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It was dark, and cold, and disorienting.
Time passes like a flash. (Or maybe it doesn’t pass at all). He can’t be really sure, since pitch black currently surrounds him and there’s an ache somewhere digging holes inside his brain.
It must be from the way his head rattled inside his armor, when he was being tossed around like a rag doll, the suit having momentarily lost power for a long ten seconds due to an undetected EMP blast.
(Ten seconds too long, he lost his momentum and the only thing he could taste was a thick metallic tang in his mouth and then everything was dark and when he opened his eyes it was still dark.)
He knows, even when he can see nothing, that something (everything) is wrong. He’s somewhere, someplace that he is not supposed to be. The darkness (it’s endless). The clamminess of his skin (the way his shirt clung to his body like a wet rag). The ache all over his body (no pain meds to dull it out). The silence (if he was in the med bay at the very least he would find Pepper sitting by his bed). It’s wrong wrong wrong and he’s so lethargic he cannot move and everything feels wrong.
As his brain reboots, he remembers snippets of moments—from the way he was thrown back by the blast to the five seconds he fell from the sky in a red and gold coffin. The crackles in his ears as the comms worked back to life. Panicked voices and distant screams from the civilians watching the fight from afar. A flash of red hurtling towards him and an anguished cry of his own name that accompanied it—
Shit, Peter!
Tony tries to jump up from where he lies, but the lethargy set deep in his bones alone barely allows his toes to twitch. Not to mention the padded cuffs around both of his wrists and his ankles, restricting his movements.
He’s tied to a bed. No, not a bed—it’s too cold and too flat and too metal—he’s on a table. Strapped, loosely, but it’s not like he has the energy to fight himself a way out of it. When he tries to shake his hands loose from the cuff he feels something cold and thin tugging away from under his skin. A needle? An IV line, probably?
Is he being drugged? If he is, then the drugs fucking sucks. He knows if he were in the med bay they would give him the good drugs, the ones that turn off his senses of pain and make him feel like he’s walking on clouds. But right now he is hurt all over, so what’s this IV line for? Is he simply being fed saline through the IV, is he dehydrated? He doesn’t know. It’s still dark and everything hurts and he can barely move he can’t even think.
Mr. Stark, I got you!
A flash. A scream. He tastes blood in his mouth and it all comes back. Spider-Man, frantically whizzing toward him as he fell like a dead weight.
Peter. Peter got him, caught him in his armor before it could shatter on the asphalt below. He was webbed tightly, securely. Peter caught him, and then they were both swinging in the air.
I gotcha, Mr. Stark. I’m holding on tight! Don’t worry, I got you—oh shit!
Tony recalls a second explosion, throwing them both off track as Peter’s web snaps. They both fell, but Peter never let go.
Peter never let go, even as they both hurtled towards the ground, never let go even as they were both surrounded by men in black gear.
Tony remembered his Iron Man suit whirring back to life despite himself being half unconscious by the blast, FRIDAY ready to take over and pilot the suit back to safety, with Peter still clinging onto him (or him still clinging onto Peter).
However, Tony also remembers the next explosion that threw them both off their feet. Peter’s last scream calling out his name before he, too, fell silent. And then the darkness that followed.
Shit.
Tony’s mouth works, but everything feels heavy. He tries to form Peter’s name on his lips,
but he passes out again.
Peter’s mask is off, but it’s hardly his immediate concern.
When he woke up, he woke up alone, in a dingy cell, reinforced with vibranium (he knows—he tried breaking out of the cell). He remembers holding Mr. Stark tight even as explosions rocked them both off the ground, the suit unmoving and the man inside non-responsive. He tried to be brave, he really did, told the elder man that they were okay and that he was bringing them both to safety. For a moment there, he even believed it too.
But he’s always too late, and there’s always a misstep—
I got you, Ben, you’re gonna be okay, he once sobbed into his uncle’s bloodied shirt, but the man never opened his eyes again.
Mr. Stark, I got you, but then he got knocked out on his ass, bringing Mr. Stark down with him, and then there were explosions and men with guns and Peter could barely fight before they were both taken and now he’s alone, where’s Mr. Stark!
Peter glares at the camera on the ceiling. For minutes or hours, he’s not too sure. But he’s alone and Mr. Stark isn’t here with him, and he doesn’t know what has happened to Mr. Stark or if he’s okay and he’s trying not to feel scared but it’s so hard. He slides down the wall behind him, and sits down facing the cell door, and wills his heartbeat to slow down.
He must’ve passed out, because the next thing he knows, there’s a woman sitting on a chair outside the cell door. Watching him silently.
Peter works his jaw, shrugs out the pain in his stiff shoulders. He stares back.
He’s trying to be brave. He really is. Doesn’t matter that his heart is thumping like mad in his ribcage, that he can barely breathe from the anxiety that crawls up his spine. Doesn’t matter that his brain won’t stop thinking about where Mr. Stark might be. Doesn’t matter that his senses are dialed up to twelve because everything screams danger. Peter stares back anyway.
“Spider-Man,” the woman greets. There’s an accent to her voice, a thin, bland smile on her pale face.
“Stranger,” Peter greets back, one eyebrow raised.
