Mercy

“So, you met a kid in an alleyway, let him think he could overpower you when he quite clearly can’t - I mean, look at the kid Matt – and then you told him your name, which again, is one of your most guarded secrets, and then you let him into our apartment?” 

Matt’s... friend, finished his rant with a huff, running hands over his scarred face in exasperation. Peter figured that the guy didn’t like him much, considering he had shown up out of nowhere and invaded their home, so he sat on Matt’s sofa apprehensively, glancing between the two figures arguing over the coffee table like an old married couple. To say tensions were high would be an understatement.  

“My apartment,” Matt replied with a raised eyebrow. He had taken off his mask as they had entered the apartment, instead placing red-tinted glasses on his nose, “You don’t actually live here Wade.” 

The man, Wade, as Matt had called him, stared at him with eyes widened in irritation, jaw almost grazing the hardwood floor with the way his mouth hung open, “That’s all you took from that?” 

Matt merely shrugged, and Peter could see the anger in Wade’s eyes as he looked at them, his head turning back and forth as if he were at a tennis match. He had almost spoken up a few times to defend Matt, to say that he had helped Peter out a lot by even bringing him into warmth from the icy wind, but every time his mouth had snapped shut. He remembered what happened when he spoke without permission.  

“And you,” Wade snapped his head toward the sofa where Peter had been sitting, “You are a child, living on the streets and you just go with a random guy in a black mask who offers you food and shelter? What the fuck kid? Who raised you? Did they never teach you ‘Stranger Danger’ or whatever?” 

Wade’s question surprised Peter so much he choked on air, coughing up half a lung before he was able to even think about answering. He had never had to think up a cover up story before, mainly sticking to the shadows for any missions he was sent on, so he wasn’t the most experienced when it came to it. The gears in his brain whirred as he glanced awkwardly between Matt and Wade, who were staring at him expectantly, with a twinge of concern etched into their features.  

“Uh... so...um,” Peter prided himself for his eloquence on most occasions, and of course this was one of them. Wade looked unimpressed at his stuttering, while Matt wandered away from the conversation, as if he didn’t even care about the answer. Maybe he didn’t - Peter was just some stray he had picked up off the streets after all, why would he care what his story was? 

Peter twisted his head around at the sound of the fridge opening, seeing Matt pull out two beers, the glass clinking as he set them on the kitchen counter.  

“Listen Wade, he’s just a kid who needed some help and I decided I would do something nice for a change.” Matt reasoned, taking a swig of beer. Wade just looked at him, and Peter could tell that he probably had to deal with this shit all the time, if the look on the man’s face was anything to go by.  

A tense moment passed with Matt’s words hanging unanswered in the air, until Wade sighed, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “mother hen” before meeting Matt’s unfocused brown eyes. A conversation seemed to pass between the pair, simply through the silence, and Peter averted his gaze out of the window, avoiding the conversation entirely, his brown eyes squinting at the billboard that stood proudly outside the living area’s windows, bathing the space in pink light. It almost softened the blow of what Peter assumed was coming – they were going to kick him out of course – but watching the way the rain was rose-tinted as it slid down the glass (when had it started raining?) was something that brought Peter a little bit of comfort. For once he was sat inside watching the world go by, instead of down on the bustling streets of New York, or, alternatively, running for his life from the people who used to own him.  

It was peaceful. 

“So, kid,” Wade began, dragging Peter’s attention back to the room. He had a habit of that really, disappearing into his head sometimes, and he needed to hit the nail on its head while he still could, before he disappeared completely. It was a distraction.  

“We’re willing to let you stay here,” the man continued, smiling gently at Peter’s tense frame perched on the sofa, “You obviously have nowhere else to go and I’m not just gonna let you waltz outta here now I know you exist.” 

Matt scoffed softly, taking a sip of beer, “And you called me the mother hen.” 

Shooting him a glare, Wade cleared his throat and continued, “But we’re gonna have to know where you’ve come from kid – do you have parents looking for you?” 

