Chapter Text
He comes to slowly, head heavy and eyes blurry. The world around him is brown and grey and so incredibly dull and ugly that he knows it can’t be home.
It’s a basement, he realizes when his vision finally clears. Dirty cinderblock walls, cold cement floor, one big room with nothing in it but an arm chair, a side table, and a small lamp.
Oh, and the creepy metal box in the middle of the room.
It’s about three feet wide and four feet tall, made of metal walls and a thick glass front. It’s dark and empty inside, but a control panel on the outside blinks a steady yellow light. He doesn’t know what it’s meant for, but it can’t be good.
He’s handcuffed to a pipe against the far wall, stripped of his wrist gauntlet and his jacket and left on his ass. For now, his kidnappers are nowhere to be seen.
Wanting to get it over with, Tony shakes his arms back and forth, rattling the handcuffs, hopefully loud enough to be heard by whoever else is hiding in this ugly house. His plan works, and soon enough, two heavy pairs of footsteps descend the stairs to his right.
Standing in front of him now are two slimy-looking men. One is a big burly guy with dark curls and an unkempt beard. The other is a smaller man, more weaselly-looking, with ashen hair and a hooked nose. Both of them smile down at him, looking thrilled to see him awake.
“Hello, Mr. Stark,” the smaller man says. “It’s good to see you finally awake. You slept much longer than our other prize. Of course, that’s to be expected.”
Tony’s mouth goes instantly dry at the mention of their “other prize,” especially since he can take it as a hint that the other person is enhanced in some way. Most likely a faster metabolism to burn through whatever drugs were pumped into their systems.
Tony has a number of enhanced friends (or at least, enhanced acquaintances), but the idea of one in particular… one certain spider kid, being here, in this dirty basement with multiple psychopaths…
His blood runs cold.
“That’s nice,” Tony says curtly. He ignores his pounding heart. “Why don’t you go ahead and cut to the chase and tell me why I’m here.” The words earn him a pair of cold, glinting smiles.
“It’s simple, Mr. Stark,” the smaller guy said. “Revenge. And understanding.”
Tony resists the urge to roll his eyes. Of course. Another pair of mediocre villains who felt Tony Stark—or maybe the Avengers—had wronged them in some way or another. Of course.
“You robbed us, Stark,” the bigger one says. “Stole our handiwork.”
“And we can’t let that go. You understand.”
“No, asshole,” Tony spits back, irritated. “I don’t understand. I’ve never stolen anything. And even if I had, I wouldn’t want whatever you brainless low-lifes could come up with.”
“Of course the great Tony Stark would feel entitled to whatever he wants,” the small one growls. “You think you can just take our creation and use it for yourself? You think that because you have the wealth and the fame that you should get to steal our work and twist it for your own purposes?”
“You’ve lived a life of luxury,” says the other man. “Whatever you want, it’s yours. Whatever you want. Well, that ends now, Stark. And I do believe you’ll live to regret it.”
“Go get Thomas,” the small one says, never taking his snake eyes off of Tony. “Have him bring down our creation. Then we can begin our lesson.”
“What the fuck are you going on about?” Tony asks. He really, really doesn’t want to know what their creation is, but he’s growing irritated with their rambling nonsense.
He’s answered with a smug grin and the sound of heavy footsteps descending next to him. He twists, craning to see what’s coming, and his heart drops to his shoes.
The big guy comes lumbering into the room, dragging a far-too familiar teenage form. Another man—presumably Thomas—practically skips down the stairs after them. He’s short and stout and decked out in a lab coat that’s smeared with half-dried blood. Even more of the stuff lingers in the cracks of his hands.
Peter is awake, but somewhat dazed. The big guy grips his bicep with one hand and the kid has practically no choice but to try and scramble uselessly for some sort of purchase as he’s dragged. They must have him at least somewhat sedated. There’s a line of blood running down his arm from the crook of his elbow and judging by the lack of any other visible injuries, Thomas has probably taken a few pints. That probably doesn’t help with his alertness.
Peter’s eyes go wide when he spots Tony. “Mr. Stark!”
The guy lets go of Peter and practically throws him onto the floor. The kid lets out a tiny yelp as he falls, barely catching himself with his hands and pushing himself up onto his elbows. He lifts his head, meeting Tony’s eyes and there’s so much worry there that it makes Tony’s chest ache.
