Fighting And Helplessness

Peter was back on the table, strapped down and cuffed so he couldn’t even fight. He doesn’t know what number experiment this was, he doesn’t remember how long he’s been here, it must at least a week, maybe two? Once they began the sleep deprivation tests the boy really lost count, he couldn’t even guess what time of day it was anymore. His concept of time was solely dependent on the fact that Ryan chained him up at night with the speakers and lights, then experimented on him in the lab during the day, before taking him back to the cell and beginning again. The teen was losing more and more weight, he hadn’t slept since Ryan had shown him the new cell, he wasn’t allowed to. The few times his eyes began to shut, or he started to go limp, the sprinklers would turn on. Those nights were the worst because being wet made the hypothermia kick in, and the colder he got, the weaker he got. The weaker he was the more exhausted and tired he became. The only thing keeping him from unconsciousness all the time was the glass of water every day and piece of bread every second day.

He wondered sometimes, when he had given up trying to put on a front. He thinks, his resolve had broken then, when he was first left alone in the new cell that night, with the lights and speakers left on. That night was the first time he screamed, and he hadn’t had the will power to stop himself since. Sometimes, Ryan would put away the tools and clean up his blood while he complimented how he sounded as he screamed. The times that Ryan was nice were the worst, because Peter felt like he was giving the man who hurt him satisfaction, and all he wanted was to be strong and sarcastic like his Dad, but he was too afraid of being punished. The day after he screamed for the first time, Ryan had him on the table again, but he asked questions as he did more surgery. Peter didn’t answer everything, only the things that would save his life. Knowing he had an advanced metabolism and needed more food then anyone else was something he had to tell Ryan, because if he was only getting fed the bare minimum for a normal person, he’d be dead within a month. Peter didn’t know if he would be here a month, he hoped not, but he wasn’t sure how long it would take for his Dad to find him. The boy’s hope never wavered, he knew his Dad and the other Avengers would keep looking for him, he didn’t know if they would find him in time though.

Peter remembers the first time he walked back to his cell after a day of experimentation, because he was actually able to walk back to the cell. Now, he was so weak and so injured that if he put any weight on his legs they would give way, or the pain would be so overwhelming his body chose to pass out, whichever happened first. He hadn’t walked on his own since he tried to run out of his cell, just before Ryan broke his ankle, now he was taken from his cell to the lab and back again on the metal table. Ryan was angry about that, he yelled something about not being able to do a duration test now, which Peter assumed involved him running until his legs gave out and he couldn’t anymore. Sometimes, Peter was angry about not being able to walk on his own too, because if he could he would have tried to run away again, not being able to carry his own weight made him feel even more helpless than before. But then again, he’d rather not be forced to run on a treadmill until he passed out, so maybe not having the freedom to move on his own was worth missing out on a ‘duration test.’

“Smile Pete.” He turned his head away on the table and closed his eyes, he knew what it meant was happening when Ryan told him to smile. He refused to look at the camera. He hated knowing that the photos were being given to his Dad, he hated it because he knew it would upset him, but deeper down, he was scared that his Dad would see how pathetic he looked. Ryan had shown him the photo’s his guard took the first time, and Peter saw how weak he looked, passed out and beaten until he was bloody. If that was how he saw himself, what did his Dad think?

----

A week and three days. An entire week and three more days. Ten, whole, days. His son had been in the hands, of whoever the fuck they were, for ten days now, and Tony was losing himself. He retreated into himself, staying in his room and working on a Stark Pad, coming out only for the bathroom, to eat with the others, and to deliver the messages to them so they could rip it apart for information. It had started the day after they found the warehouse, and if Tony had thought seeing those pictures of Peter was hard, getting emails containing photo’s and audio files of him screaming was another level of horror. The pictures were continuous, they trickled in every day or so, but the audio files had started three days ago. They were the reason Tony stayed in his room, because in order to pick them apart for information, Natasha and everyone else had to play them and enhance them and he just couldn’t sit through that. He didn’t have enough tears to cry.

The photos with Peter’s face in them were the worst, because when they were just close-up shots of the injuries everyone could almost pretend it was any random body. When they could see the mop of curls or the watery, broken eyes of the innocent teenage boy, nobody could pretend. Tony was a mess, the day the second round of photos rolled in he punched the mirror in the bathroom, luckily, he didn’t need stitches but Rhodey was still unimpressed. They had a big meeting after the mirror incident, it wasn’t an intervention, per say, but it sure as hell felt like one in the moment to Tony.

He was lying in his bed, covers pulled up to his chin and pillow damp with tears. He drifted in and out of sleep some nights, but he never got much sleep. An hour a night was good enough for him and lying awake worrying and working to find his kid seemed more appealing than dealing with whatever nightmares sleep brought him.

There was a soft but insistent knock at his door, and he heard Rhodey’s voice drift into his room.

“Tony, we’re all in the kitchen and you need to join us so we can go over some things.” The tired mechanic sighed and rolled out of bed, tugging on somewhat fresh clothes before pulling open the door and staring blearily into the hallway.

“M’ tired, and don’t wan’ deal with anyone right now.” His voice was still slightly slurred with sleep, but he begrudgingly followed Rhodey to the kitchen, where everyone was already sat around the table. They looked patient, understanding, and Tony felt a pang as he realized the team looked like how they used to when everyone would have dinner together.

“Yeah, we know, and I understand that, but we need some ideas in place and a solid plan for getting the kid back home, okay? Can you please just listen to what we have now and then you can go rest some more.” His friends voice was even more patient and sincere than his face, and Tony wasn’t really surprised to find that his legs carried him forward and sat him down at the table next to Steve.

“Alright, what’ve you got so far Rhodes.”

“We have the place the originally held him – the warehouse – but we don’t have any clue where he is now, our guess is that they aren’t actually in New York, but that’s a hunch and not confirmed right now.” He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, glancing around the table at the people he clearly spoke about this with beforehand. “Tony, these photos and audio files they’re sending aren’t helping, we don’t even know if they’re real time or from days ago. In order to trace things, we need a video, or a livestream, or for someone to get a hard copy to us, so we can track them back to the place they’re hiding out.” He didn’t know where this was going, but he got the vibe from the room that he wasn’t going to like it. “We think… that it would be best to respond to them and ask for proof that Peter is still… alive. I already know what you’re gonna say an –”

“Good, because you know I can’t do that, it’ll just provoke and encourage them to inflict more pain on my kid!” Tony was breathing heavily, he couldn’t stand the idea of playing into the video’s, but knowing Peter was still alive, and even the slightest chance they could get a location was better than nothing. Then again, if it backfired and he was hurt more… Tony couldn’t ever forgive himself for that. Steve’s hand was on his shoulder and he steadied his breathing, staring intently at the table as if it were the one who had stepped in and fucked up him and his kid’s lives.

