Restrained
Restrained
I love using these prompt lists to write on my prompt fics, so this one is for Spider-son AND Whumptober day 1! :D
Peter woke slowly, the world coming to him in strange flashes of awareness. His arms hurt. And his shoulders. He was hungry. His whole body ached dully. These bits of information filtered into his brain at a snail's pace and he struggled to place them...to make it all fit with what he knew. Was he sick again? He so rarely got sick, and it had been a few months since the day he'd gone to school with the flu, only for his dad to freak out and call Bruce. It had been nice, laying in bed for a couple of days, his dad always at his side when he needed him, ready to give him soup or watch movies or wrap an arm around his shoulders and press a kiss to his hair.
So...was he sick again? It was the only way he could think to explain the dull pain throbbing in his back and shoulders. He opened his mouth to call for Jarvis, who would surely be able to summon his dad. Dad would make this better. But when Peter opened his mouth, it felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. He coughed, trying to fill his mouth with saliva, but his throat was so dry that his tongue felt almost swollen. Groaning and shaking his head, which also felt heavy and thick, he realized with a jolt that he wasn't in bed.
He wasn't laying down.
He was standing, feet resting firmly on the floor, wrists high in the air. His eyes shot open then, heart pounding as he struggled to take in his surroundings in the darkness. "Dad?" he rasped, voice pleading. "Dad?" Lips trembling, he struggled to hold back tears as he yanked on his hands. He was strong. He had always been strong, since he'd been a little kid. But whatever was wrapped around his wrists...shackles or handcuffs...they didn't even give. "Dad!" This time he screamed it, voice cracking as he twisted his body back and forth, desperate to get free.
There was no answer. Just the oppressive silence in this strange, dark place. The air felt almost damp, and as he struggled, he felt something drip down his arm. Blood, he realized. His wrists were sore and felt raw, and the blood trail reached his elbow.
How long had he been here?
Peter closed his eyes, trying to think. Trying not to panic. He couldn't panic. His dad was Iron Man! His uncle was War Machine! They were going to find him. They'd never let anything happen to him. His dad has promised...he would never let anyone hurt him. So...so they had to be on their way.
When he tried to remember the last place he'd been, his mind drew up a seemingly endless blank. He knew that he'd woken up for school, and he'd had breakfast. But that was it. Had his dad driven him? Or Uncle Happy? His uncle Happy drove him to school a lot of times when his dad was busy. Or...or had Uncle Rhodey driven him? His brain wasn't working, and it was hard to keep his chin from dropping to his chest. Shivering in the cold, damp room, he stood on his tip-toes, trying to take some of the pressure off of his wrists, but it didn't really work, and frustrated tears sprung to his eyes.
He wanted to go home. He wanted his Daddy!
Sniffling and trying not to cry like a baby, Peter stretched out his fingers, trying to find the chains that must have been holding him. He even tried jumping a few times to grab at them, but his movements were strangely uncoordinated and every movement made his wrists hurt even more. He was strong! Why was it so hard for him to move? When he looked around the room he was in, all he could see was darkness and dim shadows that, to his tired, frightened brain, looked like monsters. And if there were monsters in the room, how could he get away from them.
Closing his eyes tight, he ignored the tear that ran down his cheek and the way his lips trembled. He was big. He'd be eleven soon...just a few months from the last time he remembered. Shivering as his bare feet rested on the cold concrete underneath him, he thought about his dad. He thought about the Iron Man mask, and the repulsor blasts and the way his dad always beat the bad guys. His dad was brave, and he was brave too. Opening his eyes, he glared into the darkness, pretending he had a mask on too. If he had a mask on, they wouldn't know he was scared.
After a while, a door creaked open with an ear-splitting noise that made Peter wince, and then there were footsteps coming closer. He couldn't see them until something clicked, and a light switched on overhead, revealing a bare concrete room. He glanced up, wincing against the light and blinking in surprise at the blood running down his arms. It was a bright red against his pale skin, and he jerked his arm again, wondering if his strength was returning.
It was.
He'd been in the dark for a long time, and slowly, his brain had seemed to start up again, like an old computer at school. But he could think. Bad people had him. They'd chained him up. But they probably didn't know that he was strong.
Peter turned his attention back to the man approaching, setting his face once more into a scowl as the man set up a camera on a tripod, pointing it straight at him. Then, arms crossed in front of him, he moved to stand by Peter and gave the camera a mean smile. "Tony Stark. As you can see, I have something that belongs to you. You have forty eight hours to give me what is rightfully mine, and your son will be returned to you. If not…" The man pulled out something from his side, and Peter watched, heart stuttering in his chest, as the man pressed a gun into his forehead, the cold metal making him shiver.