Peter held back a flinch. Almost twelve years and you’d think he’d be over it by now, wouldn’t you?  

“My mother is dead.” He grimaced at the gravelly sound that came from his mouth – he couldn’t remember the last time he had a real conversation with somebody, one that lasted for more than five minutes anyway. 

“Oh... okay that’s- uh... I’m sorry kid.” Wade stumbled through the sentence about as gracefully as a new-born deer trying to walk, and Peter wondered if he was like Matt: a vigilante. Cold, ruthless, violent. Never once having had to comfort those left behind in the wreck.  

Well, by that definition, that would mean he was like Peter too.  

“It’s fine, it happened a long time ago now,” Peter replied, and after a moment of hesitation added, “My name’s Peter by the way, so you can stop calling me a kid.” 

“But you are,” Matt interjected, “You’re like what? Fourteen?” 

“I’m sixteen!” 

The man only smiled smugly, and Peter realised his mistake – he was going to be annoyed into giving his life story to two random idiots who decided he was worth their time.  

Resigned to his fate, Peter sighed, and leaned back onto the cushions; if he was going to have to deal with this for an unspecified amount of time, then he was at least going to do it comfortably. Matt and Wade also relaxed at his display of almost-trust, sitting themselves down, Matt on the chair across from the sofa, and Wade on the floor, because despite the three other seats in the room, apparently the guy decided to ignore them all and sit himself right on the rug covering the hardwood floor.  

Peter decided not to question it.  

Now that they were all settled, the spotlight turned onto Peter, he suddenly felt unsure. There was something about Matt and Wade that just made them seem pretty trustworthy, but Peter had trusted the wrong people before, and he would be a fool to make the same mistake twice. 

He had never been a great actor, or a liar, but he was about to give the performance of a fucking lifetime.  

Dark, dark, dark, dark.  

It was all Peter could see, but he still felt them in the void: the rustling of gear or the hiss of a blade slicing through the air. He knew they couldn’t hurt him too badly – he was only a kid after all, and he was useful – but Peter had a feeling in the pit of his stomach, telling him it wouldn’t stop them. It was their job to train him after all, to see if he was valuable enough to keep alive.  

Peter hated this kind of training, but he was told that everyone had to go through it – only some were worth it. It taught recruits not to rely on their sight, so in the event that it was compromised they wouldn’t be completely screwed. At least, that’s what they were told. Peter reckoned it was just an opportunity to torture them, if the sadistic cackles that emanated from the darkness had anything to do with it.  

He had learned to sense them in the dark, listen for their near-silent breath that escaped their lungs in hisses. Just as he would be ready, settled into a defensive stance, they would pounce, throwing kicks and punches into Peter’s face and body. He would try desperately to block them, to protect himself, but the hits just kept coming and coming. Every day, for fourteen years, he would end up on the ground, curled up in a ball while older recruits would smother him in violence. 

There was no mercy for the children. They were told they didn’t deserve it, not until they gained the respect of their handlers. Peter had been with his handler for almost a decade now, and had yet to impress her. She was an icy woman, fit for the life of an agent, but stuck training the up-and-coming soldiers. She hated him, and she made no effort to hide it. When Peter asked a question, his curiosity shining in his youth, she would deliver a slap, or a punch, to the face, depending on how much of a bad mood she was in, and Peter would just have to take it. To cry would be to fail.  

And Peter was not a failure.

“I had a pretty regular childhood,” Peter began, “We bounced around here and there for a while, lived in a lot of different places.” 

Wade and Matt made no move to interrupt, only nodding for Peter to continue, clearly captivated with what he was saying already. 

“Then my mom got... sick,” he hesitated, using the awkwardness of an uncomfortable subject to cover for the fact he was stalling. 

“When she died, I was left to fend for myself. It was pretty difficult for a while, being on my own, but then my aunt showed up out of the blue to come look after me. Her name was May.”  