“If Peter gets hurt more than already, or worse…” he looked up from the table, “you know I won’t come back from that.” Rhodey understood, he had met the kid more times than the rest of anyone else at the table, and he knew for a fact that if Tony lost him, he would never be the same.

“We won’t let… that happen” Steve said plainly, choosing to avoid the word ‘death’ just like the other man had. “Everything’s gonna be okay Tony.” He pressed his balled fists into his eyes until he saw stars, groaning loudly.

“Jesus… fine – but I… I don’t know, just – just get him home.” The genius didn’t know what he was saying, all he did know was that a week and three days was too much time.

“I’ve written the email already, all you have to do is read and send.” That was good, Natasha was the least emotionally involved here, most logical. He read it over, and although more mechanical and business-like than he would normally write, it cut to the point. He sent it, silently begging for some good to come from it.

----

It was getting too hard to breathe, and if he was laid flat on the table he couldn’t get air into his lungs. Ryan noticed this and set up for the doctors to perform what he called ‘thoracentesis’ surgery, which would remove the excess fluid from between his lungs and chest wall. No surprise to Peter, he wasn’t granted anaesthesia for the procedure. He lay there and tried to will himself into unconsciousness as he felt the needle push through his skin. Trying to focus on the tickle of the cannula in his nose didn’t stop him from screaming. He passed out when he felt the needle grate against one of his ribs.

----

Two days since his surgery and breathing was easier, but still laboured. Ryan decided that being able to breathe was a good enough reason to test his endurance overnight. The position he was chained in that night was by far, the worst. His neck was attached to the wall and wrists pulled taught above his head, if he wanted to breathe he had to hold himself up using his wrist chains to, effectively, do a pull up. If he dropped his wrists, his body weight would pull him down against the metal band around his throat, and he would suffocate. At least he didn’t get the sprinklers that night, he was to busy trying not to choke to fall asleep.

He remembers at some point during the night, his broken ankle cracked more under the strain of tip-toeing, and he swore he heard something in his neck snap as it was smashed brutally against the metal collar. The next day Ryan took photos of the harsh band line that surrounded his neck. Peter thought he might have altered the photos to make the purples and blues pop out, or maybe that was just what his skin looked like now. Bottom line was, he was too scared to ask a direct question, and he didn’t really care to know the answer, because either way it wouldn’t be what he wanted to hear.

----

He was in so much pain that evening that the doctors took him back into the lab for emergency surgery.

“Why isn’t he in his cell?” Ryan was angry to say the least, eyes burning with the intent of letting the boy stay chained in his cell, slowly suffocating. His eyes raked over Peter’s form which was laid atop the table, lips beginning to turn purple from asphyxiation, weak, frantic, rapid breaths whistled through his airway but failed to actually give him any oxygen. He curled his fingers, reaching out weakly for Ryan’s wrist in an act of desperation and last resort.

“P – pl – please… I c… an’t – can’t br – breath.” His voice was weak, barely audible over the sounds of the doctors gathering equipment. Choked, raspy noises were coming from the suffering teen, his eyes began sliding into the back of his head and Ryan rolled his eyes, wagging a lazy finger at the doctors, barely casting a second glance at Peter as he moved to get the camera out. Ryan was relatively well versed in medical terms from his time spent at the old organisation, and he understood most of what the doctors were expressing. Well, he understood enough to know that the kid would die without medical attention.

“His hyoid is broken.” The horseshoe shaped bone between the jaw and the thyroid cartilage. At least he knew the new chains the kid had endured last night worked.

“We can’t reconstruct the bone because of the epiglottitis.” Huh, epiglottitis - would’ve been caused by the throat trauma, had made the tissue surrounding the windpipe inflamed. If he had been talking out loud he would have shrugged, as long as the subject was alive he didn’t give two fucks whether he could breathe on his own.

“I’ll intubate him, and we can leave it like that until the swelling goes away, so we can reconstruct the hyoid.”

“Give him fibreoptic intubation, I wanna get some photo’s.” If Peter’s shattered hyoid bone hadn’t stopped him from turning to look at Ryan, he would have. His eyes were wide in terror and the man couldn’t help but laugh as the spider realized he was about to be intubated without any medication or numbing shots.

“Sir… you are aware that fibreoptic intubation is on of the most invasive optio –” The doctor was swiftly cut off.

“Yes, I am very aware, why do you think I’m saying you’re doing it?” His voice was low in warning, and the doctor rushed to cut the tube to the right length.

Peter wanted to cry, he wanted to beg for anaesthetic, he wanted to scream and ask why he deserved this. What did he ever do to justify a vicious doctor shoving a tube down his throat while Ryan circled the table and took photos. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t. His lungs weren’t working, his throat wouldn’t let any air through, his head swam and all he could see was two of the doctors unravelling a tube. It was black and thin, but something told him that it would feel a lot bigger when the doctors forced it down his airway. Peter tried to stay calm, he wanted to stay still, he did. He tried to tell himself that once the tube was in, he would be able to breathe normally for the first time in, however long he’d been here. But he couldn’t.

Someone pulled two metal straps from the side of the table and began securing them over his forehead and collarbone. His head was never restrained. He felt claustrophobic, the metal was pressing down, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move. Oh god, oh no, he didn’t like it, he couldn’t do this. He thrashed as much as he could under the bonds, which wasn’t enough, the most he could do was arch the curve of his back and rattle his ankle restraints. He tried to scream but the only noise that escaped his wrecked throat was a choked off gargling noise.

“Shh, Pete if the doctors are going to do this for you, no moving okay?” Ryan ran a thumb over his hairline and the straps stopped him from turning away from the touch.

“Oo… oo – n –” he coughed, it sounded more like he was drowning again. “Nnn… oo – n… o – no” he forced the words out, his throat burning with the effort of saying two letters. Ryan only smiled and snapped a photo of the bruised, pale, fractured lump that was Peter’s neck.

“We’re going to begin, so if you move too much or try to speak it could cause permanent damage to the windpipe and voice box.” He stilled his movements, but he continued to try and speak through the flames licking up his throat.

“If you keep talking we have gags in the store room” he resorted to a soft sniffle, trying to keep his mouth closed as the doctors leaned closer and closer.

“Open, or it won’t be pretty kid.” It wouldn’t be pretty any way, so he complied, letting his jaw fall slack as gloved fingers tugged at his chin. Fingers were holding his mouth open, stretching his cracked and split lips, using his bottom teeth as a grip. He felt something brush past his gums and he clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles cracked. His head was tilted so far back for the doctor’s ease of access that he wasn’t even able to try and take a breath. The tube touched the roof of his mouth, dragged down over the ridges and scraped against the sensitive skin near his uvula. He gagged strongly as it pushed past the back of his mouth and began to slide down his windpipe. It felt so much rougher than plastic, it grated against his trachea painfully and his throat convulsed on its own accord, squeezing the tube in place. He choked on it, his windpipe constricted, lungs spasming as tears began to form in the corner of his eyes.

