Spidey
So they did know who he was, they knew of the danger, probably disgusted by the mere thought that someone born human could turn so simple, of one use.
Curiously, knowing all this, they left him unrestrained with a weapon in his hands; one he could use any second.
The Asset paused, a slight clench to the jaw as he hesitated to find a response, a small hint of confused frustration painting his usually stoic— or annoyed— expression.
“Nat- ‘the Asset’ is even worse of a name,” he heard the man in Iron groan, his voice strained in an attempt to delay an unknown message, it had been similar to how he witnessed the supervisors in Hydra speak to each other, yet with an obvious lack in sharpness and routine.
Though—his name—surely, they knew more about him than that.
“They call me the ‘Asset,’” He hesitated, his confusion wiped off his face, returning to his conditioned empty look, “Arachnid is still my title.”
Or, maybe they didn’t know more about him than that.
His lack of elaboration, as well as an incentive to do so, brought frustration upon the few Avengers there, noticeable emotion in their expression—not including Romanova—mostly, primarily, Iron Man, though the ‘familiar-scientist-guy,’ seemed mildly annoyed as well.
Romanova, he wasn’t so sure.
It felt as if, even attempting to read her was like putting together a ten-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle without being allowed the corners or edges until you’ve finished the rest.
He would know—brutal training, and such.
She was powerful— her knowledge, her strength, and agility were things The Asset possessed, but not to her level.
They trained him to be a walking attempt to best her—her strength, her agility, everything she was. The Avengers. Shield. Any enemy Hydra had. But he'd long assumed they'd given up on him.
He shifted back slightly, so slight only a highly skilled assassin trained throughout their entire—oh whoops—the Widow definitely noticed.
Whatever, not his first time being watched by people who tend to note every small detail.
They have rather similar training, despite her wisdom that came from age and compliance, he had a lot more defiance, which stood its ground, despite copious strategies to get rid of it. It was a flashing red flag of weakness—er—a weak point… for Hydra… He knew that.
Slight embarrassment flashed in the Assets mind–the childish part of his mind–the part that idolizes the Avengers, especially Tony Stark. The part that used Hydra’s footage of them to learn, not how to kill them, but how to be like them.
“Look, kid;”
The Assets' attention returned to the man in metal.
“Did you have a name?” The man winced at his wording– probably assuming he was brainwashed too, seeing as the only real asset they’ve interacted with was the Winter Soldier.
He’s never formally met the man, the Soldier wouldn’t remember him.
“I wasn’t born into Hydra.”
That had caught the adult’s attention, the room quieted down for a moment, he could both feel and see—in his incredible peripheral vision—the Black Widow’s scrutinizing gaze, reading him like a book, and the pity seeping from the other two, making his skin crawl in discomfort.
“So what would you like for us to call you?” The Black Widow walked around to stand by Iron Man, it seemed like some sort of tactic to control the situation, but... It was weird, completely passive, like a reminder instead of... Yeah, it was weird, for him at least.
“I don’t know, Spider?” A sigh escaped the old man’s lips. The Asset rolled his eyes. “If ‘Arachnid’ is too formal for you.”
‘Stark’s jaw dropped, before scoffing—jeez, nobody told him how expressive this guy was, it was so human it was almost comforting, if not amusing.
“Good enough,” He huffed out, “I’ll get Spidey kid’s room all set up, might take a minute.”
Man, Professor May really wouldn’t have liked him.
…Idiot; don't bring her up.
The man’s voice was annoyedly exasperated, melodramatic; He left the room muttering something under his breath, shutting the door behind him and leaving the Asset to the doctor and the—formerly—assassin.
He nodded back when the redhead had nodded to him before stepping back to lean against the wall, her stance still alert, a warning for if he had tried anything. Not like he wanted back to those bastards anyway.
At some point, the scientist-like doctor-guy had made his leave, but his gut told him he was somewhere close by; the soft buzz of… a threat—not his crippling fear of scientists, surely—a threat, nearby, probably in some lab of his.
He took this lone moment to examine how they’d treated his wounds in a much clearer vision, his sense of sight had been recovering throughout the whole oddly casual interrogation— and he was not going to dwell on the thought, I mean, they didn’t even get the information they needed!
Whatever, none of that mattered.
The treated wounds, the bandages.
First things first, he checked his leg.
He remembered the instant numbing sensation from being shot, collapsing quickly into the soft snow, the image of it still clear in his mind. He could hear the yelling dying down… if only he could remember what exactly caused it; he’d finally be of some use, at least to the good guys, that is.