While Peter knew the woman he was talking about was decidedly not his aunt, he regarded his memories of her with such fondness that he couldn’t help but smile softly. She had been a good person, taking him in off the streets of Italy a week after he had escaped, giving him food and kindness held in a sympathetic smile. May hadn't known what he did, and sometimes Peter wondered if she would have taken him in if she did, but that didn’t matter anymore. It hadn't since his past had caught up to him far too quickly, and May had been caught in the crossfire.  

Peter had cleaned up a lot of blood that day. 

“After she found me, it was okay for a while,” Peter hugged his arms around his stomach, squeezing himself tightly, “But then she died too, and everything once again went to shit, as it usually does.” 

He laughed bitterly to an unamused audience, and when he met Wade’s eyes, he sobered immediately at the tenderness he saw there. What Peter was telling them might have been meaningless to him, but to Matt and Wade, it was his life. A severely censored and edited version of it yes, but still his life. They obviously didn’t have the same “it was all in the past” outlook that Peter did.  

“Then I ended up on the streets, and I’ve been living rough ever since.” 

Silence followed. It wasn’t necessarily tense or uncomfortable, but something in Peter told him not to break it. Perhaps the two men were simply processing, but the way Matt tilted his head was far too reminiscent of the alleyway. He looked like he was listening for something, and it was kind of freaky.  

The fact that Matt was blind hadn’t really shocked Peter (the man had been wearing a fully opaque black mask over his eyes for God’s sake, of course he couldn’t see!) but he had never considered the fact that the vigilante had to rely on his other senses to in fact be a vigilante. Peter was no stranger to superhumans – hell, he had almost become one – and in the very short time they had known each other, Matt had moved in a way that seemed way too confident for someone who could notsee. So maybe, just maybe, Matt indeed was listening for something, and Peter was about to be exposed for the filthy liar that he was and thrown out onto the streets without mercy. He wouldn’t blame them, to be fair, but it still wouldn’t be ideal.  

After a few more seconds of quiet consideration, Wade slapped his thighs and stood, looking impossibly cheery despite what he was just told, and let out an exaggerated sigh, “Right okay, now that’s out the way, should we order take-out? Chinese good for you kid?” 

The boy in question picked his jaw up from the floor after a moment of staring, and nodded hesitantly, “Uh, sure I guess.” 

“Great! Matt, you’re paying.” Wade said as he sauntered over to his phone. 

Matt just groaned and stretched out his arms, “Of course I am.” 

Living with Matt (and Wade, but, as Peter found out after about three days, Wade didn’t actually live with Matt, but just dropped in every now and again. Sometimes, he just didn’t leave) was a strange experience. The lawyer woke him up each morning with a smile, already dressed and halfway out the door, but seemingly content to leave Peter sleeping for half the day. It was a stark difference to the usual routine that had chained him each day with HYDRA.  

For the previous decade, Peter had been woken up at five o’clock sharp, had to be ready to train thirty minutes later, and only then would he be able to eat. In retrospect, Peter didn’t think it was all too bad: it meant he had a significantly easier time waking himself up and being on the move for most of the day. Although, he supposed the threat of a beating or the “special treatment” (which was what psychological torture had been labelled as, when they were all much younger) was always a good motivator. Fortunately, Peter was almost sure he had never been tardy enough to warrant the treatment – not that he would remember if he did – so he had assuredly assigned himself to the role of one of the lucky ones of his group. He remembered the dazed, blank look in the eyes of those who received the treatment a little too well to naively think that he wasn’t.  

Either way, his lack of rigid routine and order in his admittedly dismal life made him antsy. He paced around Matt’s apartment, eyes flicking from the advertisement across the street back to the unruly lines of the wooden floor, which he would eventually slump down onto after tiring himself out with his own anxiety. Peter was a wounded, caged animal: meant for the wild, but weak enough to fall at the first hurdle if he were to venture out alone. He figured it was the not-so-fun mixture of stress and a lack of training that had depleted his strength, and in a way, he envied his past self. The memory of an ignorant boy, well versed in the art of violence, flashed through his mind, burning jealously in his heart. It had all been so easy back then, when all he had to worry about was staying alive long enough to get to his next meal, or avoid being annoying enough for the handlers to potentially beat him to death – or worse.  