Tony can only think about the kid and how he’s going to somehow manage to keep him safe and get him out of here. He forgets he should be putting on a brave face, for Peter, for the assholes that have them, so they won’t know that there’s nothing in this world that could hurt Tony more than seeing that kid suffer.
“Did they hurt you, Mr. Stark?”
Of course they didn’t. That’s the whole idea. Peter’s there to suffer for Tony.
His stomach rolls with nausea.
Peter’s wide eyes are still searching him imploringly though, so he gives a tiny shake of his head, just to appease the kid. Peter seems to relax just slightly at the knowledge.
“Mr. Stark is very interested in knowing what’s going on here,” the smaller kidnapper says. He nudges Peter with his foot. Peter glares at the guy’s shoe in disgust and pushes himself into a slightly more upright position. “Tell him who we are,” he commands.
Peter just glares up at him, mouth planted firmly shut.
Then, the man pulls a remote out of his pocket and Peter’s expression turns to confusion.
“Go on, tell him who we are. Tell him who made you, spider. Tell him about how we’re the ones who made you.”
“No one made me,” Peter growls. “I’m not yours.”
“You are not Stark’s! We made you, not him.”
“I’m not anyone’s! I’m a person!”
Damn right, kid.
Tony smiles smugly at their captors.
“You are a laboratory creation,” the man says, his voice icy calm. “As your creators, we have the rights to you. We control you. Now, tell Stark whose work he’s stolen.”
“No one st—”
Peter’s cut off by the involuntary scream that rips through Tony as the guy presses a button on the remote. White hot agony is coursing through his bones, turning his nerves into livewires, and it isn’t until the pain recedes that Tony can realize that his cuffs are electrified.
Every one of his senses has turned to white, but as they slowly fade back in, he can hear someone yelling.
“—p! Stop! Please! Stop!”
“Tell him who made you, freak!”
“You made me!” Peter cries, and Tony looks up. The kid has his eyes squeezed shut, and his head is bowed, embarrassed. “I—I was made in a lab. You made me. Mr. Stark had nothing to do with it.”
“Tell him who we are,” the man hisses, leaning down to get right next to Peter’s face.
“Y-you’re Davis,” he stammers, pointing but still not looking at the man. “And—and that’s Smith,” he says, flailing a hand out to gesture towards the big guy. “And, uh, Thomas. You are responsible for my powers—”
Davis kicked the kid sharply in the side and Peter corrects himself. “You made me. Please, please don’t hurt Mr. Stark again. He didn’t do anything.”
“He stole—”
“He didn’t!” Peter says quickly. “I—It was all me. I—I ran away from Oscorp. I hid from you.” Tony isn’t sure how long he’s been out, but these assholes have clearly been drilling this bullshit into Peter’s head for a while. And the kid is telling them what they want to hear—horrible things, things he knows Peter’s struggled to not think about himself—just so they won’t hurt Tony.
Davis bobs his head side to side like he’s considering Peter’s words. “Of course, part of the blame is on you,” he agrees. “But Stark, he’s a man of science. He should have known not to try and reap the benefits of someone else’s hard work.”
“Hey, asshat,” Tony snaps. “He’s a person. He’s not mine, he’s not yours, he’s not anyone’s. Get that through your thick skulls and let us go now and maybe I won’t break every bone in your body.”
Peter shoots him a weak, appreciative smile.
“Oh, Stark,” Davis chuckles. “You’re wrong. We’ve been observing for months, like any good scientist would. We know more than you ever could. You don't deserve to use our creation when you don’t even understand it’s physiology.”
“You see,” Thomas adds, beginning to pace the room. “We’re incredibly fascinated with what characteristics our little pet spider shares with, well, actual arachnids. Over these months, I’ve made a wonderful number of observations. There are some obvious difference, of course: he has two legs, two eyes. He doesn’t generate webs, not biologically. But he climbs like a spider, senses things happening around him. And…” Thomas’s face morphs into a sinister smile as he locks eyes with Tony, “he has such a hard time thermoregulating.”
The basement is cold. Cold enough that Tony can feel goosebumps up and down his arms, cold enough for his fingers to start to cramp, but not cold enough to induce hypothermia. It won’t kill anyone, not even Peter.
“You missed all the signs, Stark,” Thomas continues. “The spider was shivering in early September, and you never put it together. Pathetic.”
The worst part is, he’s right. Peter was shivering in September. He was wearing three sweaters and making Happy crank up the heat in the car and he even made a few off-hand comments to Tony about feeling colder than he used to. He’d had no idea.
