The Backup

2011

The Winter Soldier swore that darkness always spread like frost. Always. He believed someone could see it, watch it, just like he did every time he finished a mission. He had witnessed many lives die from colorful eyes as if they were dwindling fires, watched blood flow over his hands and soak into the fabric of his gear. You could see evil in someone's face, but it could be gone in the blink of an eye - or it could stay, like the needles of a pine tree; hardened from battling the seasons, persistent to live.

The Asset knew evil when he saw it. He knew a good person when he saw one, even if they did evil things.

That's what he was, even though he did not remember being good before he was the asset. He knew that he had had a life of before.

Before everything went wrong.

Trapped like an animal, he had only one good thing; a girl of fire and will. She ignited a flame underneath his feet, shocked him with humanity. Suddenly, he remembered what it was like to feel human. He remembered, whenever he held her in his arms, that red ran in his veins. Not oil. He was not a machine.

Machines obeyed. Humans rebelled.

He wanted to refuse obedience. But how could he do that when fear was something he lived and breathed? He ran on it. It urged him to live for himself, but to also take lives for himself. He lived in a cage made from bullets and blades, that the girl with fiery red hair no longer resided near. She had disappeared with his memories, humanity, and will to live.

The agents flanked him, herding him into a cage that housed a child. The boy must have been at least ten years old, if not younger. He looked so out of place, a sad figurine compared to the broad ice sculpture of the Winter Soldier.

Like evil, the Asset was able to track fear. The boy's face was seemingly devoid of emotion until he looked into his eyes. That was where the fear sat, as bright as the sun and as clear as the moon. As he looked through those windows into the soul, shadowed under the single harsh bulb hanging above them, a terrible feeling washed over him, one that he couldn't quite name. Guilt? No, he had not done anything to this child. Sympathy? Maybe. Depends on how he came to reside in this hell.

Despite that, and whatever the unnamed feeling was, the boy looked worse for wear; and the asset still, for some reason, felt horrible. His face was covered in blood and dirt, hair matted with both substances. His pants were loose around his legs but pulled snug around his waist, shirt torn at the sleeves and frayed at the hem. Practically dressed in rags.

"Soldier, meet our Spider," the Superior said from the other side of the rusted bars. "Do you remember being an instructor for the unsuccessful Wolf Spider Ops program?"

"Yes," was all he allowed himself to say. He vaguely remembered it, and the one boy who had lived. The boy had been released after being declared impossible. He would be much older than the one that stood in front of him now.

"The Backup has been training since he could walk. We have gone along the same curriculum of the Wolf Spider and Black Widow Ops. You were an instructor for both programs, Soldier. Now it is time for a test. You have been tasked to oversee the Backup's training from this point on."

The Asset inclined his head, but did not take his eyes off the boy. The Wolf Spider.

"Soldier, advance."

He didn't want to. The boy didn't want him to either, it seemed, as he stumbled back. He chose to give in to what he was feeling - he was thinking that it was a mixture of pity and sympathy - and spat, "I will not beat a child."

"That was an order."

"I will not beat a child," he repeated.

The Superior seemed to ponder that fact for a few moments. "If you don't, it will die. Think of it as saving your brat's life."

My brat?

Leaning in close to the bars, the Superior hissed, "Be careful not to get too attached, Soldier. Now, advance."

Reluctant and confused, the asset took a step forward. He froze as the boy jumped back. Catching the boy's eyes, he mouthed, 'Do you know who I am?'

The child nodded, his fearful eyes blown wide.

He inwardly sighed. No wonder he was scared. 'Understand. I have to do this.'

The Wolf Spider inclined his head again.

The Winter Soldier advanced, as ordered.

||||||||||

The two had been escorted to the Asset's housing after the fight - if you could even call it that. It was practically a slaughter, minus the kill - and the Backup had been tossed into the room before the Asset stepped inside. The metal door was sealed and locked behind them, kept in place as if they were animals. Left alone to be sitting ducks.