He screamed, the raw, dry feeling increased tenfold, but he was crying now, his nose was stuffed and there was a tube halfway down his windpipe and he was getting zero oxygen. The doctors pushed on, the tube bending slightly and tearing the lining of his oesophagus. Warbled, choked, gagging sounds escaped from his tinged lips along with whimpers and moans of pain as the tube was shoved lower and lower. Fuck, he wished he had anaesthetic for this.

“Ugh, mm. Argh! Ah, ah gaah, aaa – D – aa – d! H… el – p.” Something was tearing, something was being ripped and torn and he still couldn’t breathe, and his vision was doing the fuzzy swimming thing as if he were looking through warped, tinted glass. Dad. Oh god please anyone help him. All he wanted was for this to end. He would take inability to suck in a full breath over this any day, he wanted to just pass out. He wanted to fall unconscious and never wake up from the procedure.

Shit. Had he really just though that? Had he seriously believed for a minute that dying was better than waiting for his Dad and enduring a little surgery? He really was breaking, fissures flashing through his cracked resolve.

“You want who?” Ryan’s face swam into view, the flash of the camera mottling his tears and blurring his vision even more. He felt another tug and actually saw the gritted teeth and brute force the doctor was using to shove past the twists and turns of his throat and dislodge the tubing.

“D… aa – ad” he whined pitifully, begging as much as he could with his eyes while his voice was held hostage by the black, snaking tube. Ryan barked a bitter laugh.

“What a pathetic fallacy… Daddy isn’t coming Peter, nobody cares enough about mutant freaks to even lift a finger.” He closed his eyes, resigning to just open his mouth wider and try to clear his nose.

When they were done, and the tube was in place, Peter couldn’t help but suck in air greedily again. It hurt to use his throat, to turn or move his head in any direction, to swallow, speak and even think at this point, but at least he had the freedom to breathe.

Ryan let his feet touch the ground that night, his legs stretched in front of him, back against the freezing tiles and wrists hanging loosely above him, elbows slightly angled and floppy. The position was so much better than the previous, he could have almost slept through the sprinklers.

----

The next morning, he wasn’t on the metal table first thing, he was tied to a chair. It was more comfortable, but with his wrists pulled behind his back, his shoulder, which had been torn out of the socket a few nights ago, was burning. Ryan was doing something with his knee, but Peter was so tired he couldn’t really force himself to care. He would rather know what was going on with his body, how his wounds were healing and what new wounds were being cut, burnt or inserted into him. Sometimes, when they tested if he could heal around something, they just left the knives in him overnight. He had given up on trying to keep track of what was wrong with him, everything hurt, so it really made no difference anymore.

He moaned and let his head loll against the back of the chair, his eyes shutting, as if that would help the pain. Ryan was holding a small scalpel, and was digging around inside Peter’s knee, the same one he had originally taken the bone sample from. He panted and rested as much of his weight as he could on the chair, slumping as the scalpel was jabbed a bit more aggressively into the wound. The clanging of metal on metal made his head hurt as Ryan angrily dropped the tool to the table. He stood and rubbed at his brows. ‘Clearly, torturing a kid was hard work’ he thought bitterly to himself.

“Why aren’t you healing anymore?” He looked at Peter, as if scolding him. “You have accelerated healing, why’s it not working anymore, huh?” Ryan asked him pointedly as he lifted his head up from the chair, rolling it forward and wincing as his neck cracked in protest.

“Because I haven’t slept, ate, or drank enough in the past, what? Two, two and a bit weeks?” When he spoke, he could feel his voice box bob up against the tube still in his throat.

“A week and six days” Ryan corrected “It takes that long for your healing to stop if you aren’t being pampered by Dad? Please. Suck it up and don’t fucking complain.” Peter resigned to closing his mouth, resting his head back and closing his eyes as Ryan wandered across the room. He was tired, he was sore, he was hungry and thirsty, and he just wanted his Dad. All he wanted was his Dad.

“Hey!” He jerked as something dropped into his lap, “what did I tell you about sleeping?” It was a newspaper.

“Mm. Not to?” He mumbled sleepily, blinking slowly and staring down at the paper in his lap, the words fuzzy and unfocused to his tired eyes. Ryan propped the page up, so it was leaning against Peter’s jutting ribcage. He lazily trailed the man with his eyes as he stormed across the room and set a stand up, before mounting a camera onto it. “You gonna send it to m’ Dad?” He asked hopefully, wondering if tracing a video file was easier than photos and audio files.

“Shut up,” Ryan fiddled with the camera some more before hissing another order at Peter. “Say what I tell you to and nothing else, nothing. You hear me, if you say anything other than what I tell you too, I’d be glad to do a brain biopsy.” Peter closed his mouth, taking a sample of his leg, hip and shoulder bone was one thing, cutting through his skull and extracting brain tissue was another. He heard a beep and saw a flicker of red light before Ryan was speaking behind the camera, hiding out of frame like the coward he was.

“Today’s newspaper, a breathing Peter. Anything else you want to fucking demand?” His eyes swivelled to the boy who stayed still in the chair, a smirk creeping over his lips. “Say hi to Dad Pete.”

“Hey Mister Stark,” he managed a weak smile, trying to feign a sense of normality and good health for the camera. Ryan scowled from behind the screen, dragging a finger across his skull methodically in warning. Peter swallowed, his eyes darting from the man to the camera. “Uh… h – hey Dad…” Ryan hummed in praise.

“Mm. Good boy. That’s all, Stark.” He spat the name, like it tasted foul in his mouth, before shutting off the camera and stalking over to a now quivering Peter. “How hard is it to say Dad?” He shrugged, looking down at his lap as Ryan threw the paper aside. “Get rid of the tubing for the next test, the swelling’s gone down so they’ll fix the bone after this checkpoint on his lung capacity.” Someone gripped his hair and yanked his head back, exposing his bruised throat. The angle was used to their advantage and one of the guards pulled the pipe out, it was horrible. Taking the tube out was almost as bad as putting it in, it was quicker though, and Peter held his breath while they drew it out, saliva and blood trailing from the tube as they disposed of it. They didn’t even give him time to cough after it had been yanked roughly from his windpipe.