Peter won’t meet his eyes and guilt gnaws at Tony's chest.
“Did you get everything you needed, Thomas?” Smith asks.
Thomas nods. “I did. We can proceed with the last phase.”
Last phase. There’s a terrifying finality to it that sends Tony’s heart rate skyrocketing.
No no no no
“Last phase?” Tony demands. “What do you mean? Answer me, fuckwad!”
They’re laughing, all three of them, while Tony struggles against his chains and Peter scrambles on his hands and knees towards him, trying to reach him. Tony wants nothing more than to reach out and protect him.
Peter’s just a few feet from him when Smith leans down and scoops the kid up.
Tony is yelling obscenities and Peter is kicking and hitting, but whatever drugs are in his system have weakened him too much. Davis opens the little metal box and Smith chucks Peter in before slamming the door.
Thomas starts fiddling with the control panel, and when he presses one of the buttons, Tony can see Peter’s eyes go wide with fear.
“Just above freezing should be good to start,” Davis suggests. “Don’t want it completely freezing too fast.”
“Let him out!” Tony roars. He’s struggling hard enough against the chains now that he can feel the skin of his wrists beginning to rub raw.
“When it gets too cold,” Thomas says, ignoring Tony’s protests, “most cold-blooded creatures die because crystals form inside their veins at freezing temperatures. Did you know that, Stark? This is why its such a shame you stole from us. We could have done so much better. We could have learned so much more. You didn’t deserve our spider.”
He can still see Peter thanks to the glass door of the box. He’s crawled forward towards the glass, slapping and hitting uselessly at it. Already, Tony can see him starting to shiver. The fuckers took his jacket, left him in a thin, stupidly nerdy t-shirt and jeans.
Tony tries a different approach. “Since you know so much about him, you should be able to tell that leaving him in there will kill him. All your hard work, down the drain.”
Davis smirks. “We already gathered all our data. Thomas took enough blood and samples for us to continue our research long after the primary source is gone.”
“Gone? You…”
The man shrugs. “If we’re wrong, and the spider somehow survives this, we’ve some other theories we’d be interested in testing.”
“Like if it reacts to combustion the same way as a spider does,” Smith adds with a grin.
If Peter doesn’t freeze to death, they’ll burn him alive. And Tony will have to watch.
He tips his head to the side and spits out the bile that’s been slowly rising up his throat.
He should have been better about hiding Peter’s identity. He should have done more to protect him. He should have known people would be interested in the kid’s physiology.
He should have predicted this and put a stop to it before Peter could get hurt.
Tony meets Peter’s terrified gaze through the glass and tries to pour as much reassurance as he can into a look, but it’s hard when he’s so scared himself. Peter responds by trying to put on a brave smile, but it falls short when a violent shiver tears through him and leaves his facial muscles twitching.
“We’ll be back later,” Davis says. “Enjoy the front-row seat to our experiment, Stark. Few have such a privilege.”
“Go fuck yourselves,” Tony snarls as the three men stomp up the stairs. They don’t even glance back.
His glare falls as soon as they’re gone, and he turns his attention back to Peter trapped in that box.
“Can you hear me at all, kiddo?” He knows Peter hearing is good, but he doesn’t know anything about that box. Maybe it’s soundproof. Hopefully not.
Peter gives a sharp nod and mouths something—or more likely, tries to say something Tony can’t hear. He’s fallen back into a seated position now, running his hands up and down his arms to try and generate some semblance of heat.
The kid can hear him at least. He hasn’t been robbed of the ability to try and offer at least some verbal comfort or distraction to him.
“Alright, kid. I can’t hear you, but I’ll go ahead and run my big mouth for a while and you just focus on that, okay?” Peter nods again.
He talks for what feels like hours; however long it is for him, it must be ten times worse for the kid. Anything that pops into his head, he says it, unless the story has anything to do with cold or kidnapping, which is surprisingly hard to do. Maybe it’s because the terror he’s feeling for Peter is eclipsing most of his thoughts.
Eventually, their captors return. Smith opens the box and drags Peter out. The kid is shivering violently and too tired to fight back. The only thing keeping him on his feet is Smith’s tight grip on his arm. He can see Peter’s knees threatening to buckle.
Davis and Thomas stand in front of him, frowning and mumbling to each other. Thomas pokes and prods at the kid a little bit and jots down a few notes. Peter squirms weakly and twists his head away from the scientists who are looking at him like he’s not human, like he’s a piece of meat.
