darthstitch:If It’s Tiny And Coughing… If it’s tiny and coughing I must protect it - is a directive

darthstitch:If It’s Tiny And Coughing… If it’s tiny and coughing I must protect it - is a directive that is part of the Winter Soldier’s programming. It wasn’t planted by HYDRA.No, this specific mission imperative was part of James Buchanan Barnes’ psyche, planted a very long time ago, closely entwined with his memories of a floppy-haired, skinny boy with bright blue eyes, tiny fists raised against the injustices of the world.  HYDRA didn’t stand a chance against that. So, it was not a huge surprise that the Winter Soldier’s attention was drawn to raspy, painful coughs coming from a tiny figure stuck on the roof of a house somewhere in Little Whinging, Surrey. The Soldier had been to 12 Privet Drive, where he’d ended the life of one of the HYDRA doctors who’d been responsible for his “reprogramming.“  His slowly returning memories recalled a man who took an almost sadistic glee every time the “Asset” was called in for a wipe.  The doctor advocated for “frequent wipes to ensure the stability of the Asset’s programming.”The Doctor’s end was filled with pain.  It was not quick.  Nor was it merciful.When the Soldier was clean, he stepped out into the cold December night and was prepared to slip away to his next destination.  But serum-enhanced hearing let him hear those pitiful, racking coughs and the first image that came to mind was so vivid, the Soldier spoke aloud.“Steve.”He followed the sound to a deserted house, and found a barely dressed toddler on the roof.The toddler wore a shirt that was several sizes too large for him, the collar exposing one bony shoulder.  He was thin, evidently malnourished, with a wicked scar shaped like a lightning bolt on his head and bruises on what could be seen of his arms and legs. The child flinched when the Soldier made it on the roof, curling in on himself.  He whimpered.  And then he coughed again.  Children had no place in a war but the Soldier made his decision quickly.  He wrapped the little boy - perhaps he was no more than a year old, maybe two, in his own coat, murmured soothingly, smoothing messy black hair over his head.  The child bore all the signs of ill-treatment - there was no way the Soldier would return him to an abusive home.  So he took the child with him.The child looked at him mutely once asked for his name.  And then said, “Fweak.”At that point, the Soldier regretted not taking the time to find this child’s apparently worthless caretakers.  At least Steve had given him back his name, though he dared not claim it yet.  Perhaps if there was some mercy left in this world, he could be James Buchanan Barnes again.But for now, the Soldier would not call this little boy “Freak.”The Archangel Michael was the patron saint of soldiers.  It was a good enough name.  It didn’t take him long to shorten it to “Mikey” making the little one giggle. When the Soldier traveled, he became Jamie Grant, single father to little Michael. As more memories returned to him, the Soldier had a better idea of why little Michael’s strange, lightning-bolt scar gave him a sense of unease and danger.  It didn’t take him long to track down his long lost grandfather, who was, incidentally, looking for him too.Grampy was incensed when he’d been told little Michael’s story and said the scar came from a curse and held within it a facet of a very dark, very evil undead spirit.  Grampy, of course, was both feared and revered by the Undead for a very good reason.  For the sake of his new adopted great-grandson, he healed the curse scar and expelled that undead spirit. It tried to fight, of course, but Grampy was an old hand at this and sent it wailing back into hell where it belonged. And then, he told his grandson, “Make your way back to your mate, for he needs you as well and be prepared to grovel, you foolish boy.”As it turned out, Bucky ended up groveling all of his own volition, though his beloved had said, “It’s not your fault, you didn’t know.  You saved my life anyway.”Also, Steve was absolutely entranced with little Michael.  The affection was mutual. It didn’t take long for Michael to drop his accent and to adopt the Brooklyn of both his fathers.  He would have his own room, though both his fathers didn’t mind if he wanted to cuddle up next to them for naptime.  He would have a Bucky Bear to guard his dreams and an Uncle Tony to build him new toys, though his fathers drew the line at “Tony, you can’t build him a Jaeger, for God’s sake.  Where would we even stash a giant robot?”“He’d transform into a little one! You think I can’t reproduce Transformer technology?”“Tony, no!”Michael James Rogers-Barnes would have nourishing food to eat, glasses when they discovered that he needed them, uncles and aunts who were kind and did not call him “freak” and still, most importantly, two loving parents.  Who happened to be super soldiers.  And a vampire Grandfather who frequently visited and delighted in smashing all the old vampire myths and cliches to smithereens. Michael would later adopt one of his uncles’ propensity for deplorable language because “Expelliarmus, motherfuckers!” but that’s another story. - end -Note:  So I did the obligatory Harry Potter crossover.   I might write more.  I’ve suddenly fallen in love with a Harry who speaks Brooklyn-ese. :PEeeeeeeeee!!!! File under "shit I didn’t know I needed!” -- source link

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