The boy sighed, and flopped further down onto the floor, cold seeping into the back of his borrowed, faded t-shirt. Peter’s clothes had been almost immediately thrown away as soon as he had shed them, with Matt insisting that they were close enough in size for Peter to have some of his. It hadn't taken long for Peter to choose something; the soft material of the old shirt served as a reminder that he was out, he was alive, and he was safe. Mostly.  

Grabbing the hem of the shirt, he pulled at a loose thread, and he almost grimaced as an unsettling ache rested behind his eyes. Peter, not unused to poor health, simply sighed, hauling his body off the floor and towards the kitchen, beelining for the fridge to grab some water.  

Cold air breezed over his skin, the light casting a frosted light over his face. Peter took a deep breath, steadying himself as he scanned the positively empty shelves. As he finally reached for a plastic bottle perched on the top shelf, Peter swayed on his feet, the room becoming a blur as his head spun and vision narrowed and darkened.  

“What the fuck.” he whispered to no one in particular, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to steady himself. Had he hit his head? Had he eaten anything yet?  

Peter distantly felt the sensation of his head hitting the cool plastic of the refrigerator shelf, almost sighing at the relief it brought to his suddenly burning skin. Time seemed to float along with his mind, and the boy barely registered his body sliding down to the floor for the second time that day.  

Maybe he would just rest his eyes for a moment. 

The soldier was led into the training room by his handler - a stern man with a thin face and wiry framed glasses perched on the end of his nose – and simply stood patiently, his blue eyes staring apathetically into the concrete wall in front of him, completely ignoring the small, eight-year-old boy crouched defensively on the ground, looking more like a rabid animal than a human. The handler studied the boy, wondering what circumstances possibly could have led to this moment, what kind of sick joke the universe had to be playing for this kid to be fighting opposite the Winter Soldier. He shuddered internally at the sheer thought of it.  

“Soldier, this is agent 995, you will be training him for the next few months.” The man’s voice was monotone, but his eyes betrayed the emotion behind the mask. The difference in height alone made it difficult to imagine the boy lasting more than ten measly seconds against the soldier, if that. That wasn’t even taking into account the age difference and the simple lack of experience the boy held.  

The soldier’s handler knew he could never voice his thoughts: the boy was just an asset that HYDRA had picked up along the way, nothing more than a toy to be broken and eliminated, just like the rest of them.  

“Is that him?” The quiet, but surprisingly steady sound of the boy’s voice shattered the silence, “I thought he’d be taller.” 

The man was baffled by his tone. While the other agents positioned around the training room looked mildly agitated by the boy’s comment, they made no move to shut him up.  

“Agent, this is the Winter Soldier.” The man supplied, wondering if it would spark any recognition in the boy’s dark, but strangely intelligent eyes. Instead, he watched in utter bewilderment as he rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath. 

“Speak up agent, what was that?” A woman, grey hair slicked back into a tight bun, appeared in the doorway – the boy’s handler. 

“I said, no shit dumbass.”  

Heels clicked on the concrete as she strode over to the skinny frame that was slowly rising off the ground, as if he expected what was to come next. A harsh slap echoed against the training room walls as her hand connected with the boy’s cheekbone, long red nails causing blood to bloom on the pale skin. He didn’t cry out, as the man expected him to, but his head followed the blow, snapping to the side, brown eyes opened wide.  

There were no tears.  

“You speak with respect, yes?” The woman’s voice was grating to the ear, scraping the brain unpleasantly.  

“Yes.” 

“Yes what?” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

Then the interaction was over. After another few moments, the clicking of heels resumed, then faded as she left the training room, down the corridor to the left, probably leading to the viewing platform. The man cringed at the thought of watching the pair spar, but as the soldier’s handler, it was his responsibility to, well, handle him.  