The smile stretches a little wider, and Peter almost shivers. Peter decides to call her Creepy Smile, or Creeps for short. “You are one tough bug to kill.”
If this were just another mission, another mindless patrol that ends with a quick-witted banter with a petty thief, he would’ve made a joke. But he was in a dirty cell, alone and his mask off, having been separated from Mr. Stark because of his failed attempt to save the man and he just wants to know where the hell Mr. Stark is. So he just grunts, “What do you want?”
“Straight to the chase, I see.” Creeps pushes himself out of her chair and moves closer to the cell door. “What I want is simply information. Something that I—we—know you have, Mr. Parker.”
“Where’s Iron Man?” Peter grounds tightly.
Creeps tilts his head to the side. “Stark is just a few rooms away. We’re nursing his injuries. There’s nothing to worry about.”
That doesn’t ease Peter’s worries one bit. “I want to see him.”
Creeps makes a tsk sound. “I don’t think you’re really in the position to be making demands, Mr. Parker. On the contrary,” she pauses, looks over her shoulder, and speaks to the shadows instead. “Take him to the room. I will see you in five.”
The cell door opens, but before Peter has the chance to make his move, one of the men shoots him in the abdomen and his whole body seizes up with electricity—and the pain that blinds him is nothing he’s ever felt before and he can only feel his body being dragged out of the room, and into another.
Through his blurry, teary eyes, he can see the symbols adorning the walls, embroidered in the front of the men’s uniform. Roughly, he’s being shoved into a chair, his body still twitching minutely from the taser, and as the men clamps the vibranium cuffs on his wrist, one of the men catches his eyes and spits out,
“Hail Hydra.”
The next time Tony wakes, he’s no more coherent than the last.
Everything is still dark, so he just lies down in silence, staring up at the dark abyss. He doesn’t know how long it is until there’s a loud sound of a door being opened, and suddenly light assaults his eyes.
“Ow, fuck,” he hisses through the stabbing pain in his head. “Fuck off,” he tries to say, but it might have been just a mindless garble since his mouth is filled with cotton.
“I’m terribly sorry, the sudden light must’ve hurt your eyes,” a melodic voice that doesn’t sound sorry at all hums from the door. Tony blinks and the rough shapes of color starts to sharpen, and he finds out that he’s inside a room that’s barren save for the table he’s lying on and another table filled with medical equipment at his side.
Still, he can barely move.
Where’s Peter?
“How do you feel, Stark?” the voice continues, closer this time. “Quite well, I hope, since we’re generous enough to tend to your injuries. Nothing major, don’t worry. After all, you’re only of good use to us when you’re healthy.”
“W’re... Sp’dr-Man...” Tony grunts out.
“Mr. Parker is just a few doors away. He’s quite well, all things considered. We just had a few questions for him, but he refused to cooperate, so we had to resort to... a little persuasion.”
How do they know Peter’s identity? Tony’s fists clench at his sides, and the woman lets out a chuckle at his obvious distress. What did you do to him?
“His healing factor is quite remarkable. Our men are working to get to the bottom of that—the origin of his powers, should we able to replicate it, would be a great benefit to our soldiers. It’s with great luck that we successfully had him within our grasp.”
No. Tony tugs at his restraints, with what little strength he has. This was all a trap... and he was just the bait.
“It was quite predictable that he would always follow where you go. All we had to do was made you fall so that we could catch him.” Tony’s eyesight is still poor, all blurred at the edges, colors mixing into one another, but he can see the ghost of a smirk on the woman’s face. “Of course, having you here as well is a great bonus.”
“F’ck’ff,” Tony spits.
“That’s not nice,” she tsks as she fiddles with the IV line. “Do not fret, Stark. We do need you both alive and well—at least, for the time being. We might have to cut into Parker’s skin, draw his blood from time to time... just for a little observation. Your hands and your head won’t be touched as well. We have some work you can do, once you’re coherent enough. Some good old weapons, you know how this goes.”
Then she leans down to pat his cheek.
“Rest. We will need you in top shape.”
Tony glares as the woman walks out, closing the door behind her. Or, he tries to. He swallows his dry throat and tries to wrench his arms out of the restraints. He needs to be out. Get this fog in his brain cleared up and find Peter, then get the fuck out of here.
But Tony. Can’t. Think.
He hopes, just as his world starts to fade into black again, that at least The Avengers have locked onto his location and are on their way to save his ass. It’s a great wound to his pride to be nothing but a damsel in distress, but he’d give anything as long as Peter’s safe.
They threw Peter back into his cell a couple hours ago. He’s still wet as a dog, shivering and exhausted, and the needle pricks all over his arms have already healed shut. They also sliced different parts of his body open, while he was wide awake and trying not to scream. Those wounds are still raw, but sluggishly closing up.
They tried to make him talk—about the Avengers, the details of their missions, Mr. Stark’s tech. They also wanted to know about his powers—how he got them, what abilities he has. They took his blood to study it, a few blood bags too many, leaving him pale and lethargic. Then they asked him some more, about the recently pardoned Rogue Avengers, about where Sergeant Barnes was being kept, about the tech Mr. Stark used to wipe out his HYDRA conditioning.
