The Backup

Peter liked his black kevlar suit, more than the old uniform with the suffocating leather. The fabric was still thick and somewhat stuffy, but the mesh let his skin breathe.

His handlers had almost gone with the undercover route for this mission, but Peter found the rooftop scouting to be better. At great heights like this, he could do what he did best.

"You are going in for one thing and one thing only," the small communication device buzzed in his ear. "This is Avengers Tower. You must work fast."

"Yes, sir," Peter murmured in reply, crouching down below the cement edge of the rooftop he was on. He placed his hands on his gun holsters for slight reassurance, sliding his fingers down the sides of his legs to feel the leather sheaths that safely housed his knives. He looked up, the glass panels reflecting the surrounding skyline, training his eyes on the open, protruding deck. "I have eyes on the balcony."

"Systems are down for five minutes."

Peter took that as his go. He pushed himself up and away from the high concrete edge, sprinting toward the other end of the building, raising his arms and shooting two webs at the tower. He jumped up onto the edge, transporting all his strength into his knees and ankles to push himself even higher. In the air, he wound his webs around his hands and pulled his arms behind him, making the webs contract and pull him up toward where they connected to the tower.

Sadly, but unsurprisingly, he fell short of the balcony. He hit the glass on his hands and bent feet, glad that he could still stick to buildings through the suit. He took a deep breath before scaling the side of the building, pushing himself up as fast as he could.

When he got closer to the balcony, he shot a web at the railing, pushing himself off the side of the building. He swung on the web, around and up to the front of the deck, hitting the railing, He exhaled heavily, relief flooding him, before he climbed over the railing and ran into the main room. Pristine white couches and a glass coffee table, an elegantly lit marble bar - everything made him nauseous.

"A little more than three minutes."

He let out a small, prideful laugh. "I made good time." He drew one of his pistols, holding it at the ready as he high-tailed through the rest of the level, toward where he remembered the stairwell being located.

"Remember the map, Backup."

"Why do you think I went to the top floor?" He rolled his eyes, opening the door and darting through, bounding up the stairs. His boots, with his attentive light tread, made small, dull thuds against the ground.

"Don't get smart," another voice chastised.

"It's how I show my gratitude." Peter smirked underneath his mask, rounding up the next set of stairs. Halfway up, he jumped and twisted, grabbing into the railing of the stairs above his set. He pulled himself up, hopping over the railing and continuing to the double doors that were at the top of them. Pausing, cautious, he peered through the small window.

Knowing enough about Stark and Dr. Banner, he was surprised that the level was left empty. He opened the door a crack, enough to slide through, and eased it shut behind him. He quickly darted through the lab, maneuvering around tables and machinery that were all unknown to him.

"Two minutes."

Okay, Peter thought, looking around. If I were an arc reactor, I wouldn't just be laying around. Tony Stark was smarter than that - all the Avengers were. He knelt down beside a cabinet tucked under a table, setting his gun on the floor and unsheathing one of the thinner knives to hopefully break the small lock. Knowing he had no chance with the miniature keyhole, he pressed the tip of the knife under the metal outlining to push it out, taking the cheap metal lock altogether. It popped right out after a few pushes and jimmies, and Peter hooked his fingers through the handle and pulled the drawer open.

The elevator behind him dinged, and he froze in response, ducking down lower behind the worktables and clutter. A deep, authoritative voice soon ordered, "Put your hands up."

He cocked his head to the side, just barely able to look over his shoulder, as he murmured, "I thought I had two more minutes." He dropped the knife and pushed himself to the left, scooping up his gun as he slid across the smooth wax floor. He shot through the bars and useless metal underneath the tables. The bullet ripped through a loose part of the man's jeans

"Jarvis, alert the others!"

"Message relayed, Sergeant Wilson," an overhead voice chimed. Peter recognized the British accent from his short time in Manchester.

He lashed out to grab another cabinet, quickly pulling it in front of him to take the bullet aimed at him. When he saw the man move around the tables, he twisted his body around and kicked the cabinet at him as hard as he could. His foot left a dent, and it rammed into the man's legs, causing him to double over and stumble. Peter took the time to aim his gun at the stranger's head and push himself to his feet.

Footsteps echoed in the stairwell, beg re the doors burst open. Out walked a man he could only have come to believe was dead. Eyes on not only the Captain but the woman with the red hair, whom he had aided, he breathed out in gentle wonder and sharp shock, "You're alive."

"Shut your mouth," the man - Sergeant Wilson - ordered. Peter snapped to attention, flicking his gaze back to him. "Who are you, and what do you want?"

"Do you need offense, Backup?"

"I'm fine,"he muttered. He took one hand off his gun, reaching up and pulling the comm out of his ear. He pressed the small off button, sliding it into a pocket of his utility belt. His filter quickly dissolved, now that he wasn't being supervised. "How are you alive? You fell from the helicarrier - I saw you!"

"Lower your guns, now!" the woman commanded, raising her voice. When neither moved, she exclaimed, "Both of you!"