When they finish their examinations, Smith hauls Peter towards a column in the middle of the basement where they chain him up too. Tony can’t reach him, even if they both stretch out as far as possible. Peter's shivering hard enough to make the chains rattle and the sounds cut through Tony like a knife.
Now the chill in the air makes sense. Peter won’t be able to get warmed up, not fully.
It’ll only slow down the onset of hypothermia.
They’re torturing his kid. Slowly freezing him to death, just to prove that they can.
“Sick bastards,” Tony hisses. Like always, his insults have no effect on them.
Davis sets a plate of food and a glass of water in front of each of them before they leave again, just a tiny cup of soup. It’s not enough for Peter’s metabolism, and they have to know that, since they’re oh so knowledgeable about the world’s greatest spider-kid.
Tony doesn’t feel particularly hungry, in fact, he feels slightly nauseous, but Peter insists that he eat, and he’s never been able to say no to that kid for very long.
“I’m so sorry, kiddo,” Tony says, watching Peter shiver against the column.
“’S n-not your f-f-fault.” Slowly, the kid is lifting the cup of soup to his lips, going slow so he won’t spill any. He takes a tiny sip before his expression turns to a grimace.
“What’s wrong?” Tony asks quickly. “You okay, kid?”
“’S n-nothing. Just-t-t, s-soup’s cold-d. I was h-hoping…”
“It’s cold?” Tony’s own soup is hot, enough that it’s barely comfortable to hold the cup and he burnt the tip of his tongue.
But Peter nods. His soup is cold.
“Those sick fuckers,” Tony mutters under his breath. “Drink it anyway, Pete, okay? At least it’s something. You need all the nutrients you can get.”
Peter nods jerkily and takes a few more sips. Tony wishes he could trade with him, but they were too far apart. He would give anything to be a tiny bit closer to the kid. There’s a whole room between him and comforting his kid.
“Th-thank you,” Peter says. “F-for t-talking to m-me.”
“You don’t have to thank me for that, kiddo. In fact, you should be blaming me for all this.”
Peter shakes his head. “N-no. N-not everything is y-your fault-t, Mis’r St-tark. S-sometimes, bad things h-happen. We’ll get th-through this.”
God, his chest aches at Peter’s optimism.
Peter reaches for the glass of water. Just like with the soup, while Tony’s is lukewarm, Peter’s is cold. He can see the condensation on the outside of the glass from across the room.
Peter sips it with a cringe but swallows it anyway. They can’t afford to add dehydration and starvation onto the list of the kid’s problems.
A sudden shiver tears through Peter and the glass tips, spilling water all down the front of the kid's shirt. He gasps at the added cold and drops the glass in surprise. It shatters on the ground in front of him.
“Sh-shit,” Peter hisses. He’s shivering harder now and curling in on himself to try and preserve some form of body heat. A strong shiver turns into a twitch and Peter’s hand skids along the floor involuntarily.
“Pete? You okay?”
Peter clutches his hand to his chest and already Tony can see lines of red running down his arm. Tentatively, he holds out his palm for Tony to see. He’s sliced his palm to ribbons on the shattered glass.
“M-my healing with t-take care of it,” he says quickly—the alarm on Tony’s face must have been evident because he yanks his hand back into his chest. “I’ll b-be okay. D-don’t worry. We’ll get through th-this.”
It’s hard to believe the kid’s smile when he’s pale and curled up on the floor surrounded by water, glass, and his own blood. It’s hard to ignore the horrible box sitting just a few meters away; the sight of it makes Tony’s blood boil. He can’t stand the thought of Peter going back in there.
God, Tony hates these chains. They’re keeping him from his kid. It physically hurts him, in his already damaged chest, to watch Peter curl up all alone and shake. The kid is breathing like he’s putting all his effort into every single breath—like they’re the one thing he can control. Breathing in the air of this room, warmer than the horrors of that box, is all Peter can do to lessen the pain and the cold.
When Tony talks now, he speaks only in endless reassurances, but he’s not sure Peter hears him.
It’s not much of a reprieve, Tony can tell. If Peter had stayed in the box, he would have likely been dead before the night was up. The temperature of this basement is enough to keep the kid alive for a little while longer, but Tony can tell it hurts. Peter is scared and in pain.
Still, whenever he catches Tony staring at him, he offers up a weak smile. It’s enough to keep Tony from going crazy.
At least, until those men come back.