When Peter refused to talk, they dunked him headfirst into a tub of icy water, pulled him out, barely gave him a second to draw in air, then dunked him back in. Still, Peter didn’t talk.
Eventually, they gave up and threw him back into the dirty cell.
Peter’s throat aches from the coughing, from the way he forced the water out of his lungs. He’s too weak from all the blood loss that he couldn’t even fight back the guards.
He would really love to say that he was brave, that he could hold in his screams of pain, that he could look at those men in the eye and glare and tell them to fuck off. But he can’t.
He’s shivering from the cold, hugging himself and sobbing as water dripped along his skin, stained red by the blood from his healing wounds. He was screaming when the men cut into his skin, choking when they pushed him into the water. He tried not to—his bottom lip was bitten raw from trying to hold in the screams, but it hurt. He wasn’t brave at all, still isn’t. He’s weak and crying like a baby and he doesn’t know where Mr. Stark is and he just wants to leave this place.
He doesn’t pay attention to how much time passes until he’s dragged back into that room. It all starts all over again—the questions, the needles, the icy water. Like clockwork. He’s brought here and then back to the cell to rest and be given a clump of shit for meal and then he’s back again to the torture. But he clamps his mouth shut—or tries to, as much as he can. He screams and bleeds and shakes but no word escapes his mouth. He won’t give them the satisfaction.
When he’s finally back in his cell after the third round of torture, Peter rests. He lies down on the dirty floor and breathes through his wet lungs, watches as his skin stitches itself back. He drinks what little water he’s given, nibbles on the sludge they feed him. He shivers when the temperature drops, his wet clothes still clinging to his body. He wishes he has his mask and suit, has Karen with him so that he can ask her to turn on the heater for him.
They don’t bother him anymore this time—he guesses it’s nighttime, and even villains like HYDRA need a break to sleep.
Peter sighs—he’s so tired. He wants to go home. He wants to find Mr. Stark and bring them both home. He doesn’t even know where the elder man is, if he’s safe or if he was also undergoing the same torture he went through.
He just wants this to be over.
Peter dares to close his eyes and drift to sleep.
Tony wakes to a slap to the face.
Rude, he thinks. He feels slightly better, though there are still parts of his body that are still sore. The fog in his head has cleared, but he’s still tied to the damn table. The woman from before stands next to his bed, a wry smile on her pale face.
“Where’s Spider-Man?” Tony asks sharply. He remembers a distant noise. Screaming. He remembers nearly rubbing his skin raw as he tries to get out of the restraints. He remembers Peter’s voice, the hoarse whimpers, and his inability to do anything but to lie there and listen.
“Your boy is one tough cookie to crack, huh?” she muses. “Strong-willed, determined. Cries a little bit—he is but a child, isn’t he?”
Tony sees red, and what comes next is a snarl. “What did you do to him?”
“I told you, we just needed some answers. But he wouldn’t budge. A shame, really. We didn’t want to have to come to this, but we don’t have much choice. He just needs a little... motivation.”
There’s a clatter, and Tony’s head snaps to the side to watch as the woman grabs something from the table next to him. A syringe, and a vial of green liquid. Tony clenches his jaw and narrows his eyes, flinches as the green fills the syringe.
“What the fuck is that?” he asks. The woman ignores him, and instead just stabs the needle into his IV line and pushes down the syringe.
She sends a bland smile his way, and Tony holds in his nausea as the green pours into his system. “Don’t worry, Stark. I do keep my promise. You’re better use to us alive, so this won’t do you any real harm.”
The effect isn’t instantaneous. Instead, it seeps into him like a tingle that spreads from his arm. Tony’s breaths quicken despite everything, too helpless to fight off the tingling that slowly inches toward his chest.
“Your dear friend was actually the first to synthesize this drug. Another dear friend of yours used it to fake his own death, back in 2014. After we got our hands on it, our scientists modified it a little, tweaked around here and there, created our own, better version of it.”
Fuck, Tony curses inwardly. Bruce’s infamous drug, once created to control the Hulk. He remembers—it was first synthesized in his own lab at Stark Tower, where Bruce stayed after the Battle of New York. He remembers finding Bruce, so still and lifeless on the floor of his lab, the schematics of the molecule of the drug that he thought had killed his friend displayed on the holographic screen.
Tetrodotoxin B.
Tony remembers himself frantically calling the medical team, heart in his throat as he pressed two fingers on Bruce’s neck and not finding a pulse. He remembers the nausea that followed as he put his ear on his friend’s chest and failed to hear his heartbeat. He remembers the relief that nearly choked him when JARVIS exclaimed that a single heartbeat was detected, one long minute apart from the next beat, and the next one after that.
“We developed an improved version... for a similar purpose. For when you need your enemy to believe that you’re dead. But, instead of simply paralyzing you, our drug will help give a believable proof of you falling to your own demise. A pretty nice show, if I must say.”
Tony feels it, the first breath that hitched in his chest. A split moment where he failed to expand his ribcage, a sharp pain that follows.