Peter waited until Sergeant Wilson lowered his before lowering his own. He still held it in his hands, his finger remaining on the trigger.

The woman turned her green eyes on him, staring him down. "Who are you?"

He instinctively returned the Russian; "My name and face are none of your concern."

"Nat, please, stop it with the creepy language," Sergeant Wilson complained, reaching an arm out toward her.

The Captain stepped around a table, toward Peter. "How did you see me fall?"

"HYDRA had access to the security cameras," he answered, truthfully. "I saw you both fall." He blinked repeatedly, mentally willing the tears to stay away. He couldn't show emotion, not when three pairs of eyes were trained on him.

The elevator opened again, another person stepping out. Peter recognized the famed Tony Stark from pictures he had been shown. Sergeant Wilson and the Captain both glanced back at him, acknowledging his appearance.

"What's going on here?" he demanded. "Why does nobody have their guns blazing?"

"I won't shoot the Captain," Peter said.

"Why not?"

"Let's say it's...solidarity. We have a mutual friend."

"The Winter Soldier?" the woman asked, intercepting whatever the Captain had opened his mouth to say.

He nodded his head once, his face remaining blank. He was surprised by his willpower.

"Who is he to you?" the Captain demanded, taking another step forward.

Peter stepped back. "If you have questions, use them wisely. I remember the three of you - you were on the highway."

"He was the one to give me the webbing," the woman said, her voice suddenly light. "Steve, that's him." Peter watched the Captain - Steve - as his face changed from on-guard and desperate for answers, heartbroken but relieved.

"Is there something I'm missing out on here?" Stark asked, his voice dripping with arrogance. Peter recognized it as his defense.

"He's my son."

Peter's hands tightened on his gun. He raised it again, taking a few unintelligent steps forward and aiming it at her throat. "You're a liar!" he shouted, losing his composure. He felt heat rush to his face, his eyes narrow into a glare, and the tremble that settled in his limbs.

"Kid - " Sergeant Wilson started, raising his gun again. Steve held out a hand, motioning for him to stop.

"Y-you're a liar!" he repeated. "My mother is dead!"

"How much did he ever remember?" she asked, her voice remaining gentle, her gaze locked to his. She didn't seem scared to be at gun-point. "Last I knew, they tortured him, reprogrammed him -"

Peter desperately wanted to believe her; the fabled, unnamed woman of fire and will. The Black Widow. But he couldn't. He was ready to jump, but he wasn't prepared for the fall. He interrupted her, his voice trembling, "She's always been dead! You both were dead!" He blinked away sudden tears, a sob hitching in his throat, his arms falling from their offensive stance. His hands clenched into fists, a bullet shooting through the floor, the handle crushing like an old soda can under his hands. "He should've stayed dead!"

"You need to answer our questions. We can help you," she promised, holding her arms out in caution.

"They won't let me go," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I'm their Backup, their replacement - they lost one of us, they won't lose the other." He couldn't help the sneer that twisted his mouth. "I'm the child of the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier, they experimented on me, and they know they can't replace me."

"Will you take your mask off?" she coaxed. "We can get you fresh food, clothes that are your own. Wouldn't that be nice?"

Peter stared at her with wide eyes. "I don't deserve it."

"You never had the chance to be good. Whatever you've done is not your fault, I promise." She started to reach out for his hand.

Peter grabbed her wrist. "We were beaten bloody, broken down into nothing. I've been treated like an animal my whole life - and I try so hard to believe I'm a good person that never had the chance to be good, like he told me from day one, but I can't believe that anymore. Since the helicarriers fell, I've invaded three bases, killed over fifty people. I tore someone's skull open. All I can think about is the blood that they don't give me the time to wash off, that they want to put me in the chair and make me into him."

"You're barely fourteen," she whispered.

Peter tore himself away from her, as if the name had jolted him awake. He pulled his second pistol from its holster and drew a knife from his thigh. He held them out on either side, pointed at Sergeant Wilson and Steve, glaring at the red-haired woman. "Are you sure you want to have issues?"

"Baby, please. We can help you."

Peter raised his chin, almost defiantly. "Why would I need your help when nothing matters anymore?" He twisted around, throwing his knife at one of the glass panels on the wall. The blade slid through, weakening the wall. He pulled another out in time to press it into the hollow of tender skin beneath Steve's chin. It sickened him to see the Captain immediately freeze in response. "He said he knew you. You said you knew him. Is that true?"

"I've known him my whole life," he said, his voice level. Peter was silent, unresponsive, until the Captain asked, "Now, what did he call you?"

Peter didn't look away from Steve. "He called me Peter." He pulled the knife away from his chin, kneeing him in the stomach. He twisted around, back-kicking him in the chest as the three other Avengers sprung into action.

Sergeant Wilson had called the woman Nat. She tackled him around the waist, grabbing at the wrist that held the knife. Stuck on the floor beneath her, he quickly pressed the barrel of the gun he still held to his temple. She froze.