But he didn't stop glaring. Didn't let the man see that he was afraid. Because he wasn't. He was Iron Man's son. He was brave.
The man stared down at him for a moment, apparently unimpressed, before pulling the gun back and smashing it into Peter's face. He gasped, tears springing to his eyes, but he didn't let them fall, even as blood dripped down his cheek. "Insolent little brat you've got here, Stark," the man said, rolling his eyes.
And then the camera was shut off, and the man left the room, leaving Peter shivering, head throbbing, as the door shut firmly behind him.
As soon as the man was gone, Peter stood up on his tip toes, then yanked his hands downward, biting his lip hard to keep himself from yelling as the cuffs broke, dust and plaster raining down from the ceiling. Rubbing at his wrists, he wiped his eyes quickly, trying not to cry. He was brave. He was Iron Man's son. He had to be strong if he was going to get away.
There was a window in the room, covered in bars, and as it turned out, they were no match for him. He climbed up the wall, head still spinning, and wrapped his fingers around the metal and pulling. Then, without stopping to let himself think about what he might be getting himself into, he turned and climbed down the wall of the huge brick building.
Peter knew that it was March. He knew that he was wearing a t-shirt and jeans, no socks or shoes, and no jacket. And he knew that he was cold. As he forced his feet to move, one after the other, he tried not to think of the cold, or of the aching in his wrists or the way his stomach growled angrily for food. He wasn't in the city...the building had been old and covered in moss and vines, only two stories tall, and all around it were trees. It was through those trees that he moved, the only light the light of the half moon.
He moved slowly, shivering and trying to be quiet, even though he had no idea if the men in that building knew he was gone yet. All he knew was that he was cold and that he had to get as far away from them as possible. It reminded him of leaving Mary Mom's hotel room in the middle of the night, only there had been a gas station then. Now there was nothing but trees. Trees and bushes and maybe snakes in the grass, which scared him, and maybe big, wild dogs that wanted to eat him!
No, he scolded himself, shaking his head sharply. He was brave. He had to be brave. He wasn't afraid. He pretended he was a superhero, just like his dad, and ignored the cold and the sharp hunger in his belly and the bloody footprints thought he might be leaving behind. The man had told his Daddy that he had forty eight hours. That was two days. Would it take his Daddy two days to find him?
It didn't matter, Peter told himself with a shake of his head. It didn't matter because he had to just keep walking when what he wanted to do was curl up and go to sleep. Just like when he'd been running from Mary mom, he had to find a grown up that could help him. Like a police officer or someone working in a store or a lady with children. Those were the safe people. It was slow going through the forest, and there were no safe people outside, but he knew that if he kept walking, he would eventually run into one.
Unless he was too far away. Unless he got too hungry or too cold first.
Peter walked. He walked until he couldn't feel the pain in his feet or the cold or the hunger in his stomach. Until all he could feel was the spinning in his head. Until his knees buckled and he couldn't get back up. Until he reached out for a tree, ready to pull himself up so that he'd be off the ground and hopefully safer, but his fingers shook so much and felt too numb to stick and he couldn't even sit up anymore. Until his cheek hit the soft bed of leaves and he could see nothing but the leaves and trees in the light of the rising sun. Until his eyes drifted shut, and he was finally warm again.
And then he wasn't.
"Peter! Peter!" The voice was loud and insistent, and he felt his body move sharply back and forth before realizing that hands were on him, shaking him. "Shit, he's freezing! Peter, wake up!" The person was screaming, voice breaking on his name as they begged him to wake up, and Peter tried. He wanted to wake up...except his head hurt and his arms were unbearably sore and so were his feet. And he was so hungry he felt sick. "Thor, call Tony! No...with the cell phone!" The person swore again and Peter peeled his eyes open to find his Uncle Rhodey kneeling over him, eyes red-rimed and bloodshot. "Peter?"
"Un'le R'dy." Peter felt like his mouth was stuffed with cotton once more, and he tried to remember the last time he'd drank anything.
"Here." Someone else came into view then. Steve. Steve Rogers. Captain America. Peter knew him...right? Yeah...yeah, he knew Steve. The man held a water bottle to his lips and as soon as it touched his mouth Peter wanted to swallow the whole thing, but Steve tilted it slowly, pouring it slowly into his mouth. "There you go, son. Easy. We're going to get you warmed up, okay?"
"I...I got…" Peter's words were cut off with a shudder and Steve put the water down, reaching out and slipping an arm under his back.
"I reached Stark. He is on his way." Thor spoke up.