“We call our version Tetrodotoxin Z.” The woman leans down, close to his face, and purrs. “In a few short minutes, you will begin to show symptoms of a good old heart attack.” She taps on Tony’s chest twice, and Tony growls in response. “Perhaps our men had way too much fun poking and prodding at you, that your poor heart couldn’t take it. Mr. Parker would be none too wiser.”
He’s freed from the restraints, but she easily dodges the punch that Tony immediately throws.
“Don’t worry, Stark,” she repeats softly, almost like the humming from before, and Tony is fucking sick of it, “the drug won’t really harm you. After all, we do need you alive. We just need to show Mr. Parker that he has no choice but to submit. He can’t save you, and you can’t save him. He needs to realize that.”
They’re going to make Peter watch him die.
Tony fights, and fights, as she calls her men in to drag his ass out. “It will wear off in a few hours. A day, at most, without the antidote. It won’t leave a lasting damage—we checked. It’s all just for show,” she sings into his ear, and lets the men carry him out.
“I will see you later, Stark. Break a leg.”
Peter wakes to the sound of his cell door being unlocked and shoved open.
He jolts upwards when the men throw Mr. Stark into the cell, barely able to catch the man as he drops to the floor. “Mr. Stark!” he exclaims, worry melting into relief at the sight of his mentor. “Mr. Stark, you’re okay!”
“Hardly, Mr. Parker,” the woman from before speaks through the cell door.
“What do you—what do you mean?” Peter asks as he carefully lies Mr. Stark down, gently cradling the man’s head on his lap. He notes the bruises on Mr. Stark’s skin, the cuts on his face, but nothing too serious. He seems to be struggling to catch his breath, but otherwise he looks okay, he looks fine.
But Peter’s terrified anyway.
“Pe’r,” Mr. Stark gasps, tearing his attention away. “Y’r ok’.”
Mr. Stark reaches out with a shaking hand, loosely grasping Peter’s cheek. His lips twitch up into a smile before a grimace takes over his face, a choked gasp escaping his throat as his eyes roll in their sockets.
“Mr. Stark!” he panics and grips the hand on his cheek. “Mr. Stark, what’s wrong? Lady, what did you do to him?” he cries at the woman standing outside the cell door, a pitying look on her face.
“I’m afraid my men went a little too rough on him.” She tilts her head to the side, lets out a little sigh. “It’s too much for his weak heart. My doctors say it’s failing, and there’s not much they can do but give him a little sense of peace in his last moments.”
No, no, no, no. “You’re lying. You’re lying! Mr. Stark, you’re fine. You’re okay—”
“He asked for you,” she continues talking, the soft lilt on her voice sounding more like a twisted lullaby. “It’s... the least we could do. For what it’s worth, I am sorry, Mr. Parker.”
Mr. Stark arches up from the floor, a wheezing gasp tearing its way out of his throat. The hand that was on Peter’s face retracts toward his chest, clawing at his heart. His body shakes and seizes—from the pain, Peter guesses. He feels sick and terrified and his eyes blur with tears as Mr. Stark shakes on the floor.
“Please, please do something! Do something! He can’t just... Mr. Stark, no!”
Mr. Stark’s voice, strangled as it is, calls out for him. “P’t’r...” he starts, only to cut himself short as another jolt of pain sends a series of spasms through his body.
“I’m here, Mr. Stark, I’m here! You’re okay, you’re gonna be fine! Lady, anyone, please do something! Give him something—please... please, no!”
Peter screams and shouts, but the woman has left them alone and the guards are watching passively from outside, watching as Mr. Stark cries out from the pain in his chest, watching as Peter sits there uselessly, hands grasping Mr. Stark’s face, begging and begging for someone to help.
Mr. Stark gulps and grimaces, his breaths stuttering in his chest as he falls back to the floor. Peter sobs and grips Mr. Stark’s hand in his, while the other stays cupping the elder man’s cheek.
“Pet’r. ‘S okay. D’nt... no worry. ‘S okay, ‘m... ‘m fine. P-please... trust. Tr’st me...”
Peter whimpers and shakes his head. Here, Mr. Stark lies dying in his arms and yet he’s still the one reassuring Peter that everything is going to be okay. Peter’s stomach heaved.
“No, Uncle Ben, stay with me! Please, somebody help him! Anyone, please! Help him!”
“It’s okay, Petey-pie...”
He sobs, tears falling onto Mr. Stark’s shuddering chest. The man tries to say something else, but can only gasp for air that won’t come. Peter closes his eyes—he can’t bear to watch this. To watch as breaths escape Mr. Stark’s lungs, as life slowly leaves his eyes. He can’t do it. Not again, not again.
Please don’t make me do it.
The hand in Peter’s hand grips back, and Peter chokes out a breath. He opens his eyes and stares back at Mr. Stark’s pleading eyes. I’m sorry... I’m sorry I can’t do anything. I can’t do anything to save you, just like I couldn’t save Ben. I’m so sorry, this is all my fault...
He brings their clasped hands on top of Mr. Stark’s chest, rubs his thumb along the side of Mr. Stark’s head. Ben used to do it, to comfort him when he woke up from a nightmare and when he felt like he couldn’t breathe. It used to calm him down, give him a sense of comfort. Safety.
