caring parents, full and healthy. Your biggest worry should be math quizzes and sneaking out to see your girlfriend.” He paused, looking at the boy with compassion. “If you come with me, we can fix what Hydra broke. You just have to trust me.”

The soldier stared at his knees, swallowing hard. He didn’t understand the life Stark spoke of—but he knew he shouldn’t trust him. The Avengers had hurt so many people…

He wondered why Stark even wanted to talk to him. He had no valuable intel, he was disobedient and rebellious—useless for interrogation.

But so far, Stark hadn’t asked him anything. He sounded genuinely compassionate. The soldier decided to trust him—just this once.

“Soldier 218,” the boy answered dryly.

“Excuse me?” Tony asked, confused.

“My name. Soldier 218.”

“Oh, buddy…” Tony’s face fell, realizing what Hydra had done. “That’s not a name. That’s a number. They call you that?”

The boy nodded.

Tony scooted a little closer, slowly placing a hand on the boy’s knee. The kid flinched but didn’t pull away—as if fighting his fear.

“You must be exhausted, huh? You’re injured and hungry.”

Soldier 218 didn’t know why, but the gentle touch didn’t hurt like his superiors’. He believed Stark meant well.

“We need to go to a safe place where they can take care of you properly. Come on,” Tony said suddenly, holding out both hands and helping the boy up.

Seeing he was still wrapped in the thermal blanket, Tony realized it would be easier to carry him. After warning the boy of his intentions, he lifted him easily—he weighed nothing—and was relieved when the boy wrapped his arms around his neck.

The only sign of mistrust was the slight tension in his body, unsure whether Stark was good or not.

Tony got back into his armor, setting the boy down briefly, then lifting him again.

“See? Not so bad,” he said, holding the boy in one arm, aiming his repulsor with the other as they walked down the corridor, just in case.

They passed bodies—Hydra agents who had fought back and died. Tony grimaced and turned the boy’s head so he couldn’t see.

“Jesus, kid—don’t look,” he said, pulling him close so his shoulder blocked the boy’s view.

These people had their brains washed so thoroughly, they thought the Avengers were the enemy. Many of them had enjoyed the thought of fighting them. Tony moved carefully to keep the boy from seeing the carnage.

The last thing the boy needed was more trauma.

They finally reached the stairs and exited outside—and that’s when the boy lost it.

“NO!” he screamed, thrashing in Tony’s arms.

Caught off guard, Tony almost dropped him, not expecting the panic caused by the sight of trees and the open, starry sky. He quickly held him tightly, whispering soothing words.

“It’s okay,” Tony whispered, gritting his teeth as the boy screamed and struggled.

Not knowing what else to do, he sprinted toward the Quinjet—thank God it was nearby.

He carried the flailing child inside, met with shocked looks and questions he ignored. He focused solely on the boy, gently laying him on the narrow bunk in the back of the jet.

“Bruce!” he called. Banner appeared moments later.

He was supposed to strap the boy down for safety—but the kid bolted, running to the other side of the jet. The doors had already closed, so he couldn’t escape.

Choking on sobs, the boy fled to an empty corner and curled up against the wall. He felt exposed and overwhelmed, terrified they’d drag him out by force—but no one approached him. They just looked at him, stunned and sympathetic.

“Tony, we’re transporting the rescued ones separately,” Steve said sadly, eyeing the terrified, trembling boy. “They could be dangerous.”

“Look at him,” Tony replied, looking like he might cry. “He’s just a child. A little boy. He didn’t fight. He’s not like the others. He’s not violent.”

He felt like a kid asking his parents to keep a stray kitten.

“It’s a short flight, Steve. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Before Steve could argue, Fury’s voice cut in.

“We’re flying,” he ordered from the pilot seat.

For once, Tony liked Fury. His order settled the matter.

The jet lifted off, heading for home—though for the boy, trembling in fear in the corner, “home” was still a terrifying unknown. 

Chapter Text

What was the worst decision Soldier 218 had made in his life so far? There had been so many it was hard to count, but trusting Tony Stark and letting him take him out of the familiar, safe four walls was definitely among the top.

The soldier hadn’t expected to go outside when Stark said they had to go to a “safe place.” Going outside was the opposite of safety for him. Clearly, their definitions of safety differed completely.

Why hadn’t he thought ahead? Why hadn’t he predicted this? He was so focused on uncovering Stark’s true intentions that he hadn’t considered where exactly the man was taking him.

They carried him to a machine and tried to restrain him—for reasons only they knew. Was he about to be experimented on? That was just a matter of time. Once they discovered his abilities, they’d go all out, dropping the act of good intentions. That’s what they were known for.

But then—why let him lie on the floor if they were so intent on kidnapping him for torture or experimentation? They clearly didn’t want him lying there, but also didn’t do anything about it. Was this another attempt to earn his trust, only to use it against him later?

The soldier no longer understood anything. He grabbed handfuls of his own hair and pulled hard, a choked sob escaping him from the helplessness. What was happening!? The torture had already begun. This was the kind of psychological game the Avengers played—no explanations, no response to protest.

Suddenly the engine started, and the machine lifted into the air. The sensation was unsettling, and the soldier became nauseous from the swaying motion.

He had never seen such a machine before. Since when could people fly!?

He curled up, lying on the floor in the corner, back against the wall. He lay still, trying to take up as little space as possible, hoping not to bother anyone. What were the chances they would forget about him?

Eventually, exhaustion caught up with him and he could no longer hold his head up. He let it rest on the hard floor, half-closing his eyes to relieve his strained vision, using his enhanced hearing to stay alert for any incoming danger.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew he had to stay vigilant. It was only his fatigue that made him look so vulnerable—under other circumstances, he would never have allowed it. From what he'd heard about this group of self-proclaimed heroes, the weaker and more defenseless their enemy, the more confidently they attacked. Like cowards.

And yet, no one had attacked him. They didn’t even seem to care about his presence. Why was everything about these people so complicated? Couldn’t they just behave in predictable patterns like Hydra did? Everything he had learned about the Avengers from his trainers had to be thrown out the window. He’d have to figure out their motives on his own.

He kept listening. So far, he only heard a casual conversation, albeit in hushed tones. They clearly didn’t want him to hear what they were saying. The soldier smiled internally, grateful for his super hearing.

“Did you manage to get to the archive?” Tony asked, glancing between the Avengers and the boy curled up in the corner, lowering his voice in case the kid had already fallen asleep.

He barely took his eyes off the kid, who, despite his fear, was so exhausted that he’d risked closing his eyes. Maybe he was starting to trust them?

“Yes. All the files are now in our database, and the paper reports are here,” Natasha said, lifting a nearly empty black bag with just a few cardboard folders at the bottom.

“Not a lot,” Steve commented, taking the bag, opening it, and peering inside.

“Eight folders,” Natasha said dryly, glancing over her shoulder at the boy in the corner.

Silence fell, broken only by the hum of the engine and the rotors. Everyone understood what it meant.

“We’ll go through them later—once the three of them get the care they need,” Tony cleared his throat, his mouth suddenly dry.

Three.

That was the number of rescued prisoners trained as Hydra soldiers. One of them was curled up by the wall, trembling whenever anyone came closer than five meters. The other two were flying in a different aircraft with Rhodey, Sam, Bucky, and four SHIELD agents. They were too dangerous to transport via Quinjet. There was too much equipment here they could damage, and weapons they could grab. Only the smallest, non-aggressive, and terrified survivor could fly with them.

Tony looked at him again—something he’d been doing often, unable to stop staring at the kid who had been through hell. The worst part was—they couldn’t help him until he trusted them and stopped running. Forcibly removing him definitely hadn’t helped build that trust, but at the time, the boy’s safety was the priority.

The soldier bit his lip to keep from crying. Why did he always have to be so gullible? Why did he trust people who didn’t deserve it?

He felt every stare on his skin and, not knowing the Avengers’ intentions, flinched each time his senses tingled in warning.

“Is he asleep?” Steve asked, concerned as he looked at the small curled-up form in the corner.

“No,” Natasha replied immediately, without even turning to look at the boy. “He’s too scared. He doesn’t trust us.”

Tony sighed, rubbing his face with his hand. They were about to land soon, and for safety reasons, all passengers needed to be buckled in. The landing would be rough—they didn’t want the kid getting more bruised than he already was.

But trying to force him out of the corner might hurt him even more than the landing impact. According to FRIDAY, the boy had several worrying internal injuries. If he struggled, something might rupture. That’s why Tony wanted Bruce to examine him.

To minimize harm, Tony decided to remove his hoodie and toss it to the kid.

“Hey, buddy,” Tony called, and the boy immediately opened his eyes, looking at him with distrust and what seemed like reproach. “Catch,” Tony said, tossing the hoodie toward him. The kid didn’t even try to catch it—he just flinched when it landed beside him. “Roll it up and use it as a pillow, okay? It’s going to get bumpy.”

The boy tilted his head slightly, as if he didn’t understand, then studied the dark hoodie and followed Tony’s instruction. He looked back at Tony, as if checking whether that was what was expected of him. Well… it was a small step forward. He didn’t have to listen to Tony at all.

“We’re landing in thirty seconds. Get ready,” Fury ordered, piloting the Quinjet with Natasha.

Everyone took their seats and buckled in. Tony also wanted to sit down but couldn’t bring himself to leave the trembling boy alone in the corner.

He walked over and sat down next to him, not wanting to think about how badly they were both going to get bruised. They stared at each other with equal intensity but for different reasons. The boy was making sure Tony didn’t pose a threat. Tony was checking whether the kid would survive the landing.

A sudden jolt nearly made the boy’s head hit the wall, but Tony’s hoodie cushioned the blow. That one moment was enough. Tony scooted closer and instinctively pulled the boy into a hug. The sudden movement shocked the kid into stillness—he didn’t protest the closeness.

“You’re safe,” Tony whispered into the boy’s curls, pressing the child’s head to his chest.

“I promise you’re safe with me.”

The boy tried to pull away, but Tony wouldn’t let go.

He held him tightly, preventing his body from slamming into the wall.

Tony groaned as he slid down the interior of the Quinjet due to gravity, his back hitting diving gear secured to the wall. He looked down, relieved to see the boy disoriented but in one piece.

When the Quinjet finally landed, a hard jolt shook the aircraft and the engine shut down. Still holding the boy close, Tony waited for the doors to open and tried to pull him out. The boy resisted, as if he’d suddenly changed his mind and desperately wanted to stay.

Funny how, after spending the whole ride wanting to escape, now that it was time to leave, he wanted to stay.

Luckily, Steve arrived in time before the kid could slip from Tony’s grip. The super soldier picked him up from behind, tossing him over his shoulder like he weighed nothing.

“I got him,” Steve winked at Tony, who sighed in relief. “Sorry, buddy,” Steve muttered, rubbing the kid’s back with his free hand. “It’s for your own good.”

They carried him inside the tower, rushing toward the medical wing.

“Nooo!” the boy screamed, trying to wriggle free, but never once did he hit or kick Captain America despite the situation. He never broke his own rules—and not hurting others was one of them.

It took Steve, Tony, Bruce, and Clint to get the kid onto the bed and strapped down to prevent him from escaping. And though they all felt awful about it, it was for his own good.

“Don’t be scared, sweetheart,” Bruce said gently, injecting a sedative into the boy’s bloodstream.

He hooked up an IV and asked FRIDAY to scan the boy for internal injuries. The kid calmed slightly after the sedative, but it only lasted a minute. Then he jerked so hard he nearly ripped out the IV.

“Bruce!” Tony shouted, holding the boy down to stop him from hurting himself.

“Ngh!” the boy cried, struggling to escape.

“He’s enhanced,” Steve observed.

“I need to give him the serum I use for Steve,” Bruce said, running to the medicine cabinet. “Given his age and malnourishment, it could kill him. Just hold him until I measure the dosage.”

It felt like ages before Bruce returned with a syringe, which he inserted into the IV port. He pushed the plunger, and ten seconds later, the boy stopped thrashing. He slumped, eyes closing as he drifted into sleep.

*** 

Soldier 218 blinked slowly, drowsy. He didn’t understand what was happening. The world spun around him, and all he could see was the white ceiling.

“I’m here,” a voice whispered from the right.

The soldier flinched, turning his head until he spotted Tony Stark sitting in a chair. He tried to get up, but something held him down firmly.

He felt strange—warm, too warm—and had no idea where he was. White bright walls, clean sheets, a soft bed, and the absence of stale air told him enough. He wasn’t with Hydra.

“Where am I!?” he asked feverishly, looking around so fast the dizziness returned.

“Easy,” Stark held his arm, gently running a hand through his hair. “You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Why was Stark’s hand on his head comforting instead of alarming? Did whatever they injected him with numb his fear? He felt so sluggish and dull.

“I brought you food,” Stark whispered. “Are you hungry, buddy?”

The soldier blinked slowly, swallowing. He was starving. Stark stood and walked away. The soldier groaned in frustration.

He wanted to call out—don’t leave. He was so hungry!

“Shh, I’m not going anywhere. I brought food,” Stark returned, carrying a red container filled with some unknown sloshing meal. He sat down, adjusted the pillows so the soldier could sit upright.

Tony noticed the boy trying to raise his arms, but the Vibranium restraints wouldn’t let him. His eyes locked onto the food, staring as if he could absorb it telepathically. When he tried again and failed, he let out a frustrated whimper, close to tears. He licked his lips and tried to break free.

“Alright, easy,” Tony said, opening a yogurt, peeling the foil back, and scooping some onto a small spoon.

He brought it to the kid’s lips. “Tasty?”

The boy didn’t answer, but the excitement in his eyes said enough.

He devoured it like a starving animal. He didn’t mind being fed—he only cared that there was food.

“More,” the boy demanded, looking at him pleadingly.

“I’ll give you more soon, kid,” Tony stifled the urge to correct his tone. The boy had probably only ever known how to give or receive orders. “First, we wait twenty minutes. If you don’t vomit and your stomach handles it, you’ll get more.”

“Nooo,” the boy whimpered as tears streamed from his eyes.

Why were they starving him?

He didn’t have time to wallow in self-pity, because suddenly he felt pressure on his hand. Looking down, he saw Stark gently holding his fingers, smiling sadly and patting his hand.

“It’s okay, kid,” Tony said softly. “It’ll get better with each day. We’ll help you.”

For the first time in his life, the soldier felt that maybe - just maybe - trusting this man was worth it. Why?

Because with the Avengers… His spider-sense never went off.

His body never warned him. They weren’t a threat. 

Chapter Text

Tony sighed in frustration, rubbing the back of his neck in an attempt to ease the tension in his trapezius muscle. When that didn’t help relieve the stress, he glanced down at the limp kid lying unconscious—sedated by a strong dose of tranquilizer administered by Bruce.

The boy looked so peaceful, yet fragile, despite being enhanced. Even from these brief observations, they suspected he might possess strength comparable to Steve’s. The kid had managed to fight against restraints made of Vibranium.

Truth be told, they had no idea what Hydra had done to him. Had he received a dose of the super soldier serum? Had they injected him with something new, something no one had heard of yet? Or maybe the boy had been born like this, and Hydra had tracked him down and snatched him up early? In short, they knew nothing. And that was what frustrated Tony the most.

His gaze softened as he looked at the defenseless child. He was so dirty, skinny, and neglected that even Natasha didn’t bother hiding her emotions, visibly distressed. He was bruised and bore clear signs of abuse, which made medical care absolutely necessary.

"I need to see this kid's file," Tony said, looking at the others still gathered around the boy’s bed.

Tony was the first to step closer, reaching out and instinctively running his fingers gently through the boy’s hair. He smiled softly when the child didn’t move away—something he surely would’ve done if he’d been conscious.

"There’s not much in there," Steve said, pulling a file labeled “218” from his bag and briefly flipping through it. His eyes stopped on the first page, and he grimaced. He swallowed hard, casting a worried glance at the sleeping boy. "See for yourself."

Tony took the folder from Steve with trembling hands, sitting down on the edge of the hospital bed and laying the file open across his knees. Whatever Steve had seen had clearly unsettled him, and now Tony was afraid to look. Finally, pushing past the fear, he opened it—and his gaze fell on a small photo in the corner.

He’d expected to see a picture of the boy before Hydra—smiling, healthy, an ordinary little kid. Instead, the photo showed a tiny infant, maybe a few months old, wearing nothing but a diaper. Tears streamed down the baby’s face, his chubby arms reaching toward the camera. The child was filthy and neglected. Looking further down, large purple bruises were visible on his small belly.