--
“Time for the next trial, Stark!” Davis says gleefully while Thomas and Smith throw Peter back in the box. “You’ll let us know if anything interesting happens, yeah?”
“You’re killing him,” Tony hisses. “Don’t do this. He’s a kid. You’re killing him.”
Davis shrugs. “Yeah. That’s the idea. Doesn’t feel so good to see your stuff taken away from you, does it?”
“He’s not yours!”
Another shrug. “Soon, it won’t matter. We’ll have all our data, you’ll have nothing. It’s better than I could have ever hoped for.” Tony hates the faraway gleeful expression on the man’s face. “Crank it down below freezing, Thomas,” he calls over his shoulder. “Enjoy your day, Mr. Stark.”
This time, Tony isn’t sure Peter is hearing him. Well, he’s probably hearing him, but Peter wears an unwavering expression of misery and fear and… confusion.
Sometimes Tony says something particularly loud or bizarre, Peter glances up, looking like he doesn’t remember where he is or what’s going on.
“I’m sorry, kid,” Tony says with a sigh. Peter looks at him through the glass, dazed and confused. “We—we’ve been taken. It’s all my fault. But you’re gonna be okay, okay? I’m going to get you out of this, I promise.”
Peter simply nods, and Tony’s chest constricts painfully.
When they finally pull him out again, Peter is shivering so violently that Smith can barely maintain his grip on him. He shifts so he’s holding both of Peter’s arms and the kid is slumped in front of him, unable to hold his own weight.
“Hmm,” Thomas says. “It’s not looking too good.” There isn’t a single echo of concern in his voice, just amusement.
“Mis’r Stark,” Peter mumbles, and the words are slurred.
They really are freaking psychopaths. Peter’s never looked younger in all three years Tony’s known him than this very moment. He’s thin and wilted and looks far closer to twelve than seventeen.
“Ya know,” Smith interjects, “my wife’s really into conservation and preservation and all that shit. Read an article about how if you don’t want spiders in your house during the winter, you should throw in the garbage. ‘S supposed to give ‘em a chance to stay warm.”
How do any of these monsters have spouses? They’re despicable human beings and—
“There’s a dumpster out back…” Davis grins.
No. They wouldn’t… No.
“Don’t you dare,” Tony growls. They just laugh and drag Peter out. “Sick bastards!”
The kid manages to lift his head and meet Tony’s eyes. All the reassurance from before is gone, just the fear and the misery and now, humiliation and shame. He’s gone before Tony can try and comfort him.
They leave him food, but this time he’s too nauseous to eat it, and there’s no dying kid in front of him that he needs to set an example for.
No, he’s alone.
It’s the first time they’ve left Tony alone with nothing, and that means it’s the first time Peter’s alone.
With nothing else, with no kid to focus on, he can hear their captors upstairs laughing and—Tony’s blood burns—mocking Peter. Apparently, it’s goddamn hilarious how the kid was shaking and begging for his life.
He tries to tune them out, and eventually does when he starts planning everything he’s going to do to them as soon as he gets free of these cuffs. First, he’s going to get Peter safe and warm and make sure he knows that everything’s going to be okay. Then, he’s going to tear these sick idiots apart piece by piece and he’s going to savor it. How dare they hurt his kid? How dare they treat him like a freak? Like he’s less than human? How dare they touch a single hair on Peter’s head?
He imagines scenario after scenario, each one more painful and satisfying than the last, and none of them are enough of a punishment for what they’re doing to Peter. He wants them to bleed and burn and freeze.
Eventually he hears them stomping around upstairs. They’d fallen quiet for several hours, so Tony had assumed it was nighttime. If they were really serious, then they’d left the kid outside all night. It's late October, and although Tony has no idea if they were still anywhere near the city, the nights back home had already turned frigid.
When they drag the kid back downstairs, Tony is one dose of gamma radiation away from Hulking out of these chains and destroying everything in sight. Peter is, if it’s possible, shivering even harder than before. He can’t support his own weight and his legs just drag limply behind him. He doesn’t raise his head when they stop in front of Tony, just flicks his gaze towards him for a moment before looking back at the floor.
There’s dirt and grime all over his skin and clothes, in his hair and smearing his cheek. The basement reeks of garbage now and Tony’s stomach churns, not out of disgust, but anger.
“How was your night?” Smith asks, shaking Peter slightly. “Comfy?” He and the others chuckle.
Peter practically whimpers, turning his cheek so he’s no longer looking at the men or at Tony. Tears roll down his cheeks.