Peter blinks away the tears and lets them fall down his trembling chin. Mr. Stark’s dying—dying in his arms, please, not again—and there’s nothing he can do.
There’s never anything Peter can do.
Peter’s lips wobbles, but he forces a smile. “Y-you’re okay, Mr. Stark. P-please just, j-just hold o-on. They’re—they’re coming t-to save us. I know—I k-know they are. Colonel Rhodes will—will find us soon. Pl-please just hold on for m-me.”
He knows he’s lying through his teeth, but it’s the least he can do. He doesn’t want his own scared, crying face to be the last thing Mr. Stark ever sees, like it was for Ben. He’s trying, he’s trying to do better. Braver, this time. He failed with Ben, failed to give him a sense of peace before he passed in his arms. He doesn’t want that for Mr. Stark, not again.
But Peter’s own chest hurts, and he can’t hold in the sobs that shudders through his body.
“I’m h-here, Mr. Stark. I’m here with y-you. We’re—we’re gonna b-be okay. I p-promise.”
“P-pet’r...” His name leaves Mr. Stark’s mouth in an agonized plea.
“Shh, Mr. Stark. It’s okay. I—It’s okay,” Peter murmurs softly. His nose is stuffed and he can’t breathe. But he smiles at Mr. Stark anyway.
Until Mr. Stark threw his head back and tenses up in his hold, with a long, groaning noise from his chest that scared Peter so much.
The hand in Peter’s has tightened into claws, fingers stiff just like Mr. Stark’s arms and legs. Peter calls out his name, repeatedly, but Mr. Stark doesn’t seem to hear him. He just stiffens up, and up, and seizes again. His eyes have darted far away, looking up at the ceiling but not really looking at all. Peter cradles the back of Mr. Stark’s head as it jerks along with his body, and he sobs, screams his throat raw.
He didn’t remember Ben leaving so violently. He remembered the blood and the holes in his uncle’s chest, but he went with a quiet sigh and closed his eyes forever, just like that.
This... this is agony.
Mr. Stark is in pain—he’s suffering as his heart goes into overdrive and there is nothing Peter can do but hold him, hold him as he shakes, hold him as the beats skip and stutter in his chest. Peter feels sick, feels bile crawling up to the back of his mouth. But he holds Mr. Stark’s stiff body as he rides through the agonizing pain anyway.
Please, make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop, please!
Soon enough, it does. Mr. Stark’s body loosens, falls back down onto Peter’s lap, the convulsions slowing down into small twitches and jerks until they cease. Peter sobs as he holds Mr. Stark’s head, gently turns it back toward him, and he whimpers when he sees the glazed over look in the brown eyes that always used to look so warm and proud when they looked at him.
“M-Mr. Stark?” he whispers. “Mr. S-Stark, c-can you hear m-me?”
Low, rasping breaths is the only reply he gets. Peter weeps as those, too, start to slow down. He puts his palm down over Mr. Stark’s sternum, feeling the movements of his chest until they stop.
Mr. Stark’s mouth opens a fraction wider, like a gasp but not really. It moves and then stills, and Peter counts the seconds until it opens again. Six seconds. Stills. Eight seconds. Moves. Stills. Ten seconds. Moves. Stills.
May taught him once, when they visited Ned’s grandfather’s nursing home and accidentally witnesses the death of an old woman across the room. Peter was scared and he buried himself into May’s shoulder, but he was also a curious child, so he took a peek anyway, sat there on May’s lap and watched as the woman breathed strangely.
“It’s the last breaths of a dying person, Petey,” May sighed when Peter wouldn’t stop asking. “Sometimes you can still save them, because it means that their soul is still trying to hold onto their body, still fighting to stay.”
“Then why aren’t they saving her, Aunt May?”
“Because... Mrs. Roosevelt is so, so old, Petey. She’s also been sick for a while. Maybe she’s asked her family to let her go so she can finally rest. Sometimes there’s nothing you can do.”
“But... sometimes you can help them?” Peter asked anyway, burying his face back into May’s shoulder. She wrapped her arms around him, fingers running through his hair. A nurse’s hand, warm, gentle yet steady and firm.
“Yeah, baby. You can. I’ve done it before, a couple of times. It’s tough, and often it doesn’t work, but all you gotta do is breathe for them until they remember how to breathe on their own.”
Carefully, Peter straightens out Mr. Stark’s body on the floor, and tilts his head back. He still trembles from the force of holding down his sobs, but he leans down and pinches Mr. Stark’s nose, and then he breathes for him.
Hearing the sounds of Peter’s cries almost hurts worse than the drug-induced pain that stabs through his chest.
He doesn’t know why he’s still awake through it all—he’s supposed to have passed out and unaware of his own heart slowing down. Yet he’s still completely conscious, although his whole body is locked in a full body paralysis. He can’t move his toes, can’t even move his eyes. His gaze is locked on the dirty ceiling above him, his eyes burning from the way they stay open.
Tony’s heart breaks every time Peter sobs above his body. He hates that he’s the reason the kid is hurting, and he wants to tell him that he’s fine, that everything will be okay. He tries, anyway, but he knows Peter didn’t believe it. Didn’t believe it even as he repeats it back to him, with the smile that wobbled on his lips, a smile that was full of grief and pain, all directed to him.