Tony turned his head away as tears slipped down his cheeks. A single sob escaped his throat when the brutal truth hit him.

They had been hurting him since he was a baby.

The boy must’ve spent his entire known life there. All he’d ever known was hunger, pain, and fear.

Before Tony even realized it, Steve had stepped over and pulled him into a strong embrace.

"They..." Tony faltered, covering his face with his hands, trying to retain some dignity and not break down in front of his friends. Steve hugged him from one side, and Bruce placed a steadying hand on his shoulder from the other, offering silent support. Tony swallowed hard, trying to voice what he felt without unleashing a flood of tears. "He was just a baby."

Tony had seen blood, death, destruction, and war. His weapons had killed innocent families, full of kids like this. So why did he care so deeply about this one boy in particular? Why did one look at his innocent face make it so clear that he couldn’t just walk away?

"What matters is that he’s safe now. We’ll undo what Hydra did to him," Steve said, glancing back at the boy, lost in thought.

"For some of it, it’s already too late. This kid will never be normal—not after the trauma he endured during the most crucial stage of his life. And who knows how many other kids like him are still out there, hoping for someone to save them, when we never will—because we simply can’t save everyone."

Steve paused, noticing Tony falling too far into despair.

"Tony, stop. We help people—of course we can’t save everyone. We’re only human. And yes, this kid might always be... different. We can’t undo the damage that’s already been done. But we can help him now. Give him a good life. He’ll be fed, clean, surrounded by love. Once he heals, we’ll find him a loving home."

"You’re right," Tony muttered, stepping out of the comforting hug, though he appreciated it more than he let on.

He swallowed hard and looked back down at the file, finally reading the text below the photo.

"PETER PARKER" — the name was printed in bold.
Date of Birth – Unknown.
Age – Approximately 12.
Family – Deceased.
Medical History – Asthma, nut allergy. NONE AFTER DNA MODIFICATION.
Fears – Arachnophobia. Soldier fears hurting others.
Memories – Intact. Soldier raised in Hydra, knows no other world. No signs of rebellion or escape attempts.

At the bottom, a handwritten note:

"Soldier unfit for combat. Kept due to acquired abilities. Only survivor out of 70 subjects who underwent genetic DNA modification."

And that was it. Nothing more. Twelve years of imprisonment and abuse summed up in a few sentences.

"We need to clean him up and run more tests before the meds wear off," Bruce interjected, prompting Tony to move aside so he could access the boy.

"Of course," Tony said, getting up. He felt like he was dreaming—disconnected, as if he’d stepped into another world.

Unable to bear the sight of the boy’s injuries (Peter, he now knew), he turned and left the room, then the entire hospital wing, riding the elevator up to the landing pad.

"FRI, let me know when Peter wakes up," he said offhandedly in the elevator, not expecting a reply—he knew his perfect AI had already set the reminder.

As he stepped onto the right floor, he immediately spotted Rhodey, Sam, and Bucky, who had just arrived via helicopter.

Bucky was holding one of the newly rescued prisoners—unconscious, with an arrow sticking out of his shoulder.

The second rescued boy was awake, silent, outwardly obedient—but his eyes scanned the area, clearly looking for a chance to attack. Sam was dragging him toward the elevator to place him in one of five rooms in the Tower—secure enough to serve as temporary holding cells.

They were padded rooms, with thick, soft mattresses stacked a meter high in place of a bed frame. Pillows, blankets, cushioned rubber flooring, and foam-covered walls—that was all. There were hidden cameras and a microphone in the ceiling. Everything was secured.

Tony suspected that once Peter was released from the hospital, he’d also need to be placed in such a room to prevent him from hurting himself or trying to escape.

"No trouble?" Tony asked, sighing for what felt like the hundredth time that day—this time from sheer exhaustion.

"This one put up a bit of a fight," Sam snapped, pressing the elevator button and keeping a firm grip on the silent man, who looked to be in his thirties. "But other than that, no."

"Good," Tony said. Then he turned to Bucky. "Patch up that kid, but keep him away from the hospital wing. I don’t want him running into the one we’re keeping there."

Bucky nodded and roughly pulled the boy along as he left the floor.

Now, with nothing left to do—Hydra’s base had been seized by SHIELD, and the Avengers had completed their mission—all they could do was wait until the three boys healed enough to talk.

Tony thought he’d be able to wait patiently... until his legs carried him back toward the hospital wing and to the boy who had spent his entire life needing someone to truly care for him. And now, he had more than enough people willing to help.

***

The boy woke up several hours after Bruce had treated him, bandaged his worst wounds, applied ointments to his battered skin, and changed his IV.

Tony, who had taken a seat next to the bed an hour earlier, looked up when he heard a tired groan from under the warm blanket.

"I’m here," Tony said gently, putting down his Starkpad and giving the boy his full attention.

And what more could he do, except be there for him? He had fed him and made sure he was cared for.

After about twenty minutes, with Peter staring at him intensely, Tony offered him another roll.

"So, while you were asleep, I went through some of your files," Tony said, weaving important information into the casual act of handing him food.

"You’re twelve, and you were kidnapped as a baby."

The boy said nothing, focused on biting into the roll.

"Remember when I asked your name?"

No answer. Tony didn’t even know if the boy was listening. Still, he continued.

"Your name is Peter Parker..."

"NO!" the boy suddenly shouted, glaring at Tony with rage that came out of nowhere. "Bad memories! No, no, no!" He jerked his head, shaking it violently from side to side as if trying to shake off the memories. "NO!"

"Pete, calm down," Tony said, standing up and placing his hands gently on the boy’s head. The kid was thrashing so fast, Tony feared he’d give himself a concussion. "I’m sorry. Maybe it was too early. I’ll call you something else, okay?"

The boy didn’t respond, growling like a cornered animal and clenching his fists.

"Bruce!" Tony called, helpless, knowing the boy would need another sedative.

"Move, Tony!" Bruce ordered, quickly injecting another dose. The boy slumped, eyelids fluttering shut.

***

Memories overwhelmed Soldier 218. He was back in the dark, dimly lit room, where a cluttered desk stood in the corner.

The soldier shifted uneasily, eyes fixed on the door behind which two men were arguing loudly.

Soldier 218 didn’t understand what was happening. His young, three-year-old mind didn’t know why the adults were shouting, but he flinched when the door suddenly opened and three men entered. A guard, a trainer, and Soldier 300.

Soldier 300 was one of the few kind adults in his life. He had looked after him and cared for him during their rare breaks from training. He’d taught him how to use a spoon, how to use the potty. He had chosen to be his guardian. When Hydra saw his fatherly instinct, they allowed him to take care of the boy, deciding it would save them the trouble of dealing with a small child. They were even placed in the same room—but monitored to ensure Soldier 300 never passed along unwanted ideas. Like that there was a world outside. Or that the boy had been kidnapped.

This arrangement worked for almost a year—until Soldier 300 had accidentally seen the boy’s file. He’d secretly told the boy his name was Parker. That was all he managed to pass along before he had to put the file back.

The boy had been so excited he told another soldier—who betrayed them to save his own skin. That’s how the superiors found out that Soldier 300 had accessed restricted information.

They were taken in for interrogation in the office, and that’s where the toddler now waited, listening to the yelling behind the door.

"One more time. What did he tell you?" the trainer demanded, crouching to look him in the eye.

The guard waited by the door, and Soldier 300 had gone pale, praying the boy would somehow forget what he’d said.

"Parker," the boy whispered, not daring to meet their eyes. "I’m Parker."

He didn’t know why they were asking. He’d been taught lying was wrong—so he told the truth. Yes, his name was Parker.

"No, I swear—" Soldier 300 started, backing up a step, already knowing he wasn’t getting out of this.

The guard grabbed him and dragged him out the door, muffling his cries with a hand. The trainer stood up, now alone with the boy.

"You are Soldier 218. That’s your name. This was a test. You don’t trust other soldiers. You trust your trainers."

After that day, Soldier 218 never saw Soldier 300 again. It was as if he had vanished. When he asked the guards about him, they said no such person existed—he had imagined him. Eventually, he believed it. He forgot about the kind soldier who had once taken care of him. After a year, he’d erased him from memory, convinced he had made him up.

Until now. Now, he remembered that when he was taken to the room, he had heard Soldier 300 screaming... and then a gunshot. And then silence. Only now did he understand what had really happened.

Chapter Text

Soldier 218 woke up, once again unable to focus on anything specific. The image blurred before his eyes, and he seemed to be delirious. Where was he? Why did he have déjà vu, the feeling that he had been in this situation before?

Tired, he closed his half-open eyelids, allowing himself to fall asleep again. It was so warm and comfortable around him. Only his body ached, but less than usual. The pain did not make him want to faint just to stop feeling it. You could say it was bearable.

In the blissful sensation, he quickly drifted to the edge of sleep, ready to plunge into the abyss of slumber. Where he was didn’t matter.

In the distance, he heard the rustle of opening doors and footsteps. Why didn’t the door creak? All doors usually squeaked; it was their main feature.

“How is he?” — a soft female voice suddenly asked, startling the soldier enough to make him jump and his heart pound.

He wanted to get his bearings; survival instinct screamed for him to open his eyes, to be prepared for anything. But his spider senses didn't activate; he did not sense any danger. So he ignored his well-trained defense system, allowing himself to rest. His assessment was also clouded by the substance flowing in his veins, which he vaguely remembered being injected when he panicked. Why did he panic? He didn’t remember.

A shadow moved closer to him, reaching out hands and adjusting the blanket, tucking it tighter around his shoulders. The feeling was oddly gentle and caring. He didn’t understand why anyone would go out of their way to wrap him up.

“He’s still drugged. But at least he’s calm,” the soldier heard a voice on his right, immediately recognizing it and associating it with Tony Stark’s face.

He opened his eyes wider and in the bright light saw that he was right, concluding that the Merchant of Death was the one speaking. But he had no strength to keep his eyes open, so he closed them, his body remaining still.

“Poor thing,” said the short red-haired woman, whom he knew from educational videos.

It was Black Widow, a dangerous assassin specializing in killing men twice her size. She was the one who had adjusted his blanket and scanned him with her gaze when he was on the edge of sleep. Why did she make such a kind gesture, though she was angry to the core? The soldier had to learn her intentions once he regained full mental clarity.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Stark said again, snorting bitterly.

Silence fell, interrupted only by the beeping of life-monitoring equipment.

“I need to change his bandages,” a third voice spoke, clearing his throat.

Through his half-closed eyelids, the soldier saw a man in a purple shirt and glasses, with a two-day stubble. It was none other than Bruce Banner — the Hulk.

The soldier had no time to think about the damage the man had caused as a raging green beast, because suddenly the shackles on his ankles unclasped, throwing him off balance.

Were the Avengers ready to release him? If so, why were they holding him at all? Since Stark mentioned they found his files, maybe they realized he held no valuable information. He was a nobody in Hydra’s hierarchy, probably at the very bottom, so no matter how much torture they applied, he wouldn’t reveal anything they didn’t already know.

However, the shackles on his wrists remained, so he assumed he wasn’t going anywhere. He furrowed his brow, unable to focus due to the drugs and understand what was happening. Stark’s hand appeared on his forehead, gently tracing circles with his thumb, probably seeing the soldier’s anxiety. He would have flinched if he wasn’t so exhausted.

“I analyzed his blood sample, looked through his files, and consulted Helen. His DNA has been altered by about one percent. That’s a lot for an ordinary human, not mentioning a child. For a developing organism, even the slightest interference and modification can have fatal consequences.” 

“So… he’s a mutant?” Stark whistled, sliding his hand higher on the soldier’s forehead, ruffling the dirty, tangled locks and clicking his tongue in disapproval.

“Yes. But there are no external signs. No visible modifications.”

“That’s good. It will be easier for him to adapt to society. Do we know what was changed?”

“Ahem,” Banner cleared his throat. “Seems he was bitten by a radioactive spider.”

“What the fuck?”

Romanoff snorted, rolling her eyes at Stark’s words.

“See for yourselves,” the soldier felt someone gently lift his hand, turning it so the bite was visible to the observers. “A set of genes responsible for spider abilities was introduced into his genome. This includes accelerated healing, increased strength and speed, spider-sense, adhesion, and... web production.”

“Bastards,” Stark said angrily. “I’d kill them if they weren’t already dead.”

The soldier shuddered involuntarily, while Stark more insistently ruffled his hair, whispering incomprehensible words meant to be comforting.

“Is he asleep or not? I feel like he moved a few times already.”

“He’s not asleep, but he won’t remember our words; he’s too dazed,” Romanoff answered without hesitation.

“Well, we’ll talk later. For now, let’s change the bandages,” Bruce reminded, recalling why he entered the room.

The soldier had no strength to stay conscious any longer. He relaxed his body and fell asleep, unaware of the people around him changing his bandages and caring for him more than Hydra ever had.

*** 

Tony had not left Peter’s side since the boy first woke up. He couldn’t stop thinking about what the boy had been through. How much suffering was contained in the memories of someone so young. No one should go through such hell, especially an innocent kid.

If he was honest with himself, he hadn’t expected to learn so much about this kid in such a short time. He was an enhanced mutant, with increased healing factor, metabolism, and super strength. His DNA had been changed to a degree not yet thoroughly studied, as the kid deserved. Everything Bruce had told them didn’t compare to what they would discover once the kid recovered enough to test his abilities.

One thing was clear. The kid had to stay with them.

They couldn’t return a traumatized child with a brainwashed mind and Stockholm syndrome to foster care. How would that even look? “Hey, here’s a traumatized kid, take care of him, don’t let him run away, oh, and by the way, he’s a mutant.” Impossible.

The kid would never function normally. He would always be twenty steps behind others who weren’t kidnapped as infants and raised as soldiers, starved and pushed close to death.

The fact the kid was still alive and hadn’t suffered permanent wounds—aside from psychological scars—was a miracle.

That’s why Tony, true to himself, impulsively called an urgent Avengers meeting an hour ago. Ironically, one of those he had avoided for years.

When the whole team gathered (which took far too long in Tony’s opinion), he presented the situation and reviewed the reports. He told those who didn’t know that the tower housed a kid urgently needing specialized help.

“So...” Tony was ready to summarize his half-hour speech. “Since there are so many enhanced people here like him, the kid will stay with me. I’ll take care of him.” He looked around the room, testing the ground, then chuckled. “Why am I even asking you? Like it or not, I’ve already made the decision.”

Tony spread his arms and zipped his lips, giving everyone a challenging look, inviting opposition. No one spoke.

“Cool,” Clint was the first to stand, pushing back his chair, heading for the exit as if wanting to leave from the start but waiting due to the gravity of the situation. “Let me know when it’s okay to visit Squirt.”

“Sure,” Sam followed Clint.

“Really?” Tony asked uncertainly, already prepared with arguments why the boy was safest with them.

“Tony,” Steve sighed, joining him at the whiteboard where Tony had gone wild drawing the plan. “It’s obvious Peter will stay. People are afraid of children like him, he’s one of us.”

“If Hydra ever tries to get him back, he’ll be safest with us,” Bucky added unusually eloquent. “We’re the only ones who can effectively protect him.”

Tony felt nauseous at the thought Hydra might try to reclaim the boy. After all they’d done to him, they’d probably want to torment him again—especially after the effort to mold Peter into a soldier.

“Alright. I thought I’d have to convince you, but since that’s settled...”

“Actually,” Rhodey chuckled, “we expected nothing less from you.”

“Wait, what?” Tony pouted like a spoiled child, crossing his arms.

“Oh, Tony, please,” Pepper smiled gently. “The way you looked at him, how you cared for him, it said it all. You care because you’re a good person.”

Tony smiled under his breath, his heart fluttering.

“Yeah,” he cleared his throat, not handling praise well. “Then I’ll start preparing my home for the kid when he’s discharged from Med Bay.”

Tony left the conference room, ending the meeting without looking back. He summoned the elevator and headed straight to the lab, breathing a sigh of relief that everything was going as planned. He relaxed into a soft chair, sitting at the workbench.

“FRI, set up a new protocol and name it ‘Spiderling’,” he ordered, clapping his hands.

“Sure thing, boss,” the AI quickly created a protocol secured with nearly unhackable code.

“Great. Implement updates. First rule: Peter must always be under someone’s supervision.” He paused thoughtfully. “He can’t leave the tower alone, and you have to notify me of any such attempt. Set a reminder every three hours to remind me about his meals. Notify me if he gets hurt or is in any danger."

