Chapter 1
Brock woke up to an uncomfortably white hospital room, his body achy and sore, and his left wrist shoved into an improvised set of handcuffs. He looked around and noticed that the bed was much too large for him, so he was definitely not on the children’s ward. He glared down at the cuff on his wrist, staring at the padding that made the adult-sized metal cuffs small enough to fit around his own thin wrist. He tugged at it experimentally but was disappointed when he couldn’t slip through.
Just as he was starting to get bored, the door swung open to reveal a tall, blonde man. He hesitated in the doorway, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but there, and Brock could relate. The guy didn’t look too happy to see Brock, but then again, Brock wasn’t too happy to see him, either. The blonde man was either a doctor or a cop, and going by the way he was dressed, Brock was leaning heavily towards ‘cop’.
He bit his lip, a nervous habit that the other boys hadn’t been able to beat out of him just yet, and stared at the man in trepidation the closer he came. Finally, he stopped moving closer, instead taking a seat beside Brock’s bed. He held a folder in his hands, something way thicker than anything Brock thought could be related to him.
When the silence stretched on for more than a minute, Brock gave in and spoke first. Rookie mistake, Marco’s voice chided in annoyance in his head. Brock scowled at the thought, but pushed on anyway. “Who’re you?” he asked, proud that his voice only shook a little bit.
The man was silent for far too long to come up with an answer that should have been simple. Brock’s stomach started knotting up in anxiety; he hadn’t been on the street for very long yet, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to realize that being handcuffed to a bed probably wasn’t for his benefit. What if this wasn’t actually a hospital? What if this giant silent man had snatched him up off the street? He had heard horror stories from the other boys; they loved telling him things that left him shaking and frightened for days afterwards.
The guy’s face morphed through a quick succession of emotions before he settled on wary confusion, like he thought Brock was lying about not knowing who he was. “I’m Captain Steve Rogers.” Brock blanched. So, he was a cop. Like, one of the big, important cops. Captain Rogers’ face turned hard when he saw Brock’s reaction. He inched closer to Brock’s face, sneering down at him. “Remember me, do you?”
Brock just stared at him in confusion, trying to lean as far away as possible. “I don’t know what you mean, mister. I never seen you before. I don’t make a habit of running into cops.”
The Captain paused at that, the look of disgust on his face slowly draining away to horror and guilt. “I’m not a cop, Brock.” He watched Brock’s reaction carefully, before he continued, more softly this time, “I’m Captain America.”
The first thing Brock wanted to say was ‘what?!’ but he held himself back like a champ. Even he, street urchin and orphaned bastard, had heard of Captain America. Kids on the street played Howling Commandoes all the time, even if they weren’t totally sure who the Howling Commandoes were. But, Brock was pretty sure he had heard that Captain America had died, crashed in a giant plane somewhere in the snow up North.
Brock let all of that filter through his mind before he scowled up at the Captain, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “Yeah, and I’m Santa Clause. I may not know a lot, but even I know that Captain America’s busy being an icicle in the snow somewhere.” He gave the Captain his best glare before turning away from him, shaking his head. He could already feel his face heating up uncomfortably and hated himself for giving that much of his thoughts away. “I don’t talk to cops. ‘Specially cops who think I’m stupid enough to fall for stories a baby wouldn’t believe.”
The Captain gave him an exasperated huff, ran a hand over his face, and shook his head. Brock was too busy pouting at the far wall, but he heard it clearly when the man stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the tile floor, and then the Really-Bad-At-Lying cop left the room. Once he was sure he was gone, Brock sagged into his bed, feeling all of his anxiety and fear break through now that he was alone. He tried to tug on the cuff one more time, but it was no use; he was stuck, alone and scared, until the cop decided to let him go.
Steve stood outside of Brock’s room, his back pressed to the door as he tried to regulate his breathing. This was something that none of them had thought would ever happen. Yes, they fought aliens and mad scientists and evil Nazi organizations on a daily basis, but they had never had to deal with one of their enemies getting turned into a child.