“He had the surgery, so we can take another test now,” two of the guards pulled him out of the chair and let him drop to the floor. Ryan packed away the camera and handed it off to the third guard as the other two pushed the tub forward. Fuck, again? He couldn’t do it all again, he didn’t have it in him. He could finally breathe without assistance and now it was going to be taken away again. Someone detached him from the chair and forced him to his knees, his head was spinning, and his eyesight was already shuddering like the strobe lighting in his cell. He cried out, his throat pounding with the volume of his pleading.

“Wait! We did that already, no, no, no –” He was shoved under the water without even getting to suck in a final breath. He struggled at first, but he was so weak, he didn’t bother fighting anymore, maybe if he let himself pass out quicker and didn’t try to hold his breath the migraine that followed would be less intense.

“4:32 Sir.” They pulled the limp form out with no care, his head thumped against the tile and they didn’t bother to shake him, just pressed the taser into his gut. He came to the same way as last time. He threw up for real this time, heaving out the single piece of bread he got and so much pure stomach acid, which burnt the scratches all up his throat, bloody spittle coated his lips. He felt feverish, crazed like an animal. A guttural wail that he didn’t register came from him, it bounced around the cell and the doctors lifted their gazes from their clipboards to look down at him.

“F – fuck this!” He shivered and his hair dripping beads of water down his face, soon mixing with his hot tears. “I hate this! Let me see my Dad, let me fucking… god – you – you’re sadistic! They’re gonna find me, I know they will.” He weakly kicked as the guard lifted him up under his arms, his shoulder popped but he didn’t care, he wanted his Dad, he wanted to scream, he wanted to kick something he wanted to throw a stupid scalpel at Ryan’s smug fucking face. “I hate you!” Ryan laughed as they strapped him back down to the table. He was crying, burning, angry tears streamed down his face and he yanked at the cuffs until his wrists were bleeding again. His whole body shook and vibrated in his distemper.

“You’re allowed to be angry spider.” Ryan was patronising him.

“I’m allowed to be anything I want.” He spat blood over the edge of the table, the surgery may have helped his breathing but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still coughing up blood every day or two. Ryan petted his hair and he lashed out with his teeth, trying more to get the hand off his head than to actually bite the man. Fingers jabbed at his neck, disturbing the bruises and cracked bones.

“Just another week or two and I’ll be done, you can go anywhere you want after that. Whatever you believe in.”

“I wanna go home” he said quietly, the doctors prepped more equipment and he didn’t even bother lifting his head to see what was happening. The mention of this all being over had softened his rage, and his anger ebbed away as thoughts of comfort swirled around him.

“If you think you go home when you die, that’s your choice.” That’s not what going home meant, when Ryan said that he would be done it had meant death. Peter didn’t want death, he wanted home and freedom. He slammed his head against the table harshly, lips quivering as tears fell into his hairline again. He wanted desperately to pass out before another procedure began.

“I don’t want to die… I want my Dad.”

There was the first snap of the glove, cut of the scalpel, scream torn from his still pained throat, then the familiar darkness over his lids. With the boy unconscious the doctors had to prop his jaw open with a surgical gag, if he had been awake he would have screamed.

----

A week, six days. Three since they had sent the email, so two weeks and two days. Now they were getting the first video file.

“Fuck, if you open it and – and he’s getting hurt… if they fucking touch my kid again I don’t –” A steadying hand rested over his shoulder, the grip was firm and grounding.

“Tony, it’ll be okay. I swear on everything I will help you get that kid out of there, alright?” Steve stared at him intently, and he would have been intimidated if he hadn’t known him, but he did, and he felt better.

“F.R.I play video file, so everyone can see it.”

The screen lit in front of their eyes, Tony fumbled with his fingers nervously. The camera was of relative quality, not as high definition as the pictures, and the audio was slightly less clear than the video files. The frame was filled with clinically white tiles, and a dirty, blood covered teen chained to a chair. Sam and Rhodey breathed out a quiet curse at the sight of him, Nat and Clint sighed, both very familiar with the situation. Steve’s fingers tightened on Tony’s shoulder, the mechanic watched blankly, his breathing slowly picking up.

He looked the same as the pictures, the main difference was the tube taped down on his cheek and running past his lips and down his throat. His neck had a wide, contusion that at first glance, looked like a sort of collar surrounding his skin. It was dark and opaque enough to be mistaken as a band, but when the boy looked up at the camera, shifting his neck, the form moved with him.

“What is that?” Tony was so busy staring at the screen that his brain didn’t bother to figure out who had spoken.

“A bruise, something was too tight around his neck” Natasha replied, her voice even despite the memories of her own plaguing her mind.

Peter’s eyes were blown wide in fear, pupils dilated and devoid of the usual hazel-brown hue. ‘It’s a concussion,’ Tony’s brain supplied. A dark, male voice sounded from somewhere close to the camera.

“Today’s newspaper, a breathing Peter. Anything else you want to fucking demand?” True to his word, there was a newspaper leaning against Peter’s ribcage, the date printed in large font on the front cover. The date was from three days ago, but at least now they could place Peter as alive on that date. “Say hi to Dad Pete.” The nickname made Tony’s gut wrench in distaste, the man who kidnapped and tortured his son had no fucking right to address Peter like that. He grit his teeth and his fists clench, eyebrows moving into a dark scowl.

Peter visibly straightened in the chair, chains rattling from behind him. His cracked lips pulled into a feeble smile, his eyes giving him away as they conveyed nothing but hurt and horror, and hope?

“Hey Mister Stark.” His voice was shaky, weak and broken, his words were fractured and raspy. It sounded more like “ey m… misdr trk” rather than anything discernible. He was so obviously in pain, it looked like breathing was an effort, his chest rose and fell unevenly, blood dripped from his curls and one of his lids was barely open from under the black eye. Despite everything, he was refusing to admit that Tony was his Dad, he was calling him what he did when he was in the presence of anyone who didn’t know. He was putting on a brave face for his Dad, he was pretending he was okay, that he was dealing with the pain and torture. He was so strong, so much more than Tony had ever wished a kid could be, and he was so, so, proud of his baby that he felt it in the gap of his chest that had been hollow since the first footage of Peter.

He moved forward, feet carrying him without permission from his brain. Steve’s hand fell from his shoulder and Rhodey watched with sad eyes as the first tear fell from his friends’ eyes. His hand reached out and laid against the screen, pressing over Peter’s cheek as if he were there to hold.

“My baby…” he whispered softly, fingers moving as if to brush the hair off his kid’s forehead and back into place. Another tear splashed on the ground next to his bare feet.

Peter’s eyes flickered away from the camera, to something behind it. His throat moved as if he was gulping, and his gaze moved back to the camera fearfully, filled with trepidation that could only mean one thing. Someone was behind the camera, threatening his child.