The soldier and the boy met in the middle of the room, the former regarding the younger with a curious gaze. He almost looked as though he wanted to ask questions, but his mouth remained clamped shut, well aware of the consequences of speaking without permission.  

Meanwhile, the boy rolled his shoulders, watching the soldier with the same look in his eye, but with a lot more animation in his expression. He seemed to think with his whole body; his fists clenched at his sides, wondering how hard he would have to hit the older man to leave bruises; his muscles tensed and relaxed as he prepared his slight body for the pain that would ultimately befall it; the brown of his eye faded as he slipped into the mindset of the agent he was supposed to be.  

It was fascinating.  

The sparring itself was messy, the soldier obviously pulling his punches as the pair danced to their own rhythms, feet slapping against the concrete floor, periodically accompanied by the thud of the boy’s body falling.  

Almost everyone in the room winced when they heard the crack of a bone.  

There were still no tears. 

The boy rose to his feet holding his broken wrist in his good hand, examining the damage as the soldier backed away with, to his hander’s amazement, concern rooted deep within his features. However, the boy didn’t even flinch as he tested the movement of it, barely wincing as he felt the grinding of the bone against bone.  

“I think that’s enough for today,” the soldier’s handler interjected, “There’s no use in fighting with a broken bone.” 

The boy looked up at him in shock – did they not usually let him stop when he was injured? - and the blank look of the agent receded from the coffee brown orbs. Suddenly, he looked so much younger, the eight-year-old boy he would never be making an appearance.  

That’s probably why they chose him, the man thought, no one would ever suspect him.  

Abruptly, the soldier marched forwards, and for a second, his hander thought he was going to continue the fight, but instead he dropped to his knees in front of the boy, extending a calloused hand toward him. With an awed expression, the boy took it.  

A truce. 

A promise. 

The soldier was led from the training room by his handler, who knew that he would have to report the incident to his superiors, and the small part of James Barnes that had just clawed its way through the cracks of the soldier’s composure would be struck down as soon as possible. It pained him to think of the man behind the killer, stuck within his own mind, watching himself paint his own hands with red, powerless to prevent it. But it was just the way it was. 

It was HYDRA.  

When Peter awoke, it was to the sound of keys in the door. The sky outside had darkened significantly, the ash grey clouds now tinted a dirty lilac as the sun sank slowly behind the buildings. The refrigerator door was still open, spilling white light onto the figure that lay in front of it.  

Groggily, Peter sat up, hand coming up to his face to rub at his eyes. Faintly, he recognised the gnawing in his stomach and the scratchiness of his throat, but he discarded them both in favour of focusing on the man hurrying towards him. 

“Peter? Are you alright?” Matt crouched in front of Peter, reaching for his shoulder slowly, as if he were scared the boy was going to shatter at the lightest touch, “What happened?” 

Peter stared at him for a few seconds, the words processing way too slowly for his brain to even comprehend formulating a response, so instead he just shrugged, immediately grimacing at the way the room rolled with the movement. Matt must have sensed his discomfort, suggesting he get up off the floor, but Peter’s limbs felt like lead moving through honey, entirely useless.  

“Okay then,” Matt sighed, removing the red-tinted glasses from his face and setting them down on the kitchen counter before he eased himself down onto the floor next to where Peter was. 

Truthfully, Peter wanted to protest, joke that he’s far too old to be sitting on the ground, his joints won’t be able to take it, but his head was full of cotton, a sure side effect of his own stupidity (in the back of his mind, he had finally figured out that he had indeed not eaten for the past sixteen hours) and was therefore content to sit on the hard floor, his legs slowly but surely going numb, with Matt by his side.  

And if three hours later Wade found them still there, with Peter’s head rested on Matt’s shoulder as he slept, well then that was no one’s business. 

And if he took about fifty photos, a grin gracing his face, no one needed to know that either.