And don’t get him wrong, Steve hated Brock Rumlow, with a passion. The man had pretended to be his friend while simultaneously working as the handler to Steve’s supposedly-dead best friend. He had never said a word, but after the Triskelion, Brock had used every opportunity he could to rub it in Steve’s face that Bucky had been a puppet for seventy years while Steve had slept in peace.
It was really, really hard to stay cold and angry towards Brock when he was currently six years old both physically and (apparently) mentally. If Brock truly didn’t remember what he had done as an adult, then Steve couldn’t in good conscience hold that grudge against him.
Steve wasn’t really sure what they were supposed to do with him now, though. Put him in foster care until they could figure out how to turn him back? But what if Hydra found him? They couldn’t let an innocent little kid get snatched up by evil Nazis, no matter who he used to be. Besides, even he had heard the horror stories of orphanages and group homes.
There was no good choice here.
When he had gathered his thoughts enough to be able to think clearly again, he moved further down the hall to the meeting room the rest of the Avengers had gathered in. No one had bothered to clean up after their latest battle, instead choosing to convene in the meeting room to hash out what should be done with Rumlow. It looked like they were still disagreeing, going by the general shouting, glaring, and hand waving happening.
Bucky was the only one who looked even remotely calm, standing off to the side by himself, staring at the screen that showed them Brock’s hospital room. Steve took a glance, just to make sure he was alright, and saw the fear and resignation on his tiny little face. Something uncomfortably heavy tugged at Steve’s chest, and he looked away, meeting Bucky’s eyes instead. He knew the kid was Rumlow, he knew he should hate his guts, but Rumlow was just a tiny, confused child now, and it hurt to see any child look that desperate.
Bucky stared back at Steve, his eyes cold and empty. Steve knew that if anyone could tell them if Rumlow was lying, it was Bucky.
“What do you think, Buck?” he asked quietly, watching the way Bucky hardly moved, just his chest going up and down softly. Bucky stared at the screen for a long moment before he turned back to Steve and shook his head.
“He’s telling the truth,” Bucky said softly, beneath the sound of everyone else shouting a few feet away. “He doesn’t seem to remember who you are, which means he shouldn’t remember anything about being an adult either. He’s confused and scared, trying to put up a strong front.” Bucky’s eyes unfocused for a long moment, zoning out before he came back, shaking his head like he was trying to shake something off. “He told Rollins once that he grew up on the street. I don’t know how old he was when he left foster care, but it seems he already distrusts the police, so it was sometime before six years old.”
“God, Bucky,” Steve breathed, scrubbing at his face tiredly.
The look they exchanged was full of meaning. Steve sighed, staring at his feet in contemplation, before he nodded. Bucky squared his shoulders, back straight and stiff, before he snapped a curt nod back and disappeared out the door. Steve gave him a five-minute head start, carefully not-watching the screen to Brock’s room.
Once Steve had given Bucky enough time to finish his task, he turned to glare at his teammates. “Enough,” he bellowed, arms crossed over his chest threateningly as he towered over the others in the room. The sound cut off immediately, the others turning to stare at him in shock. “This is getting us nowhere. We obviously can’t leave Rumlow here; SHIELD will throw him in a cell and forget about him. Hydra will probably come after him, too. He’s not safe on his own; he has to come back to the Tower with us.”
Stark, of course, was the first to open his mouth and complain. “I don’t think so!” he argued. “I don’t want that piece of Hydra trash in my house.”
Steve softened slightly at that. He could understand wanting anything Hydra-related far, far away from the place where he slept. “I know you don’t want Rumlow there, but this is just a kid. He’s not the same at all. He’s just a little street smart six-year-old with a mouth on him that’s already started roughing it, but he’s still just a kid. He doesn’t remember us, or anything about being an adult. We can’t just leave him here.”
“Well, we can’t bring him with us, either,” Tony stated with finality, crossing his arms over his chest and turning away from the others like the conversation was over and done with.
Steve took a deep breath, rubbed his face, and turned exhausted eyes on his friends. “Fine. We won’t bring him back to the Tower. Me and Bucky will just take him back to our apartment in Brooklyn, then.”
