Four months, sixteen days, and twenty hours after Peter was reported as missing, Tony and Rhodey are stumbling half-blind through a straggly part of the woods, following the small orange heat signature that popped up in Tony’s glasses half a mile away. It’s a long shot, Tony knows, but he needs to see this through anyway. There’s a single, living human in the crack middle of nowhere, Vermont, unmoving. The orange heat stays still in the thermovision, a small trace of hope, and Tony just can’t let it go.
“Jesus, it’s dark out,” Rhodey says, branches snapping under his feet as his hisses. They have two flashlights, but they’re almost too intense, so instead they rely on the wavering light of the moon, just bright enough to see in front of them and to keep pursuing the unshifting warmth, still in the same spot according to Friday, but not any colder. Not a dying body.
“Your legs doing alright, honey bear?” Tony says, distracted as the trees become even more sparse, a clearing just visible ahead.
“Yeah, they’re--”
“Shit, that’s a cabin.”
Both come to a halt, and it becomes so eerily quiet that a dry leaf hitting the ground has Tony flinching. A wind picks up, whistling through branches, reminding Tony that it’s late November, and Peter’s been missing since July.
July 7th, and he never made it to Tony’s lab. No security footage, a couple eyewitnesses with varying testimonies, and no Peter. They reported him missing at 3:02am.
It’s November 23rd, nearing 11:44pm, when the cabin comes into sight. A ramshackle thing, barely holding itself up. The creaks from the wood as the wind abuses its worn frame can be heard from where Tony stands.
“I don’t want you getting your hopes up,” Rhodey breathes as they carefully walk closer, maneuvering over a fallen trunk.
“I know.”
Rhodey doesn’t say it to be mean. He says it as a warning because Tony’s gotten his hopes up too many times already, only to have his heart broken all over again. They came on a whim, on a barely-baked clue that Peter might be here. Might be in this thin patch of woods with squirrels and nothing else. Slowly, they circle the building, looking for an entrance only to find none.
“Where’s the door?” Rhodey asks.
“It’s dark out. Maybe we didn’t see it.”
“I think we would see a goddamn door.”
Tony swallows, things getting weirder and weirder by the minute, and they take another circle of the house.
“No door,” Rhodey says, and Tony nods.
“Yup. No door.”
Then, as he takes another step, his foot sinks into a marshy part of the ground and he falls over, a shout of surprise carried away by the wind. Rhody looks at Tony, eyes wide, and reaches to help him to his feet, but Tony waves him off. His foot has sunk into the mud completely, and it rests on something solid. Carefully, he takes his foot from the ground and stands, kicking the mud away.
“Tony?”
“Look.” Sure enough, his foot clears enough mud so see wood. Not roots or sticks or anything that belongs there, but a flat surface. Rhodey starts kicking dirt away too, and a handle becomes visible, carved like a notch into its wooden base.
Neither of them dare to breathe as Tony kneels, digging his fingertips into the groove before pulling.
The door pops open to a ladder leading down, and Tony hears Rhodey swallow hard. He tries to calm his own heartbeat and breathes deeply.
“After you,” he gestures, and Rhodey rolls his eyes but eases himself down the rungs. Tony follows a couple steps behind, letting the hidden door slam shut until they’re surrounded by inky darkness.
Rhodey grunts from below, the sound of his feet hitting the floor resonating through what Tony can only assume to be the basement of the cabin. “Flashlight?”
Tony’s feet find ground soon after, and he turns the flashlight on, passing it to Rhodey.
“There’s nothing here,” Rhodey says, slowly doing a turn on the spot, swiveling the flashlight around.
There’s a dryness to Tony’s mouth that wasn’t there before, and he nods to a new set of stairs, this time leading up. “Think that goes up to the cabin?”
“I think there’s only one way to find out.”
They head up, the stairs only wide enough for single file, and sure enough, they exit to some sort of open space. It’s definitely in the cabin, and there’s a distinct smell of rotting wood followed by the tangy scent of something else. Barely any furniture decorates the decrepit living space, with only a couple wooden stools surrounding a cracked table. Immediately in the free space, the heat signature that used to be small in Tony’s glasses pulses.
“Friday?”
“Twenty feet ahead, boss.”
Tony’s heart feels heavy as he makes his way into a small hallway that ends in a single room, and Rhodey follows quietly behind him. They almost breathe in sync as Tony pushes the door open.
Immediately, the stench hits, heavy and unforgiving. It’s the smell of sweat and blood and decomposition. A heavy stench of filth and rot. The room is small and unventilated, and there’s a body there, tied to a slab of wood in the middle of what might’ve one been a laundry room, or maybe a small office. Or maybe this place was specifically made for this--for kidnapping kids.
Tony stumbles forward, barely hearing Rhodey’s, “Oh god,” and his stomach churns rapidly. The need to vomit only increases when he gets close enough to see that it’s Peter. Oh god, it’s Peter.
“Friday,” he chokes. “Scan.”
Fifteen stab wounds trail hungry blood with various voracity, decorating Peter’s arms, legs, stomach, chest, yet somehow he’s still breathing. Air enters his lungs, his eyes are wide-opened and teary, and when Tony manages to gasp out his name, Peter’s body--frail as a baby bird’s--jerks. Tony thinks this must be a nightmare, but the smell is cloying, and Peter’s skin is warm. It’s heat, alive and brutalized.
“I got you,” Tony tries to say as steadily as he can as he takes out the knife he brought, his trembling hands trying to hold it long enough to cut through the ropes binding his kid like a hog. Thick, unforgiving ropes tied so tightly that not even Peter has enough momentum, enough force, to rip free. Rhodey quickly gets to work next to Tony, significantly more efficient, and through it all, Peter doesn’t make a sound.