"Of course. Anything else, boss?"

"I'm just getting started, FRI." 

*** 

Soldier 218 opened his eyes, feeling more awake. This time, after waking up, his mind was clearer and more lucid. He looked to the right and noticed Tony Stark, standing next to Bruce Banner. Natasha Romanoff was not with them.

"You're up, kiddo?" Tony asked quietly. Noticing where the boy was looking, he introduced his friend: "This is Bruce."
He didn’t know if the kid had any traumatic past with doctors, so he avoided calling him a doctor outright and told him to take off his lab coat: "He'll help you heal."

"Hi Pe... kid," Bruce grimaced at his own mistake. "Tell me, does anything hurt?"

"Yes. No. Yes. No." — he couldn't decide. Did general pain all over count as pain or numbness?

"That’s understandable," Bruce seemed to understand what he was feeling. He adjusted his glasses on his nose and wrote something in a notebook. "You heal very fast, so your recovery won’t take long. You’ve already basically healed most of your injuries when your stomach got food. Like Steve, you have faster healing, which means a faster metabolism too. That’s why you need to eat more than other boys your age."

The soldier nodded, unsure what to say.

"That’s why we brought you food," Stark smiled, his gaze softening. "Hungry?"

Soldier 218 frowned. Why did Stark keep offering him food? Still, he nodded, resting his head on a soft pillow.

"Good, because I have some delicious broccoli cream soup for you. Mmm," he said, then wrinkled his nose in disgust, contradicting his words. Did Stark poison the food or what was going on? What was wrong with it? Food is food. It wasn’t supposed to taste good, just have nutritional value. "Well, not my choice. But I’m sure you’ll eat it anyway," he looked at him sadly. 

Soldier 218 nodded, deciding to take the risk. Although he wasn’t starving like at the Hydra facility, his stomach still hurt.

He automatically opened his mouth as a spoon appeared in front of his face. He took a bite, and Stark wiped the corner of his mouth, where a drop of soup had fallen.

"Good job," Stark praised him, even though he hadn’t done anything extraordinary. Wow, he ate, big achievement.

When he finished, and despite pleading looks, Stark didn’t let him lick the bowl clean, he lay back on the pillows.

"You know what a movie is, buddy?" Tony asked, grabbing the remote.

Peter nodded, though Tony had a feeling he’d say yes even if he didn’t know.

"Maybe we’ll watch something to kill the boredom?"

Despite the skeptical look, Soldier 218 knew what a movie was. Occasionally the trainers showed them educational and training films that conveyed values and ideas. The last film was three months ago, about why serving Hydra contributed to improving humanity’s life.

"Okay," the soldier said, his eyes lighting up when he saw a flat TV screen slide down from the ceiling. "W-what’s that?" he asked, not knowing what the device was.

"We’ll watch a movie on the TV. Maybe... Paddington?"

The soldier nodded, not knowing the meaning of the last word Stark said. But he knew the superiors liked obedience, and he assumed Stark was someone like that now.

"Then get comfortable, because this is going to be the best hour and a half of your life," Stark put an extra pillow under his head so he could see the screen perfectly and his neck wouldn’t hurt.

Stark himself settled in a chair, much less comfortable than the bed, resting his legs on the metal side of the bed and crossing one leg over the other. He put his hands behind his head, looking relaxed.

The window blinds slid halfway down, causing the soldier to flinch at the unexpected grinding sound of the mechanism. The movie started, and the soldier opened his eyes wide in amazement.

Tony watched the boy out of the corner of his eye, amused and at the same time sad, observing how excited he was about the start of a movie that was nothing special. The real movie hadn’t started yet.

The soldier quickly shook off the excitement, remembering he was held here against his will. But why didn’t he feel like he was imprisoned?

"Why?" he asked quietly.

That one simple question held all the others behind it. Why did Stark give him food, watch a movie, keep him company, heal, comfort, and calm him? Why did he want nothing in return?

Why did he care?

"You’ll understand someday," Tony smiled, patting the kid on the knee. 

Chapter Text

The long-awaited day for Tony had finally arrived. A few days after arriving at the tower, Peter was leaving the Med Bay, ready to be moved to a more friendly environment.

His wounds and injuries had completely healed in a timeframe that would have been impossible for an ordinary human. The kid, however, was not only young but enhanced, so no one was particularly surprised that just a few days were enough for even his bruises to disappear.

Up until now, staying in the medical wing had been good for the boy’s physical health, but they had made no progress on the mental side. In a home environment, this would not only be easier—it would be possible at all. Once Peter wasn’t strapped to a bed, he could start functioning in some way.

“So? Ready to leave this horribly sterile, unnatural place full of germs?” — those were the first words addressed to the boy when Peter woke up that day.

Behind the blinds, the sun shone high in the sky—it had to be around noon. The soldier blinked, tensing his muscles when he noticed Iron Man and Captain America in the room. Stark’s words and the presence of both Avengers filled him with fear of the unknown to come. The first one was smiling brightly, waiting for an answer to his question, while the second stood off to the side by the wall, as if guarding the exit. His arms hung straight at his sides, his jaw clenched, his body ready for action. What did that mean? That was exactly what soldier 218 feared.

“L-leave?” — the soldier tried not to panic or imagine the worst possible scenarios, ones involving torture. But his thoughts wandered despite himself. He always wanted to know what to expect so he could prepare. “Whe… where?”

“We’re just going a few floors up—to my place. Home.” Tony sat on the edge of the bed, right by Peter’s side. He reached out, cupping the boy’s cheek. “You’re safe with me, buddy. Don’t be afraid—we’ll do everything slowly, okay?”

The soldier wanted to say he didn’t want to go anywhere except back to Hydra, but bit his tongue. Since when did anyone ask his opinion? The thumb gently stroking his cheek was soothing, almost hypnotic. Why did Stark keep touching his face without causing pain?

“O-okay,” he said, then watched Stark’s face light up with happiness. He even looked proud, which confused the soldier. What was Stark so happy about? Was there a catch?

“You’re so brave, buddy. I promise you’ll like it up there.” Tony patted his shoulder and stood up. “Now I’ll take off the restrains, but please, don’t run. If you’re scared, let’s talk instead of running, deal?”

The soldier nodded, though he knew he would have to fight his instincts. Rogers stepped closer, raising his arms as if preparing to catch him. The boy trembled, forcing himself to focus on Stark, who pulled off the blanket, revealing the hospital pajamas that barely covered his body. Then, slowly, Tony freed one arm, giving him time to adjust.

The soldier instantly jerked his free hand to his chest. He missed having full control over his limbs and felt an overwhelming urge to behave so he wouldn’t be restrained again. All he had to do was not run—but was that asking too much?

“Alright, buddy,” Stark said after a minute. “Now I’ll free your other arm, and once I do, wait before getting up.”

The soldier stared intently at Steve, who watched him back, making sure the boy wouldn’t use his free hand to strike Tony.

The straps came off, and the soldier immediately pulled his other hand close, rubbing both wrists now that they were finally free.

Tony watched as the kid focused entirely on his free hands. He exhaled in relief that the boy hadn’t bolted immediately, as they had feared. Steve’s relief was just as clear—his arms relaxed, and he withdrew them from their ready position.

“Good job, kiddo,” Tony praised, loving how every compliment made a hidden spark flash in the boy’s eyes. “Now let’s sit up slowly, yeah?”

He held out his hands for Peter to take and pull himself up. But that never happened.

He only had time to blink before the kid sprang up, leaping off the other side of the bed.

“STE—!” Tony called out, but the kid was so fast he didn’t even have time to turn to see if he’d already made it out of the room.

“Got him,” Steve grunted, catching the boy in the narrow gap between the bed and the wall, barely stopping him from bolting into the hallway.

He cursed inwardly as the boy’s momentum knocked the air from his lungs on impact. Before the boy even realized what had stopped him, Steve scooped him up and pulled him tight against his chest, holding firmly under his arms and around his back.

“Nghh!” Peter yelled, trying to wriggle free from the super soldier’s grip.

Steve clenched his teeth as the boy—light in weight but thrashing like a wild animal—fought desperately. He tightened his hold, hugging him closer. Knowing the kid was desperate to escape, he quickly walked back to the bed, turned the boy in his arms, and sat on the edge. He set Peter on his lap, holding him in an iron embrace, certain he couldn’t break free again.

“Shhh,” Steve whispered into his ear, wrapping his arms around him from behind and resting his chin on Peter’s shoulder. “You need to calm down.”

The boy struggled, shouting incomprehensibly and trying to break loose. Luckily, he hadn’t yet bitten Steve—something Steve knew was an instinct when there was no other escape.

Tony came around to face Peter, saying nothing. Minutes passed. Finally, the boy went limp against Steve’s chest as he realized his body had tried to escape, even though he hadn’t wanted to.

“S-sorry,” the soldier whispered, tears welling in his eyes. It felt like waking from a trance. Everything felt unreal. “I—I don’t know why I reacted like that.”

“That’s understandable, buddy,” Stark spoke for the first time, wiping his tears. The soldier hiccuped as Rogers bounced his leg slightly to soothe him. “I’m still so proud of you.”

When Peter opened his mouth in surprise and shook his head, Tony took his hand in his own.

“You didn’t want to run at first. I’m so proud. You’ve been through so much, yet you’re still so brave.”

The soldier was tired of explaining that he wasn’t brave—he was the opposite. He cried softly, overwhelmed by the situation. Why wasn’t peace meant for him?

It took many minutes—maybe even half an hour—before Peter stopped crying and trying to break free again. Exhausted, he slumped against Steve’s chest, who kept whispering reassurances, bouncing his leg, and rocking him side to side. Tony, meanwhile, stroked Peter’s face, wiping away fresh tears every minute and squeezing his knee.

Tony’s heart ached seeing this poor boy so far from being okay. When Peter finally stopped crying, stopped trembling, and lay limp against Steve, Tony knew it was time to take him to the elevator.

They didn’t bother trying to convince him to walk. Steve stood, carrying Peter to the elevator. This time, the boy didn’t resist—he submitted entirely to their will. He didn’t seem curious about where they were going. Everything seemed indifferent to him.

They stepped into the elevator, which FRIDAY operated without a word, knowing which floor to stop on. It took barely fifteen seconds before the metal doors slid open, revealing the Penthouse.

Well, it wasn’t the dream welcome Tony had imagined for the boy in his new home, but knowing how much worse it could have been, he was grateful Peter had crossed the threshold at all.

Tony stepped out, Steve right behind him with the boy in his arms. Once inside, and with the elevator doors closed, Steve gently set Peter down on the floor.

The soldier’s mouth fell open in shock, unable to hide his surprise. He was in the largest, brightest room he had ever seen. Beyond the coat racks and shoe space stretched open rooms with unfamiliar objects and furniture.

Tony smiled when energy returned to the boy. Peter seemed fascinated, and Tony couldn’t blame him. For the average person, this place would be paradise—let alone for a child who had spent his whole life in a cage.

To the left was a spacious living room with two large corner sofas made of silky fabric. A fireplace, enormous TV, bookshelves, coffee tables, rugs, and more were all fascinating—but none could compare to the floor-to-ceiling windows showing a panoramic view of New York. The sight took his breath away, yet somehow unsettled him. He bit his lip and hugged his arms around himself in self-comfort.

“FRI,” Tony whispered, and the AI immediately lowered the exterior blinds, letting in only slivers of light.

Tony sighed in relief when Peter’s shoulders relaxed, and his excitement returned double. Now he looked right—toward the dining room and kitchen, barely visible from here.

Straight ahead, light wood stairs led to the upper floor. Behind them, a long hallway led to a bathroom and three guest rooms, one with its own small living room and kitchenette.

Everything was secured: sharp objects hidden, dangerous edges padded. The stove, oven, and fireplace only turned on at Tony’s command. Electrical outlets were covered with fingerprint-locked caps.

Both FRIDAY and Pepper had helped him the night before to make the place fully safe—so Tony wouldn’t fear leaving the boy alone here.

“Tomorrow we’re making breakfast for the whole team,” Steve said. “Maybe you and the kid can come? They can get to know each other.”

“That’d be great,” Tony smiled. “But in the morning, I’ll see how things are going and if it’s possible.”

“Of course, understandable.” Steve looked at Peter, then back at Tony. “I’ll head out. If you need help, we’re all ready.” Tony nodded his thanks. His friends’ support meant a lot. “Good luck.”

Steve left just as Peter’s stomach growled.

“Come on, buddy,” Tony said, leading him to the kitchen.

Not wanting to leave him unsupervised, he had Peter sit on a barstool while he heated up some soup.

Soldier 218 looked around, fascinated. He watched closely as Stark took food from a large gray cabinet with a light inside and placed it on a black surface that beeped and glowed red when Stark pressed it with his finger. He didn’t know what kind of technology it was, but it seemed incredible.

But his observation didn’t last long—the steaming bowl placed in front of him drove out all other thoughts.

Warm, fragrant soup and a spoon landed before him, and nothing else mattered. He leaned in, grabbed the spoon, and began eating quickly.

Tony’s face was sad as he watched the boy eat greedily, as if Tony had been starving him before. There was nothing he could do except show Peter that now meals would always be at the same time, no one would take them away, and when his stomach was ready, he could eat as much as he wanted.

“I want you to meet someone,” Tony said into the awkward silence. He continued, unsure if the boy was even listening. “FRIDAY is the artificial intelligence managing the tower. Do you know what artificial intelligence is?”

Peter nodded, thoughtful, though Tony sighed. The boy clearly didn’t know but was afraid to admit it. Well, they could work on that later.

“FRI, where are your manners?”

“Apologies, Sir.” Tony laughed when the boy looked around in every direction, trying to find the source of the voice—for the first time, looking away from his bowl. “Nice to meet you, Peter.”

Tony froze, his smile vanishing instantly. WHAT THE HELL? FRIDAY should have been smart enough not to trigger a panic attack in the kid!

He panicked inwardly, praying the boy was too focused on his food to notice FRIDAY’s slip.

“FRIDAY!” Tony barked, making sure his anger was aimed at the AI, not the boy. He didn’t want Peter scared by his tone. “Care to explain—”

“Sir, I’d like to point out that the boy seems to react badly to the surname,” FRIDAY interrupted. Tony nearly said, “No kidding.” “Not the first name.”

Tony froze again, watching the boy eat. Indeed—he hadn’t reacted badly to FRIDAY calling him Peter. “Hmm, interesting,” Tony thought, suddenly appreciating FRIDAY’s observation skills.

“Voice from the ceiling?” Peter asked cautiously, looking around.

He didn’t seem to mind being spoken about in the third person—it was probably something he was used to in Hydra, Tony thought sadly.

“Yeah, buddy,” Tony sighed. “Voice from the ceiling.”

Peter frowned and returned to eating quickly. Knowing Tony disliked when he licked the bowl, he tried to do it secretly.

When Tony saw the boy was done, he let him think he’d gotten away with it, waiting until the bowl was spotless before taking it and putting it in the dishwasher. Then he turned his full attention to Peter.

“All right, now that you’ve eaten, time for a shower,” Tony said, wrinkling his nose.

Bruce had cleaned Peter’s face and the areas around his wounds in the Med Bay, but it wasn’t possible to scrub him completely clean there. He was still dirty, and now he smelled like Med Bay chemicals.

“Shower once a week for two minutes,” Peter recited the rule drilled into him years ago.

He said it so calmly, seeing nothing wrong with it, that Tony’s heart hurt.

“Uh, no, buddy,” Tony said, and the boy’s face registered confusion. Tony kept his tone light, though his voice trembled with emotion. “We take a shower or bath every day.”

Peter frowned.

“New place, new rules,” he shrugged, accepting that his new superior would have different ones.

He wondered how many other rules would be different from Hydra’s—and dreaded asking when he’d get to go home. For now, he stayed silent, adapting to the situation.

The soldier obediently followed Stark out of the kitchen. They climbed the stairs to the upper floor—a white hallway lined with dozens of doors. “Just like Hydra,” the soldier thought happily, following Stark.

Tony opened the second-closest door to his own room. He wanted the kid close by.

“This is your room. You can decorate it however you like once we’ve watched enough movies for you to know what you like.” He winked. “And here’s the bathroom— only yours.”

They both stepped into the bathroom, which, like everything else in the tower, was huge. Gray-and-white tiles gave it a modern look. It held three sinks, a toilet, a bidet, a shower, a bathtub, and a massive jacuzzi.