“Oh, kid,” Tony murmurs, quiet enough that their captors probably can’t discern what he’s saying, but Peter can. “I’m so sorry.”
The kid manages to get his feet under himself, and Tony sees a flicker of pride on his face. Tony is just as proud of him. After spending the night freezing in a dumpster, it’s a miracle the kid has any strength left in him.
Still, the asshats pull him towards the box. Peter tries to walk, but he stumbles, tripping on his own feet. Smith and Thomas laugh and push him back and forth between them, taking pleasure in the way the kid staggers around and scrambles to grab onto anything he can to steady himself.
“Stop it,” Tony growls lowly. “I swear to god, I’ll—”
They throw him in the box again, ignoring all of Tony’s threats and protests.
He’s going to die. He’s dying he’s dying he’s dying
Peter slumps at the back of the box and shivers and shivers and shivers until it stops. Tony is watching the kid so intently that he knows the exact moment Peter’s body slows to a still. He knows the exact moment it gave up on shivering.
He can see Peter’s eyelids drooping, but that kid, that absolutely incredible, perfect kid listens when Tony tells him to stay awake.
“Eyes open, Pete.” It’s nearly every other sentence now. For every MIT or Iron Man story Tony tells, he throws in at least five demands that the kid stay alert, keep holding on.
He tells the same story multiple times, partly because he only has so many family-friendly adventures to share, partly because he can tell Peter’s memory is failing him. Tony knows the symptoms of hypothermia. He’s taken first aid—watching out for a reckless teenage superhero makes you want to keep up with the basics—and he can see it, clear as day, even across the room and through a thick glass door. Confusion and memory loss, slurred speech, drowsiness, clumsiness—it’s a horrible cocktail of symptoms and Tony has no choice but to watch them all unfold. And not shivering anymore? That’s bad. That’s really, really bad.
Peter likely won’t survive another box session. It’ll be a miracle—and a true testament to that kid’s incredible will—if he makes it through this one.
He’s slumped against the metal side of the box, his limbs hanging limp. Tony can tell he’s fighting hard to keep his eyes open and he’d proud. He’s never been more damn proud. Peter’s still fighting, even though Tony knows how easy it would be for him to let go.
He says it. “I’m so proud of you, kid.” There are tears in his eyes and a thick heaviness in his throat. “So, so proud, Pete.”
Peter, in all his pure goodness, smiles.
Then, the kid shifts, something Tony doesn’t know how he’s summoning the energy to do. Weakly, shivers gone and limbs scarily still, Peter lifts his arms. With what looks like extreme effort based on the way his face screws up, Peter points a single finger to his chest, then forms a heart with his hands, then turns and. Points at Tony through the glass.
I love you.
They’ve taken everything, even Peter’s ability to speak for himself. It’s all too possible that Tony would never hear the kid’s voice again. He’d never hear Peter say those words.
“I love you too, kiddo,” Tony says. The tears flow freely now.
When Peter smiles, it’s both happy and sad, and as his face falls slack again, his eyelids start to slip downwards.
“Hey, hey, hey, Pete,” Tony interjects. “None of that. Eyes open, kiddo. Focus on me. Focus on staying awake.”
Peter mumbles something that Tony has no chance of making out, but he blinks his eyes open anyway. For a moment, the effort makes him go cross-eyed, but he manages to steady himself.
“Good job, kid,” Tony says. His own tears blur his vision. “I’m so proud.”
--
Tony knows the symptoms of hypothermia, so he knows this isn’t right.
Something is very, very wrong with Peter.
When their captors come back and pull Peter from the box, he’s still and limp, but alive.
If he’s being truly honest with himself, Peter shouldn’t be alive anymore. He should have died in the box. Tony has no idea how he’s still alive, especially since the shivering has already stopped. His body should have shut down during that last session.
Peter sits up against the column, his whole body swaying. At first Tony thinks it’s just the drowsiness that comes with dying.
Then, “Mis’r Stark. ‘M dizzy.” Peter slips to the side, catching himself on one elbow before his arm gives out and he drops all the way onto the floor. He stays there on his side, eyes focusing on one thing for a while before he has to blink, then shifting to stare at something else. Everything about him is slow and heavy.
“It’s okay, Pete. It’s okay. It’s all gonna be okay.”
“Feels wrong, Mis’r Stark.”
“I know, kiddo, I know.”
“No,” Peter insists. “Different. Wrong. Hurts.”
“What’s wrong, Peter? What hurts?”