“Uh… h – hey Dad…” His voice was still cracked, and the syllables sounded muddled as if he were fading into sleep, but the clarity of terror in his eyes was too obvious and alert. He choked on a sob, leaning further into the screen, his shoulders resting against it, seeking comfort, searching for his kid’s warmth.

The person off-screen hummed in pleasure, recognising Peter’s compliance while making his Father feel sicker.

“Mm. Good boy. That’s all, Stark.” The feed cut off abruptly, leaving Tony pressed against a black screen, tears slipping from his eyes and lips trembling in an effort not to break. His name being spat in this context hurt, and the hole in his heart felt larger, every piece of evidence that his son was hurt carved into it deeper.

“You have received new files from the same source Sir, would you like me to display them for the room?”

“Tony are you sure it’s a good idea to –”

“Play, F.R.I.”

“Send them to us, I’m heading to the lab to see if I can trace the files… we won’t stand here and watch you do this to yourself Tony.” Clint, Natasha and Sam shuffled away, leaving Rhodey to step in-line with Steve, both of their eyes trained on the back of Tony’s head.

Two images were pulled up on the screen, one of them was a close-up shot of the bruised band line that had ran around Peter’s neck in the video. At the distance and quality of the photo, Tony could see how deep the bruise really was, he could see the indents that the brace had scored into the flesh, the small cuts and raw skin that tainted the normally soft skin. The second image was of Peter’s whole head, strapped down to a metal table, thick restraints clamped over his forehead and upper chest. They looked too tight, they dug into skin, pressing down over old and newer injuries. His eyes were squeezed closed, the waterline was wet with tears and his lips were pulled into a pained grimace, eyebrows, chin, cheeks and forehead scrunched and creased in distress. There were twisted, gnarled shadows that loomed over him, making his bruises seem darker, contouring the curves of his face, highlighting the bags under his eyes.

“Shall I play the attached audio file?”

“N –” Rhodey and Steve both spoke to answer the A.I, but neither rushed enough to speak over the desperate mechanic.

“Yes! Show me everything F.R.I.”

The screen went dark once again, and the audio clip began to play, the unmistakeable crinkle and background static sounded through the speakers.

There was the sound of bustling in the background, metal on metal, hurried footsteps moving closer and the breath of someone holding the recorder. An animalistic, wheezing, gargle sounded in the foreground and Tony knew it was the noises of someone trying to scream while being choked. He shoved his cheek against the screen, pulling his arms up and curling them under his chin and into his neck, a defensive and comforting position.

“Shh, Pete if the doctors are going to do this for you, no moving okay?” The fictitious comfort in the man’s voice didn’t mask the command to stay still. The gurgling, panicked noises increased and after a few agonising seconds, they turned into the sound of Peter trying to form words.

“Oo… oo – n –” a pause while he tried in vain to cough. “Nnn… oo – n… o – no” He was pleading, the tone was begging not refusing. His child was asking for whatever was about to happen to stop, he was asking, not denying, and that’s what hurt his heart the most. Peter was past the point of fighting things in fear, he was begging in desperation. He heard the snap of a camera, no doubt taking the picture that had been sent before.

“We’re going to begin, so if you move too much or try to speak it could cause permanent damage to the windpipe and voice box.” A new voice, presumably the people who were performing the torturous surgeries. Despite the warning, the pained noises of Peter trying to speak continued. In response to the disregard of the warning, there was an angry grunt and then the man holding the recorder spoke again.

“If you keep talking we have gags in the store room.” The threat cut the noises off, and the only sound Peter made was a small sniffle. The last time Tony heard his child make that noise was the month before he got his powers.

He was still curled up in his room, buried under a pile of blankets at the time he would normally be bounding out the door for school. Tony remembered sitting carefully on the edge of his bed and softly stroking comforting patterns into his son’s scalp, smiling when the boy made a quiet hum of content. An hour later and he was cradling Peter’s head in his lap, clutching a box of tissues and lazily thrumming his fingers up and down the teens spine as a movie played. He looked over in concern while Peter sniffled and rubbed at his red nose, nestling his body further into his Dad’s lap while the cold worked its way through his system. He was so small, so cute, so precious to Tony in those moments of vulnerability. He had never been one for physical affection, not even from Rhodey, Pepper and Happy. The only person he sought and offered closeness and comfort to, was Peter. All he wanted was to comfort his son, to hold him and chase away his pain, but all he got to do was push himself against a screen and listen helplessly as doctors and kidnappers made his baby gag and cry.

“Open, or it won’t be pretty kid.” The voice tore Tony out of his memories and brought him to the present, the present in which he was listening to his son asphyxiate and beg for the pain to stop. There was the noise of someone’s mouth opening, presumably Peter’s, and then focused quiet. He wanted to know what was happening, to understand why there were people forcing his son to open his mouth, but the screen stayed black. He couldn’t even hear Peter trying to breathe anymore, which is what scared him the most. If he strained his ears he could make out a wet scraping noise, like something bendy pushing against something soft and damp. Suddenly, there was a violent gag and Peter retched, restraints jingling in the background. The choking sounds continued, far worse than before, it wasn’t the noise of someone trying to breathe, it was the sound of something being forced down a throat. ‘Oh god,’ the video of Peter in the chair… he had a tube… ‘holy shit,’ he was listening to the video of his son being intubated while he was fully aware and conscious.

Peter screamed then, it was raw, suffocating and congested, the tube was obstructing his throat, it had to have been shoved down his windpipe. The sound of crying, of racking, broken sobs that were wrong and warped from the tube. Peter was whimpering, moaning and mewling as the doctors grunted with the effort to force the plastic down the airway. Tony sobbed too, leaning so forcefully into the screen that he wondered if it would crack under the pressure. He didn’t care, he had to be closer to Peter.

“Ugh, mm. Argh! Ah, ah gaah, aaa – D – aa – d! H… el – p.” Tony’s whole body froze, his heart felt like it stuttered to a stop, everything dropped. ‘Oh god… no. No that can’t – Peter was… he, he screamed for Dad.’ Peter screamed for his Dad, for Tony, Mr. Stark… It didn’t matter the variation of his title, he still recognised the fact that his son had cried out, seeking help from his Dad – who wasn’t there for him. He stumbled backwards a step, craning his neck to stare at the blank screen.

“Oh no, no. I’m here, Peter I’m here!” He laid the palms of his hands on the screen, not caring that he would leave marks. “Peter, baby I’m here… god, I – I’m here.”

“You want who?” A click of the camera. The man recording everything spoke with a smile in his voice and Tony could hear, he could fucking hear how smug and enthralled he was. Even backed up from the speakers he could still hear the grunts of force the doctors made as they brutally jammed the tube further down Peter’s convulsing throat. He didn’t think he would reply, he didn’t think it would hurt so much the second time he begged.