He stares straight up at the ceiling, and Tony carefully reaches out and brushes against his hand. “Pete?”
Peter groans, his eyes flitting to Tony then back up. Peter’s hands are finally free, then the rest of his body, but still he remains unmoving, breathing heavily through his nose.
“Pete,” Tony tries again, gently curling a hand through his hair. It’s tangled and clumped together, but he manages to trail a finger through, and he gets a reaction. Peter nuzzles up like he’s been starved, and Tony’s heart breaks.
“We need to get him to medical,” Rhodey says, and Tony feels like his heart is being wrenched from his chest.
“Yeah, yeah. We do.”
He gets Friday to alert the medical team at the compound, still stroking Peter’s hair. None of his wounds look life threatening, but all of them look horrifying, and Tony doesn’t know if he has internal bleeding. Doesn’t know if his lung is collapsing. Doesn’t know if Peter’s actually going to even be physically okay, let alone mentally.
“Mssr Starrr,” Peter croaks, finally meeting Tony’s eyes. Peter’s face is pale and thin, his wrists and finger boney. His shirt and pants he’s got on are ones Tony’s never seen before, but they’re ripped and dirty enough that Tony can guess they haven’t been changed in a while.
“I’m right here.”
Rhodey carefully starts observing the rest of the room, and he seems to startle enough that Tony manages to tear his eyes away from Peter.
“Rhodey?”
“Shit, Tony,” Rhodey breathes. He’s looking right at Tony. No, under Tony, and Tony looks down, his stomach dropping. He was so preoccupied with finding Peter that he didn’t notice the body not even two feet away.
“Oh god.” That’s where the stench was coming from. The body has clearly been there for at least a couple days, bloated and horrific, the rancid odour somehow more unbearable now that Tony knows what’s causing it. Peter lets out a sound of distress, and Tony quietly shushes him, going back to playing with his hair, momentarily discarding the body from his mind.
Rhodey bends down to observe it, and swears again. “Tony, there’s a chunk taken out of the guy’s neck.”
There’s dried blood flaking down Peter’s chin, surrounding his mouth, and Tony feels queasy.
“Bitten?” He manages to ask, and Rhodey looks up at him.
“Yeah, looks like it.”
They’re both looking at Peter, and Peter starts crying in earnest, shaking his head up and down, letting it slam onto the table.
“Hey, hey, buddy,” Tony tries to sooth, but Peter only shakes his head harder.
“Didn’t mean to,” he sobs, garbled, and Tony very slowly grabs Peter’s shoulders and presses their foreheads together to stop Peter from hurting himself, knowing he’s getting grime all over his skin.
“I know. I know. It’s not your fault.”
Peter calms, blinking rapidly, and looks at Tony with an empty gaze. “Mmm,” he says, and Tony nods like he understands.
“It’s gonna be okay.”
“Mmm,” Peter groans, flinching. “Loud.”
“It’s just us here buddy. Just me, you, and Rhodey.”
Peter shakes his head. “Loud!” He says more urgently, and Tony looks at Rhodey for help, but Rhodey looks just as lost. Then, ten seconds later, Tony hears the sound of people, and he stands up straight.
“Friday?”
“The emergency team, boss.”
Relief floods through, and he gets back to playing with Peter’s hair as Peter returns to silence, mumbling about the noise occasionally.
“We’re gonna get you help, bud,” he says, but Peter’s not listening. He’s looking up at the ceiling like it holds it world’s secrets, and Tony doesn’t have the heart to tear his gaze away.
-
They carry Peter out on a stretcher, having to pass the chunk of woods to reach the ambulance, and they immediately hook him to fluids once inside the vehicle.
The paramedics with them don’t know Peter, but they’re a part of Tony’s extensive team, so Tony trusts them.
“He has his tetanus shot?” One of them asks, and Tony nods.
“Allergies?”
“Only peppermint.”
The paramedic smiles, but the smile drops when she looks at Peter again.
“He’s in for a long recovery, Mr. Stark. I hope you’re prepared to give a lot of love.”
Tony thinks of the four lonely, draining, horrific months without Peter, and he thinks he’ll never run out of love to give the kid.
“That won’t be a problem.”
-
Peter’s recovery starts rocky. The day back, after cleaning and stitching his wounds and checking for internal injuries, he lays in bed mostly still.
“Hey, Pete,” Tony says quietly, sitting beside him, and Peter’s only reaction is a small roll of his head to the side so he can look at Tony.
He doesn’t say anything. He just stares and blinks, and then when Tony thinks that maybe that’s all Peter has energy for, Peter slowly reaches out a hand.
“Mister Stark,” he says, almost too quietly, but Tony reaches out and grabs Peter’s fingers, feeling his eyes burn.
“Hi,” he whispers, Peter’s injuries listing themselves in Tony’s head, reminding him of how he’s failed his kid. But his kid is here right now, breathing, so Tony lets the guilt sit in the back for the time being.
“May?”
“May’s here. She’s just sleeping right now.”
Peter blinks heavily, then nods. “Mmkay.”
“How’re you feeling, buddy?” Tony asks, and Peter groans but doesn’t answer. He just looks at Tony, eyes red and tired.
His body is really too small, his collar bones sharply poking out from the hospital gown, his limbs fragile. Cracks fissure across his pale, pale lips, and bruises only enhance how white his skin is. How papery thin.