Peter frowns. “Leg. Keeps cramping.”
Okay, that’s strange, but maybe a result of the cold and the shivering. Peter’s physiology is still mostly a mystery to him.
“Okay, kiddo. You—”
He’s cut off by Peter groaning. He writhes on the floor, twisting and arching his back before curling back into a fetal position. His leg drags through some of the broken glass that remains there, but Peter doesn’t even seem to notice.
“What is it? Peter? What’s wrong?”
“M’ back. Like—like someone’s stabbing me. Mis’r Stark… hurts.”
“It’s okay, Pete. It’s gonna be okay.” He can’t keep saying that. Those words are losing their meaning. They don’t mean anything anymore because no matter how many times he says it, Peter is dying, a cruel, slow, painful death, right in front of him, and he can’t do anything. Nothing is okay.
“Make it stop!” Peter cries. “Please!”
Tony tries not to sob. That’s not what the kid needs, but… but…
He can’t handle this. It’s killing him, tearing him apart to watch this. “I’m so sorry, Peter. I—”
Tony tugs on the cuffs with every ounce of strength he has left, but nothing he tries gets him closer to where Peter lays sobbing. “I’m sorry, kid,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry.”
Peter cries in the otherwise quiet basement for a while before the sounds are suddenly cut off. He makes a choking noise and Tony’s attention snaps towards him, not ready to watch whatever horror is about to unfold, but willing to, since the kid has to go through it.
Peter throws up, still laying on his side, unable move anything else. When he finishes, he curls in on himself even harder, groaning and breathing too fast to bring in any real air.
“Slow down, Pete,” Tony says. “You gotta breathe.”
Peter stares at him blankly as he hyperventilates and shudders. His lips have turned blue.
“Breathe, Peter,” Tony says, a little more forcefully this time. “Slow down. You need to breathe.”
He speaks slow comforting words until Peter’s breathing evens out just slightly. It’s not perfect, but Peter can speak again, so he knows the kid is at least getting some oxygen now. Still, the blue tint to his lips don’t fade, and fear crawls up Tony’s throat.
“’M okay,” Peter murmurs, sounding like he’s partially trying to convince himself. “I—” He blinks, hard, and an alert wave of horror washes over the kid’s expression. “Mis’r Stark?”
He sounds panicked. The hyperventilating is starting to return.
“It’s alright, Pete. It’s okay. I’m right here. What’s wrong, bud? Tell me what’s going on.”
“Can—can’t see,” Peter chokes out. “I can’t see. Evr’ything’s blurry, Mis’r Stark. I can’t see—I can’t see you.”
What’s happening to his kid?
“I’m right here, Pete. I promise you. I’m right here. You can still hear me, right?” Peter nods. “Alright, bud. Use that superhearing of yours. I’m right here.”
“Blurry,” Peter mumbles. He watches as the kid squeezes his eyes closed for a moment before opening them and blinking rapidly. He watches as the kid sees nothing and is left stifling a sob.
He knows what Peter’s senses mean to him. Sometimes, they're the source of debilitating sensory overload, but they’re also a constant that Peter’s become used to having. He used to have terrible eyesight, before the bite. Wore lenses as thick as coke bottles—he’d shown them to Tony one day and they’d both had a good laugh.
He knows how heavily Peter has started relying on his new senses. They’re with him, day in, day out. Losing them, even one of them, it’s taking away another piece of Peter’s freedom. At this point, he’s got just about nothing left.
How long until he can no longer speak? Until he can no longer will himself to move or to breathe? How long until his eyes slip closed and there’s nothing left of the kid at all?
Tony talks and talks, because if Peter can’t see, he won’t dare let a single moment be filled with silence. He doesn’t want Peter to let go. He’s not ready to say goodbye. He can’t do it. So, he’ll give Peter one last thing to cling to, something to anchor him until the end.
If he can’t hold his kid as he dies, he’s gonna at least give him something.
It scares the shit out of both of them when Peter’s body suddenly seizes. Peter sobs, weak and terrified. Tony can only stare. It’s the first time he’s gone silent in what feels like hours. He can’t help it.
He feels so damn lost.
Tony hates not knowing what’s going on in front of him. Before, this was something he couldn’t fix—which hurt enough already—but now he can’t even understand what’s happening to the kid. Blue lips, blue fingernails, shallow breathing, the pain—he doesn’t know what any of it means.
He can’t plan. He can’t even try and accept Peter’s death. It’s some sick nightmare he can’t wake up from.
