Everything's A Mess
The brown-haired, doe-eyed boy sat on the dirty floor of his room. He was younger, seven or eight, maybe.
His stomach growled. He didn’t get a meal that day, nor the day before, for they were testing his healing process on cuts while malnourished.
He jumped and flinched, violently, as a burly man walked into view, his face visible through the rectangular window on his door to the hallway. He opened the door and grunted a quick “get up, Twelve.” The boy did as told and followed the man from the room and down the musty, cobweb covered hallway.
He never knew where he was going until he got there, but he always knew better than to ask. Walking down the cold hallway with bated breath and his heart beating quickly in anticipation, wondering, fear filling his mind and sweat soaking his palms, was far easier than any punishment they may come up with for asking questions out of turn.
They continued, turning left or right every so often, until they reached another door that led into a small classroom. The boy let out a breath of relief—this was one of the few rooms that was safe, no surgical tools, weapons, or torture contraptions in sight. Just a small, wobbly desk, a whiteboard, and various school supplies.
He walked into the room and sat in his chair behind his desk and waited for his tutor.
She got there only a few minutes later and the burly man left, locking the door behind him.
The woman was tall, with dark skin and bored eyes. Her name was Darcey, but he called her Mrs. Page. She was deaf, so she had hearing aids in. She taught him sign language in her early years as his tutor for that reason.
She was nice enough. She never smiled and she hit him with a ruler when he deserved it, but sometimes she brought books for him to take back to his room and read. They were usually on different sciences, like physics or chemistry, but there were plenty on engineering and math as well. He loved his books, they were his only belongings, and they kept him plenty entertained.
“P P Dash Twelve,” she said monotonously. “Good morning,” she continued.
“Good morning,” the boy responded.
“Today I’m going to be teaching you about the history of Hydra and why we’re the good guys. Then I’m going to give you a long lesson on one of the biggest traitors we have ever had to endure—The Winter Soldier.”
“—id? Kid? Hey, Kid?” The boy snapped his attention to Tony, who was standing in front of him, waving his hand in front of his face.
“Sorry,” he said.
They were in the absurdly large living room shared by the Avengers. He looked back to the cause of his flashback: The Winter Soldier. The traitor.
He didn’t see him immediately when they all stepped out of the elevator, he was too starstruck by the sheer vastness of the room, but then he noticed the man stand from the couch.
He looked like a normal man, nothing like the pictures of him he was shown at Hydra with sunken cheeks, long, matted hair, and dark, dull eyes. He walked over to the group, saying something that the boy couldn’t understand through the sea of feelings overcoming him, a lopsided smile on his face and eyes bright as he pulled Steve into a hug.
“Sorry,” he said again. Tony looked at him, that pinched concern dancing across his face again. The boy couldn’t seem to get his eyes off of the soldier.
“What’s wrong? Don't like the paint color?”
“Traitor,” he whispered. Tony turned and a flash of understanding crossed over his features.
“Oh, that’s just Bucky. He’s just like you, you’re both from Hydra. He’s harmless, really.” Tony continued to ramble but the boy could only make out so much.
***Bucky? A normal name for a normal man—but he’s not a normal man… He’s a traitor! But hadn’t he just done the same thing as Bucky? Left Hydra, went along with the Avengers, the enemy. What was it that Tony said? “He’s just like you.” Hell, he was supposed to kill them! And—oh god! Oh God! He was a traitor! What would Mrs. Page say? What if Emerson went out to find and kill him? What if they raised another in his place and sent them to kill him?
Traitor, traitor, traitor.
But he was a good guy now, right? He turned his back on the bad guys, right? That was a good thing!
Right?
But… oh God, he used to be a bad guy!
The boy choked.
He couldn’t breathe.
He could vaguely see the Avengers and Bucky surrounding him, faces etched with worry, but he couldn’t find a way to make himself care.
The only things he could hear was his own heartbeat, quick and unsteady, the blood rushing through his veins, and his breathing, shallow and way too fast, so fast that he doubted whether it actually made it to his lungs.
He could barely register the fact that he was crying, but when he realized it, everything became ten times worse, because no matter what, crying was prohibited.
Bad, bad, bad.
He killed a woman, he killed a woman! He shot her in the head and he liked it! He killed a good person!
Bad, bad, bad.
He knows why he doesn’t have a name now. He doesn’t deserve one.
Bad, bad, bad.
He should’ve known. Killing is wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong! And—oh God! The people that raised him were monsters! He was raised by monsters and didn’t even question it!
Do other little boys have to drown when they speak out of turn?
And they took his name! They took his name! His identity was nothing! He was nothing!
Nothing, nothing, nothing!
Sobs ripped through his throat and he covered his ears with his palms as he backed up slowly, his eyes blank and his mind elsewhere. He continued to step back until he hit the wall, and then, to the surprise of everyone else in the room, he began to climb up the wall and toward the ceiling.
“Bad, bad, bad,” he mumbled, over and over. He was shaking, harder than when he was in his cell just hours before in the early stages of hypothermia.
He stayed up there for another long ten minutes before the day began to catch up to him, and he fell asleep in the corner of the ceiling.***
The adults exchanged glances, some of worry, others of confusion—because fuck did he just crawl up the wall?
“Should we get him down? Wouldn’t want him to fall?” Tony said quietly after a few lengthy moments of tenseness.
“We wouldn’t be able to reach him,” Bruce said. “Pepper would kill you if you use your suit in the compound again.”
“He seems to be comfortable up there,” Steve said. “He knows what he’s doing.”
“So are we going to ignore the fact that he crawled up there?” Clint asked.
“Yes,” Sam replied.
“Nick Fury is requesting to video call, Boss,” FRIDAY interrupted. The Avengers groaned and made their way to the couch in front of the monstrous television.
“Accept call, FRIDAY,” Tony said. He was continuously looking back and forth between the TV and the kid on his ceiling, worry present in his expression. The TV lit up and the group was met with a bored-looking Nick Fury.
“What’s up?” Sam asked casually, trying his best to compose his face and pretend that there wasn’t a boy on the ceiling.
“I’m updating you on the mission. The base was cleared, everyone is now in custody, going through interrogations and such. No casualties, so, nice job. All of the files have been collected.”
“You could’ve just emailed,” Tony muttered, straining his neck as he glanced again at the boy.
“I heard that, Stark. There’s more. One file in particular, Project PP-12.” Tony’s head swiveled back to the director so quickly he could swear he felt something pop in his neck.
“What?”
“Project PP-12. If I were to guess, it would be the thing that they believed would make them strong again. Here’s the kicker, it’s not a thing. It’s a thirteen-year-old boy.”
The seven faced each other, the same fear and concern filled glances bouncing off one another.
“Problem is, you guys didn’t capture a kid. We think he must have escaped. I need you guys to find him, he’s dangerous. I’ll email you all a copy of his file. We need him in custody as soon as possible.”
“What’s his name?” Tony asked. Nick narrowed his eye at him.
“Peter. Peter Parker.”
The Avengers nodded and Fury ended the call, leaving the screen blank to show the reflections of seven uneasy faces.