“Shower or bath, Pete?” Tony asked, testing the boy’s reaction to the name. FRIDAY had been right—he didn’t seem to mind it. The boy didn’t answer, but he didn’t glance at the bathtub at all, meaning he’d made his choice— alright, shower then.

Tony put a hand on his shoulder to get his full attention.

“Wash up so you’re clean—you’ll feel better,” Tony said, lowering the showerhead to Peter’s reach. “Turn this to make the water start. This knob controls the temperature. If you have questions, the voice from the ceiling is here for you, okay?”

He left a big, fluffy towel and warm cotton pajamas before closing the door to give him privacy.

Two days earlier, he had sent Happy into the city to buy clothes for a twelve-year-old. Happy had spent the entire day shopping, grumbling and swearing at Tony, but by the end of it, the wardrobe was full of boys’ clothes.

Tony sat in the living room with his laptop, working for the first time in days. He read reports, replied to three emails, and came up with a new armor upgrade when FRIDAY told him he should check on Peter.

Looking at the clock, Tony realized it had been over an hour since he’d left him alone—long enough to start worrying.

“FRIDAY, did Peter finish?” he asked, saving his work and shutting the laptop.

“He hasn’t started, Sir.”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” he asked, heading upstairs.

“You indicated you wanted the boy to experience, explore, and learn. That’s what he’s doing. He won’t learn on his own if you do everything for him.”

Tony froze, anger boiling up.

“You know that’s not what I meant! Wait until I get back to the workshop—I’m rewriting your code!”

Maybe he was overreacting—it wasn’t an emergency—but it mattered to him. He knew part of the blame was his; he hadn’t specified exactly what FRIDAY should inform him about.

“Hey, everything okay?” Tony knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he entered, worried.

Peter stood in the middle of the room, dressed, staring blankly at the wall. Had he been standing there for an hour without Tony knowing? No—he must have moved around; Tony saw open shampoo bottles on the bathtub.

“Why didn’t you wash up, buddy?” Tony asked casually, trying not to sound angry about the disobedience. “Did you even turn the water on?”

Peter nodded, but Tony didn’t believe him.

“Sorry, kid, I should’ve turned it on for you.” He felt guilty for assuming the boy could handle it himself when he’d probably never dealt with twenty different knobs controlling water flow. “Come on, tell me if the temperature’s good.”

Tony turned the water on and reached out; Peter copied him, placing a trembling hand under the stream.

“So? If I leave it like—” Tony began, but stopped when Peter jerked his hand away like he’d been burned.

“Hot!” he exclaimed, giving Tony a betrayed look, as if he’d lost his trust.

Tony frowned, adjusting the temperature cooler. When that got the same reaction, he turned it all the way to the coldest possible setting—a temperature used to cool off on a hot day.

“Better?” he asked skeptically, knowing it was unpleasant unless you loved ice baths.

“Hot,” the soldier said sadly, not understanding why Stark wanted to burn him.

At Hydra, showers were always cold, refreshing, and gave you goosebumps just thinking about them. That was a normal bath. Why did Stark have settings for hot water at all? Since when did you choose the temperature? There was only one setting: icy.

“Well, that’s the coldest it gets. Sorry—you’ll have to shower in that.”

The soldier clenched his jaw. An order was an order. If he “had to,” there was no other option.

“Okay,” he said, though the differences here unsettled him.

Nothing was like in Hydra here — entirely different rules prevailed, ones he had not yet fully learned. Without a word, he pulled the hospital gown over his head, stepping completely naked into the shower.

“Jesus, kid!” Tony exclaimed in surprise, covering his eyes with his hands.

Did the boy feel no shame about undressing in front of a stranger? He would bet that in Hydra, nobody bothered with privacy, and assuming he was just a child, Hydra’s members didn’t care about their experiment’s sense of modesty.

The soldier stepped under a stream of water that was too hot for him but still felt cold, turning and looking at Stark. Had he done something wrong? Why was Stark covering his face with his hands?

He grabbed the soap from the shelf and began scrubbing his dirty body thoroughly, paying special attention to his hair, full of tangles.

“When you’re done, call me,” Tony said, his face red as he quickly left the bathroom. “I’ll be right outside the door.”

Trying not to think about what the kid must have gone through in Hydra to be so unbothered about stripping down like that, Tony walked over to the boy’s bed, preparing it for sleep. At least it gave him something to do while waiting for the boy to finish.

After three minutes, the kid came out of the bathroom, his wet hair falling over his forehead and wearing oversized Star Wars pajamas. He looked so adorable that Tony wanted to wrap him in a blanket like a burrito and never let him go.

“Come on, buddy, let’s dry your hair so you don’t catch a cold,” Tony said, pulling the boy back into the bathroom, seating him on a stool, and pulling a hairdryer out of the drawer.

Not wanting the boy to trip later, he rolled up his pant legs twice, then his sleeves. He switched on the dryer and picked up a comb, gently detangling the boy’s wet locks.

Soldier 218 was surprised when a wave of warm air blew from the device Stark was holding. Sitting there, feeling someone play with his hair, he soon became sleepy. He felt so safe and comfortable, though he knew he should stay alert. He simply couldn’t resist the magical power of this humming device, which seemed to lull him into peace.

Tony was amused at the sight of Peter fighting off sleep as he dried his hair. The boy was so cute that Tony couldn’t imagine how those Hydra monsters could harm such an innocent little being. When the boy’s hair was dry and fluffy, Tony unplugged the dryer and put it back in the drawer.

“How about a movie?” he asked, already knowing how much Peter liked them.

*** 

After two movies and another light meal, it was late enough that Tony decided it was bedtime — for both of them. He told the kid to brush his teeth and use the bathroom before Peter climbed into the warm, comfortable bed.

Tony sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the boy’s face, softly lit by the night lamp, as the boy looked back at him.

“You know what’s going on, kid?” Tony asked in a whisper, running his fingers through Peter’s hair. “Why you ended up here?”

Peter nodded, and Tony already knew he didn’t understand what was happening.

“Close your eyes,” he asked, wincing at how much it sounded like a command — something he didn’t want. “Your former caretakers hurt you, baby. I brought you here to take proper care of you. You’ll always be warm, clean, and full. Nothing will hurt, and you’ll stay here with me.”

As he spoke, Tony’s voice grew quieter and quieter, trying to lull the boy to sleep. Lying still with his eyes closed, Peter looked adorable. Freshly washed, his hair was curlier than usual, practically begging to be combed through.

Making sure the boy was asleep, Tony placed a kiss on his temple, pulled the blanket up, and left the room, closing the door behind him and leaving the night-light on.

The moment the door clicked shut, the soldier opened his eyes. Once alone, he got out of bed, sat on the floor in the corner, and pulled his knees up to his chest. After five minutes, he lay down again, still curled up, and fell asleep on the hard surface that reminded him of the home he longed for. 

Chapter Text

Tony straightened his back, raising his shoulders, and let out a long yawn, opening his mouth wide. Tired, he mumbled something under his breath, producing an incomprehensible sound that was, in fact, an indistinct word. Luckily, Tony’s artificial intelligence knew his routine well enough not to need an explicit order for the coffee grinder to start and the kettle to begin heating.

“FRI? What time is it?” he asked, rubbing his eyes and leaning against the counter.

“Seven twenty-four,” she replied, her tone somehow carrying a note of disapproval.

Tony waved it off. Every day, FRIDAY reminded him more and more of his mother. Or Pepper. If she had a mechanical body, she’d probably be standing there now with her arms crossed, shaking her head.

“Mhm.” His eyes lit up when the coffee was ready to brew. Pouring the boiling water and rummaging through the cupboards for sugar, he asked, “And how’s the kid? Sleeping?”

“No, boss. I’d suggest checking on him, but the truth is, it’s easier for him to relax and feel less stressed when he’s alone.”

“All right,” Tony sighed, climbing the stairs with his ready cup of the elixir of life—which, ironically, would probably be the cause of his arrhythmia in the future.

Standing before the guest room door, Tony knocked three times before pressing the handle and stepping inside.

“Pete?” he asked, confused when he saw no one on the bed.

Just to be sure, he even checked the walls and ceiling, knowing the boy could climb them without trouble. But he wasn’t there either. Tony looked around further, certain Peter was still in the room—he could hear his quick, shaky breathing.

He glanced down, behind the bed, and spotted a small ball curled up near the covered window in the corner, chest rising and falling with each breath. Peter lay on the floor, trembling like a leaf.

“Comfy down there, buddy?” Tony asked quietly, setting the coffee aside, crouching down, and silently cursing his knees, which cracked so loudly he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stand up again.

He smiled at the boy, running a hand over his back. How could Peter still look so adorable, even while glaring at him as if Tony had insulted him?

“Been awake long? What is it, kiddo?” Tony asked again when the first question went unanswered.

Peter shrugged—his first real reaction to Tony’s words.

“Wake-up always morning.”

The short, automatic reply sounded unnatural, as though memorized.

“FRI?” Tony asked the AI, since Peter wasn’t offering anything else.

“Since five, Sir.”

“Hm.” Tony furrowed his brow, thoughts swirling without forming anything coherent enough to say aloud. “All right, I guess it’s breakfast time. Turn on brighter lights, FRI.”

Peter perked up at the mention of food, lifting his head. When the lights came on, he immediately squinted—his pupils had grown used to the darkness.

“That’s right, buddy, I bet you’ve been waiting for food. We’ll go to breakfast, where you’ll meet my friends, but first we need to get dressed.”

“Food.” Peter looked at him pleadingly, pointing to his mouth as if to remind Tony what the word meant.

“Right after you get dressed, Pete.” Tony stood, offering a hand to help the boy up. “I promise you’ll get food.”

Soldier 218 looked at Stark skeptically, knowing that superiors often lied when it suited them. Even though he wasn’t as hungry as usual, he wanted to eat while the opportunity was there—because you never knew when the next meal might come. Nothing in life was certain. Still, he knew that if he kept resisting, he could kiss that meal goodbye. That was always the way of things. Disobedience meant consequences.

So he nodded, ignoring Stark’s outstretched hand and standing up on his own. He froze in place when silence fell, waiting for the next order.

“Come on, buddy. Today you get to pick your own outfit. How about that?” Tony knew he was throwing the boy into the deep end.

Peter had never had a say in anything about himself, so something as simple as choosing clothes might be a challenge—and his reaction could go either way. Tony hoped it wouldn’t be too bad.

He decided to start with something easy.

“Which shirt do you want?” He walked to the wardrobe and pulled out two shirts.

One white, with a company logo, and one green with a cartoon character on it. He showed them both, giving the boy time to think. He even looked away so Peter wouldn’t feel pressured.

Soldier 218 tilted his head, not understanding the question. What did that mean? How could he “want” one? A shirt was a shirt—always the same one, unchanged for years. You got a new set of clothes once a month, and even then, it was always the same short-sleeved shirt and pants.

“There’s no wrong choice. Pick the one you like better.”

The soldier blinked in confusion. Finally, he looked at Stark—or rather, Stark’s body language—to figure out which answer was the “right” one. Stark’s feet were angled right, same as his hips, but his neck tilted slightly left. So… which was the correct choice?!

“Okay, buddy. We’ll try again another time,” Tony said, noticing that Peter was panicking more with each passing second.

He didn’t want to overwhelm him. This wasn’t what Tony wanted—he just wanted to show the kid he had a choice, that he wasn’t in Hydra anymore. But he hadn’t considered that this wasn’t what Peter needed right now. Right now, he needed love and stability. He needed to get used to a new routine where he was cared for. Where he could just be a kid, without problems that would crush even adults.

He put both shirts away so Peter wouldn’t think one of them was the “right” answer, pulling out a third—a red one with a race car printed on it.

He paired it with gray sweatpants and underwear, handed the clothes to Peter, and sent him to the bathroom. Tony got dressed himself—it took him all of a minute—and came back to make the boy’s bed, which, judging by its state, had only been used for the first ten minutes of the night.

When Peter came out, he looked as adorable as always. Tony had to stop himself from grinning and cooing in his head every time the boy looked so endearing—it was becoming unhealthy.

Peter’s hair stuck out in every direction, so Tony quickly smoothed it with a comb before they left the room. They went downstairs and took the elevator to the Avengers’ floor, where Steve had invited them yesterday.

“You’ll get to know my friends better,” Tony said, wrapping an arm around the boy. Peter tensed, but didn’t react otherwise. “They’re all excited to meet you.”

The elevator stopped, and the soldier felt his heart seize. Was he about to meet the most dangerous people in the world—killers, assassins, and wanted criminals? His legs stiffened so badly he couldn’t force himself to take a step forward.

“If it’s too much or you want to go back to the penthouse, just let me know. All you have to do is tap me,” Stark whispered close to his ear—and only then did the soldier realize he had his eyes squeezed shut.

He opened them. They were still alone in the metal cage Stark called an “elevator,” standing still, doors closed. They waited in silence for the soldier to be ready to walk to his execution. He stayed there longer than he liked—but better that than the torture and interrogation the Avengers surely had planned. Finally, he let out a grunt, and the doors opened.

He expected someone to lunge at him the moment he crossed the threshold. But the way was clear—no shouting, no weapons pointed at him. Maybe they were planning to poison him during the meal instead.

“Hey, Tones,” Rhodey greeted first, welcoming them into the dining room, where a long table was covered with dozens of plates. “Hey, kid,” he added with a smile at Peter after hugging his friend.

Soldier 218 lowered his gaze, knowing he wasn’t equal to his superiors and shouldn’t look them in the eye without permission. Instinctively, he shifted slightly behind his new trainer—Stark. He was the one who’d been spending the most time with him, so it was clear he’d take over his training.

“All right, not all at once,” Tony said, seeing the rest waiting for their turn while Peter was already trying to hide behind him.

“Come on, buddy.” Tony turned, guiding the boy toward the table full of Avengers.

Without a word, they sat, and Tony signaled for the others to do the same. Peter wasn’t a normal boy, so they could skip the normal greetings.

The soldier scanned everyone in turn, realizing he was in the most dangerous room in the world. Black Widow sat opposite him, winking as she served herself salad as if nothing were amiss.

But the soldier knew. He knew that wink carried a threat. Saying “I’ll get you” would have been more humane than playing with him and letting him dread whatever she had in store.

Next to him sat Captain America, then Clint Barton, Sam Wilson, Rhodey Rhodes, Bruce Banner, and others he didn’t recognize.

“Bucky’s not joining us?” Bruce asked, noticing one empty seat.

“He didn’t want to stir things up,” Steve replied, glancing at the pensive boy beside him.

Steve knew that for two former Hydra prisoners, meeting another victim would be emotionally difficult. That’s why they’d decided to wait before letting them spend time together.

“Enjoy your meal, everyone,” Steve said with a smile, reaching for the sausages.

Peter immediately lunged for the first bowl within reach. Tony had to help him fill his plate with a more varied selection, finding soft foods like boiled eggs so as not to deny him food while still giving him something he could eat.

“Glad you two could join us,” Clint said from the far end of the table. “Finally, I get to meet Squirt.”

“Mhm,” Tony grunted, not liking how much attention was on Peter—who was already clenching his fists under the table, something only Tony noticed.

“And nice race car,” Happy said, pointing at Peter’s shirt—the one Tony had picked himself. Tony rolled his eyes, smiling faintly. “I like your shirt.”

“Red,” Peter spoke for the first time, his voice calm despite his trembling body. “It hides blood well.”

Tony choked on his bread, and Bruce dropped his utensils. The air thickened in two seconds. There was both silence—everyone froze—and noise—Tony coughing, Bruce loudly pushing back his chair to pick up the fallen utensils.

“Black is better,” Natasha rescued them from the awkward moment, the only one unfazed by the twelve-year-old’s comment about hiding blood.

“All right,” Steve cut in. “Let’s change the subject.”

“Wow, that was smooth—really,” Tony panted once he stopped choking, still feeling a hand patting his back. It didn’t stop even after he was fine. “Thanks, buddy, I’m okay now—”

And then Tony realized it was Peter patting his back—and the boy’s face showed… concern. Tony froze. When Peter realized Tony was looking at him, he withdrew his hand and lowered his head in guilt.

Tony didn’t speak for the rest of breakfast, stunned by how, in that one moment, the boy seemed to have emotions—care and empathy—buried deep inside him, hidden by Hydra, waiting to be unearthed when it was safe again. 