"We've got to get him warmed up. Now," his uncle bit out, and Steve gathered him into his arms, lifting him and cradling him close like he was a baby. But Peter didn't mind. Steve was warm and all Peter wanted was to be warm.
"Will this help?" Thor asked, and a red velvety feeling cape was draped over him. The men worked together, wrapping him up in a cocoon, and Peter's eyes started to drift shut again.
"Don't sleep, Pete. Not yet," Uncle Rhodey cautioned as fingers rubbed his hands. Steve...Steve was rubbing his hands and holding him, and Rhodey uncovered his feet before hissing softly under his breath. "He needs medical Steve."
"I know. We're going to get him to the car."
"Bad...bad guys...but I got…" None of the men seemed to hear him because he was covered once more in the red blanket that he slowly realized was Thor's cape, then they were moving through the forest. "Bad guys…"
"Don't worry, Peter. Your dad took care of all the bad guys," Steve told him softly, shifting him so that his head rested on Steve's warm shoulder.
"Dad?"
"Yeah, buddy. Your dad." Uncle Rhodey was sitting in the back seat of a car, and then Peter was being handed down to him. His uncle held him in his lap and pulled him close, pressing his lips to Peter's hair and rocking him. "Your dad is going to meet us as soon as he can. We're going to get you into a warm bed soon. How about some more water?"
Peter nodded, shivering a little despite the blanket, and his uncle poured little sips of water into his mouth. Nothing had ever tasted so good.
He must have slept, because he woke when hands pulled him from his uncle. At first, he stiffened, ready to fight. Ready to walk through the forest and be brave again. But it was Thor holding him, and Thor wasn't a bad guy. Thor was the one that shared pop tarts with him and told him funny stories about his home planet and let him pretend to hold his hammer.
"You're alright, Peter. Your dad is almost here," Thor reassured him as he carried him into a building. The tower, Peter realized. How far had they been from the city? There was a lot of movement around him, but Thor and Uncle Rhodey and Steve all stayed, even as he was placed on a gurney and changed into a hospital gown and stabbed with needles that made him wince. When tears sprang to his eyes, his uncle stepped up, holding Peter's hand and giving him a reassuring smile that was still tinged with something else. Sadness or fear.
"It's okay, Pete. They're giving you fluids because you were dehydrated. And you're still a little too cold, so the fluids are warm. How does some soup sound?" Peter nodded drowsily, and his uncle smiled, squeezing his hand. "Pepper will make your favorite, okay? And they have to put medicine on your feet too. And your wrists."
"Was...was tied up…"
"Yeah, you were. But you got away. Your dad was so scared when they didn't have you. He thought…" Uncle Rhodey trailed off, and it looked like it was hard for him to keep smiling down at Peter. But he did it anyway. His uncle was brave too. "I'm really glad we found you."
"I was brave...like you and Daddy."
His uncle closed his eyes, pressing his lips together hard, and then he nodded. "You sure were, buddy. You were so brave."
It hurt when they put medicine on his feet. It hurt enough that he finally started to cry, and once he'd started, he couldn't seem to stop until his whole body shook and his stomach wanted him to throw up, only he hadn't eaten anything, so he just gagged into the bucket his uncle held for him. Then Uncle Rhodey climbed into the bed beside him, pulling him into his lap and wrapping a blanket around the both of them while the doctor injected him with something else.
His head started to feel fuzzy again...he didn't like it. It reminded him of when he'd been in that room. But the doctors were doing something to his feet and his uncle was holding him and his head lolled onto the man's shoulder.
"Uncle Rhodey?"
"Yeah, buddy?" his uncle murmured.
"Don't...don't feel good."
"I know. But the medicine is going to help, okay?"
"Okay." Peter nodded, because his uncle had never lied to him, and he didn't think the man would start now.
At some point in his sleep, Peter felt himself being moved. Lifted. And then someone else was holding him. Immediately, even in his drowsy state, he knew who it was. "Daddy?"
"Yeah, baby. I'm right here," his dad murmured, pulling a blanket more firmly around him and pressing his lips to Peter's hair. "I'm so sorry, Pete."
Peter didn't know why he was sorry...honestly, he was too tired to care, so instead of answering, he rolled over as best he could and hid his face in his dad's shoulder, and the man wrapped his arms tightly around him, holding him close. He wanted to tell his dad that he'd been brave. That he'd gotten away and he'd tried to do really good and that he'd pretended to be a hero like his dad. But his whole body was so tired and he still felt a little sick, so he just nuzzled his face into his dad's shirt and went back to sleep.
There would be time to talk later.