“D… aa – ad” the meagre whine was so strained, and so full of sorrow and suffering. Tony felt himself crumbling, breaking – and so he did the last thing he could. He gripped the strongest emotion he had left, anger, and he swung with it as the sadistic laugh drifted through the speakers.

“What a pathetic fallacy… Daddy isn’t coming Peter, nobody cares enough about mutant freaks to even lift a finger.” The audio cut out and Tony was left, staring at his achromic reflection. With tears blinding his vision, he raised a fist behind his head, and threw it at the screen.

Steve darted forwards and gripped his wrists before he could shatter the glass, and subsequently his hand, like he had done before with the bathroom mirror.

“No! Get off me! I’m here, Pete, I’m here… please, let go – get off! He’s – he’s – they fucking intubated him while he was awake Steve!” He struggled, jerked his shoulders, swung his fists outwards, thrashing against the strong arms that encompassed him. He heard someone shushing him softly and as his last resort, to fight, deteriorated, he felt Steve turning him in his hold until his face was pressed against a shoulder.

“Tony it’s okay, everything’s gonna be alright, I promise.” Rhodey stood next to him and tried to reassure him quietly.

“No, no, no, no, no. It – it’s not okay… it’s never okay.” He snivelled and sunk to his knees, the arms around him adjusting and knees cracking as they bent. He folded in on himself, knees on the floor, feet underneath him, head in hands pressed into his lap.

“Hey, Rhodey’s right, it will be alright, you’re okay –”

“Damn it!” He slammed his open palms onto the floor harshly, ignoring the burn of the contact. “No, no! I’m not okay! It isn’t fucking alright. They have my kid Rodgers. They – he’s, he’s gonna kill the one person. The only person who’s been there for me. Every. Single. Time. Without fail, without doubt, Peter has always been there for me. After everything that I’ve gone through, every misery that boy has ever faced because of me. He was there, and now – now, the one time – one time, he needs me. I’m not there. I can’t be there. I’m trying to be there! But I’m not there for him. Now he’s going to die. They’re going to kill him, and I’m not there. My baby is gonna be alone, and afraid, and dead. All because of me.” At some point, he had begun to shed more tears, now he wiped at them hastily, “so no, Steve, I am not okay, and things are not alright.” His voice was softer, he felt a bit bad that he had snapped, but he was too tired to care. He stood shakily, “I – I’m going to bed. Just…” he sighed in defeat, “sorry. I’m just sorry. Can you brief everyone on the – the stuff they sent and uh, see if any of it’s traceable.” Steve nodded, accepting the apology and fully understanding the man’s temper, but himself and Rhodey still looked mildly hesitant to leave him alone. “I’ll be fine for tonight, I’m going to… sleep it off.” He turned, walked away until he was out of view, before padding to a stop outside the door he had been avoiding.

----

That night, after his hyoid bone had been reconstructed, Peter was dumped back in his cell. He let his body hang limp as the guards manoeuvred him into his position for the night. His ankles were chained to the floor, away from the wall and on his knees. More restraints wrapped around from his elbows, spiralling down his arms and stopping at the wrists, which were attached to the ankle chains. With his hyoid fixed and the lack of a tube own his throat, Ryan thought it was safe enough to chain him by the neck again. The same, thick band was enclosed around his still bruised skin, and it hung from the ceiling, dangling at a height that forced Peter to arch his back and keep his chin up. He couldn’t sit back on his knees, because they were outstretched beneath him. His head was pulled back and up by the chains, so he didn’t see Ryan adjusting the temperature, or get warning when the lights and speakers started up again.

Once Ryan left the room, he made a beeline straight for the security office, sending the on-duty guard out to help clean up the lab and operating theatres. He switched between the three views, the high, wide-shot angle from the ceiling of the room, the lower, mid-shot angle directly in front, but out of Peter’s sight and finally, the close up of the boy’s face, which was a small, barely visible camera attached to the chains that hung from the ceiling. From that angle, you could see all the details of his face, every bruise, cut, taser burn and bloodstain. He smirked to himself and took the first three photos from the three angles. ‘Initial’ he murmured aloud as he stamped the photos with those exact words.

Peter was alert, his breathing was uncontrolled and shaky, he could see the puffs of air floating from his lips any time he breathed out. Not too long after he noticed his breathing, the shivering started. It was vigorous and intense, making his chains rattle loudly along with his quivering body. The sound would have hurt his ears, but the speakers were still blasting, and he could barely hear anything over the ringing in his ears. He shut his eyes against the lights and tried to curl in on himself as much as he could, to prevent the shivering, but he only made it worse by closing his eyes. The sprinklers were activated, and the freezing water assaulted his senses even more, his pants were soaked, and his skin and hair were drenched. He felt the cold seeping into his blood, veins and bones, his teeth chattered violently, and he kept his tongue out of the way. He thinks maybe he was whimpering and sobbing, but he couldn’t hear himself, so it didn’t matter.

Eventually, he grew confused and his consciousness was reduced to the point where he would continually forget where exactly he was. The most he could do was be grateful his shivering was diminishing slightly. When he tried to flex his fingers and toes to get blood flowing, he found he couldn’t, and his tongue felt limp in his mouth. He attempted to form words, but his brain to mouth coordination was askew, and even if he had been able to hear what he was saying, it wouldn’t have made sense. He couldn’t see much of himself, but his skin was so frozen he felt numb all over, and when he blinked, tiny flakes of frost dusted his cheeks, falling from his lashes in little, sparkling clouds. They were pretty, and he felt a strange sense of calm wash over him as he watched them glitter in his peripheral vision. Things were going well, he thought. His shivering had ceased, which he assumed was a good thing. The teen didn’t feel any warmer, but maybe that was just the numbness, or the strangely unrhythmic thumping in his chest.

The cell was slipping around him, but a weak smile still graced his lips. Everything was okay he told himself, the glittery ice felt nice on his cheeks, the thumping was calming down, and he was falling unconscious, which was always a nice way to avoid the pain.

After the boy’s eyes slid shut and the sprinklers doused him again, Ryan watched him sag in the restraints. He saw his taught muscles and took in the way he looked dead. He truly would be in good time, but for now, the experiment was over. He called time and shut off the water, stamped the last series of pictures, prepared them to be sent off to Stark, and took his time walking back to the cell. When he got there, he turned the temperature back to something survivable. By that point, it was early morning anyway, so he spent a minute unchaining the teen and taking another few pictures of his position on the ground. The metal table was rolled in soon enough and he was wheeled to the lab.

He was set up with warm intravenous fluids, which was just warmed salt water injected into his veins, airway rewarming, consisting of humidified oxygen through a mask and finally the blood rewarming, extracting, heating and re-injecting the warmer blood. When the boy came to he was barely awake, mumbling incomprehensible, broken words until he passed back out. He cried when he woke for the second time, whimpering soft pleas and reaching out for anyone close enough to touch.