Chapter Text

The rest of breakfast passed in a cheerful atmosphere, filled with casual conversation. The Avengers tried to keep the discussion flowing among themselves, filling the silence with small talk. Meanwhile, Peter ate quietly, occasionally lunging for the food that Tony had placed on his plate.

And even though Soldier 218’s stomach already hurt, he tried to eat everything he was offered—and even more when Stark wasn’t looking. He felt like he couldn’t eat anymore, but the table bending under the weight of food was an opportunity he couldn’t let slip. Who knew when he’d get another meal again?

“Think that’s enough for you, buddy?” Tony asked, taking Peter’s empty plate away and pushing the rest of the food out of his reach.

He hated that it looked like he was depriving a starving kid of food. But he had to be responsible. Peter had eaten enough, and Tony could see he couldn’t handle any more, no matter how hard he tried.

So, even though Peter gave him a pleading look, he couldn’t give in to the power of those doe eyes. He had to be firm in matters that concerned the boy’s health.

“Hungry,” Soldier 218 lied, shaking his head and reaching for bread from the shared plate.

Tony gently caught the boy’s hand, pushing it away from the table.

“No, buddy, you’re not hungry.” He ruffled the kid’s hair, pulling his head to his chest. “You’ll get more later, when your stomach has room. I promise.”

The soldier frowned. Stark was always making promises. He didn’t trust him. He hadn’t forgotten who Iron Man was and all the evil he had caused, from Stark Industries to the Avengers. He didn’t know the true intentions of the Merchant of Death, and he feared the day he found out—because then the pretense of a friendly, caring environment would end. Then he’d once again remember what pain, hunger, torture, and tears felt like.

And yet, so far, he had no reason to doubt Stark’s words. In private, the man wasn’t the way Hydra had portrayed him. Instead of a murderer and executioner, he was a guardian. But what was he waiting for before starting the training? Every guardian eventually became a trainer, tasked with preparing him for a fight he’d spent his whole life avoiding. So why was Stark prolonging the silence before the coming storm? The longer the soldier remained in the dark, the more advantage Stark had.

“Hey, Squirt,” Clint called, trying to distract Peter. “Want to play on the console with me and Sam?”

The soldier looked at Hawkeye, pulled out of his thoughts. He glanced around, trying to figure out if it was a trap. A con… something? Whatever it was, it made Falcon smile. So, it had to be part of the Avengers’ plan.

“Good idea,” Tony quickly chimed in, seizing the opportunity and pulling Peter off the chair, setting him on his feet, and gently nudging him toward the living room.

The soldier froze, biting his lip, uneasy. What was expected of him? What did he have to do to avoid punishment?

“Come on, Shortstack,” Clint patted the seat beside him, noticing the boy’s nervousness.

He walked over to him, put an arm around his shoulders, and guided him to the couch. Then he placed an inactive controller in the boy’s hands. Clint had decided to take Peter with him to give Tony a breather. He also wanted to spend time with the newest member of their group—though he hadn’t yet figured out who exactly Peter was to them. Tony’s protégé? Yes, that seemed the most accurate.

“Here you’ve got two sticks, here’s a tiny button you press, and… see those four?”

The soldier nodded, not understanding a word. The black object in his hands had a strange shape and protruding buttons. What did this device even control?

“Ready to play?” Sam asked, jumping over the back of the couch and sitting on Clint’s other side.

“Let’s go,” Clint said uncertainly, starting up Mario Kart, though he knew that despite his explanations, Peter hadn’t understood a thing.

He looked at Peter, who was still studying the inactive controller, turning it over in his hands. Clint knew the boy couldn’t really play yet, so his controller remained off. For now, he could think he was playing. When the ordinary world wasn’t so new to him anymore, then they’d let him join in for real.

The soldier watched as the TV screen lit up with colorful light, showing what looked like a movie. Within a minute, he realized it was strange. It seemed as though something was being chosen in it, as if one could take an active part. Was the device in his hands controlling the movie? He had never encountered anything like it.

Pretty quickly, he grew bored of watching the colorful cars race and listening to Falcon’s and Hawkeye’s cheers and groans. Absentmindedly, he clicked buttons on the device, testing if it did anything. No reprimands came, and no one paid him any attention. Out of boredom, he started looking for something else to focus on.

He turned his head, spotting the room they had just left and the kitchen attached to it. Bingo. From there, he could overhear what was being discussed in the dining room while staying hidden. He wanted to know when training would begin and why everyone was being so nice. And he could only find out by eavesdropping on the conversation they didn’t want him to hear.

He stood up but didn’t take a single step before someone tapped his shoulder. He flinched, slowly turning toward Hawkeye.

“Where you going, buddy?” Clint asked, concerned, noticing Peter wanted to leave the room.

The soldier’s heart stopped before he snapped out of the shock and came up with a hasty excuse, pointing back toward the dining room.

“All right, Squirt,” Clint patted Peter’s back, giving him permission to go.

If Peter wanted to return to Tony, where he felt comfortable, Clint wouldn’t stop him.

The soldier walked away with firm steps, feeling guilty for lying to Barton. But the way Clint had immediately jumped to attention when he did something unexpected made him think. He was starting to believe he was part of some bigger plan, some game. Maybe a hostage? Or maybe they were just waiting for the right time to start brainwashing him?

He slipped around the corner, unnoticed, and entered the kitchen. He sat on a stool by the counter, in a hidden spot, carefully listening to the conversation in the next room.

“… if only you didn’t bombard me with this nonsense,” he heard Stark’s irritated voice, making the soldier’s eyes go wide.

He knew Stark wasn’t pleasant to deal with, but he had never experienced it himself, and the man had never shown that side around him.

“Tony,” sighed the strawberry-blonde woman—Pepper Potts. “You can’t just dump a multi-billion dollar company into the hands of…”

Realizing they weren’t discussing any plans about him, Soldier 218 lost interest. Obviously, they were careful when he was around, and any real plans would be discussed in private. What had he even expected?

With a sigh, the soldier rested his chin on the counter—and that’s when he first noticed the bowl of fruit in front of him. His eyes lit up as he grabbed two apples and immediately bit into them.

The food tasted heavenly, despite his already full stomach, which now burned on both sides. He ate and ate. A dozen fruits, of which he only recognized apples, disappeared into his mouth. He devoured so much that he felt he would burst. He clutched his stomach as the burning grew unbearable, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t, not when he remembered exactly what it felt like to starve to death.

Ordinary people didn’t appreciate having food. Only someone who had counted down the days to death, wondering whether to eat pieces of their own flesh, could understand his situation.

Knowing he couldn’t fit much more, he stuffed round orange fruits into his pockets and focused on eating the rest.

When the pain in his stomach grew overwhelming, he realized with a heavy heart that his body couldn’t take any more. Yet he tried, forcing down a little extra, until finally, he couldn’t, and a sharp wave of pain struck his upper stomach so hard that he let out a choked cry.

“Mhmm,” he groaned, leaning over the counter and opening his mouth—unexpectedly vomiting onto the once-pristine marble surface.

He heard noise behind him but closed his eyes, disgusted by the sight of his stomach’s contents. He didn’t know how much time had passed before hands grabbed him, pulling him into an embrace, leaning him forward. The soldier grimaced, too weak to protest. Someone pressed on his stomach, triggering another wave of vomit.

He screamed as another burst of pain wracked his overstretched stomach. It hurt so much, it stank, and he felt powerless. Once again, he had no control. The pain surged again—and the soldier lost consciousness, sinking into blissful oblivion.

*** 

“…that’s what you said! Don’t try to weasel out of it!” Pepper shouted.

Tony reacted the way any grown man would when forced to admit defeat. He crossed his arms and muttered the same words back under his breath in a mocking, dismissive tone.

Annoyed, he noticed Pepper always had to lecture him in front of his friends. It infuriated him, since he preferred to handle things privately. If she was trying to embarrass him, it only succeeded in making him angry and aggressive toward everyone around him.

No one had time to say anything more, because a loud, pained groan came from the kitchen.

“Pete?” Tony instantly got up, recognizing the voice.

He looked around the living room, noticing the boy was missing. Alarmed, he rushed toward the kitchen, knowing Peter shouldn’t be left alone.

The groan and cry left no doubt that his ward was in trouble. He ran around the corner just in time to see Peter vomit. Stunned, he froze in the doorway. What was happening!?

“Peter!” he shouted, lunging forward a second later as Bruce pushed past him to help the boy.

The other Avengers sprang up too, hearing someone in pain. They hovered at the door, unsure what to do.

“Buddy, I’m here,” Tony murmured, holding the child from behind, offering comfort and leaning him forward so he wouldn’t choke on himself.

Bruce instructed him what to do, while injecting medicine into the boy’s bloodstream.

“He has to vomit again,” Natasha said, noticing the empty fruit bowl. “Otherwise his stomach will burst. Quickly!”

With trembling hands, Tony held the boy as Bruce forced another wave of vomiting.

“Get him to the couch,” Bruce ordered once the child stopped choking and passed out.

Tony straightened up, carrying Peter.

“Out of the way,” he growled at the crowd blocking him.

They quickly parted, and Tony brought Peter into the living room, laying him on his side, pacing anxiously.

At last, unable to bear it, he sat at the end of the couch, placing Peter’s head in his lap. Holding the boy’s head, Tony’s heart shattered every time he looked down.

He was supposed to protect this kid, take care of him. He was a terrible guardian. How could he have let this happen? If Peter hadn’t vomited and his stomach had burst… he would have died.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” Tony whispered, tears in his eyes, feeling like he had failed him.

What had he even been thinking, taking the boy in? Peter deserved someone better. Someone who would be there and never let this happen.

“Tony. It’s not your fault,” Rhodey said softly, watching his friend hold the unconscious boy.

Tony looked up, straight into his eyes.

“How can you say that? This is all my fault.”

He got no reply, because Peter opened his eyes, confused, taking a deep breath.

“Hey, sweetheart, I’m right here,” Tony whispered into his hair, pulling him protectively closer.

“My stomach hurts,” Peter whimpered, dazed. He didn’t understand what was happening.

“I know, baby, I’m sorry,” Tony kissed his hair, fighting back tears blurring his vision.

“Hey, Pete,” Bruce leaned closer. “Where exactly does it hurt?”

Peter pointed, squeaking when Bruce touched the spot. Tony instinctively pulled him closer, hugging tighter—if that was even possible.

“For now, all we can do is watch and see what happens. You’ve got medicine in you, so we’ll wait and monitor.”

The soldier blinked, disoriented. Suddenly it hit him what had happened, and he recoiled in terror, curling up at the far end of the couch.

“S-sorry,” he stammered, covering his head with his hands, bracing for the first blow. “I-I didn’t m-mean to t-throw up.” His voice broke with fear.

“Shh, it’s okay, baby,” Tony’s heart broke again as Peter flinched from him, expecting to be hit for something beyond his control. “You can’t help it, no one’s angry. We’ll never hit you.”

Tony slowly moved closer, showing empty hands. Peter let him approach, trembling, still shielding his head. Tony gently pulled him into a hug, holding him tight. Peter remained curled in a ball, hands over his head, but didn’t try to escape.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Tony whispered to Bruce. “You can monitor him there just as well. And all we need right now is peace.”

*** 

Meanwhile, five men gathered around a table in a bunker known only to those present. It was hidden beneath one of the shops on the outskirts of New York.

“The Avengers kidnapped three of our trainee,” said a graying man in his forties, one of Hydra’s leaders.

He spread out a map of New York on the table, along with another showing the tower’s layout.

“We lost several men and five recruits. Hydra will rebuild quickly, but one of those captured students has special abilities none of our soldiers possess. We need him back on the right path and with us—where he truly belongs. He was raised in Hydra. When we recover him, he’ll be more than willing to return.”

The leader scratched his beard, studying the maps.

“We must start planning how to recover our trainee without losing more people. In a few days, I want a complete plan of action.”

“Of course, sir.” 

Chapter Text

Soldier 218 didn’t remember exactly what had happened, nor why he once again found himself in a new room that was supposedly his now. He only vaguely recalled a few voices, hands carrying him, and a kiss pressed to his temple. And then nothing.

He woke up lying on his side, with a blue bowl placed not far from his face, in the very spot where he had been carefully laid down a few hours earlier. The soldier noticed it was the same place on the floor, in the corner where he had felt the safest the previous night. The difference was that this time he lay on a pile of blankets, surrounded by unbelievably soft pillows. He frowned, not knowing where they had come from.

His enhanced hearing picked up the footsteps of someone climbing the stairs toward him, a full half-minute before the door opened slightly and a face he already recognized appeared in the frame.

"Hey, buddy. Not asleep?" Tony Stark asked quietly, entering the room slowly, concern painted across his face.

The soldier pressed his lips into a thin line, not daring to move. He lay there in the warmth, blinking lazily, too weak to assume a defensive position. If there was anything he had learned so far, it was that Stark was not a typical trainer. He didn’t beat him - and the soldier still didn’t know why. This time, he trusted his spider-sense, which gave no warning, so he felt no need to shield himself.

"It’s been a few hours, and Bruce is optimistic. He says your healing factor has already taken care of things and your body is pretty much healed," Stark said with sadness, which struck the soldier as strange, since he was delivering good news.

"Mhm," the soldier muttered, not wanting to appear disrespectful to his superior, who clearly expected a reply.

"Do you feel better?" Stark asked, crouching down close to the boy’s head.

His hand rested on the soldier’s forehead. It was pleasantly cool. And unlike with other trainers, Stark’s touch never hurt. Not even when the soldier misbehaved and should have been punished.

"Soldier operational and ready for duty," the boy answered, and Tony winced at the automatic response coming from a child.

"No, buddy, you’re not 'ready for duty'," Tony sighed, pulling the boy closer as if his body alone could shield him from all the evil in the world. "If you don’t feel well, you don’t have to lie, don’t have to pretend everything’s fine."

"Soldier doesn't lie," the boy objected. "Trainer strictly forbids falsehood. Unacceptable behavior."

Tony closed his eyes halfway, trying to keep his composure, as though the boy’s words hadn’t just cut into him. As though he didn’t realize that someone had drilled stiff rules into the boy’s head, forcing him to mindlessly memorize the phrases.

"I’m not accusing you of anything. I just want you to know that if something bothers you, you can tell me, and I’ll help. I’ll never be angry about it."

"Stark... is not angry?" the soldier tilted his head, uncertain of the meaning behind Stark’s words. A trainer should expect a soldier to be operational and ready, no matter what had happened to him before.

"Jesus, kid," Tony snorted, breaking the tension. "I know I’m old, I’ve even started to go gray here and there, but please. I’m Tony. Call me Tony."

"Mhm," the soldier murmured vaguely, even more confused.

"But yes, that’s right. I couldn’t be angry at you, buddy." Tony smiled, hugging the boy tightly, delighted to see that Peter looked a little more at ease in his arms.

Deep down, the kid longed for closeness and affection. Tony could never be angry at him, no matter what he did. Tony had to make sure Peter trusted him.

"All right then," he cleared his throat when he decided there had been enough tenderness. "How about we go to my workshop?" He avoided the word "laboratory," worried that Hydra might have used that word in their twisted way to describe medical torture rooms. Better safe than sorry.

He wanted to take Peter somewhere new instead of keeping him shuttled between the Penthouse and the Avengers’ common floor. For now, he could show him the simplest technology and see what would come of it.

While Peter had been asleep, Tony had already secured the lab, locking all possible hazards in a separate room. With FRIDAY’s supervision and his own constant watch over the kid, he felt safe bringing him there. He had triple-checked all safety measures, because earlier that day he had realized he wasn’t able to take proper care of the boy. He had failed completely. He felt guilty enough that he wanted to make up for it, to spark Peter’s interest in technology. A hobby might help him recover from Hydra’s destructive influence.

The soldier nodded at the question, not entirely sure what a "workshop" was, but knowing he didn’t really have a choice. It was always that way. Rhetorical questions in Hydra had been an everyday thing. He never truly had the option of saying no.

But he didn’t mind at all. He wasn’t even aware that he could have a say in what happened to him. Others had always decided for him, and he saw no problem with that. It was easier. Safer.

"Then let’s go, buddy." Tony held out his hand to help him up from the floor.

He wasn’t surprised when, once again, Peter ignored the gesture and stood up on his own.

They left the room, walked down the stairs, and entered the elevator. Fortunately, Peter had only been napping, so he was still in his regular clothes. No need to change out of pajamas, which would have delayed their arrival at the lab - a delay Tony was more excited about avoiding than the kid was. Yes, even a two-minute delay was unacceptable when it came to playing in the best lab known to mankind.