Tony can’t help it. He starts to cry. “I’m sorry it took us so long to find you.”
Peter shakes his head, looking as earnest as ever, but Tony only cries harder.
“I’m so sorry,” Tony says.
Peter just keeps shaking his head, and soon he’s crying too, and Tony thinks that he needs to pull himself together. That Peter needs him to be someone steady to hold on to instead of someone who’s falling apart. He wipes his tears and breathes to calm down, then gently, so gently, he rubs at the bruise on Peter’s cheek. They cleaned the blood from Peter’s mouth, teeth, face, but Peter has scratched red marks on his face where the blood used to be.
“Am I a bad person?” Peter asks, his tone almost innocent, wavering and teary. “Do you think I’m a bad person?”
What can Tony do to make this better? He doesn’t know how to help, so he gently runs his index finger down Peter’s cheek before trailing up to his hair, just to let Peter know that he’s there, and that he loves him.
“No, Pete. You’re not a bad person.”
Peter nods then turns away from Tony, eyes blinking listlessly around the room, like he doesn’t know where to look. Eventually his body relaxes and his eyes close, and he seems to fall asleep. Still, Tony doesn’t dare remove his hand from Peter’s hair, and he doesn’t dare stand up to leave. He stays with his hands buried in dirty curls, and when he bends down to give Peter’s forehead a kiss, he swears he catches a whiff of blood.
-
The next day, Peter asks to take a shower.
“I just. I just--wanna get clean,” he mutters, scratching at his arms, pulling at the IV until May tugs his hands away.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” she says, but Peter keeps scratching.
“You sure you’re up for a shower?” Tony asks, and Peter nods.
“Yes, Yes please.” He leans back against his bed, shutting his eyes tight in frustration. “Please. I can still taste it.”
They still don’t ask Peter what he really went through, and Rhodey’s gone through great lengths to get rid of the body of that man. That man that if Peter didn’t, Tony would’ve killed. Maybe done worse than kill. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to think about it because with it comes a flaming rage, hot and heavy, followed by unbearable sadness.
“Okay, honey,” May placates when Peter starts to make noises in the back of his throat, clearly distressed. “Can I put a stool in the shower for you to sit? I don’t want you standing on your leg yet.”
Peter’s tibia is fractured, three ribs bruised and four broken. If he were to lift up his gown before his wounds were wrapped, Tony would have been able to count every single rib and point to the broken ones. Now he’s swaddled in gauze and bandages. The tibia fracture is stable, so luckily they didn’t need surgery, but lucky is a subjective word, and Tony’s sure Peter doesn’t feel that lucky.
The cast stretches from his foot to his lower thigh, hot pink as Peter’s insistence, with Tony’s name signed boldly over the knee.
“Stool’s okay,” Peter says, and May leaves to prep the shower, while Tony stays, a hand over Peter’s leg.
“Let me waterproof your leg,” Tony says, and he manages to wrangle a plastic covering over it. He removes the IV, knowing a nurse is going to yell at him later, and lifts Peter up to carry him to the washroom. He holds Peter like how he holds Morgan, and he thinks it’s not right that they’re almost the same weight right now. When Tony starts walking, he immediately sees Peter wince as his wounds pull, but he knows Peter won’t ask Tony to stop, even if Tony asks.
“How’s the pain?”
“Fine,” Peter mumbles.
Tony nods. “That’s good.”
Peter wriggles in Tony’s arms, forcing Tony to adjust his grip, and he only wiggles more. “You’re too slow. Let me down.”
“Hey, hey, what’s the rush?”
Peter doesn’t respond, his face pulled down in a grimace, and he pulls harder. “I can walk myself,” he says, and Tony can’t help his incredulous laugh.
“No you fucking can’t, Peter. You were tied up for who the fuck knows how long, and your leg is broken. You can’t walk.”
Immediately, Peter clams up, limp in Tony’s arm, and Tony’s suddenly overwhelmed by guilt. His stomach clenches, but he forces himself to keep moving, hating himself more when Peter starts to talk.
“I don’t think I was tied like that for more than a week,” Peter whispers, and Tony really thinks he might throw up.
“I’m a fucking idiot, Pete,” his arms are shaking, but he would rather cut off his own hand than drop Peter. “I shouldn’t have said all that.”
Paying him no mind, Peter continues, eyes facing the ceiling like when they first found him. “He usually just kept my hands chained. He liked watching me squirm, I think.” Peter looks at Tony, tired, and Tony wants to go back in time and not say anything. Wants to go further back in time and make sure Peter’s never taken, never hurt, never chained up like a wild animal.
“I’m sorry,” is all Tony can offer, and he sees life come back to Peter
“I’m fine ,” Peter says, but his voice wobbles dangerously, and he takes a shuddering breath. “I just need to shower, and I’ll be fine.”
Making sure his voice is as soft as it goes, Tony nods and whispers, “Okay,” breathes, then says, “okay. Let’s get you clean.”
They make it to the washroom, Peter lets May squeeze his shoulder, and Tony sets him down on the stool, letting Peter gather his balance. Without hesitation, Peter starts pulling the hospital gown off, and Tony blinks as the sudden lack of modesty because the Peter before would probably have rather been shot than let Tony and May see him mostly naked. Now he lets Tony help him undress on a stool until he’s down to his underwear, goosebumps decorating his arms and legs. Modesty doesn’t disappear overnight. It’s conditioned out. Too long of exposure, too much time spent without any semblance of privacy. Tony doesn’t want to think about it anymore.