Tony whirled around again, face shocked and appalled. “No! That’s even worse. What if he tries to smother you in your sleep? Or poison your food? Or runs away from you when you let your guard down? JARVIS won’t be able to help you all the way in Brooklyn!”
“I’m sorry, Tony,” Steve said, shrugging. “It’s either the apartment or the Tower, there aren’t any other options.”
Tony glared at Steve before he groaned and gave in. “Fine. Fine! You want to bring the little monster home, he’s your responsibility.” He turned to glare at the screen with Rumlow’s room on it, only to freeze in confusion. “Where-uh, where did the little monster go?”
“Oh, Bucky took him back to the Tower about fifteen minutes ago,” Steve said casually before he breezed out of the room. The others stared after him. Tony realized he had been played and stood there fuming for a good long while until the others started filtering out too, leaving with differing levels of amusement or worry on their faces. Finally, when he was alone, Tony glared up at the ceiling and cursed for a good, long minute.
Played by Captain America. The history books had been so misleading.
Brock had been suspicious, but there was no way he could have survived as long as he had on the street if he wasn’t a healthy amount of suspicious pretty much all the time. But the guy with the awesome robot arm had said they needed to get somewhere safe, and that he didn’t have to live on the streets anymore, and they were even going to get pizza with his friends at the robot-guy’s apartment.
Brock’s resolve had sort of crumbled right around, “You don’t have to sleep in the gutter any longer, Маленький волк.” Brock hadn’t had a clue what the man had called him, but it had been said softly and kindly, and Brock hadn’t heard a soothing word sent his way in a long, long time.
He wanted to be safe, he wanted to sleep in a real bed, and pizza he didn’t have to dumpster-dive for sounded really, really good right about now. He thought that his stomach might just start digesting itself if he didn’t get something soon.
Remy and Colin and Marco would probably call him a stupid little baby for believing this man, for trusting him, for going off with him and not running in the other direction immediately.
But. Pizza. And cool robot guys couldn’t really lie anyway, right? He was pretty sure that ‘no lying’ was one of the rules of being a robot.
The man had snapped the cuffs with his metal fingers, just one flick of the wrist and the metal was sliding away from his skin. Brock rubbed his wrist, even though it really didn’t hurt, and saw the man’s eyes soften ever so slightly. Maybe he really was on Brock’s side, then. Not like that lying Captain America wannabe.
The man held out his metal hand to Brock and helped him hop off the bed, before slipping his grip so he was holding Brock’s hand lightly in his own. Brock marveled at the metal appendage, how large the man’s hand was compared to his own, how delicate his touch was around Brock’s hand. Brock was sure that he had never, in all his life, been touched so carefully before.
They had walked down to a parking garage together, hand in hand like they belonged there, and no one tried to stop them. The guy had stopped in front of a really, really nice car and helped Brock crawl into the back seat, strapping him in tightly before taking the front seat for himself.
“Who are you, mister?” he forced out once he was done gawking out the window. They were still in the city, but there were more lights than he remembered and people everywhere. The man didn’t answer until they were pulling into another parking garage, this time beneath a really tall, really fancy building. It was really elegant and posh too, a perfect match to the car.
“My name is Barnes,” the man said, pulling into a parking spot and turning the car off. He opened the back door and helped Brock hop out before he continued, taking Brock’s hand once more. “I’m a… superhero, I guess you could say.” He led them over to the elevator while Brock gaped up at him. Barnes turned to look down at him, meeting his eyes as he said very seriously, “We’re gonna keep you safe until we get this all figured out. You have nothing to worry about.”
Brock chewed that over as they rode in the elevator, a warm feeling spreading from his chest and out to his body. Sure, the other boys had said they would keep him safe too, but whenever the cops showed up they bolted and left him behind.
He was always being left behind.
“Why would superheroes care about me? I’m just a stupid street kid.” Why would superheroes care about him, when his family never did, when his friends never did? It just made no sense.