"We’ll be there in a moment," Tony said when he noticed Peter glancing around uneasily in the cramped metal space.

And as promised, ten seconds later the elevator doors opened, revealing the biggest, most magnificent, breathtaking lab, secured by a glass wall with fingerprint and access-code entry. No one except himself, Pepper, Rhodey, Steve, and Natasha had access.

The first three had received access from FRIDAY when Tony had fallen into one of his workaholic spirals, going without sleep or food for three straight days. That was when his AI had decided someone responsible needed access in case Tony drove himself into self-destruction again.

Natasha had gotten access on her own. How, to this day, remained a mystery to Tony.

"So, what do you think, Pete?" Tony asked, ushering the boy inside with a proud smile, pointing toward the equipment deeper in the room.

The soldier froze, looking around at the space, which was the largest set of "four walls" he had ever seen. The entire Hydra facility hadn’t been half this size.

He widened his eyes and gaped, unaware that he looked like a fish out of water. All the devices, tables, and lights flickering in the air combined into an overwhelming sight.

"Do you like it?" Tony asked, amused by the boy’s reaction. "What you’re seeing is a hologram. And if you look over here -" he pointed at a table where three boxes had been set out, "- I’ve prepared a set of components for you to work with."

They sat side by side, shoulder to shoulder. Tony began by pulling out electrodes, a lightbulb, and a battery.

"Watch. If you connect this wire here - important - positive pole, and this one on the other side, negative pole, then... voilà!"

The bulb lit up, and Peter’s eyes went wide as he reached out to see how it worked himself. Tony disconnected the pieces, to Peter’s disappointment, wanting the boy to repeat the steps on his own.

Letting the kid play with safe components, two hours later Peter was already able to build an electromagnet and a small fan. The speed at which he grasped how everything worked amazed Tony, who felt an immense sense of pride.

Peter definitely had talent, and Tony set it as his goal to nurture it. Who knew what kind of genius he might have become if Hydra hadn’t disrupted his development and neglected his basic needs during early childhood.

"Bravo, buddy!" Tony praised the boy for the tenth time as he turned to show him his latest "invention."

And that was the moment. The moment when, after hearing praise, the boy’s eyes shone and a wide smile spread across his face. He looked so endearing, so charming. Right then, Tony decided he would find a reason every single day to praise the boy - just to see that innocent, hopeful, approval-seeking expression again, the one bright enough to light even the darkest abyss.

Chapter Text

On a rainy autumn day, a man in a dark burgundy coat walked alone through the streets on the outskirts of New York. The drizzling rain didn’t bother him in the slightest; he seemed completely unconcerned by it, though he was soaked to the bone.

Beneath the folds of his coat, he held a black briefcase, protected from the rain by a plastic bag, clutching it protectively to his chest.

The information it contained was worth more than his own life, so he quickened his pace, eager to reach his destination faster.

At the corner, he turned onto a street that shifted from single-family homes to rows of townhouses. Water pooled on the sidewalk, as the storm drains, overwhelmed by the heavy rainfall, could no longer take in more. To the right, in the second house, on the corner apartment, was a small grocery store—the man’s destination.

He looked around, making sure there were no witnesses. To the right—clear. To the left… out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement behind a curtain in a neighboring window. He cursed under his breath, instinctively reaching into his coat for the gun hidden there.

But his fingers grasped only air, and he remembered he had placed the weapon in the briefcase to keep the gunpowder inside the cartridges from getting damp. He couldn’t risk it—Hydra issued each of its members a single weapon for the entirety of their service. Anyone foolish enough to lose or damage it had to make do without. They bore the consequences of their own carelessness.

Deciding to let it go, assuming it was only a nosy old woman peeking out at the street, he hurriedly opened the store door and stepped inside.

The bell above the entrance chimed as he entered. Behind the counter, a woman in her fifties lifted her head from a crossword puzzle she’d been working on while waiting for customers.

The man’s black, freshly polished shoes left two large puddles as they met the floor. The water dripping from his clothes only added to the growing pool.

“How can I help you?” the woman asked warmly, though the stern, disapproving glance she cast at the wet floor made her friendliness seem forced.

Without unnecessary ceremony, the man raised his hand, clenched it into a fist, and stood at attention.

“Hail Hydra!” he declared in a firm, proud voice.

He lifted his head, gazing down slightly, awaiting the woman’s reply. He didn’t have to wait long. Within two seconds, her pupils widened as she understood the meaning of her unexpected guest’s presence. She adjusted her glasses and nodded in greeting, raising her clenched fist.

“Hail Hydra.” Knowing Hydra’s members’ time was too precious to waste, she quickly slid her hand to the right and opened a small door leading behind the counter.

The man smiled with satisfaction and, without hesitation, moved toward the passage concealed in an alcove, invisible to customers. He pushed aside a curtain of brown beads and stepped into a dimly lit stairwell leading upward.

Squinting, he scanned the area until his eyes fell on a small red footstool placed where the wooden banister met the floor. He bent down, pulled the piece of furniture aside, and dragged it into a corner, out of the way.

Straightening up, he noticed a hatch in the floor—previously hidden by the stool. With a firm tug, he opened it and peered inside. A staircase descended into the basement, thick with dust, except for a few fresh footprints leading downward.

He went down the well-lit stairs, surprised by the crisp air. He had expected mustiness and dampness. Wet footprints trailed behind him, but he knew someone else would clean them up. All that mattered was reaching the meeting on time.

From below, faint voices of those already gathered echoed upward. The man hurried, pulling out the briefcase with its perfectly preserved documents.

“Radisson,” the leader remarked as the man entered the underground chamber where four others sat around a round table. Frank Radisson made the fifth. “I trust you had no trouble on the way.”

“Everything went according to plan, Sir,” Frank replied, bowing his head in respect to his superior’s rank and experience.

He placed the briefcase carefully on the table, unclasped it, and folded back the leather to reveal its contents. The leader did not smile or show satisfaction, but the gleam in his eyes betrayed hidden fascination.

“Indeed, you’ve done well, Radisson.” It was the highest praise Frank had received since joining the organization.

He hadn’t expected it. He hadn’t heard anything similar since the age of nine, when Hydra took him in. When doctors had given up on him, saying it was “not worth” keeping him alive with machines, Hydra had stepped in. They healed him. They put him back on his feet. He owed them everything, and he would gladly die for them if necessary. Hydra had helped each of them in turn—that was why they were the most loyal, the most devoted. Their leader trusted them with reason.

“Thank you, Sir.” Frank’s cheeks flushed at the unwanted attention as three of the four faces turned toward him. “It’s an honor to be entrusted with such an important task.”

The leader’s lips curved slightly as he reached into the briefcase for the papers scattered inside.

“What stage are we at?” he asked, lifting a page and scanning the scribbled pencil notes.

Frank glanced at the remaining notes in the case, filled with fragments of a complex quantum code.

“Considering the complexity of the security systems, and the difficulty of accessing the tower’s core, we’re still a few days away from hacking Stark’s artificial intelligence.”

“Perfect. Let’s get to work. The faster we finish, the less time the Avengers will have to react.”

***

The soldier listened to the raindrops tapping against the windows with both unease and curiosity. He didn’t understand what was happening—he couldn’t even see, as the blinds had been permanently shut. He only heard the steady, soft drumming, like in his Hydra quarters, where a leaking pipe had dripped endlessly. Sometimes it drove him mad, when his enhanced mind became overloaded with stimuli. More often, it soothed him, giving him something else to focus on besides the cold, the fatigue, and the hunger. He knew the sound of dripping water—but never before had he heard so much pouring straight from the sky.

“What are you doing, kiddo?” Tony asked, turning to Peter, who had been sitting cross-legged on the floor for forty minutes, staring at his reflection in the glass and listening to the sounds outside. “It’s a real downpour out there. Don’t you want to sit with me and watch a movie?”

Tony had just come back from a twenty-minute “conversation” several floors below, with two other Hydra victims. Conversation was a strong word. For fifteen minutes, the boy and the man had stayed silent. For the next five, they yelled at Tony, as if he were the one who had caused the pain they would curse for the rest of their lives. Still, he didn’t regret checking in on the nineteen- and thirty-two-year-old. They weren’t as young as Peter, but they were still victims. He couldn’t just forget them, not without trying to help. He resolved to return tomorrow and try again. He wouldn’t give up, even if it would’ve been easier to focus only on the twelve-year-old now staring blankly into nothingness.

Soldier 218 pressed his lips into a thin line, slowly turning toward “call me Tony” Stark. He tilted his head to the side, then quickly straightened when Tony made that face—the one that meant he found the soldier “adorable.” Whatever that meant, the boy didn’t like the condescension. A good soldier was not meant to be coddled.

“Water drips,” the boy said, his voice forced into the mechanical tone he always used when his thoughts drifted back home. Back to Hydra. “Leaky pipes.”

Tony’s face softened with sympathy. He sat beside the boy, wrapping an arm around him, ignoring Peter’s flinch at the touch—and the faint creaking of his joints.

“That’s rain, kiddo.” His other hand drifted into the boy’s hair, combing through it as he hummed softly. “Want me to lift the blinds?” he asked, knowing that with the sun hidden behind the clouds, the boy might better grasp the outside world.

Peter’s face twisted with fear as he shook his head. Then, suddenly, he started nodding yes. No. Yes again. No. Yes.

“It’s okay, baby,” Tony soothed, pulling the boy closer until he was almost on his lap. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“I… I want to.” The soldier struggled with himself, shaking his head and nodding until he finally let out a sob.

Why couldn’t he decide? Why did his body betray him?

“Shhh,” Tony whispered, rocking him gently and humming into his hair. “We can take it slow. Or not at all. It’s your choice.”

“I want to,” the soldier said more firmly this time. Deep down, despite the fear, he felt safe with Tony Stark. “B-but… but…”

“Maybe I’ll just open a small part, hmm?” Tony suggested, tightening his protective hold around him.

“Y-yes.”

“Alright, buddy. If it’s too much, just tell me. We’ll stop.”

Without waiting for a reply, Tony lifted a corner of the blinds near the floor, revealing the Manhattan skyline from above. He felt Peter tense, but moments later the boy relaxed, adjusting to the darkness pierced by distant lights. Tony’s chest swelled with pride.

For an ordinary kid, it would have been nothing remarkable. But for Peter—for a boy who had spent his entire life locked in a basement—it was a milestone in discovering a normal life he’d been denied.

“So, what do you think?” Tony asked, pointing to the distant stars.

“The sky is beautiful,” the soldier whispered, lifting his head and pressing his hands to the glass. Fear still gripped him, but with Tony Stark, it wasn’t so hard to bear.

“Alright, kiddie,” Tony said softly. “That’s enough for today. Tomorrow, we’ll see more, okay?”

He didn’t want to overwhelm him, so he ended the stargazing session. But what the boy said next caught Tony off guard—in the best way:

“T-thank you.”

The soldier needed to say it. To thank Tony for showing him something new. For being there. For making him feel important. Here, unlike at “home,” he wasn’t treated as an object. He was a person—loved and cared for.

Each day, less of him longed desperately to return to the familiar horrors of the past. Each day, the reasons to stay outweighed those to leave. And yet, despite everything this place offered, why was he still uncertain? Deep down, he knew the answer.

Better the evil you know than the good you don’t. 

Chapter Text

"Ready?"

The soldier frowned, studying Stark’s excited face. Stark bared his perfectly white teeth, crow’s feet forming around his eyes—all because of a joy the soldier did not recognize.

Soldier 218 opened his mouth to ask a question, but shut it just as quickly when Stark shouted in a single breath:

"Steady! Go!"

The soldier jumped back in surprise, watching Stark dash down the stairs, giggling like a maniac, bouncing off walls, and nearly tripping over his own legs.

Not knowing what was happening, the soldier ran after him, unwilling to be left behind, since it was clear he was expected to mimic his superior’s behavior. Without the manic energy and laughter, Soldier 218 hurried down the stairs, skipping steps with a little more grace than the waiting adult (supposedly mature) man below.

Tony grinned with joy, laughing when he saw the boy’s confused, bewildered face. Despite Tony’s explanation of the rules of the race, Peter hadn’t understood a word. Had he ever even heard of something as simple as fun?

"Next time you’ll get it, buddy. Next time," Tony assured him, ruffling the boy’s hair, which earned him a sharp squeal and an attempt to escape the billionaire’s persistent touch.

"Sorry, kid. I can’t help it," Tony clicked his tongue, pretending to pat Peter’s back but in reality repeating the hair-ruffling gesture and laughing mischievously at the boy’s indignant look.

The soldier relaxed when he realized Stark wasn’t going to continue his teasing. The genius’s chuckle melted into a low, deep, genuine laugh—no malice left in it. Strangely enough, the soldier didn’t feel threatened when Stark messed with his hair. The billionaire meant well. Tony was good.

"Alright, buddy," Tony sighed happily, draping his arm around the boy’s shoulders and leading him slowly toward the elevator. "Are you ready for the most amazing afternoon with the merry brigade, who’d blow up the tower just to have some fun?"

Yes, he was definitely describing Clint. And Sam. But especially Clint. Steve, Natasha, and Bruce, being the responsible ones, had promised Tony they’d look after Peter for a few hours. The work Tony had been postponing for weeks had finally piled up to the breaking point, and he needed to sit at his desk and deal with Stark Industries business.

The soldier nodded, smiling faintly. Stark had explained that morning that he’d be in the care of the Avengers until Tony came back. He’d spent an entire hour explaining why he had to leave him and painting the time with his friends as the best thing that could possibly happen. He put so much effort into it that the soldier believed him.

"Yes," the soldier said, excited by the thought of Clint, who apparently planned to sneak him candy behind Tony’s back. Well, it wasn’t that much of a secret, since the soldier had heard about it from Stark himself. "Fun and candy!"

Tony smiled as they stepped into the elevator together. Poor kid didn’t know that any other twelve-year-old would be over the moon to spend a day with the Avengers. But for Peter, the team of heroes didn’t matter. He was excited about candy and entertainment—things he knew almost nothing about except what Tony had told him.

Luckily, that was going to change. Tony had made it his mission to introduce Peter to a normal world, one where survival wasn’t a battle at every step.

"And here we are," Tony said as the elevator stopped and the doors slid open, revealing the Avengers’ common floor.

"Tony, Peter," Steve greeted with a nod. "Good to see you again." His gaze softened as it fell on Peter. "You’re looking healthier, son."

Tony cleared his throat, guilt washing over him. He suddenly realized most of his friends hadn’t seen Peter since the day his stomach nearly burst. That had been a long time ago—long enough for them to worry. He could have at least given them an update. Well, too late now.

"Alright, kid," Tony said, checking his Swiss watch. "I don’t have much time, and you know the rules. Listen to Natasha, Bruce, and Steve. Absolutely no one else. And remember, if you need anything, the voice from the ceiling will be there for you."

The soldier nodded, his mood dimming at the thought of not seeing Stark for several hours. He clenched his jaw, refusing to say it out loud.

"If anything happens, call me," Tony added, directing his words to Steve. He gave Peter one last hug before turning and leaving.

"Ready to explore the inside of the ventilation shaft?" Clint greeted, stepping out from behind a corner.

"ABSOLUTELY NO—"

"Relax," Clint rolled his eyes at Steve’s mother-hen act, pulling Peter toward the lounge where FIFA was on and Sam waved from his beanbag chair in front of the TV.

"He’s mine now!" Clint shouted as they disappeared from sight. A sharp kick in the shin from Sam corrected him—"Ours! He’s ours now!"

Peter giggled at Steve’s resigned sigh and Natasha’s remark about three children being left alone together.

***

"Who’s hungry?" Bruce called, poking his head out.

Two hours had passed since Clint and Sam taught Peter how to play, this time letting him join in. Sam had to be on Peter’s team against Clint, who had not-so-subtly been threatened by Natasha to lose—or else sleep with one eye open.

Peter tried his best, but he wasn’t good. All he could manage was passing the ball and scoring own goals. Giving him an advantage wasn’t as easy as it sounded.

"Me," Peter lit up instantly, jumping to his feet and forgetting about the half-finished match.

He followed Bruce into the kitchen, where sandwiches were stacked on a plate.

"Help yourself," Steve said, handing him a smaller plate and distributing food to anyone who was hungry.