He pursed his lips, frustrated, numbing instead of pain had usually meant it dug into the bone, likely, fracturing it; and fuck, were those a pain in the ass to heal.
But, there was no cast, no rods, and he was sure that based on their previous conversation, they didn’t know about his healing factor or his other lesser-known abilities.
It couldn’t be that they simply ‘couldn’t.’
Because, annoyingly, nothing in this world is allowed to be simple.
It wouldn’t make sense for some of the smartest—good—people on the planet, with access to practically enough money to buy the world, either didn’t notice or didn’t have enough resources.
He assumed they couldn’t just ‘perform surgery’ because they didn’t want Shield to know about him—yet—and especially he, a blood-stained asset raised in the damned place, knew how nosey Shield could be.
But why would they do that?
Why would the Avengers keep him from Shield? Aren’t they Shield ‘scum,’..? It makes more sense for them to go out of their way to ensure Shield gets to him.
Whatever, unimportant. At the very least, he should make a mental note of everything they’d bandaged. It’s unlikely he’d been treated by any real doctor; it’s unlikely he’d been given any sort of confidentiality, what they saw is what they know.
Just because they’re ‘The World’s Mightiest Heroes,’ doesn’t mean the Asset wants them to know anything about him.
Knowing how much they’d gotten from his physical appearance was barely a start.
He felt a stinging sensation once again as he turned just slightly, sighing at the memory of clinging to the annoyingly sharp knife when questioned, his sigh mostly born of regret—cringe, honestly—was he so out of it he had to do that in front of his favorite Avengers?
Good weapons can control their nature, the Winter Soldier could.
He set down the knife on the countertop beside him, ignoring the buzz of his senses as the Black Widow glanced in his direction, ignoring the giddy feeling of being watched by his childhood hero.
Childhood hero during Hydra.
He ignored the nagging pain in his side and examined his arms.
The thing is, he didn’t remember what happened to them, he could tell a bullet had gone straight through his bicep, which was why it pained him so much to raise it, but his entire forearm was wrapped in bandages, and he could already see—and feel—the warm and numbing liquid making a violent effort to escape.
He didn’t… want to know at this point, but he had to—he couldn't stand the idea of the Avengers knowing more than him, especially about himself— the idea made his chest throb ever so slightly, more than it had already had been with environmental discomfort.
Despite his preference, he should wait until his ‘room’ is ready, even whatever surveillance they could’ve set up, it felt less uncomfortable to check on his own, than in an area where an adult may stop him for ‘safety’ purposes.
Being in a place with more than one handler who cares about the Asset's health, for honest, heroic, or stupid emotional reasons, in a situation where that’s not relatively dangerous?
He was gonna miss it. Maybe.
Usually, people only preserve the Asset’s health to preserve its usefulness—er—quality?
Though there was no purpose in staying, it’s unlikely an Asset would be able to—Hydra would either find it or the Asset could make the likely mistake of hurting them. Just being there may be cursing them with his presence, so very drenched with red—red more tainted than both the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier.
They can do good despite it, but, they don’t have blood so tainted and tampered with to be what the Asset is—what they were—unlike him.
The Asset’s chest tightened slightly more, leaning back in a huff filled with selfish emotion, relishing in the look the Avenger gave him; a look of curiosity.
“Hey,” He started, she turned her head to beckon him to continue, “Do you guys know what H-”
He was rudely interrupted by the door, Stark had come back inside, no longer wearing his Iron suit, but now in a suit, holding a tablet in his hands though lowering it to his side, ignoring the conversational tension he’d previously broken.
“Alright kiddo, ‘Banner said it’d be okay to show you to the room-” Ms. Romonova gave him an unimpressed look.
“-And tell you why you’re here,” she added, standing up straight again; Stark sighed, seemingly disappointed in the reminder.
“Yes, yes, that too.” He dismissively waved his hand as he walked over to the Asset. His breathing may or may not have quickened—man, he really needs to get it together right now.
Wait… who was ‘Banner.’
Doctor Banner? Doctor Bruce Banner? He was this vulnerable in front of the Doctor Bruce Banner?
“Hey, you there Spidey?” ‘Stark waved a hand in front of his face. He nodded, the Avengers didn’t need to know how clammy his palms were.
“Yeah.” He answered, thoughts wandering off as the man carefully removed his IV, placing a bandaid on top, the unfamiliar object, one he hasn’t had the minority of an injury to use since merely 5 years old.
“I know you have some sort of healing factor,” Stark started, stepping backwards and crossing his arms. He must’ve felt uncomfortable in his presence, the way his laugh came out just too strong, the way he either made intense eye contact or none at all, and the long steady pause between his words.