The boy had looked around, eyes landing on the single cot and the wooden chair across the room from the door. Peering into the small bathroom, until he decided to look back at the Asset. The fear was still there, a slight tremble to his thin frame, skin blotted with dark bruises.

The Soldier took a step toward him, hesitantly; the boy did as expected and jumped back. The Asset quickly put his hands up in surrender, turning his hips and walking to the side, toward the open doorway leading to what was barely able to be called a bathroom. As technologies advanced, few things were brought into the department facility. The building was old, and it would always be old, and hot running water was not one of the things installed. There was a faucet in the wall, a drain in the floor, a metal bucket, and rags from old clothing that passed as washcloths.

He pulled the bucket from the corner and placed it under the faucet. He twisted the handle, and listened as the water hit the old metal. Once it was at least half full, he turned the faucet off and stepped into the doorway.

The boy had not moved from his spot - petrified stone - where he now allowed his face to show emotion. He looked terrified, and his eyes brimmed with tears. As they had fought, the Soldier had realized what the Superior had told him. He was told not to get attached to his own child. The boy moved like him, had her button nose, and he swore he could see flecks of green hidden in the brown of his irises.

"Let me help you?" he asked, startling the boy into a jump. There was a long moment of silence, before he added, "When was the last time you bathed?"

The boy looked at him, his tearful eyes alight with confusion, his pursed lips going limp. He asked, "'Bathed?'" carefully pronouncing the word.

Sadness overwhelmed him. "Come here. I promise, you can trust me."

A few tears fell free and slipped down his cheeks, leaving tracks in the blood and filth. "They told me to trust them, and they hurt me."

He shook his head. "I'm not asking you to trust them. I'm asking you to trust me. I swear to you, on my life, that I will not willingly hurt you. What I did before, I was forced. I had to, and I am so sorry for it."

The boy was still frozen, but his body was visibly relaxing. He was glad for it.

He wanted to tell the boy his name, but found that he didn't have anything to tell him. Instead, he started, carefully, "Do you have a name?"

"The Backup," he whispered, still not moving. "I'm only the Backup."

"If you let me help you, I can help you find a name. Would you like that? Only you and I would know it. It would be something just between us."

The boy swallowed, his eyes falling closed for a few moments. More tears found their way down his face. Eventually, he nodded, keeping his head bowed as he slowly started toward the bathroom.

"Take the clothes off. We don't want them getting wet, that's all you have."

He started to raise his arms to pull his torn shirt off, but he winced and doubled in on himself.

He started to extend his hands toward him, but the boy flinched away from him. As the Soldier tore his hands back, the boy's shoulder hit the stone wall and he fell, even more shocked. He opened his eyes again, looking up at him with his mouth hanging open.

He spoke slowly to the boy, easing himself to his knees; "You have nothing to worry about. It's okay. You're safe with me."

"B-b-but--" his bottom lip wobbled.

"Let me help you. Has anyone offered to help you here?"

He shook his head once.

The Soldier smiled at him. It had been so long since he last smiled, but there it was, digging its way up from six feet under the dirt. It felt natural, like he had once done it often. "That means it's something new," he said, in English. The language was one he knew well, came more naturally than the Russian he was encouraged to constantly speak. "And this something new is good. Let me help you."

With tears tracing their way down his face, he nodded, and the Soldier slowly reached out to him again. The boy shook when he touched him, but he let him guide his arms into the shirt so it could easily be lifted off. The boy wouldn't let him remove his pants, he silently insisted on doing it himself.

The Soldier put his hand in the middle of the child's small chest as he looked him over. The only things the boy could call his own were barely his, and it was the two articles of clothing. He was covered in bruises, some old and irritated from the recent brawl, some new and a lively shade of blue. Blood wasn't just in his hair and on his face, it was all over him. His eyes followed the paths of scars, horrified at what had been done to him.

His son.