After a moment of silence, the soldier frowned, confused as to why they were eating quietly.

"Food is here. Now come the questions," he said brightly, reminding Captain America that he had forgotten to ask questions, like people usually did when eating with him.

"What do you mean, buddy?"

"When food, always paired with questions," Peter explained slowly, as if making sure they understood what was obvious to him.

The Avengers exchanged looks, communicating without words.

"Pete, no. Nobody’s going to interrogate you. You don’t get food because we want answers. You get food because it’s a basic need. You need to eat to function."

"Food, and then answers?"

"Peter, no one is going to interrogate you."

"Okay," he shrugged.

The silence lingered, because the Avengers wanted to say so much more, but they knew they had to be careful. Peter was observing them, learning from their behavior what to expect. He had drawn the conclusion that he had to answer questions to get food. They’d have to tell Tony to explain that normal conversation wasn’t interrogation.

The rest of the meal passed in awkward quiet. The Avengers didn’t want to confuse the boy with too many words, and Peter stayed silent because he didn’t know if he was allowed to speak.

It turned out to be the calm before the storm, when Peter accidentally knocked over a glass of orange juice.

In slow motion, everyone watched it fall from the table, shattering into dozens of pieces on the tile floor.

"Don’t get up, Pete, we’ll clean it—" Natasha stopped mid-sentence when she sensed from the boy’s tense body that he was about to bolt.

"Peter, you’ll step on glass!" Steve tried to warn him.

Too late.

The soldier leapt up and ran from the kitchen, his socks splashing through juice and shards of glass—luckily not cutting his feet—as he fled where instinct told him. Finding no escape, he climbed up the wall of the lounge, crouching in the corner of the ceiling, upside down.

"Peter!?" Bruce called, spotting orange footprints on the wall before his jaw dropped upward.

The Avengers rushed into the room and froze in the doorway, staring at the boy clinging upside down to the ceiling.

"Hey, comfy up there?" Clint asked, trying to sound casual despite Tony’s kid being stuck to the damn ceiling.

Peter didn’t answer, watching them warily, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped tight, lip trembling as if he were holding back tears.

"No one’s mad at you, son," Steve said, tilting his head to look up at the boy in the corner. "It was an accident. It happens to everyone."

"Even if you broke the glass on purpose, no one would be angry," Natasha added. She knew Tony didn’t care about tableware—Peter could smash everything glass in the tower and Tony wouldn’t even blink. "Come down to us. You’re safe here."

The soldier bit his trembling lip, flinching at the Widow’s commanding tone. He was afraid to come down, but the longer he stayed stuck to the ceiling, the worse the consequences would be.

With a strangled sound, he pushed off the ceiling and crawled down the wall, causing at least three heart attacks and a gasp from Steve, who lifted his arms, ready to catch him.

Peter dropped to the floor, standing awkwardly hunched, as if trying to take up as little space as possible, hoping they might forget he existed. He flinched when a pair of arms wrapped around him, carefully and slowly pulling him into a hug.

"You did great, little one," Natasha whispered, holding him as if she could shield him from the whole world.

She guided him gently to the couch, where they wrapped him in a blanket and sat him beside her, still in her embrace.

The soldier didn’t understand why no one was yelling yet. No one ever yelled.

"Clumsy soldier," Peter stammered, raising his arms to shield his head as if bracing for a blow, "deserves punishment."

"No one will punish you. You did nothing wrong," Natasha explained firmly, slowly.

"Bad soldier!" Peter shouted, looking around the room as if to convince everyone. In his world, by his rules, he deserved punishment. A slap to the face and a day locked in a cell—that was the bare minimum for such insubordination. "Wasting resources cannot go unpunished! Hydra would never allow—Hydra would…" He faltered, tears welling in his eyes.

"We are not Hydra," Natasha whispered, holding the trembling boy as he broke into hysterical sobs.

"N-no. You’re w-worse," he wept, and when he realized what he’d said, his crying only grew harder.

Nothing made sense anymore. All his life, he had been convinced the Avengers were the threat, the source of all evil. So why were they kind, understanding, caring—asking nothing in return? And yet he insulted them, saying they were worse than Hydra. They weren’t. They were better. Luckily, the Black Widow seemed to understand.

"We’re not what Hydra told you we are. You’re not here to be tortured, broken, or 'trained.' You’re an enhanced child who deserves a normal life, one only other enhanced people can give you. Peter, we will never hit you—no matter what you do."

"Mhm," Peter murmured, surprised to realize he understood what Natasha meant.

They sat like that for a long time until Peter stopped trembling and calmed down.

"Better?"

"Better."

"Good. Come on, let’s not ruin the mood. We’ll play a game, and then you can show us what else you can do," she winked, coaxing him up to rejoin the others. A faint smile touched the soldier’s lips. Despite his fears, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. After all, they weren’t Hydra.

***

Tony came back for Peter that evening after finishing work. The day had been productive—he had caught up on most of his backlog and handled the urgent matters requiring his attention.

He was surprised that FRIDAY hadn’t told him about Peter’s panic attack or the reveal of another power they’d only read about in files until now. The Avengers filled him in, and Tony knew he’d made the right choice leaving Peter in their hands.

Now he smiled, watching Peter on the couch, eyes glued to the movie, though Tony immediately noticed his head drooping before jerking back up. The kid was clearly nodding off. It was late, after all.

"Hey, kiddo," Tony said, patting the spot beside him and opening his arms invitingly. "Come here. If you want," he added, silently scolding himself for making it sound like an order.

He loved the way Peter’s eyes lit up when he saw him and the sleepy call: "Tony!"

The soldier inched closer, resting his head against Stark’s chest, testing if he’d be scolded for not following instructions exactly. He was surprised when Stark only smiled, wrapping an arm around him and letting him half sprawl across his lap.

"Did you have fun, bud?" Tony asked, amused by the boy’s fight against sleep.

"Mhm."

"That much fun!?" Tony teased, then fell quiet, cherishing the moment as Peter leaned into the contact without hesitation. "Alright, we’ll talk in the morning."

He pressed a gentle kiss to Peter’s temple, holding his whole world in his arms. He wished the moment could last forever. 

Chapter Text

"Tony" Steve's voice broke through Tony's thoughts.

Tony flinched and glanced over his shoulder at the blond man, realizing he'd been staring at the wall for a while, thinking hard.

“Yeah?” he asked, snapping back to the reality he'd been subconsciously trying to escape.

He turned in his chair, placed his hands on the edge of the glass table and sat up straight, ready to focus now that he was back. He angled his body toward the speaking Steve, on the other side of the conference table, showing him he was listening now. For once.

This time Steve didn't sigh or look annoyed at his friend's lack of manners. He shot Tony a long, worried look, then turned away and started again from the beginning, completely unfazed by the fact that some of the listeners didn't want to be there.

“As I said, we found another Hydra base—” Bucky tensed on the other side of the table, nervously bouncing his leg and clenching his metal fist as hard as Vibranium would allow.

Steve noticed Bucky's restless behavior; Bucky had once been a victim of the organization himself. He had never really been able to rid himself of their influence—there were always things at the back of his mind he’d done, people he’d killed. And even though people told him it wasn't him, that it wasn't his fault, he still felt responsible. Guilty.

It was his hands that were stained with the blood he always saw when he looked at them, no matter how much he scrubbed.

“Continue,” Sam said, trying to help and to divert the others' attention away from Bucky, who could barely sit still from restrained fury and a desire for revenge.

“We found them on the outskirts of New York, exactly here,” Steve pointed at the holographic map FRIDAY was projecting. “Because of their own carelessness and haste they were so easy to track that I honestly doubt whether this intel is real. To me, them being there feels a little too obvious. In any case, it needs checking.”

“Alright,” Clint said, stretching and purring like a cat, then sighed contentedly and started to get up, but Natasha's hand held him in place.

“Sit down,” she murmured, low enough that only Clint could hear. “You’ll leave when Steve’s finished.”

Clint rolled his eyes but didn’t try to get up again.

“I suggest we strike tomorrow night, when they won’t expect it. We attack first, by surprise.”

“Somehow I feel like this won’t be the last time we meet in the middle of the night over Hydra,” Bruce sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“We need to devise a plan, do recon,” Natasha ordered, sending a killer look at anyone who’d earlier voiced their displeasure.

“And that’s what we’ll spend the rest of the night doing,” Steve said cheerfully, drawing grumbles of discontent from some of the Avengers.

***

Soldier 218 rarely had nightmares, because he was rarely allowed to fall asleep. Yes, he slept like anyone else, but the moment of falling asleep was more like a fainting spell—his body too exhausted to do anything other than collapse wherever it happened to be, more or less suitable for it.

If, however, a nightmare did catch in his sleeping mind, it was hellishly destructive to the body of a twelve-year-old.

The soldier woke up gasping, screaming as if being tortured. Ironically, it was the memories of torture that usually populated his nightmares.

“No, please—” Soldier 218 croaked as a doctor appeared over him, blotting out the light that was too bright and intense for the soldier’s heightened senses. “I swear, I didn’t—Not on purpose... I didn’t... NOO!!!”

He screamed as loud as he could, and a wave of pain ripped through his throat from the strain, stronger than ever before.

The soldier felt the doctor driving a scalpel into his body, widening an already existing hole that bled. He had the impression that with every milliliter of blood lost he was a step closer to death. Did they really want to kill him for being disobedient?

“No—” he moaned as another tissue was cut; with his sharpened senses the pain was five times more intense than for an ordinary person.

They did not give him drugs—that was the point. And even if they had, what would be the use? His accelerated metabolism would negate whatever medication they administered. Nothing could help his hopeless situation.

“You will cooperate, you stupid pup!?” the trainer roared into his ear, grabbing his throat.

Choking and gasping, the soldier saw black spots at the edges of his vision. He opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, fighting for air. When he was on the verge of fainting the hand vanished and the soldier sucked in a noisy breath, coughing, rattling and crying, though he thought he’d already used up his supply of tears and was too dehydrated to produce more.

“I asked a question!” the trainer bellowed, slapping the soldier across the face.

The soldier didn’t even register it. He’d been through too much to focus on a burning cheek; he preferred to focus on the doctor, who had been drilling into him for hours.

“I’m sorry,” the soldier managed, laying his head flat on the metal table, too weak to lift it to see what the doctor was doing. “I’ll be good.”

He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t see the doctor’s satisfied expression and the trainer’s fury. He was so weak and sore that the straps holding him down were unnecessary. Even if his life depended on it he wouldn’t have the strength to rise. Tears ran down his already wet cheeks, dripping from his temples onto the metal table.

“Hard to believe,” the trainer snarled, yanking the soldier by the hair and tilting his head back. The soldier gave in without a fight, too exhausted to move. “If you want to be ‘good,’ then why are you forcing us to punish you again!?”

The soldier blinked drowsily, not understanding a word of the trainer’s speech. He only felt the trainer’s accusatory tone. Staring at the ceiling, unable to answer, his spider-sense flared—and then the rough hand returned, clamping on his neck and cutting off his air.

Soldier 218 woke drenched in sweat, panting and trying to draw breath into lungs that wouldn’t cooperate and unclench.

He trembled, shrugging off the heavy blanket that had just given him warmth and now felt like a constraint.

He ground his teeth, holding back the first, loudest wave of tears. His hands went to the top of his head and his fingers gripped his hair, pulling from both sides as if pain could remind him where he actually was.

He looked around and didn’t recognize the dark place. He didn’t know where he was, which only deepened his panic.

Where was the superior who would walk in, slap him awake and put things in order—painful, yes, but at least he could breathe? Wasn’t that his usual memory of torture, and he would wake up in a dark, cold cell at home?

The room he found himself in was just as dark, but bigger, warm and cozy.

He heard footsteps and a frantic, panicked breath from outside. A moment later the door to the room flew wide open.

“Peter?” Tony called, panicked, bursting into Peter’s room and turning on the lamp by the bedside, controlled through FRIDAY with a wave of his hand.

The soldier looked around and remembered he was in the tower with Stark. Seeing the worried face that to him meant safety, he instinctively reached out his arms, as if he wanted to be held by the man.

“T–Tony,” he whispered, and that one simple name choked into a sob; his bitten lip trembled and the sound of his crying escaped through his clenched teeth.

Tony immediately moved to the boy, scooping him into his arms and pressing him to his chest. The boy’s head fell against his shoulder, leaving wet streaks of tears. Tony felt the boy’s trembling breath on his neck and muffled sobs right by his ear.

“You’re safe with me, kiddo,” one hand landed on Peter’s back to support him while the other traced calming circles there. “Get it out, buddy.”

Holding the boy safely in his arms, Tony felt relief that he could be there for him. Maybe he was better than his father—if he could comfort his child simply by being there.

“That was a terrible nightmare, huh, buddy?” he whispered into the boy’s curls, kissing him to soothe them both.

He felt Peter release a shaky breath and nod against the bend of his neck.

“It’ll be okay, baby,” Tony said, blindly finding the lost blanket with one hand, grabbing its edge and pulling it over the boy’s shoulders, who still clung to him like a drowning man to the last plank.

The soldier tensed as he lost the point of contact on his back, but when it got warmer he immediately relaxed. He slumped, limp, into Tony’s arms, knowing he had no reason to fear with the man. To be sure Stark wouldn’t disappear, he wrapped his arms around Tony’s torso and relaxed into the silence, listening to the rhythmic beat of the man’s heart.

Tony felt a pang of sorrow, wishing that fate had been his instead and that the boy be spared. He would trade places with him, take his pain, so that this innocent soul would never have to relive the hell it had experienced.

And in that moment Tony realized there was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect the boy.

***

“Is everything ready?” Harold Gretman asked, the supreme leader of Hydra, the great-grandson of the organization’s founder, run like a family business for generations.

“Tight as can be,” Vincent replied, his right-hand man and the one Harold trusted enough to entrust his own life to.

“Wonderful,” Harold said, pleased, showing emotions he rarely allowed himself. But today was a reason to be joyful.

He slapped Vincent on the shoulder in approval for a job well done and spread his hands, addressing the others in the room.

“Before we give ourselves over to premature euphoria, remember—we have not yet recovered our pupils. Do not let pride take hold of you, and do not rest on your laurels. How does it look, Radisson?”

“We should strike by surprise. The virus is ready and perfect—unbeatable. One click and from that moment the AI running the tower will obey only our commands.”

“Excellent. We will strike first, and we will do it at night. On the coming night we will reclaim what has always belonged to us.”

Chapter Text

When Soldier 218 woke up again, the clock displayed 6:45. The boy looked around sleepily, rubbing the corners of his eyes with his index finger in an attempt to wake up.

His room was lit by a lamp on the other end of the room, which gave it yellow-gray hues instead of pitch-black darkness.

The soldier sat up, stretched, and stood, placing his feet on the warm wooden floor. He frowned when he noticed that once again that night, he had woken up a little higher. It was obvious—Tony’s doing. Stark’s, yes, Stark’s.

The billionaire added another pillow, blanket, or sometimes even swapped the mattress for a thicker, softer one every day. He thought he was being sneaky, not realizing the soldier noticed the changes.

The boy pressed his lips together as his stomach growled loudly. Stark always repeated that he could leave the room whenever he wanted. But wasn’t that a test? A trap meant to doom him?

He stood directly in front of the door for ten minutes, hand outstretched and hovering just above the handle. He hesitated for so long that when his stomach growled again, he sighed and pushed the handle, opening the door quickly just to get it over with.

He hurried into the hallway, his legs carrying him straight to Tony’s bedroom. It was dark and early enough that the soldier knew Tony was still asleep. If he hadn’t been, he would have already checked on the boy, alerted by the voice from the ceiling. That was always the routine—until today.

The soldier pushed the door open slightly and crept into the dark room. Tiptoeing silently, he spotted a male figure lying on his side, hugging a pillow and drooling onto the sheets.

He looked so peaceful and comfortable that the boy felt bad, remembering he was supposed to wake the man up. In any other situation, he would never dare touch his guardian, afraid of the reaction and the painful consequences it might bring. But this was only Tony. His Tony.

He stood over Stark for several minutes, watching the rise and fall of his chest, listening to the quiet, steady snoring. When his stomach growled once more, he decided to act.

“Tony,” he whispered, leaning closer to make sure Stark would hear him. “I’m hungry.”

“Hm?” Tony mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut tighter, as if that could undo being woken after only two hours of sleep since he’d gone to bed. After a meeting and calming Peter from a nightmare, he’d retreated to the lab, tinkering with unfinished projects and adding new protocols to the operating and control systems. “That can wait, Pep. Tell them I’m the owner.”

