the spark that starts it all
Three days pass. No one comes in, no one goes out.
Peter subconsciously smacks his lips together repetitively, his body desperate for water. His stomach feels like a cavity. Tony doesn’t know how to help.
The iron binding their respective wrists to the wall almost isn’t needed anymore; without any sustenance, the two have fallen weaker than they’d like to admit. Peter’s enhanced metabolism is killing him. He sprawls out where he can.
And then, in a burst of red light, three armed guards escort a coat-cloaked man into the room. Peter knows he should not feel hopeful, but he needs to drink. This man could get him that.
A moment of silence passes as the four scan their hostages. Tony, ever the antagonist, defiantly barks, “What do you want?”
The man in the cloak hints at a smile. “And here I was, thinking you might be bored and tired after a few days in solitary. Perhaps you need a little more time without food and water to learn your place.”
He turns to walk from the room, grinning widely, until Tony cries, “No! No, please. He needs to drink. Please, don’t. What do you want from me?” He emphasizes the “me,” hoping they’ll take the hint and leave the kid alone, hoping they’ll remember this isn’t Peter’s fault, hoping they’ll go easy on them.
It’s never easy.
Tony’s eyes flicker towards Peter—Peter, who is laying on the ground and approaching unconsciousness. The man in the coat stops and grins wider. Gesturing towards one of his men, he orders them to “bring in his things” before looking back devilishly to Tony.
“You, Stark, aren’t interesting enough for me,” he says, stepping closer. “The boy, however—well, just look at him.” They all pause, taking a moment to focus their eyes on the worn and weary kid. Tony knows Peter’s capabilities. Do they? “I want to see what he can do, what he can become.
“Don’t you?” He’s speaking now at Tony, looking genuinely interested. But, fuck, he doesn’t want to know what this guy has in mind. Of course he wants to see what Peter can become, but they’re probably not thinking on the same terms.
Before Tony answers, the guard returns with a carpet bag, “Dr. E” embroidered on the side in red yarn.
“Mm,” Dr. E hums, reaching for his things. “Ah, I’ve waited months for this.”
Months? Fuck. Nothing good can come of that.
Dr. E mutters something to one of his men, who then approaches them both with an unlabeled bottle in each hand. He tends to Peter first, sitting him upright and forcing the nipple in his mouth. Tony can see the liquid inside the plastic, but it’s too viscous to be just water. Still, his hands are bound. What’s he supposed to do?
His own bottle tastes fine. Maybe they want to suppress Peter’s abilities, but Tony—a mere mortal—has nothing to suppress. Without the armor…
While he was lost in thought, Dr. E locked a collar around Peter’s neck. There’s an unmistakable hum sounding from it, a buzz that Tony dreads. With one zap! Peter is back with them. He sucks in a breath and tries to pull himself all the way into consciousness.
“Nice of you to join us,” Dr. E says, his smile wide and his hands in his pockets. His thumb moves and Tony hears another small zap!
“Stop!” Tony shouts. “What is wrong with you?” Peter’s shoulders are caving in towards his neck, trying desperately to protect himself.
Dr. E’s face falls dark. “You better watch yourself, Stark. I haven’t even begun.” He turns on his heel and tosses the remote from his pocket to one of the guards. Without looking back, he calls, “Have fun, boys.” The door slams shut on his heels.
Their cell falls quiet. The man now with the remote sets down his machine gun and tests out one of the buttons with his thumb, delivering two succinct zapzaps to Peter. Tony hears Peter suppress a small whimper and he thrashes against his bonds.
“Let him go. Now,” Tony barks, his eyes twitching with unadulterated anger.
The guard looks eerily to Tony and with a curl of his lip, presses hard on the remote. “EeAAH!” Peter shrieks, thrashing against the wall. The metal clangs and Tony reaches desperately for him to no avail. He can only plead for the guards to finish their sick game as Peter’s muscles contract painfully and his veins protrude from his skin.
The dial turns up, Tony can tell. Peter’s beginning to convulse. His body is falling down the wall and his head is smacking the concrete and—
“Please, God,” Tony begs, all defiance vanished in his voice. “I’m sorry! Please, stop! Please.”
The hum ceases and Peter slumps over. His eyes flutter close, but his shoulder twitches still. Tony sighs in relief.
“Mm,” one guard approves in the silence. “I love boys who plead.”
Tony snaps his head towards them. He wants so badly to strangle them, to shut them up, to pound their heads in. But he’s already hurt Peter enough. He’s already been horrible enough to him. He’d…kill himself before harming Peter any more.
“I suggest you find your place, Stark,” the one with the remote says. “We like submissive boys here. Besides, your boy is too pretty to pass up, and—
“You’ll never get—”
“Goodbye, pets,” the guard says, following the other men out the door. The door clicks closed on their heels, and in this first almost-peaceful silence, with Peter unconscious or asleep or whatever, Tony lets himself cry.