He looks over at May to see her crying, taking in Peter’s wrecked, hurting body. There’s not an inch that looks undamaged. Bruises stain his skin violently, splashed around like someone carelessly splattered violet paint all over him. His stab wounds have been cleaned and patched up, but the stark contrast of the clean white on his broken skin is enough to have Tony feeling sick.
“Help me?” Peter asks, looking at the floor, Tony and May both kneel by the tub. Tony takes the detachable showerhead down and gently starts a stream of water, waiting for it to get warm. Once it’s room temperature under his finger, he gently lets the stream spray over Peter’s back.
He’s not expecting the reaction. Maybe he should’ve, considering that Peter’s been gone for four months. There’s been, so far, minimal reactions from Peter to anything that’s been happening, but Tony should’ve known that Peter’s a master at repressing, at pretending, at making things seem okay when they’re falling apart.
The moment the water touches Peter’s skin, he flinches so hard that he hand hits the shower door. “Stop!” Peter yelps. “Stop, stop.”
Tony immediately pulls the shower head away, and May scrambles to turn the water off.
“Shhhh,” May soothes as Peter starts to cry, his shoulders shaking as he sits hunched on the stool, way too small. Way too empty.
With careful consideration of the bruises splayed over Peter’s back, Tony takes a small towel and dries the water away, tracing the bumps of his vertebrae that are sharper than they ever were before.
“I’m sorry,” Peter cries. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.” He leans over and buries his face into May’s shoulder, sobbing. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“None of that now,” May says, and Tony dampens the towel in the sink before he returns to Peter’s side. He holds up the towel for May to see, and she nods.
“Pete, how about we clean off the dirt with a damp towel. No water spray. Is that okay?” May asks.
Peter doesn’t say anything, face still pressed to May’s shirt, so Tony can only test it out carefully, rubbing the warm towel onto Peter’s jutting shoulder, as lightly as he can. A shudder runs through Peter’s body, but he doesn’t pull away.
Tony cleans the rest of Peter’s body like that. Slowly down his back, carefully on his arms, then his un-casted leg. He cleans Peter’s armpits and behind his ears, then between each toe, having to switch to two other towels before most of the dirt, left-over blood, and sweat is off.
“Better?” he asks softly, once he thinks Peter is mostly clean, and Peter finally pulls away from May, nodding.
Peter swallows hard, eyes red and glazed over. “Yeah,” he whispers, and lets Tony drape a fluffy towel over him.
“Let’s get you warmed up now, hm?”
“Okay.”
They make their way slowly back over to the bed, forgoing the scrubs to dress Peter in warm sweatpants and one of Tony’s sweaters. It used to be a little big on Peter before, but now it dangles off him like he’s a coat hanger, and it breaks Tony’s heart.
May goes to eat dinner as Tony calls a nurse in to reattach the IV, who looks at Peter with sad, sad eyes, but doesn’t further reprimand them. Peter’s wounds are healing well, especially since they’re feeding him nutrients and letting him rest, but that doesn’t mean they won’t scar, and that doesn’t mean he doesn’t already have scars.
Old wounds take up place on his skin too, and then there are the psychological wounds, which will take time and patience to discover, and then more so to recover from. Tony’s been looking at various psychologists, and he thinks he might’ve found someone good if Peter decides he wants that kind of help.
For now though, he doesn’t say as word as he tucks Peter in before rubbing his shoulders, trying to get some warmth into him.
“I’m sorry,” Peter says again, only his head visible, poking out of his blankets. “I tried to be okay. I’m sorry.”
Something is shredding Tony’s chest, squeezing at his lungs, and he shakes his head, touching his palm to Peter’s cheek.
“Who said you had to be okay?”
Peter blinks quickly, but he still ends up crying, his bottom lip gnawed raw as he pulls at it sharply with his teeth. He says, his voice small, “I just thought you wouldn’t want me back if I wasn’t okay.”
“No,” Tony says almost too forcefully, but he can’t even fathom why Peter would think that. “No, Pete. Pete, we never stopped looking for you, okay? No,” Tony lightly taps Peter’s cheek when Peter turns away. “You don’t have to look at me. But hear me, okay? We want you. We will always want you back. Every day without you felt like I was fighting a war I couldn’t win, kid. You don’t understand how much you mean to me, and it kills me, but that must also be my fault that I never showed you.” He pauses, choosing to sit in the chair next to the bed because he’s not as young as he used to be, and his back aches. “I love you,” Tony stresses, knowing it’s not something he says enough. “I love you so much. You’re not my kid, I know, but I can’t help but see you as my kid, and we’re gonna get through this. I don’t know what you went through, Peter, and you never have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I’ll be here, even when you’re not okay. Especially when you’re not okay. I love you.”
He looks at Peter, and Peter looks back with his wide, teary eyes, almost in disbelief.
“I thought no one was coming for me,” he whispers, voice hoarse, and everything inside Tony is shattering.
“No, no,” he says, feeling his eyes burn. “We never stopped looking.”
Then Peter starts to cry again, and he wiggles to sit up once his nose gets too clogged. The blankets fall from his shoulders, and Tony collects Peter into a hug without thinking about it, feeling Peter’s cheek press into his shoulder, his wet face resting in the crook of Tony’s neck. His IV dangles, in the way, but they both ignore it. Peter feels warm. Alive.
“It hurt so much,” Peter cries. “I don’t know why he kept hurting me.”
“I know. I know. I don’t know why either.” One of Tony’s arms wraps around Peter’s body, the other cradling his head, and he can feel every single one of Peter’s breaths on his skin, tickling the spot under his ear.
“I didn’t want to die.”
“I know.”
