Needle in a Haystack
The atmosphere inside Stark Tower was heavy, filled with an unspoken tension that everyone felt but no one was quite ready to address. It was a strange contrast to the large, luxurious space, usually alive with banter, but now weighed down by the gravity of the conversation that had yet to happen. All the Avengers were gathered in the living room, seated on plush couches and chairs, though none of them looked comfortable.
Tony Stark sat with his four-year-old son, Peter, nestled on his lap. Peter’s small fingers fidgeted with Tony’s shirt, sensing something was wrong, even if he didn’t understand what. Steve Rogers stood across the room, pacing back and forth, his brow furrowed deeply. It was rare to see the calm and collected Captain so visibly anxious. But this wasn’t just another mission.
Steve let out a deep sigh, running his hand through his blonde hair. "I— we gotta tell him," he said, almost more to himself than anyone else.
Tony glanced up at him, his hand resting protectively on Peter's back. “I know, Rogers,” he said, his voice low. “I know.”
Peter, ever observant despite his age, tilted his head up to look at Tony. "Why is all of you sad?"
The innocent question hit the room like a wave. The Avengers all turned their eyes to the small boy, and for a moment, no one spoke. They each exchanged glances, silently debating who should be the one to answer. It was hard to look at Peter without feeling the weight of what they were about to discuss. His wide, curious eyes, full of life, innocence, and trust—it made what they had to say all the more difficult.
Finally, Steve knelt down to Peter’s eye level. “Peter,” he said gently, “can you come here for a sec?”
Peter slid off Tony’s lap and walked over to Steve, standing in front of him with a slight tilt to his head. Steve smiled at the boy, though it didn’t reach his eyes. His heart ached, knowing what they were keeping from him.
Tony watched closely, his jaw clenched. He could feel the weight of the moment. Peter was still so young, so pure. He deserved the truth, but Tony couldn't bring himself to burden his son with the harsh reality of the world they lived in—not yet.
Steve placed a hand on Peter’s small shoulder. “Do you remember Mr. Bucky?” he asked softly.
Peter nodded, his eyes brightening a little. "Yeah, he’s the one with the cool metal arm!"
Tony let out a small, bittersweet laugh. “That’s right, kiddo,” he said. “Well... Mr. Bucky’s just gonna be away for a while. On a... trip.”
“Like a t’acation?” Peter asked, stumbling over the word in his usual adorable way.
Steve couldn’t help but smile at the boy’s mispronunciation, but the smile quickly faded. “Y-yeah, like a vacation,” he said, the lie heavy in his mouth. He glanced back at Tony, silently asking for help.
Tony cleared his throat and stood, walking over to Peter. He gently scooped him up, cradling him in his arms. “Come on, bambino. It’s bedtime.”
Peter looked from Steve to Tony, his small face scrunched in confusion, but he didn’t protest. He snuggled into Tony’s arms, his fingers once again finding their way to Tony’s beard, tugging on it gently. “Kay, Daddy,” he said softly.
The tension in the room was palpable as Tony carried Peter toward his room. The other Avengers watched, their faces betraying their concern and guilt. They all loved Peter—he was the heart of their strange, dysfunctional family—and keeping this secret from him felt wrong. But they trusted Tony’s judgment, even if it weighed heavily on them.
As Tony settled Peter into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin, Peter’s eyes fluttered with drowsiness, though a small frown creased his forehead.
“Hey, Daddy?” Peter’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper.
Tony, who had just turned off the lights, paused. “Yeah, kiddo?”
“When’s Mr. Bucky coming back from his t’acation?”
The question hung in the air, and Tony’s chest tightened. He looked down at Peter, his son’s wide, innocent eyes filled with a quiet worry. Tony swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “I’m not sure, buddy,” he said, his voice a little too strained. “Hopefully soon.”
Peter seemed to consider this for a moment, his brows knitting together in a way that reminded Tony far too much of himself. But after a moment, the boy nodded, too tired to question further. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Stay with me until I sleep?”
“Of course, bambino,” Tony replied, his voice thick with emotion as he sat down on the edge of the bed, gently running his hand through Peter’s messy hair.
He stayed there, watching his son’s breathing slow, his small chest rising and falling with the rhythm of sleep. But even as Peter drifted into dreams, Tony couldn’t shake the weight pressing down on his shoulders. He knew they were lying to Peter. He knew the boy would eventually find out the truth. And it was going to hurt.
After what felt like an eternity, Tony stood quietly and left the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He walked back into the living room, where the rest of the team still sat, waiting.
Steve looked up at him, his face etched with concern. “How is he?”
Tony sank into the couch, rubbing his hands over his face. “He’s asleep.”
For a moment, no one spoke. Then, Tony broke the silence. “We will find him,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but filled with determination.
The room went still. Natasha looked up, her expression grim. “And if we don’t? What if he’s dead?”
Steve’s eyes flashed. “That’s not an option.”
Bruce adjusted his glasses, frowning. “The Winter Soldier is too valuable of an asset to Hydra. They’ll want him back. Alive.”
Clint chimed in, “But the Wakandans removed the programming. Hydra can’t just turn him into the Winter Soldier again.”
Steve’s face darkened. “What if they figure out a new way?”
Natasha leaned forward, her voice cold and measured. “Then...”
She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to. The team knew what she meant. If Hydra managed to reprogram Bucky, if he became the Winter Soldier again, they would have to stop him. One way or another.
Steve’s voice was firm. “Like I said. It’s not an option.”