#spiderbones

Peter’s first memory is of Father’s Day. It’s a hazy memory colored yellow by a dust-sunny sky and the muted droning of wasps. In Miss Christopher’s kindergarten class, they make Father's Day cards with construction paper and old, cracked Elmer’s glue.

He remembers toddling home by himself and proudly setting his card - its delicate lettering perhaps overly decorated in a mosaic of bright colors and stray glitter glue - on the kitchen table amidst the piles of unread newspapers and bills and eviction notices.

Peter remembers hearing his dad’s bike rolling up the driveway spraying gravel in its wake, and he remembers greeting him at the door. His dad doesn’t look at him, doesn’t give him a second glance. He remembers watching from the screen door, dull buzzing loud in his ears as his dad roars and shoves the piles of bills and newspapers into the garbage, his delicately crafted card unseen and forgotten among them.

//

When he's fifteen, his dad starts to look at him. It's a welcome relief, any sign of attention-affection-amusement, so Peter leans into it, memorizes every little thing he does that makes his dad’s eyes linger on him.

He watches the women his dad brings home from the bars some nights, presses his ear to the door, holds his breath and listens as his dad fucks them, grunts through his release.

After they’re kicked out, Peter crawls into his dad’s bed and nestles against his strong chest, his skin prickling with anticipation as his dad huffs out a sleepy exhale thick with alcohol. He shudders as his dad wakes up slowly, grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks his head back, making him whine.

“Stupid slut,” his dad slurs, and he slaps Peter’s cheek. “Dumb fucking brat.” He hooks two fingers, salty with sweat into Peter’s mouth, pushes down on his tongue and laughs meanly when Peter gags and drools around his knuckles.

He sneers and draws Peter into his chest, steadily pushing his fingers flat against his tongue, his face dark and cruel when Peter chokes on the tips of his fingers, tears welling in his eyes.

“Slut,” he says again, and he pulls his fingers out, backhands Peter so hard a crack rings out between them and Peter tastes blood on his lip. “You make me sick,” he spits in his face, and he pushes Peter out of his bed.

//

When he’s seventeen, Peter doesn’t celebrate Father’s Day. The thought makes him think of too much glitter glue stuck under his fingernails and blood clotting between his teeth.

He walks to the gas station in one of his dad’s threadbare tees, the frayed collar slipping off his shoulder. No one messes with Rumlow’s kid, so he doesn’t mind what people say. He buys two jugs of water and a bag of microwave meals and his eyes land on the cheap Hallmark cards sitting by the cash register.

“Want one?” the cashier asks him, popping her gum as she follows his eyes.

Peter barks out a short, humorless laugh. “Nah. Thanks.”

He takes his water and his microwave meals, and starts the long walk home. It’s sweltering outside, and Peter can feel the humidity thick in his lungs. His dad’s bike is sitting outside already and he hears the amplified roar of electric guitars over the radio drowning out the noise of their cooking.

He tucks his nose into the collar of his shirt and pushes through the screendoor, eyes stinging at the thick chemicals clouding the kitchen. His dad is standing over the stove, shirtless and gleaming with sweat as he stirs something in a metal pot. Peter sets the jugs of water down and he stands behind his dad, laces his fingers over a bulging shoulder and presses his forehead against his bare skin.

His dad doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move to acknowledge him, just keeps stirring. “Hi, daddy,” he murmurs, closing his eyes. Peter leans into his dad, inhales and feels a little dizzy.

With Winter gone, Spider has been given both Rumlow and Rollins as co-handlers, and they continue to live in the rooms they had before Winter left, a constant reminder of their failure to keep Winter.

Most of the time, Rumlow and Rollins alternate between who accompanies Spider on missions, and only rarely do they go on missions all together. On the missions that could probably be done by a regular agent, Spider isn’t accompanied by either of his handlers. As a result, he doesn’t think that his handlers realize just how much work he’s being expected to complete.

Which is how Spider ends up almost literally dragging himself down the hall to his handlers’ shared bedroom, checking himself for any bleeding wounds and, when he doesn’t find any, curling up under the covers with Rumlow’s pillow and sobbing into it.

He knows he shouldn’t be in here; he knows that his handlers won’t be happy to find him there, taking up the entire bed and in such disarray, but he can’t help it. The lingering scent of his handlers on the pillows and sheets is comforting, and he’s just so tired.

“Spider?” Rumlow’s voice says, and Spider blinks, looks around in the dark in confusion for a minute before he realizes he’s still under the covers of his handlers’ bed. He scrambles his way out of the sheets and out of the bed, standing to face his handlers and whimpering when he puts weight on his injured leg.

“Jesus, what happened? Bad training session?” Rollins asks, and Spider shakes his head.

“Bad mission, sir,” he says, and he curses himself for saying anything as his handlers trade a look, frowning.

“You didn’t get that wounded on a mission with either of us. Have you been on missions without us?”

Spider nods slowly. “Yes, sir.”

“And what, they’re just letting you get banged up and sending you home? Why would they do that?”

Spider nods again. “Yes, sir. Because Winter’s gone, I have to step up, sir. Take on more missions.”

Rumlow swears, and Spider flinches. Rollins sighs, holds his arms out. “Get over here, Spider. You’re doing just fine.” Spider steps forward, and Rollins wraps him in a hug. “We miss him too, but it isn’t your fault. It’s not any of our faults. They’re the ones that fucked up Winter’s programming, not us.”

Rumlow joins the hug, head leaned on Spider’s shoulder. “Yeah. It’s not your fault. I miss him. But that’s not on you. And if HYDRA’s really been running you this ragged, I’m amazed by how good of an asset you are.”

Spider hums noncommittally. He doesn’t want to disagree with his handlers, but Rumlow’s wrong, he’s still not as good as Winter.

“You’re arguing with me in your head, shut up,” Rumlow mutters, and Spider stiffens.

“Sorry, sir.”

Rumlow shakes his head. “Don’t be. You’re doing good. Now come on, we’ve got one more mission to complete today and then we’ll see what can figure out about your missions. Alright?”

Everyone pulls away, and Spider nods.

“And,” Rollins adds, “if you’re good, I think we can arrange a reward tonight too.”