“I was scared.”
Tony blinks, staring straight ahead, willing the tears not to fall. “I know,” he whispers.
They don’t say anything else, and soon Peter’s ragged breathing smoothes to something more steady, little huffs whistling out of his nose. Cautiously, as not to wake him, Tony lays Peter back down onto the bed, pulling the blanket to his chin. He leans down, pressing a haste kiss to Peter’s forehead, and Peter scrunches up his nose but relaxes quickly after. Tony sits in the chair, leaning back to get a little more comfortable, and his eyes suddenly feel unbearably heavy. He’s been awake for a while now, and before he knows it, his eyes shut and he’s asleep.
-
By the time Tony wakes up, hours later and back more sore than usual, he sees that Peter’s already awake, eyes red and vacant, face sweaty.
Tony reaches out, placing a hand onto Peter’s blanket, noting how Peter jerks away. “Pete?” He says, voice hushed. He checks the time, and sees that it’s not even five in the morning.
Peter keens high and loud, a sound Tony’s never heard before, almost animalistic in the way it rips from his throat.
“Shhh,” Tony tries, reaching a hand up to Peter’s hair to try to soothe him, but Peter trashes, throwing the blankets off, and curls on his side away from Tony. He lets out another noise, a groan, and then falls silent, his entire body wracking with tremors.
“What hurts, Pete?” Tony’s trying not to panic, and failing severely. He wants to reach out and comfort. He wants to erase Peter’s pain, but Peter looks like he would rather be alone. “You gotta tell me what’s wrong.”
Peter’s head thumps on the pillow, and he cries out, a leg kicking out as if he’s angry, only it must hurt him because he cries out and goes limp, and Tony’s chest aches.
“Hey, stop hurting yourself.” He reaches a hand out again, and this time Peter lets it rest on his shoulder, but when Tony tries to reach for his hair again, he jerks away. “Okay, okay, sorry. No hair.” His hand goes back to Peter’s shoulder, rubbing out the tension until Peter uncurls, eyes finding their way to Tony’s.
“A nightmare?” Tony asks, and Peter shrugs. His teeth have cut into his bottom lip, and a trail of blood drips down his chin. “Oh, buddy,” Tony mutters, covering his hand with a sleeve. He lets his hand approach Peter’s face slowly, so Peter can tell him to stop whenever, but Peter doesn’t, so Tony gently wipes the trail of blood away. His hand hasn’t even moved away before Peter reaches up to scratch violently at where the blood was.
“Nuh uh, buddy.” Tony takes Peter’s hand away, and Peter whines. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.” Judging from the raised, red lines on his skin, Peter already has. “No more scratching.”
Peter needs therapy, mental and physical. His limbs are weak from being tied up, his injured leg even more so. His muscles have receded alarmingly and he seems to get tired from simple movements.
Peter looks young in the hospital bed, and he is young, Tony knows, but he looks younger than eighteen right now. Impossibly small and hurt.
“I’m gonna touch your hair. Is that alright?” Tony asks once Peter’s calmed down, chest heaving as he lies on his back.
After making sure that Peter nods, Tony let’s his fingers sink into Peter’s curls, and this time Peter doesn’t move away. His hair is still unbelievably tangled and oily, and Tony frowns. “Hey, bud. Can I go get a comb?”
There’s no reaction, so Tony can’t be sure if Peter’s even heard, but he stands up to get a comb. When he returns, he retakes his spot by Peter’s bed and gently runs the large-tooth comb through Peter’s hair. It’s wooden and smooth, and Peter’s eyes flutter shut as the teeth scratch at his scalp.
“Mmm,” Peter mumbles, and Tony feels a smile tugging at his lips.
“That feel nice, buddy?”
“Mmmhmm.”
Tony keeps combing, steadily until he’s sure Peter’s back asleep, then he gets up and stretches, feeling his back pop. At 6am, May comes to take her place by Peter’s side, and forces Tony to get some rest in an actual bed.
“Shoo. Your back’s gonna give out if you keep sleeping in chairs.”
Tony grumbles but he knows he needs rest, even though every step away from Peter aches somewhat. Still, when he falls into bed beside Pepper, his eyes immediately close.
-
He wakes to someone jumping on his bed.
“Daddy, daddy, wake up!”
Groaning, Tony pries his eyes open, autumn sun mellow through the window.
“Hey, Morgy. What time is it?”
“It’s lunch time! Mommy says it’s time to eat!” Morgan is getting tall, and when Tony stands and goes to pick her up off the bed, he’s stunned by how much she seems to be growing. He sees her every day, so he doesn’t always notice it, but something about having Peter back is making him acutely aware.
He blinks the sleep from his eyes and lets Morgan free in the kitchen to where Pepper is. “You eat first. I’m gonna go check on Pete, and then I’ll be right here.”
Morgan’s mouth opens into a little O shape, and she hops up and down. “Can I see Pete too? Please! I miss Petey.”
“Morgan, sweety, Peter isn’t feeling well,” Pepper says, setting plates on the table just as May yawns and walks into the kitchen.
“But I can make him feel better!” Morgan says. “He says my hugs and kisses take away all the pain.”
Knowing Morgan, Tony knows she’s just going to get more persistent the more she’s told ‘no’, but he thinks of how Peter looks right now, and knows that Peter wouldn’t want Morgan to see him yet.
Tony hesitates, then says, “In a couple days, alright?” He kneels down to look Morgan in the eyes. “When he’s feeling a bit better.”