"Let me go," he whispered, "or I will pull the trigger. I have nothing to live for."

"Kid, calm down," Stark said, his voice shaking from what Peter could guess to be shock. "Calm down. Put the gun down. We'll let you go."

"Tony!" Nat exclaimed, betrayal seeping through her voice.

Peter kicked her off of him while she was distracted. He stood up, the gun remaining in its perceived offensive position. "I was sent for an arc reactor."

"Tony, we can't let him go," Nat whispered, desperately, her body trembling too violently to get up from the floor.

"I can't give you one. I'm sorry, but I'm giving you an easy way out of a death penalty. Take it."

Peter nodded, understanding. "Thank you, Mr. Stark. I wish I could repay you." He turned and jumped up onto the table behind him, throwing himself into the window he had used as a makeshift knife target. He heard Nat's chilling shout as he fell, and the world shifted on its axis.

||||||||||

Natasha pulled Steve's hoodie tighter around her as she soundlessly walked into Steve's common area. His floor of Avengers Tower was a bit excessive - amassed with red, white, and blue - as all of them were, but she knew it didn't matter to Steve what all was in it. He wouldn't have cared if it were empty.

She sat down on the opposite end of the white, paint-splotched couch. She tucked her right leg beneath her, shifting her weight onto her right hip and folding her other leg in front of her, her thigh pressed into her stomach and her knee into the back cushion.

Steve didn't look up from the bottle of gin that sat, unopened, on the glass coffee table. "How are we going to do this?"

"Do what?" She sniffled. "He doesn't believe me. He wants nothing to do with me."

"He does with me. He..." he shook his head, scrubbing his hand across his jaw. "He believes in me. Just like Bucky did." He suddenly chuckled, humorlessly, pressing his face into his hands. "Must be genetic."

Natasha hated it, but Steve was right. Peter believed in him. He had to step up. She said, trying to keep herself in neutral territory, "HYDRA is still operating. That's the biggest issue, beyond our scale of problems."

Steve stayed still, beyond lowering his hands and taking a deep breath. "Yeah. You're right."

"And once we can get HYDRA down, once and for all, Peter is ours. They wouldn't be able to take him back."

"And what about Bucky?" he asked, though the questioning tone was nowhere in his voice. It was more of a statement, Natasha realized. "Peter doesn't trust anyone. He trusted Bucky and he's clearly held on to him. He trusts me because he knows that he should. He doesn't have proof of his mother being alive."

"We'll find some way to convince him. Even if I have to wait for us to find James. He's my son, Steve. All these years, I thought he was dead. Now he's alive and he's hurting. I need to do what I can, with or without James."

He nodded his head. "Of course. I understand - the best I can, of course."

She smiled, though it didn't have any real life to it. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me. We're here for each other. That kid would be my nephew, if everything had panned out the right way. I don't know him, he put a knife to my throat, but I love him. And we're going to find him. We're going to get both of them back."

Natasha set her head down on the plush couch cushion, closing her eyes. Immediately, she was back at the edge of Moscow, running as fast as she could with James covering their backs, snow and pregnancy slowing her down. Their separation. The codeword that made him collapse.

"Steve?" she whispered, opening her eyes again.

"Yeah, Nat?"

"When we tried to escape, it was because it wasn't just about us anymore," she said, her voice small and brittle. "He was willing to put his life above ours, and when he actually did it, I was useless. I couldn't save him."

Steve was silent, as if he were hesitating. Finally, she felt his hand on her knee. His sigh was as heavy as the world that sat on his shoulders. "I couldn't save him either, Tasha, and I regret it every day. I know it won't make up for everything, but if we can help Peter, then I feel that Buck would be able to rest and do what needs to be done."

Natasha pressed her face further into the cushion, sliding one of her hands over Steve's. "How far are you and Sam?"

"He's not in America. We know that much."

"What can I do to help?"

"Keep on the lookout for Peter. If you remember anything useful, tell us."

"That's it?" she exclaimed, though her voice was quiet.

"There's not much any of us can do," he explained, apologetically. "We're useless, sitting ducks. All we can really do right now is take out all the HYDRA bases we can find. Get the scepter. Keep on the lookout."

Natasha let out a quiet sigh, letting her body deflate against the couch cushion. The two superheroes sat in silence for so long, entirely encompassed in their own individual thoughts and memories of the missing James Buchannan Barnes, that Steve hadn't noticed when Natasha had fallen asleep. He didn't dare move her, not wanting to risk waking her up.

Steve shifted his weight onto his left hip, laying into the corner of the couch. His hand remained on the Black Widow's knee, her hand still on top of his. He laid his head back against the cushion, studying her.

He wasn't surprised that Natasha and Bucky had sought refuge in each other. They had similar mentalities, could understand each other's experiences to an entirely new level, and they were somewhat able to be there for each other when no one else was. Steve was happy for them. He wished that, in the future, the little family they had would be able to become whole again. All three of them deserved it.

Above all, they needed it.