Warm breaths fill his chest, but he knows nothing Peter attempts will do anything to make him believe that he’s still alive, that he’s not dying. He already knows that his heart has slowed so much, only one beat per minute, that his breaths are almost non-existent with too long delays in-between each breath.
Peter... Peter tries anyway, and Tony’s heart keeps breaking.
“Come on, Mr. Stark,” Peter begs before delivering another breath into Tony’s lungs. “Come on, come back, please, Sir.”
When it doesn’t work, Peter takes a sharp, shuddering breath, and then clasps his hands together on top of Tony’s chest.
Shit.
The grunt that leaves his mouth is involuntary as the first push sinks into his ribs. Getting chest compressions while you’re awake is painful as fuck, and he can hear Peter crying out at the groaning noises that his throat makes at every push, and Tony is so, so, sorry.
Peter breaths for him between the cycles of the compressions, and Tony wants to tell him to stop, kid, you don’t have to do this, I’m not dying and I will be fine! But Peter is still crying and trembling as he pumps down Tony’s unmoving chest.
Tony has already lost count when Peter’s movements finally cease. He can see the kid’s head hanging down, chin pressed to the heaving chest as his shoulders continue to shudder. His hands, still clasped on top of Tony’s chest, are shaking.
Oh, no, kid. I’m fine. I’m awake, I’m fine. What can I do to make you believe it?
Slowly, Peter’s hands leave his chest, and Tony sees as they move toward the boy’s mouth, muffling the sobs that he can’t hold in. Peter is wailing over Tony’s body, and Tony fights so hard to move any part of his body to let Peter know that he’s fine.
But he. can’t. move.
Tony can feel how his mouth still moves, wide open to take in so little air into his lungs, once every two minutes or so. He doesn’t know if Peter simply can’t hear it, or if he just believes that Tony’s gone. He wills for his slow heartbeats to beat louder so that Peter can hear, but his kid keeps crying and shaking and Tony has never been so helpless.
Hands cradle the sides of Tony’s head, careful and shaky. Peter’s thumb stops at the corner of Tony’s mouth as it moves again, breathing in a tiny gasp of oxygen. Tony feels relief now that he’s sure Peter knows he’s still breathing, but the kid doesn’t stop crying.
“It’s okay, Mr. Stark,” Peter whispers hoarsely. “You can... you can let go. It’s okay.”
Oh, Peter. Oh, kid, no.
Peter swipes his thumb across Tony’s temple, brushing away the stray tear that he doesn’t remember falling. Then, Peter closes Tony’s open eyes, carefully sliding his eyelids shut. Gently, Peter slides an arm under his back, to hoist his body up and rest it against Peter’s body. Both of Peter’s arms are wrapped around Tony’s body, in a tight hug.
Tony can’t do anything but let his head rest on Peter’s chest. He feels his body gulp down another small breath, feels the hitch in Peter’s as it happens.
“You c-can rest, Mr. Stark. It’s okay. It’s o-okay. Y-you don’t have t-to, to h-hold on. It’s okay,” Peter murmurs over and over again. Tony feels a slight weight on top of his head—Peter’s cheek resting on his hair. “I got you, Mr. Stark. I g-got you. I got you. It’s o-okay.”
Peter’s words blur into another choked cry, and they both shake on the floor, from the force of Peter’s sobbing.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I got you. I’m sorry. It’s all my fault, it’s always my fault. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Peter gasps through his tears.
Tony wants it all to stop.
But he still can’t move.
And he can’t do anything but listen as his kid cries over him.
At some point, Peter stops crying.
He still cradles Mr. Stark’s body close to his chest, lays his head on top of Mr. Stark’s. The body stays warm, though Peter doesn’t really want to find out how long it will take until it cools down.
“I love you, Mr. Stark. You knew that, right?” Peter says, his voice scratchy and stuffy from all the crying. “You were more than just, just a mentor to me. Y-you took me in, taught me so much. You care so much, s-so much about me, and not just the Spider-Man stuff. At first I thought, I thought you only liked having me around because of Spider-Man. But you—you helped me do my stupid homework, t-taught me how to fix May’s banged up car. M-May didn’t say it, but I know she was also glad that—that you taught me how to tie my tie,” he can’t help but snort, “because she’s terrible at it. You’re—you were, you’re. Family.”
Peter sniffles, burying his face into Mr. Stark’s hair.
“I’m so sorry. This is my fault, I know it is. Everyone—everyone around me gets hurt. My parents, Ben, you. It’s a, it’s a curse. It follows me everywhere, it follows everyone I c-care about. I just hope I can protect May from it. F-from myself. I’m s-sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.
“You’ve done so much for me, a-and what do I do in return? I get you k-killed. T-They only wanted me, but you—but you were stuck with me and now you’re, now you’re—” Peter whimpers. “I’m so sorry.”
Then, “I love you, Mr. Stark. I’m s-sorry I never got to t-tell you. I w-wish I had.”
Tony drifts off to sleep, once in a while.