Morgan’s lip arranges in a pout, and she seems to contemplate on something before nodding. “Okay! But you have to bring him a juice pop and tell him it’s from me.” She runs to the freezer and rummages around, returning with a red juice pop that says “Watermelon Fun” in curly print.
Tony takes it carefully, then kisses her head and ruffles her hair even when she laughs and squirms away. “I’ll make sure he eats all of it,” Tony says, getting to his feet, but May stops him.
“He’s sleeping right now, so he’s definitely not going to get a juice pop down. As a matter of fact, I don't think he can handle that much sugar at all right now.” The juice pop is plucked from tony’s hand and returned to the freezer. “How about you sit down and eat a good meal, and Morgan can go see Peter when he's wake?”
Morgan immediately seems keen on the idea, her eyes lighting up with frightening speed. “Really?” She hops around, tugging at May’s shirt. “I can see Petey today?”
“May,” Tony says, and May sends him a pointed look.
“He’s lonely,” she says, then to Morgan, “Or course, honey. You just have to be quiet when you go to see him alright? He’s sick and hurt right now.”
Morgan nods rapidly, and mimes zipping her lips shut. “I’ll be like a mouse! Promise.” Then she takes her spot at the table, and Tony doesn’t remember the last time she’s been so excited.
“How is he?” Pepper asks, quietly, when May’s distracting Morgan, and Tony can only sigh.
“Not great, but he’s doing his best.”
The smile on Pepper’s face almost seems sad. “He’s gonna be okay, you think?”
Tony thinks of Peter’s tenacity and strength, and his goddamn stubbornness that never seems to settle, even as he gets older. “I think he’s gonna get there.”
-
Peter’s sitting up when Tony brings Morgan into the room, just the two of them so they don’t overwhelm him too much.
Immediately, a smile splits Peter’s face, and it might be the most beautiful thing Tony’s ever seen.
“Morgy,” he says, and Morgan carefully shuffles over, looking at Peter with wobbly lips.
“You’re hurt.” she says, and Peter blinks.
“Did your dad not tell you?”
Shrugging, Morgan looks to the floor. “He did, but I didn’t think you were this hurt.”
Peter’s face goes through a hundred emotions in a second, before it settles on something melancholic. “I’m hurt right now, but I’ll be better soon.”
“ How soon?” Morgan asks. “I wanna play tea party with you again.”
Tony’s about to butt in, and to tell Morgan that Peter’s going to be hurt for a while, but Peter takes the reigns, by moving over on his bed and patting the small, empty space.
“Hop up.”
Morgan does, and now that she’s closer, Tony watches her take Peter in with more detail, and it doesn’t surprise him when she starts crying, but it seems to surprise Peter, who somehow manages to smooth that surprise out into something startlingly calm.
“We’ll play tea party together soon, I promise. I just have to spend a little bit of time getting healthy again.”
Morgan just cries harder. “Did bad guys hurt you?” she whimpers, burying her face into Peter’s chest, and Tony watches as Peter sets a shaky hand on her back. Any sign that Peter’s not okay, and Tony will step in, but when they catch eyes, Peter only smiles softly at him.
Then he turns his attention back to Morgan, rubbing her back. “A really bad guy hurt me Morgan, but he’s gone now.”
Looking up at Peter, Morgan’s eyes are narrowed into daggers, and a rage Tony’s never seen before twists her features. “Is he dead?” she spits, her voice squeaky with anger, and Tony cuts in with a “Morgan!”
But Peter just nods. “He’s dead.”
Morgan nods in return. “Good,” she mumbles, legging her head flop back onto Peter’s chest, and Tony feels shaken, stunned so completely that he’s not sure how to react.
Good, Morgan said, and Tony feels her rage in his bones, shared with his own. Good. He knows Morgan’s too young for feelings like this, and he knows he should tell her that wishing anyone dead is a terrible, terrible thing, but he can’t bring himself to do it because he agrees . He agrees that it’s good.
Rot in hell, he thinks, wishing the man had suffered more. Wishing he could’ve torn the man’s throat out himself. Killing that man wouldn’t have brought on an ounce of guilt in Tony, but he knows it’s not the same for Peter. It’s scary then, how much Morgan’s like Tony. Enraged on Peter’s behalf. Glad his kidnapper is dead. Good.
-
Peter’s weight starts going up, but he also starts to wake up screaming. It’s almost like now that he has enough energy to get physically healthier, he also has enough energy for nightmares.
He’s finally out of the hospital, back in his own bed, but every night, without fail, he cries out for help.
Usually the words he screams are unintelligible, scrambled up noises that must have meaning in his dream but don’t make sense otherwise, but sometimes Tony can hear desperate pleas, and this night in particular Peter’s yelling, “Stopstopstop. Hurts.”
“Hey, Petey Pie.” Tony sits on the bed by Peter, and despite how carefully he lowers himself, Peter still jolts awake, breathing rapidly, tears springing to his eyes.
He takes one look at Tony and almost jolts into a sob before shoving a hand to his mouth, stifling his cries.
There aren’t words to describe the sorrow Tony feels, the one that seeps into him until his limbs all ache. “You don’t have to do that,” he says, but Peter grips his own mouth harder, like he’s afraid if he lets go all the sounds will explode out. “No one cares if you wake them. It’s not your fault.”
Peter only lurches forward, crying harder, and Tony swears Peter’s going to bruise his own face with how hard he’s gripping around his mouth. Delicately, Tony takes Peter’s wrist and tugs until Peter lowers his hand, leaving little crescent nail marks in the side of his cheek.
“Heard talking about it can help, sometimes,” Tony offers. “If that’s something you feel like trying.”