He reached over, grabbing hold of the bucket and rags. He pulled them closer, careful to not let the metal scrape over the concrete floor. The boy watched every move he made, his body still shaking violently.

The Soldier fished out a larger rag. He folded it in his hands as he asked, "Do you know any names? Anything that you've heard?"

"I never paid...attention...to any," he said, carefully, watching the Asset's moving hands.

Done with the folding, he dipped the cloth into the water. He held his other hand out to the boy. "Can I hold your arm?"

With a slight untrusting glare, the boy unfurled his arm from his side and held it out close to his hand. The Soldier touched his wrist, only holding onto him with his fingertips, making the conscious effort to be gentle and as quick as possible. He took the cloth out of the water and squeezed out the access before bringing it to his arm. Before he brought it in contact with his skin, he warned, "This'll be cold." He touched the cloth to his wrist, and felt the boy's muscles tense all through his arm. He immediately began to relax after getting over the initial shock.

"What do you...What do you think could be my name?" he asked, switching to English for the first time since he had said his code name.

As he gently scrubbed the blood and dirt from the inside of his forearm, he corrected him with a soft voice, "What your name could be." After a few seconds pause, he suggested, "Benjamin?"

The boy shook his head. "I like it, but no."

"Daniel? William? Ethan?"

He shook his head.

"Patrick? Matthew?"

The boy glanced up. "I like that sound. That first sound."

As he rinsed the washcloth in the water, he asked, "You want a name that starts with P?"

The boy nodded. "Yes."

The boy followed his gaze back to his hands as his arm was turned over. "How about Peter?"

The boy immediately looked up again. He copied the look that had been on the Soldier's face. The smile reached his broken brown eyes. "Peter."

The Soldier nodded. "Peter...That's just for us, okay? To them, you are the Backup. To me and you, you're Peter."

"Just for us," he repeated. Before the Soldier could speak, Peter asked, "Do you have a name?" his voice light from the smile, the sudden purpose and personality given to him for the very first time.

The Soldier froze momentarily, before he shook his head. "At one point, I did. But I don't remember. Sometimes I do, but not often."

"What do they call you?"

"The Asset. The Soldier. You know that. But I wasn't always that."

Peter was silent, staring down at the washcloth. It was covered in blood and grime, and the Soldier dipped it back in the bucket to rinse it. "What can I call you? Just for us."

He tried to think of names a child called their father. It had never applied to him, so he never tried to hold on to that memory. He clawed his way through his brain, searching for the simple words. He had to have said them once. He came from somewhere, because he wasn't always a machine. He had parents, some sort of family. "Dad? Papa?"

Peter looked up at his face, forced back into confusion. "They told me I don't have one. A dad. A...father. A mother, either. They would..." he shook his head, at a loss for words.

"Taunt you?" the Soldier guessed. He knew that all too well. The agents here thought they were better than him, and that they could walk all over him. Poke the bear until it would attack.

"What is that?"

He thought for a few moments, trying to think of a simple explanation. "Imagine someone shoving you around. They were doing that, but not with their hands. They did it with their words. They wanted to get a rise out of you. Anger, sadness, anything."

He nodded. "They taunted me with it. They called me orphan. Unwanted."

He slowly raised his hands, bringing the rag to his son's cheek. As he gently wiped at the grime there, he reassured, "You're not unwanted. We wanted you, so badly." He couldn't remember, but he was so sure of it. "They kept you from us. I thought you were dead. We both did. Or we wouldn't have allowed them to ever touch you."

"What do I call my mother?" he asked, his voice quieter than it had been. He didn't look at the Soldier as he spoke, as he swished the cloth around in the water beside them.

"Well, what are you going to call me?"

"I like the sound of Papa."

"Then she would probably be called Mama." He squeezed the washcloth before bringing it back to Peter's face, gently pulling it over his neck "Usually, those names go together. Like Mom and Dad. Mother and Father. Mama and Papa."

"Just for us?" he asked again.

After a few seconds, he inclined his head. "Just for you and me, bub."