Barnes stared down at Brock, his gaze piercing and hard, before he seemed to deflate right there in front of Brock. He took a knee down in front of the kid, kneeling so they could see eye-to-eye. Barnes placed his mismatched hands carefully over Brock’s slight shoulders and squeezed softly. “You’re gonna think I’m crazy,” he admitted, shaking Brock’s shoulders lightly. “But, a few hours ago, you were even older than me. You got hit by some kind of ray-thing, and now you’re a little kid again.” He sighed, looking down at the floor for a moment, before he pushed on. “We weren’t real good buddies when you were older, in fact you hurt me and my friends a lot, but I can’t hold that against you right now. You’re just a little kid, and I won’t hurt you. I promise.”
Brock gnawed on his lip, staring up at Barnes the Robot Man uncertainly.
“I was bad?” he asked, voice tiny and shaken and scared.
Barnes sighed. “Kind of. I don’t think it was really all your fault, though. A lot of bad things happened in your life that lead you to being the man you were. You were just kind of – stuck.”
Brock stared down at his feet until the elevator stopped. Barnes stood up and took Brock’s hand again, leading him further into the apartment. Brock seemed like he was hell bent on remaining morose and guilty, but his natural curiosity quickly overcame any other feelings as he looked around.
“You can look at things, if you like,” Barnes said, amusement evident in his voice as he watched Brock’s eyes widen even more. “Just don’t break anything. I’m going to order those pizzas.” He wandered into the kitchen, silently blessing Stark for having such a love affair with open floor plans; he could see everything Brock touched from his spot at the kitchen island.
“If I was older than you this morning, then that means this is the future, right? Are there robots? Or flying cars? Or teleporters? The guy that ran the group home I used to live at loved Star Trek, always yelled at us to shut up when it was on TV. They had teleporters!”
Bucky set down the phone he had used to order the pizzas and glided back into the living room, taking a seat on the sofa before answering Brock’s rapid fire questions.
“Sorry, kid. No flying cars.” At Brock’s devastated expression, Bucky nodded in sympathy. “I know, I was disappointed, too. There are robots, though. And I don’t think anybody has teleporters, yet.” Brock pouted at that information.
“What good is it being in the future if there isn’t anything they said there would be?” he complained, kicking at the carpet with his bare feet; somewhere along the way, the kid had lost his shoes. Bucky couldn’t really blame him, though; they had just picked up the first pair of tiny tennis shoes they had seen, they probably hadn’t been very comfortable.
“Sorry, buddy.” Brock just rolled his eyes and huffed, before scooching over to Bucky’s side, looking hopeful but like he thinks Bucky will tell him to leave him alone. Bucky was very good at reading body language, though, and didn’t hesitate to reach out and scoop him up, setting him on the sofa beside him.
Bucky ran a hand down Brock’s back, watching as he slowly unwound. JARVIS flipped the television on for them, an old episode of Star Trek springing to life. Brock smiled sleepily before burrowing closer into Bucky’s side.
Brock was out cold two minutes later, and Bucky moved him so he was lying flat on the sofa, a pillow beneath his head and a blanket thrown over his body. Bucky watched him for a loaded moment, debating his next movement.
He could go to the kitchen, wait in silence for the rest of the team or the pizza to arrive, he could lay down with Brock and try to get some rest himself, or he could take a pillow and place it over Brock’s face until he stopped breathing.
Bucky used to be the Winter Soldier; he had done far worse things to children than break his promises or smother them to death. Rumlow had been his handler for almost ten years before the fiasco in D.C. Bucky had every right to hate the man, to want him dead.
But then he would look down at the boy sprawled across the sofa, so tiny and vulnerable and fragile. The boy was not the man, the same way that Barnes was not the Winter Soldier. At least, not anymore.
He couldn’t do it, and he breathed a sigh of relief that he wouldn’t have to see one more lifeless child’s body before him. Instead, he lifted Brock up once more and slid beneath his body, lying down on the couch and settling Brock on top of his chest, tucking the blanket around him snugly.
“Time to sleep, Маленький волк.” Brock snored loudly into his ear and Barnes chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. “Time to sleep.” He trailed off his words, closed his eyes, and let himself float in the moment, feeling more comfortable and calm than he had in a very long time.