Mostly when the kid is quiet, rocking gently on the floor they’re sat on. He’s always awake when Peter is talking, and each time Tony breaks down inside. There’s so much he wants to say, but he’s locked inside of his own body and all he can do is sit there listening as the kid—his kid—blames himself for everything that’s happened.
He doesn’t know how much time has passed. He can’t even keep track of his own heartbeats. He still breathes once every few minutes, but at this point it’s too soft and quiet for Peter to catch. He wishes Peter would catch it, would realize that he’s still here, that he’s not dead. Just trapped. Helpless.
Tony is slowly drifting to sleep, lulled by the quiet breaths that Peter takes.
And then Peter murmurs a song into his hair.
“Deep in the meadow, under the willow
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow...
Lay down your head and close your eyes
And when they open, the sun will rise...”
Uncle Ben wasn’t much of a book reader, but he used to read The Hunger Games together with Peter, and sometimes to him, like a bedtime story. When he found out that they were making a movie based on the series, Peter begged and begged for his uncle and aunt to take him to see it, even though he was a little too young to watch it.
Then, Peter would ask Aunt May to sing Rue’s Lullaby to him every time he goes to sleep, because Aunt May has a nice voice and Peter loved how calming the song is. It made him feel warm and sleepy, even though he knew the song marked a sad moment in the book and the movie.
He grew out of that, until Uncle Ben died and he had trouble sleeping. Aunt May would shush him, press her lips onto his forehead, and sing the song softly until Peter slept soundly in her arms.
“Here is safe, here is warm
Here the daisies guard you from every harm.”
Peter holds Mr. Stark’s body closer, presses his lips onto Mr. Stark’s forehead as he hums.
“Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you...”
Peter hums and hums, lets his breaths vibrate in his chest.
“Deep in the meadow, hidden far away
A cloak of green, a moon beam ray
Forget your woes and let your troubles lay
And when again it’s morning, it’ll wash away...”
He inhales, deep and shaky, and closes his eyes. Imagines Aunt May holding him, giving him comfort. He hopes he’s giving Mr. Stark the same comfort, the warm feeling of safe.
(Even if Peter has failed to keep him safe.)
Peter doesn’t know the many hours that pass, as he hums and hums and rocks Mr. Stark’s body gently in his arms.
“Here is safe, here is warm
Here the daisies guard you from every harm
Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you...”
Peter hums, and Mr. Stark lies asleep in his arms.
Tony falls asleep to the lullaby, hoping he can move the next time he wakes.
It all ends with an explosion far down the hallway, and gunshots, and screams, and—
Rhodey is the one that finds them, huddled in the corner of a cold cell. The kid’s rocking gently, Tony pressed against his shoulder, asleep. When Peter looks up, broken, empty eyes of a lost child stares back at him, and Rhodey’s world shatters.
No.
Still, he inhales (once, twice, three times), and speaks through the comms,
“I found them.”
Steve is the one that pries Peter away from Tony’s body.
(Tony’s body, still slightly warm to touch. Steve doesn’t know how long it has been since he—)
The boy shakes in his arms, gaze empty as he watches Rhodes carry Tony out and onto a waiting gurney. Steve guides him out and meets Natasha in the hallway.
“My blood, they,” Peter rasps, “they took it. Studied it. I want—I want it gone.”
Natasha nods. “I’ll take care of it.”
If Steve doesn’t know her the way he does, he would’ve missed the downturn twitch of her lips, or the way her voice wavers as she speaks.
Thor bows his head when Steve and Peter walk into the quinjet.
Bruce is already standing by the gurney, lips pressed in a thin line, eyes flashing green.
Barton growls from the pilot’s seat, and pretends his hands aren’t shaking.
Natasha returns with Barnes in tow, who looks more like The Winter Soldier than he’s ever been since Tony wiped out his brainwashing.
Tony...
The flight back to the Avengers compound was solemn. Silent.
Rhodey shudders out a breath, looks away from the gurney, and dials Pepper’s number.
Peter is not speaking.
He gets checked up at the med bay (next to the room where they laid Mr. Stark’s body), gets checked out after half an hour of more poking and prodding (they gave him meds, made him promise to not skip any meal, put on bandages on wounds that already healed), and walks to his quarters at the compound. He cleans himself up in the bathroom, put on fresh clothes (grey sweatpants and an MIT hoodie that doesn’t belong to him), and slides under his blanket, lying on his side facing the wall.
May was already at the Compound when the news broke that Iron Man and Spider-Man were missing, but she’s hesitant when she walks into her nephew’s room. All the lights are dimmed, nearly off, and all the windows are closed. She can see Peter’s shoulders move from his heavy inhales and exhales.
She walks in, and sits down on the bed. She puts a hand on Peter’s arm, and his breath hitches.
“I sang him the lullaby, May,” Peter whispers, and her heart breaks.
“Oh, Peter.”
She holds him as he cries himself to sleep.
Sadly, the next time Tony wakes, he still can’t move.
Something’s different, though. He’s no longer propped up against Peter’s body, but instead laid down on a table. His clothes feel clean and dry—his skin feels clean and dry, and there are soft voices surrounding him.
And Peter’s no longer singing in his ear.
There’s a small hand brushing the top of his head, fingers running through his hair. A soft breath against his temple, something wet falling onto his cheek.