“Mmm, no, no. P – please, t – to – too co… old. I wa – wan m’ Da… ad. Ple – ase.” He was stuttering, and the doctors pointed out that it was either the shivering, or possible brain damage. That just made the spider sob harder. “Dad, Da… ad. No, no, no, I – I can’t d – do this anymore, pl – please, please. Da – addy, sa… ave m – me. Dad? Hel – help, someone please. DaddydaddyhelpmepleaseIcan’tdoitanymore…” He whimpered in his sleep and balled his face in pain as the doctors continued to reheat his blood and administer warming packs to his feet, hands, chest, armpits and neck.

----

Tony hovered outside the room, his fingertips brushing against the door handle as he hesitated.

“Sir, you have received three new attachments” he waved his hand gently “displaying now Sir.”
Three images of Peter flashed before him, each more horrible than the next. The first was one that Tony had been expecting he would get, because he heard the photo being taken in the audio file of the intubation. Hearing it was gut wrenching, seeing it was petrifying. It had been taken mid-scream, Peter’s eyes were staring directly into the lens of the camera, his eyes were filled to the brim with tears, some already running down his cheeks. The flash of the photo reflected his tears, making them so much clearer and obvious. His lips were a deep blue on the outside, but the inside of his mouth was painted red with blood, which Tony thought must have been what made the gurgling noises. One of the arms holding the tubing was visible, the bicep muscle of the doctor was tensed, and it was clear how much force they were using to insert the plastic down his throat. Peter’s fingers were outstretched, as if he was reaching for a world where the pain didn’t exist. He was making the well-known gesture for ‘hold me’ and it shattered his heart when he realised that his kid was so starved of physical affection and a loving touch that he was beginning to seek it from anyone around him, including the people hurting him. It meant he was losing touch with reality, he didn’t know who was good and who was bad, what would help and what would hurt. There were gloved fingers holding his mouth open, stretching the flesh till it split, streaks of red shining through the blueish skin. The hands were pressed against his teeth, using them as a means of keeping his jaw locked and agape. There was a black tube halfway down his throat and it was so glaringly obvious how far down his neck it ran, because the plastic inside him made a bulging lump.

The second image was worse, because Tony knew first-hand exactly what had happened, and what it felt like. Peter was lying, soaked in water, on the tiled floor, unconscious and even bluer than during the intubation. In the background was a large tub filled with water, and two sets of data were scrawled across the side of it in black pen.

‘Subject: Spider – 1st Duration: 6:47 – 2nd Duration: 4:32 – State After Duration: Unconscious’

His curls were more defined when they were wet, and Tony remembered how they looked after the ferry incident, or when he had just woken up and showered, when he was younger and ran in the rain. There were so many times his kid had been drenched, and almost every time he had a giddy smile plastered across his face. Why did it have to be like this? How could someone put a child through the same thing he had gone through in Afghanistan? What had the poor kid, and his Dad, ever done to deserve that?

The third picture was taken during surgery, and despite being passed out, Tony knew it wasn’t because they had given him anaesthetics, it was because the pain was too much. Peter’s body was, once again, chained down to the metal table, eyes closed but still scrunched in misery. He looked so small and fragile. His mouth was propped open with a surgical gag, and multiple instruments and tools were in the midst of digging around in his chin. The surgery, the drowning, the kidnapping was all too much for Tony, it was triggering too many repressed memories of his time with Ten Rings.

He transferred the images to a Stark Pad and floated to the labs in a dark haze, unable to conjure any feelings for the moment as his brain fully processed everything. He pushed open the door and was met with a sight and a sound that rattled his brain back into commission. The choking, gagging, gargling, screaming sobs were playing, Natasha and Clint analysing the audio, video and photographic sources they had while Sam was attempting to trace the email address – an easier task for a less experienced hacker. Steve was comforting Rhodey, who was just turning to look up at Tony as he walked into the room.

“Tony!” He jumped up and slammed his fingers down on the keypad, pausing and minimising all the screens. The mechanic softened his gaze and looked at his friend in thanks.

“It’s okay Rhodey, you don’t need to – it’s fine.” He flicked the images from his Stark Pad onto the, now cleared, screens. The three photos projected, and everyone looked even more disheartened at the discovery that more had been sent. “Those were sent a few minutes ago, thought I should let you know” he paused, looking down at his desk which had been empty for longer than it should have been. “I can help with the –”

“No! It’s okay Tones, go to bed, get some rest – please. We can sort this, you’re too… emotionally involved and it’s not fair on you.”

He nodded and exited the lab swiftly, turning away from the screens that held all the chance they had at finding his son. He didn’t even hesitate when he reached the same door, just pushed it open and walked in. His bare feet sunk into the soft carpet and his head spun at the smell of his child, of Peter. He leaned against the still unmade bed, ran his fingers along the dust that was beginning to settle over the bedside table and reached out for a pillow, burying his face into it and clutching it as if it were Peter. It was the closest thing he had to him at the moment. He clambered onto the bed and just, laid there. He stared up at the ceiling, rolled onto his side and looked at the wall. Tony shifted often, taking what felt like hours to relax.

Not long after deciding sleeping in Peter’s bed wasn’t going to happen, he carried himself to the desk, slumping down in the chair. He sighed heavily, and loose slips of paper ruffled in response. The pages were scribbled in new web fluid and suit designs, random and incomplete school notes, reminders and odd strings of information. He peered at the handwriting, loving the way it exuded an energy of motion, constant movement and excitement just like Peter always did. He absentmindedly flipped through textbooks and novels, old science journals and the Spider-Man colouring book that Ned had given Peter as a gag gift.

He didn’t realize the wetness on his cheeks were tears until hours later, when Rhodey came looking for him to regretfully tell him that none of the new files had any useful information on them, but that they would keep looking. He didn’t understand why Steve and Rhodey cared enough to walk him back to his room like a mental patient and assure he was buried under blankets before they left again. He didn’t know why his dreams were so strange and cryptic that night, or why when he woke up the next morning, he could remember hearing Peter calling him ‘Daddy’ for the first time since he was a baby.

----

‘Hey, Petey!’ His amused but mildly concerned tone was whipped up by the pitter pattering of the rain. Lord save him if his kid didn’t show his little face soon, he smiled to himself as thunder clapped across the dark skies. ‘C’mon baby, it’s warmer inside and you can still watch the rain from the penthouse.’

A flash of wild hair bounded past his hip and he reached out on instinct, wrapping his arms around the smaller form and breaking into a wide grin as he heard even wilder giggling escape the boy’s mouth.