At first, Peter shakes his head, but he almost seems to pause before taking a deep breath.
“I--” he starts, then cuts himself off. “He broke my leg with a hammer--I. It. I was so scared it would--it would heal wrong, and I--” Peter breaks off again, letting Tony rub under his thumb. The thumps of Peter’s pulse are frantic underneath Tony’s hands, like a hummingbird’s heart beat, trying its best to escape. Tony feels like his world is collapsing. Like maybe this wasn’t such a good idea to let Peter talk about it with him, but he also can’t stop Peter, not now when he’s finally verbal.
“Sometimes he--he would put a towel over my head and just--pour water. Pour it over. I--he once poured boiling water down my back and I thought I was--was gonna lose my skin.” Peter shuts his eyes, takes one breath than another, and reopens them. “Skin healed fine, though.” He reaches a hand behind his back, as if to touch to make sure, but quickly jerks his own hand away, shuddering.
“I’m--I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be. Talking about--never mind--” He stumbles over his words until Tony lays a hand on his jittering legs, and then Peter seems to drain, his body slumping forward until his head is in Tony’s lap. Almost subconsciously, Tony’s hand reaches up to play with Peter’s hair, gently stroking stray curls plastered to his forehead. He’s been letting comb through it with water, as long as it doesn’t do more than dampen his hair, and his curls are mostly fluffy, but sometimes when Tony runs his fingers through, strand after strand come loose.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that, Pete,” Tony swallows, daring to look Peter in the eyes, at his trusting, painful gaze, full of love that Tony doesn’t know what he did to deserve. Full of suffering that doesn’t belong. “I’m so sorry.”
Peter hums, then says simply, “It wasn’t your fault.”
But Tony could’ve found him sooner. Searched harder. Done something. Anything. Instead, for four months, Peter was hurt and isolated. But Peter reaches out like he can hear Tony’s thoughts, resting his hand onto Tony’s.
“You found me, in the end.”
-
Peter’s weight continues to improve, and although the nightmares are still there, they become more manageable if Tony or May are in the room with him. Pepper says she doesn’t mind that he no longer spends most nights with her. In fact, she almost seems to encourage it.
“As long as none of you form any unhealthy codependency,” she says, stirring a pot of oatmeal.
“I’m thinking maybe therapy would be good.”
“Yeah?” May says. “I was thinking the same.”
“I know some excellent psychologists,” Pepper says, turning off the heat. She gathers bowls and spoons, then turns around, “self-serve oatmeal. Go ahead.”
Then her and May start chatting about therapy, and Tony starts thinking of the more physical type of therapy. The cast is coming off today, and Peter’s been mostly moving in a wheelchair, his muscles too degraded to fully support him, even after three weeks. Usually, Peter could heal from a clean break in a week, but three weeks isn’t so bad, all things considered. A break like that would take an ordinary person four months. His limb weakness is probably the bigger problem, mostly caused by starvation, immobility, and restraints. Things that if Tony thinks too hard about, he’ll either start crying or break something.
“I’m gonna go get Pete,” Tony says. “Pep, you wake the princess?”
“It’s what I do best.” Pepper leaves her station in front of the oatmeal and wipes her hands off with a kitchen towel before going to wake Morgan.
Tony goes to Peter’s room and knocks on the door, hearing a rustle before entering. “Hey, Pete. Breakfast time.”
“Mmkay.” Reaching his hand over his head, Peter stretches, sighing. Tony helps Peter ease into the wheelchair by his bed, then they both head to the kitchen.
“Oatmeal for all of us, kid. We’re in this bland food adventure together.”
Peter rolls his eyes. “Yes. Joke about my post-starvation diet. Forced to drink soup and eat oatmeal.”
“Hey, you’re eating a lot more than that these days.”
“Still no cake. Still no fried food.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’ll get your cake soon.”
Peter’s able to limp carefully to a chair with Tony’s help, and Tony places a heaping bowl of oatmeal in front of him that Peter diligently spoons into his mouth.
“I was thinking,” Tony starts while Peter’s eating. “That we should start physiotherapy in a couple days, since your cast is coming off today. They’ll help you walk better, and teach you how to take care of the dead skin under your cast, and all that jazz.”
Peter shrugs. “Alright.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
The cast gets removed later in the day, and immediately Peter’s nose wrinkles. “Ew, that looks terrible.”
“It’s just dead skin, Pete.”
“I look like an alien.”
“Your skin will recover with proper treatment,” the doctor assures, smiling lightly at their antics. Things are okay. Things are good, even, and then Tony ruins it by reaching out and touching the flaking skin on Peter’s leg, completely impulsively, and Peter makes a sound like he’s been shot.
Immediately, Peter recoils away from Tony and the doctor, curling into a ball on the bed, his hands held protectively over his legs. He’s rocking back and forth breathing heavily, a throaty whine building.
“I’m sorry,” Tony says, stones settling into his stomach. “Pete, I’m so sorry.” He wants to touch Peter to reassure him, but knows better than to. He’s never been especially tactile, but Peter craves physical affection almost all the time, so in their years together Tony’s adjusted. But now he needs to readjust because Peter’s not the same anymore.
Peter whines louder, crying, fingers gripping the bed sheets so tightly that they rip, shredding underneath his hands. He’s talking, saying something, but it’s so distorted that Tony doesn’t know what he’s saying at all. It’s just noise.
“Peter. Peter Peter pumpkin eater,” Tony whispers, and Peter holds his arms out, making grabby hands like a child, and Tony doesn’t even hesitate. He takes Peter’s hands and holds them right over his chest. “Feel that? That’s my heartbeat. I can feel yours too. It’s okay, it’s okay.”