He was almost asleep again when he felt a hesitant tug on the edge of his blanket, something he couldn’t ignore.

He opened his eyes, blinking to rid himself of the burning in his eyelids. A migraine was only a matter of time. He hoped he could delay it by falling back asleep after dealing with Rhodey or Pepper. He opened his mouth to ask what was going on and complain about being woken up, but someone beat him to it.

“I’m hungry,” Peter said, standing right next to him. Tony jolted and clutched at his chest.

“Jesus, kid. Don’t scare me like that,” he blurted automatically, breathing heavily after the half–heart attack.

Rubbing the area over his heart, he looked up and noticed Peter pressing his lips together and lowering his head, looking guilty. Tony instantly felt a pang of guilt himself. He wanted to smack himself for the mistake, but first he had to fix what he’d said.

“I’m glad you woke me when you needed something,” he muttered quickly, the hope in the boy’s eyes giving weight to his half-conscious words. “I’m so proud of you, buddy.”

This was another milestone, and Tony was proud they had reached a stage where Peter wasn’t afraid to wake him. Maybe he was doing something right after all.

“How long have you been standing there?” he asked, fumbling around for the sweatpants he’d tossed on the floor after stripping down to his boxers and sleep shirt—his stylish billionaire’s pajamas.

The soldier didn’t answer, only pointed at his stomach and then toward the kitchen.

“Sure, buddy,” Tony got up instantly, pulling on the pants in one quick motion and dimming the lights to 40% so he wouldn’t trigger a migraine right away.

He wiggled his fingers, and the boy immediately grabbed his hand, something Tony had noticed he liked doing in the past few days. Whether it made him feel safer or for any other reason, Tony was just glad he could comfort him with something so simple. The relief on the boy’s face spread to Tony as he began leading them toward the kitchen.

Soldier 218 immediately clasped Stark’s offered hand, following him out of the room. Without a word, they walked down the hallway and descended the stairs. Hydra had taught him that what was precious had to be kept close.

“Any special breakfast wishes, kiddo?” Tony rubbed his thumb across the boy’s hand to catch his attention. “Sadly, I have to be responsible for now and can’t introduce you to rainbow-colored cereal that causes diabetes just by looking at it,” he said with mock regret, comically undercut by the mischievous grin on his face.

Before the boy could answer, he froze, gasping, heart pounding as if it wanted to burst from his chest. He threw out his right arm, blocking Stark and holding him back, shielding him from danger.

Something was wrong. His spider-sense flared, and a bead of sweat slid down his neck, soaking into his shirt. He shivered when he felt a warm hand on his shoulder and breath against his ear.

“What’s wrong, bud?” Tony asked, concern replacing his earlier humor, the lines on his face deepening.

He bent closer to the boy, voice softer, more careful now.

“Someone’s here,” the soldier’s voice trembled with fear. He hadn’t felt like this since Hydra.

Tony frowned, pushing aside the boy’s arm despite the panicked squeak and attempt to stop him. He peeked around the corner, moving quickly, the boy following behind like a duckling. Peter trembled, panting, clutching Tony’s hand, now hiding behind his guardian’s back since Tony refused to let him go first.

Tony knew it was impossible for an intruder to slip into his tower. His security made it so. That’s why he didn’t activate weapons or panic at the boy’s warning.

Ignoring the boy’s whimper, he leaned around the corner and saw a beam of light in the kitchen. Relief flooded him when he saw two figures talking by the counter.

“Wilson. Barnes,” Tony exhaled the breath he’d been holding. Relief lasted only a moment before anger filled its place. “What the hell are you doing here?” he snapped at Bucky, barely restraining himself from spitting the words through clenched teeth.

Sam and Bucky froze in place like deer caught in headlights. Just before death. At least they seemed aware of how bad this situation was.

“Shit, sorry,” Bucky muttered, sandwich slipping from his hand onto the counter as he turned toward Sam. “I told you this was a bad idea.”

“We can explain,” Sam raised a hand defensively, like trying to calm a charging bull.

Except Tony Stark wasn’t a bull blindly charging at red cloth—his attack would be sharp, personal, and deliberate.

“You’d better have one hell of an excuse,” Tony growled, murder in his eyes.

Barnes spun on his heel, trying to leave quickly, shielding part of his face with his hand, avoiding both looking at the boy and being recognized himself. But Tony’s glare froze him mid-step, and he gave up on the escape.

“We thought you were asleep, and Clint ate all the food on our floor,” Sam began, sounding less confident with every word. Tony’s skeptical glare didn’t help, his expression reading: Yeah, right. What else? “We made a mistake, but sooner or later Peter would have to meet Bucky anyway. This moment was bound to happen.”

That last sentence made Tony feel like he was boiling inside. He didn’t explode only because loud sounds would scare Peter.

“See, Wilson, that’s where we differ. You think this was inevitable. I, on the other hand, wouldn’t even come up with such a stupid idea as arranging a meeting in the one place where Peter feels safe and is starting to think of as home. What if he was alone? What if I wasn’t here and he panicked, huh? HOW STUPID DO YOU HAVE TO BE TO BRING THE WINTER SOLDIER—A FORMER HYDRA AGENT—INTO THE HOME OF A LITTLE KID WHO'S TERRIFIED OF HYDRA!?”

“We’re sorry, Tony, it was irresponsible…”

“It’s the 21st century! It’s seven in the morning, and every grocery store is already open!” Tony began gesturing wildly, words not enough to vent his rising frustration. “And you call me reckless!!!”

“We’re sorry,” Bucky repeated, hanging his head, guilt washing over him.

They hadn’t thought this through. Both he and Sam felt awful when they realized how badly this could have ended.

“Get out,” Tony cut sharply, pointing toward the door. “You’re stressing out my kid, and I don’t want you here.”

“Of course,” Sam said quickly, heading out. “We really are sorry.”

Both left with lowered heads. When they were gone, Tony sighed.

“Idiots,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose as the elevator doors closed on the unwanted guests. Then he looked around—no Peter in sight. “Pete?”

Right on cue, Peter peeked around the corner, glancing left and right to make sure it was safe to come out. Tony wanted to punch something—preferably Barnes in the face—because Peter should always feel safe in his own home.

“Come here, baby,” Tony said, but instead of waiting, he walked over, pulling the boy into his chest with one arm and holding his head close with the other. “It’s okay, that was just Bucky. You haven’t met him yet, but he’s trustworthy (at least according to Steve. Personally he had some doubts, but he was biased). I’m sorry you got scared.”

“M-my spider-sense went off,” Peter mumbled into Tony’s shoulder, knowing Tony would help him calm down.

“Yeah, buddy. I know,” Tony whispered, running a hand through his hair. Hearing the fear in the boy’s voice made Tony feel like a knife twisted in his gut. He wouldn’t forgive Sam and Bucky for this anytime soon. “You’re safe, nothing’s going to hurt you.”

“Because you’re here?”

“Yeah, kiddo,” Tony felt his heart melt. Could anyone be more innocent, pure and sweet? “I’ll never let anything bad happen to you.”

*** 

The day Peter and Tony spent together was very productive. First, after breakfast, they went to the lab, where Peter surprised Tony by understanding physics, biology, and chemistry at a level far beyond the average twelve-year-old. Considering the fact that this was a fresh situation—since Peter had been imprisoned for almost twelve years—the kid showed signs of genius. Tony was so proud of him.

Later, they watched a movie Peter was obsessed with, which ended up turning into three movies. “Star Wars,” or something like that—Tony had to call it quits because his old bones couldn’t handle sitting in the same position for that long anymore.

“Sorry, buddy. It doesn’t work like that—the closer you sit, the bigger the chance you’ll jump into the movie world,” he joked, seeing Peter sitting so close to the TV that he could almost touch the screen with his nose.

And so evening came, the moment Tony wanted to delay as much as possible. He had to leave Peter behind to sneak into a Hydra base at night and take down another piece of scum brainwashing people. No problem—two hours of work, tops.

But there was a catch. He didn’t want to leave Peter alone, knowing the boy had been plagued by nightmares lately. He couldn’t stand the thought of Peter waking up terrified with no one there to comfort him.

So Tony made the best decision he could think of: he hired a full-time babysitter—aka, he called Happy.

“No way.” That was the response he expected. But after a short presentation in which Tony used his powers of persuasion, Happy agreed.

“You’ll have something to put on your résumé when you apply for your next job,” Tony argued. “Oh, don’t tell me you don’t see a future like that and didn’t think about it when I sent you to Paris at midnight last year for authentic Camembert because I suddenly wanted cheese.”

“Tony,” Happy sighed, his face a mixture of outrage and disbelief.

Thanks to the video call, Happy could see Tony’s face as he tried to mimic Peter’s puppy eyes—but instead of pulling it off, he looked like he had a twitch.

Of course, Happy took screenshots for future blackmail.

“There’s no one else I trust,” Tony admitted, knowing it was only a matter of time before Happy caved.

“What about Pepper?”

“She’s busy. Sitting in the office, complaining about me missing deadlines or something. Or that I don’t listen to her. I don’t know exactly—I never really listen to… Damn. I get what she means.” Tony grimaced, scratching the back of his neck. Yep, he was terrible at relationships.

“And Rhodey?”

“He’s coming with us. Stop making excuses and get your butt over here, I need you,” Tony dragged out the last words like a spoiled child trying to coax their mom into going into a toy store.

Happy sighed, and Tony grinned. Almost there.

“You don’t pay me enough for this.”

Bingo. Tony spread his arms, smiling in triumph.

“If I paid you properly for all my whims, I wouldn’t be a billionaire anymore.” Happy opened his mouth in outrage, so Tony quickly shouted, “I know you love me too!”—and hung up.

And just like that, he had childcare covered. Not the most humane method, but effective. He also booked Happy a week-long vacation in Malta, paying for everything upfront, hoping for at least a thumbs-up. Instead, he got the middle finger—which only made him smile. Ah, Happy—too afraid to admit Tony actually spiced up his life.

“All right, buddy. Bedtime,” Tony declared. “I’d love to say I’ll be home when you wake up, but I know you wake up at night.”

The boy nodded, lifting his hand to his mouth, nibbling at his fingernail, staring at Tony’s nose so he wouldn’t have to look him directly in the eyes.

Tony pulled Peter into a hug, gently lowering the boy’s hand from his mouth, and sighed with satisfaction when the boy hugged him back. Grunting theatrically, he picked Peter up in his arms, earning a surprised giggle.

“Happy will be here instead of me. Remember him?” he asked, panting exaggeratedly as he carried the boy to his room.

“Your sad friend in a suit?”

“Exactly,” Tony chuckled, kissing Peter’s temple. “He’ll be here after you’re asleep. If you need anything, he’ll take care of you.”

Happy and Peter had met two weeks earlier when Peter had a bad day and refused to leave Tony’s side, clinging within a meter of him. Happy had immediately liked the boy, and knowing his story, the usually stoic tough guy even shed a tear of sympathy.

“Do you have to go?” Peter asked sadly as Tony loosened the hug and gently tossed him onto the bed.

“Everyone has responsibilities, baby” Tony pulled back the blanket, inviting him to crawl in. “Mine is helping people. Yours is going to sleep and listening to Happy until I come back.”

He tapped the boy’s nose, smiling as he fluffed his pillows. Then he launched into stories about his college days, telling Peter how well he studied and how well-behaved he was (as Rhodey would summarize: he lied through his teeth). Well, he told him how he should have been—that sounded better.

Seeing Peter drifting off, Tony kissed his forehead, smiling.

“I’ll be back before you even notice.”

*** 

“Let’s get this over with,” Tony said to the rest of the Avengers, standing at the helicopter’s edge above the chasm.

He lowered his faceplate and leaned forward, dropping from several meters up. His suit came alive instantly, slowing his fall, leveling him out, and landing with grace.

Right behind him came Steve, Bucky, and Natasha, while Rhodey, Clint, and Sam took to the rooftops, making sure everything went smoothly.

From the cockpit, Bruce looked down, saluted, and lifted the helicopter into the air, flying to safety until they called him for pickup.

“Moving in,” Steve ordered, setting explosives on the doors.

The whole process was tedious and repeated every mission, but Cap always followed the book.

Once the charges blew and the building shook, the Hydra agents inside had to know they’d been discovered. The Avengers stormed in, covering the two exits, trapping the agents inside.

Through a fake storefront, Tony and Natasha headed for the basement while the rest came from another route.

They rushed down the stairs, meeting a panicked man with a mustache. Without hesitation, Tony blasted his chest with a repulsor, knocking him unconscious against the wall.

“Don’t get up,” Tony mocked, disgusted by every member of the organization that had hurt his boy so much.

They pushed deeper inside, eager to finish the mission and go home. Gunfire echoed elsewhere—no doubt the others were taking care of the rest.

Finally, in a small room, they found a man by a table, hands raised.

“I surrender,” the man said, kneeling and putting his hands behind his head.

“Yeah, your victims said that too, scum,” Bucky growled, stepping out of the corridor with Steve to join Tony and Natasha.

“How many did you take down?” Tony asked, not looking away from the Hydra agent.

“Two. You?”

“One,” Natasha replied.

“So three total. Plus this guy makes four.”

“Smooth operation,” Tony said, brushing dust from his hands with a satisfied smile.

“There are four?” Natasha narrowed her eyes.

“Yeah, that’s how many we found,” Tony answered, sensing tension. “Did we miss someone? Can’t count to four?”

“There’s one more,” Bucky said, his tone chilling. At best, it sounded like a funeral. “The leader.”

Everyone stiffened instantly, scanning the room as if they had overlooked a shadowy corner. But the leader wasn’t there.

“Where is he!? Where!?” Steve roared, grabbing the captured Hydra agent by the collar, slamming him hard against the wall.

The agent grinned, blood pooling in his mouth. Seeing their faces, he broke into mad laughter and spat blood onto Steve’s face.

*** 

The boy woke up drenched in sweat, panting as if he had run a marathon. Another night, another nightmare. He shivered, fighting back sobs, and jumped out of bed, unable to face the idea of falling asleep again.

One thing was certain: he needed Tony.

He slipped out of the room, descending the stairs, hearing Happy muttering to himself in front of the TV.

Peter bit his lip, debating whether to seek comfort from Happy—but gave up. Only Tony could help.

He knew Tony could be in only three places: the bedroom, the office, or most likely, the workshop.

So he crept toward the elevator, hugging the wall to stay out of Happy’s sight.

Still shaken from his nightmare, he pressed the button, shifting nervously from foot to foot as he waited. Finally, the doors slid open, and he stepped inside, relieved.

The doors closed, sealing him in a tidy but cramped metal box with a mirror.

Shuffling awkwardly, he realized the elevator usually started moving by itself. What was he doing wrong?

“Uh…” he grimaced, scratching his neck. “Down!” Peter told the ceiling.

Nothing happened.

“Down!” he repeated louder, trying not to panic. “Please?”

Silence stretched, his breath quickening, heart pounding.

“Access denied.”

Peter froze, as if time itself had stopped—and with it, the air molecules, making it impossible to breathe.

“L-let me out,” he pleaded, searching for a solution.

Maybe he should go back. Maybe ask Happy for help. Anything was better than being trapped in this metal box dangling hundreds of meters above the ground.

“Access denied. You are not authorized to use the elevator alone.”

“Please,” he whispered, tears welling in his eyes. “Take me anywhere, just don’t keep me here.”

“Access denied.”

He slid down against the wall, curling into himself, hiding his face in his knees. Claustrophobia pressed down on him—unlike Hydra’s prison, there wasn’t a single crack for air here. The room was smaller, worse, suffocating.

“Call Tony,” Peter begged, trying to think rationally, though his voice wavered.

“Boss, along with the other Avengers, is currently on a mission.”

“T-then…” He faltered, lost, helpless.

His thoughts blurred. Panic threatened to knock him out. Pain spread from his temples, pressing at the front of his head. His lungs burned—he was choking. He coughed and sobbed, curling up tighter. He didn’t even realize he was whispering Tony’s name over and over, as if it could shield him.

Suddenly, the elevator moved.

Peter wiped his tears with the back of his hand, wondering where it was taking him. He saw it descending. Was Tony back? Was the voice in the ceiling leading him to him?

The doors opened—not to the office, not to the workshop.

And before Peter could react, two strong hands seized his shoulders. He barely had time to scream before he was yanked out by force.