It makes sense, I mean if they know anything about him… It’s pitiful, he almost forgot about it. Terrible.
What’s even worse was how he wished he could forget, what a monster.
“You can never play it too safe.” The genius shrugged, grinning at the teen, “speaking of safe, we’re probably gonna need to restrain you—just at first, sorry kid.”
Of course, he was expecting that. It was a completely valid choice, really, and… to be honest, the Asset felt more comfortable that way too.
“Yeah, I know, thats okay.”
He watched the other hold in a pitiful wince, he ignored the warmth he felt within the others presence, it felt like Stark cared, but it was obvious, he’s an avenger, he’s ‘saving,’ him. Or he’s just taking a weapon and putting it in a place where people with the intention of harm can’t use it, with a hint of pity the weapon is no longer a child.
“But, you do get a pretty cool room—” He paused, taking a moment to lock the heavy handcuffs, “Probably a upgrade from your old place, no?”
He didn’t snort at that. Definetely not.
“I don’t know Mr. Stark, we’ll have to wait and see, hm?” The Asset said, a small cocky smile on his face, one he’d only really got the opportunity to show one other man—other than Hydra.
He flexed his hand once the cuff was on, getting used to the semi-restricted blood flow, like instinct.
“Guess so kid,” he hopped off the bed as Stark waved for him to follow. He tried not to shrink in on himself, holding himself as he would in the hallways of whatever dark and dreary Hydra base they would take him, but this was… much lighter.
It was full of tech, less sketchy salvaged tech, less hallways with history you’d expect to keep you awake at night, that was the uncomfortable part.
Too unfamiliar.
He didn’t know what floor they were on, he had a few ‘classes,’ or ‘lessons,’ where they taught him of the floors and purposes of certain areas of the Avengers tower, but they didn’t care to teach him anymore about it when the conflict regarding team Cap and team Iron man… The world’s lucky it was resolved.
Not only that but Hydra wasn’t especially trying to destroy the Avengers after the Winter soldier had left, they’d much rather prefer to keep the Asset in the shadows away from any sort of hero—didn’t work too well, obviously.
Stark and him passed by a kitchen, pulling him out of his thoughts—had this room been on the Avengers floor? With the rest of the Avengers? What was he here for?
“Alright kid, just around the corner,” Stark exhaled, hand almost on his back, guiding the Asset to the room—he didn’t have the ability to hide his tense—he felt the Stark remove his hand apologetically.
Stark opened the door for him, due to his restraints.
Woah.
It wasn’t big, wasn’t small that’s for sure, there was a big comfy bed against the wall, plenty of room for items, books, books, and books, every obvious restriction made sense—but everything else didn’t—why would the Tony Stark give him so many books, his own bathroom, his own two person bed—it’s insane.
“Holy дерьмо,” he muttered, standing by the door like an idiot.
“Yeah? So I can assume it is better than your old place?” The old man snorted.
“Place’s,” he corrected, “‘Don't really get to stay in one place for long when you’re a weapon.” The way he said it had a hint of premonition, as if he expected for someone to come and swoop him up back into the field.
An Awkward silence followed for just a moment, Stark sighed.
“You can look around the room for now, I’ll have to lock you in here for now until we talk, ‘Romanoff will come and talk to you later.” He broke the silence, gesturing the Asset further into the room, before quickly shutting the door with a mutter under his breath, an automatic click when it shut.
...
“Чёрт, ты в порядке?” He felt blood run down his face, struggling to understand the other, he winced as his eyebrow instinctively raised. Curse his expressive face.
His head pounded with frustration.
He must’ve expressed his discomfort, as the man beside him held him still, his shaking slowed and set to as much of a stop it could get. It was clear neither of them wanted to be any closer than that, but the act was as comforting as it could get.
“Kid, kid, kid–it’s okay–Чёрт!”
He felt the larger man clean off presumably blood. From his head.
Although, to his knowledge it wasn’t the injuries that were bad, Hydra can be a real bitch about punishment–it’s impressive, being a villainous organization and such–they really get deeply psychological.
The cloth was thick and dry, probably fabric or a towel but it didn’t feel good, it felt like cleaning dried wax off a gummy surface, except the wax was sticky and still somewhat warm, and the item used to clean was dry and not really doing the job.
The act kept its soothing nature though, somehow. It felt domestic in a way.
If only they weren't sitting in this dark, damp, and cold corner of a small room.
“Извини, Peter.”
...