‘I like the water!’ Peter squirmed in his hold and he tucked the dripping body closer to his chest, sharing his body heat.

‘Ha-ha, I know you do buddy – but that doesn’t mean you can’t still enjoy the warm water of a shower from inside.’ He pressed a kiss against the temple and felt tiny hands curling around the back of his neck. A cold nose nuzzled against his pulse point and he hummed as he pulled Peter higher in his arms.

‘Can’t I play in the ran for a little longer please Daddy?’ Little feet swayed in the air and fingers interlocked behind his head.

‘Kinda sending mixed messages there baby – you wanna cuddle or run around in the rain?’ He pulled his head back to look down at the large-eyed, curly-haired and loveable face of his kid. His adorable nose wrinkled in deep thought, and Tony couldn’t help but admire the concentration and effort being put into his question.

‘Mm, both!’ He decided, after careful deliberation. He ruffled the boy’s hair and bent down, letting the short legs touch the floor. ‘Yay! I wanna see the lightening!’ He held Peter’s hand as he jumped onto a deck chair and looked up at the clouds expectedly.

‘Well sometimes you don’t see the lightning every time it rai –’ He was interrupted by a clap of thunder and a flash of lightening, Peter squealed and jumped into his arms, launching off the chair in excitement.

‘Daddy! Daddy, did you see that? Was that you?’ He cradled the young child in his arms and chuckled softly at the question.

‘Yeah I saw it, thanks for the implication but no, I don’t control the weather baby.’ He smiled wider as Peter mumbled something about ‘what’s an impacaton’ into the crook of his neck. He walked them both back inside, side-stepping the expensive rugs as they dripped rainwater on the floor. ‘Wanna nice, warm shower now buddy?’ He took the frantic bobbing of his head as a yes and carried the boy into the bathroom.

An hour later, they were both in warm, dry clothes and sitting in the penthouse. Peter had his hands and nose pressed firmly against the glass and was fogging up the view but didn’t care. Tony busied himself with watching the kid’s absolute infatuation for rain, rather than actually studying the droplets that fell against the window, blurring the lights of the city and warping the roof lights.

‘Love you Daddy, thanks for letting me play’ Peter’s soft voice was muffled slightly by the glass, but Tony caught the words well enough for the little warm pocket inside his chest to expand some more.

‘Love you too baby, thanks for not catching another cold.’ That night he rocked the child to sleep by the window and tucked him into bed after his enraptured breathes of awe became quiet snores. ‘Couldn’t have asked for anything more than you Petey’ he whispered as he pressed his lips to his son’s temple.

----

Three days later, the photograph series Ryan had taken, and the new audio file was sent. Tony got the message during breakfast, Steve clapped him on the back when he coughed in his water.

“We should probably just take those ones to the lab, you shouldn’t have to deal with them anymore.” Sam was trying to be helpful, trying to make it easier on Tony, but nobody understood how important it was that he saw them.

“Well, it’s my kid, and my fault – so I’ll be checking them over first, thanks.” He pushed his plate away and ignored Rhodey when he slid it back.

“It is in no way, your fault Tony.” Everyone sounded tired, everyone was tired. The only person getting a somewhat normal amount of sleep was Clint, who managed to nap anytime, anywhere, when he wasn’t needed.

“Doesn’t matter, whatever they send, goes through me first. Bring them up F.R.I.”

Tony was so disassociated from the reality where Peter was hurt, that he couldn’t really process the several images that were pulled up on screen. Steve and Rhodey were there, expecting to have to catch him when it finally hit him, but it didn’t, not really. He just stared blankly up at the screen where Peter was chained, in various stages of hypothermia. His head hurt, and he felt tired, he wished he could sleep it off, but there was his son, just hanging there on the screen, blue-skinned, barely conscious, ice coating his eyelashes and looking dead already. He poked his plate with the fork lazily and slouched further back in his chair, wishing it would swallow him up. “Just play the audio,” nobody even tried to argue, just shuffled awkwardly in their seats.

“Mmm, no, no. P – please, t – to – too co… old. I wa – wan m’ Da… ad. Ple – ase.”

“The stuttering could be from the internal body temp, or he may have sustained brain damage, we’ll have to wait and see.”

“Dad, Da… ad. No, no, no, I – I can’t d – do this anymore, pl – please, please. Da – addy, sa… ave m – me. Dad? Hel – help, someone please. DaddydaddyhelpmepleaseIcan’tdoitanymore…”

“Huh…” he pursed his lips and nodded his head sadly, bottom lip quivering with the effort not to cry, “m’ just gonna head back to bed” he mumbled.

“We’re here to talk to… all of us are – you don’t have to try and be strong Ton –” He waved a hand in dismissal, looking away. He rubbed his eyes and the bridge of his nose.

“Nah, it’s just… just,” a dry, emotionless, forced laugh bubbled up his throat and he looked up at the ceiling, trying to keep his tears from falling while his laugh choked into a small sob. “Just… I’m just done Rodgers.” He wanted to go, but Natasha’s hand on his arm caught him.

“Those pictures were taken with security cameras, not a handheld one.” He rolled his eyes and slipped from her grip.

“Yeah, I got that, thanks. Seeing my son slowly freeze in HD quality was extra fun.” His voice was cold and sarcastic, but he just wanted to go back to bed and lie there, alone for a while.

“Shit, Nat you’re right. Stark get down to the labs with us, now!” Clint tugged on his sleeve and he followed, admittingly, he was mildly intrigued with what had worked the normally half-asleep archer up so much this early in the morning. Rhodey, Steve and Sam perked up more too, and the group practically sprinted to the labs with a frantic Clint and suspiciously level-headed and smirking Natasha leading the way.

“Clint, sort the audio and I’ll check the photos, Stark – get your shit together and clean yourself up, for Peter.” She gracefully jumped into the chair, twirling it around and hooking her boots under the desk to pull her in close to the keypad, where she began to jab away at it furiously. He looked down at himself and took in his ragged appearance, barefoot, unbrushed hair, still dressed what he ‘slept’ in.

“Sure, yeah whatever, just tell me what the fuck’s going on – is it Peter?” He hated how much hope he got from such little information, but he was holding on like a lifeline.

“If these photos were taken on a security camera, rather than a handheld one, we can figure out what building it’s operating in and track the signal.” She didn’t even look up from the computer as she spoke, her fingers blurring across the screens and tapping madly at strings of code.

“You – we trace… what? You’re telling me we have a solid lead right now?”

“If you shut up and let me concentrate on finding the signal, yes.” Something in him stirred. Rhodey placed a steady hand on his shoulder.

“I got it – I have the signal!”

“I told you we’d find him Tones.”

“Yeah, only took us two weeks and five days.”