“Can you find out what happened to him, Bruce?” Pepper asks, voice shaky against his temple. Oh, no, Pepper. I’m here. I’m fine. I just need to get my fingers moving.
“Peter said—” Steve’s voice starts, pauses. “He said something like a heart failure. But he’s—distraught.”
Tony hears Bruce sigh a tired sigh, “I’ll have FRIDAY scan whatever she can.”
FRIDAY!
“Helen is on her way here. She’ll do a proper—check up,” Bruce adds, “with her team.”
Silence falls in the room, only to be broken by a soft sniffle. Pepper’s.
“You guys can go ahead,” Pepper tells them softly. “Clean up and... get something to eat. I’ll, I’ll take care of the—arrangement. After. I just need a moment.”
“Alright, Pepper.”
Tony’s heart soars when Bruce voices out a command for FRIDAY to do a full scan on his body before he leaves. But then Pepper curls her fingers around his hand, brings it to her lips and softly presses a kiss to his knuckles, and sobs.
Pepper, Pepper, Pepper. I’m here.
FRIDAY, please. Tell everyone I’m still here.
Tell Peter I’m still here.
Anytime now, FRIDAY.
Come on, come on, COME ON!
Pepper gasps, abruptly letting go of the hand she’s holding. Tony hears a creaking sound of a chair being pulled backwards, hears her hesitant call, “FRIDAY?”
“One moment, Boss Lady,” replies the AI.
Pepper doesn’t seem to hear it. “Did the bod—did Tony just move his hand?”
Tony pushes, and pushes, and pushes. Commands any part of his body to just twitch. His fingers, his toes, his eyebrows, his nose, his mouth, anything. Anything at all. Look at me, I’m still here!
Pepper gasps again. “FRIDAY!”
“Scanning complete. Paging Dr. Banner now,” FRIDAY calls briskly.
“Dr. Banner, your immediate assistance is needed in the med bay.”
“What is it, FRIDAY?”
“My initial scan detected a single heartbeat from Boss’ body, followed by another beat approximately 58 seconds later. After 89 seconds of further observation, I also noted two more heartbeats, and subtle, quick inhale. He also seems to have moved his forefinger one time, and the corner of his lips one time. Dr. Banner, Boss is alive!”
Tony doesn’t wake up with a jolt, or with a huge gulp of breath.
He comes to slowly. His heartrate gradually increases, and his inhales grow deeper. The feelings at the tip of his fingers returns as minutes pass by, and then his eyelids flutter open. Then he’s able to move his neck, and soon his limbs.
Bruce’s teary face is the first one he sees, and Pepper’s is the next.
They, along with Helen Cho and her team, are the only ones aware of this development. He knows they, especially Bruce, doesn’t want to put up too much hope, in case this was all a fluke. But Tony fights, and fights to wake up, and now he’s able to let out a garbled moan, and Pepper holds his hands and Tony squeezes back, and Tony doesn’t even protest as Helen pushes an oxygen mask onto his face.
“P...” he tries, and swallows his dry throat. “P’r...”
“Yeah, Tony. Pepper’s here. Can you look at the penlight for a second, please?”
Pepper brushes another soft kiss to his temple. “Bruce, I think he’s asking for Peter.”
From the corner of his eye, Tony sees Bruce pause. “Right. That makes sense. But—”
“Tony, hey, look at me?” Pepper requests, and smiles when Tony manages to turn his head to look at her. “Peter’s sleeping right now. I’ll let you see him once he’s well rested, okay? You need to get stronger, too. Everything will be fine.”
Pepper then beams, and he only realizes why when she presses her fingers on his smiling lips.
Everything will be fine.
Peter doesn’t know how long he was asleep, but he doesn’t feel rested when he wakes.
He’s not sure he’ll ever be.
Peter keeps his eyes closed, his breathing even. He’s curled up on his bed, like a baby seeking warmth. There are voices outside of the door—voices of concern, or pity, he’s not too sure. He tries not to startle when the door creaks open, tries not to move as he listens to the slow pitter patter of footsteps into his room, and the soft but heavy breaths that accompany.
His bed dips, and Peter momentarily stills.
Callused, but gentle fingers hesitantly brush over the side of his face, and rough, warm lips presses onto his temple.
“Deep in the meadow, under the willow
A bed of grass, of soft green pillow...”
Peter sobs and curls into himself. Careful hands cradle him like a baby, and his head now rests on a chest that moves, that breathes, that holds a beating heart.
“Lay down your head and close your eyes
And when they open, the sun will rise...”
Peter opens his eyes and looks up. Warm brown eyes stare back at him, sad and fond but so alive, no more of that lifeless, faraway gaze.
“Here is safe, here is warm
Here the daisies guard you from every harm.”
Mr. Stark holds Peter’s body closer, presses his lips onto his forehead as he hums, warm tears sliding down the side of his head.
“Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you...”
Peter turns his body around to wrap his arms around Mr. Stark’s waist. Hoping that, if this was only a dream, he would never wake up.
“Hey, it’s okay, Peter. We’re okay. I got you, too.”
Peter clutches tighter onto Mr. Stark.
“I got you, Underoos.”