Peter calms enough to re-extend his leg for the doctor to check him over, but he doesn’t let go of Tony’s hands.
“Tony tony tony tony,” Peter mumbles, over and over, the name sounding foreign in Peter’s lips.
“That’s Mr. Stark to you, kiddo.” The effort to keep his tone lighthearted fails, and ultimately Tony just sounds upset, which only seems to upset Peter more.
“Tony tony tony tony.”
“Shhh, buddy.”
Peter’s rocking back and forth, shifting the bed, but then Tony manages to unlatch one of Peter’s hands so that he can reach Peter’s curls, and that seems to leech the panic from Peter. Gently, Tony scratches at Peter’s scalp, threading fingers into soft, fluffy strands,
Peter nudges up, like a cat, and his eyes flutter shut. “I’m ‘kay,” he mutters. “Mmkay.”
“Okay,” Tony responds. “Okay, buddy. You’re okay.”
-
Physical therapy starts, and Peter does well. His movement improves slowly but surely, and after a month, he can walk around the house with no problems.
He’s been eating more variety lately too, and heavier foods are being incorporated back into his diet, but he also starts drinking more water.
Abnormal amounts. Every time Tony sees Peter, he has a glass of water in his hands that he’s sipping on, and although Tony doesn’t know how many litres he’s getting through in a day, it’s probably excessive.
“May,” Tony nudges her as they sit on the couch and he tilts his head in Peter’s direction, where he’s nursing his fourth glass of the day. It’s 10am. “Have you noticed that he’s been drinking more water lately?”
May looks at Tony, eyebrows furrowed. “Have I noticed that he’s staying hydrated?” She re-words his question, and Tony admits that maybe he sounds a little ridiculous, but he really can’t help it. If it’s a setback of some kind, and they catch it early, they can help. Ignoring problems worsens them--surely everyone knows this.
But no one else seems to find an issue with Peter’s obsessive water drinking habits, so Tony thinks maybe he’s thinking too much, and he needs to let it go. Then it comes to a head on a Tuesday.
“We’re out of filtered water,” Peter says, and Tony looks at the empty jug.
“Tap water’s fine.”
“No, I need it filtered.”
Tony nods up and down, confused. “Okay?”
Peter’s jittery, and he says, “Okay” in response, grabbing the water jug before starting to fill the filter.
“Hey, Pete,” Tony starts, knowing he’s sometimes tactless but determined to do this right. “What’s with the, you know.” He points to where Peter’s standing over the jug, leg bouncing up and down and he waits for the water to finish filtering.
“Huh?” Peter glances at Tony, his entire body shaking. “Nothing. Just, you know, hydrating.”
“Uh uh.”
Peter’s lips draw down, and he starts chewing on his bottom lip like he’s been doing pretty often since he’s been found. “Sorry, am I wasting water or something?”
“Huh? No, kid, nothing like that. Just, if there’s a problem, you know you can let me know, right?”
It’s almost like Tony’s hit a switch, because Peter starts to cry, and Tony quickly pulls him into a hug.
“Hey, buddy, what’s wrong?”
The water’s finished filtering, but Peter ignores it.
“I feel like I’m going crazy,” Peter gasps.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Can’t stop drinking water. Whenever my mouth dries, it feels like I have dried blood in my mouth, all over my tongue and teeth. And I know it’s not really there, but it feels so bad, Mr. Stark.” Peter fists a section of Tony’s shirt, his body shaking so hard that Tony’s scared that if he wasn’t holding him, Peter would’ve fallen over.
Out of all the things Tony expected, this somehow wasn’t it. Then again, he’s not sure what he expected. He holds Peter tighter until Peter stops trembling as hard, then Peter pulls away, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.
Peter breathes. “I think I need help,” he confesses to the floor after a minute of silence, and Tony holds Peter’s shoulders, just to let him know that someone’s in his corner.
“We can get you help.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, buddy.” Tony leads Peter to the couch, and Pete collapses against him, head on Tony’s shoulder. “You cold?” He asks when he notices Peter’s trembles might actually be shivers, and Peter nods miserably. “I’ll go get you a blanket.”
“Don’t want you to leave.”
“I’ll be right back.”
He comes back with the biggest, softest blanket he can find, and drapes it over both their shoulders, melting when he hears Peter sigh, content. Somehow, Peter manages to snuggle closer, smooshing his cheek up to Tony’s neck, pressing his hand to Tony’s chest.
“Comfortable?” Tony asks, and Peter makes a sound of affirmation. Tony traces Peter’s back, heart heavy at the raised scars, at the prominent bones even after months of proper eating. Peter’s skin is bruiseless now, but Tony can still remember where every abrasion was, violet, green, and yellow, angry against Peter’s skin.
“Love you, Pete,” he whispers, kissing the top of Peter’s head, his hair blood-free, tangle free, and mostly sweat-free, the only odour coming from it being a sweet pomegranate scent from the gentle soap he let Tony use earlier in the day.
Just for a second, Peter looks up at him and smiles, then closes his eyes, body going slack as sleep pulls at him. “Love you too.”
Tony’s arms wrap tightly around Peter, feeling Peter finally warm up under the layers, and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to leave this position. The comfort of Peter’s heartbeat, the warmth of his skin spreading over Tony’s--even through Tony’s shirt--and the slow synchronization of their breathing. Warmth. It’s the orange in Tony’s thermovision lens. The small body left to die in a cabin. The person in Tony’s arms, as warm as can be.