It’s not long before Peter’s goes completely silent, any weak laughter or comments on Tony’s anecdotes long gone. He’s stopped responding to Tony, just lying there, his whole body convulsing every few minutes. Tony doesn’t know what any of it means, but he’s staring at a shell of Peter now.
--
The men come back and they’re going to put Peter in again. He’s going to die in that box this time, Tony knows it. He can’t let that happen. He can’t. If Peter dies, a piece of Tony goes with him. He won’t recover. If Peter dies, he’s taking Tony’s heart with him.
“You want fame, right? Money? Tech? Glory? I can get that for you. Anything you want, I’ll do it. Please, just spare him. Let him go. Let the kid live.”
Davis stalks across the room to Peter, kneeling down beside the kid.
“Thomas,” he says, “come look at his.” Peter convulses again. “This isn’t hypothermia.”
Thomas joins Davis next to Peter. He eyes the puddle of sick next to the kid and pokes a finger into a space of his back, where Peter had complained about the night before, and Peter groans in pain. “Hmm,” Thomas says with a frown. “Looks a lot like antifreeze poisoning. Saw it in my niece once. When it gets cold, spiders do produce a sort of antifreeze to lower the temperature at which their body freezes. Guess our little spider does that too.”
“Huh. Who knew.”
“Did you know that, Stark?” Thomas asks him. “It’s fascinating, really. In trying to keep warm, to save itself from dying, it poisoned itself.”
“Looks like we won’t even need another freezer round,” Davis says. “We can just settle in and wait.”
“I’ll get the popcorn,” Smith grins.
“Come on!” Tony shouts. “Anything you want—just let me help him! Let me out so I can—Let me help him! Please. Anything you want. Hell, take my whole company, just let him live.”
He might as well not even be speaking. Complete and utter helplessness crashes into Tony in painful waves, and he can feel himself being dragged under.
Peter, suddenly not an unresponsive form on the floor, rolls to his side and empties what little is remaining in his stomach. Coughing and gagging, Peter sobs as every muscle in his body suddenly seizes.
Poison. Peter’s own body is poisoning him. And Tony can’t do anything but watch.
“Let me… Let me hold him, at least,” Tony begs. “I can’t do anything to save him, but he—he’s a kid. He doesn’t deserve to die alone. Just bring him to me.”
Thomas whirls on him with a smirk. “You expect us to just give what you took from us right back to you? You think you deserve that?”
“He’s just a kid! He didn’t do anything wrong and he doesn’t deserve to die alone. Please.”
“All experiments have to end some time,” Thomas said with a shrug. “You shouldn’t have gotten emotionally attached to the subject. It’s not good practice.”
“You know what’s not good practice?” Tony hisses. “Killing innocent kids.”
“When that spider bit Peter Parker, he ceased being an innocent kid. He became something not human, and he lost the rights of one. Peter Parker no longer exists, and you, Stark, were only pretending to know him.”
“He’s not your experiment! He’s a kid.”
Thomas shrugs again. “I suppose I should be a tad upset that you refuse to understand, but it makes it significantly more satisfying to see you so upset, I must admit.”
His stomach twists dangerously. Thomas grins and steps back away from Tony, eying him with a look of satisfaction, before turning and settling into a chair between Smith and Davis. They plan to quite literally watch Peter die.
“It’s okay, Pete,” Tony whispers to him.
It’s not okay it’s not okay it’s not okay
It will never be okay again
“I love you.” Peter doesn’t respond. He can’t. His kid simply whimpers as his whole body convulses again and again.
Tony watches as he goes still. Peter’s head rolls to the side, coming to face Tony. Somehow, his eyes are still open, blinking at Tony. He can see pain etched in every facet of the kid’s face, fear welling in his unfocused eyes.
Tony won’t look away from him. It’s the last thing he can offer Peter. He hopes it’s at least some form of comfort.
“I’m here,” Tony says softly. He doesn’t know if Peter can even see him or not. He still won’t look away. “I’m right here, Pete. It’s okay.”
It’s not. It never will be.
Peter’s eyes are slipping closed, and Tony knows it’ll be for the last time. Their captors are watching, but Tony doesn’t care. For now, it’s just him and Peter. Nothing else matters.
Later, he’ll deal with them. He’ll tear them apart, piece by piece.
For now...
“I love you, kid.”
Peter doesn’t move.
Then, there’s a whir, and the wall to Tony’s left explodes.