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The kid’s been gone for two days. Two days.
May’s in the corner of the room, the place she’s been in for the last forty six hours, wiping away tears and staring at a computer screen with dead, sad eyes. He should tell her to get some rest, eat something, but every time he realises how hypocritical that is, since the only fluid he’s been consuming is coffee by the gallon.
Natasha comes in and out. She reports any news, follows up on possible leads and, just like them, doesn’t stop looking. Unless it’s about Peter, they don’t speak much.
And the hours pass. Agonizingly slowly, because every minute that goes by Tony knows it’s another minute with Peter most likely kidnapped, or lying in a ditch, or fighting for his life, or already d-
He shakes the thoughts away as quickly as they come. Panicking will do him no good.
So, when the large TV rooted to the wall of his lab starts to flicker to life, with not even FRIDAY knowing what’s going on, a heavy sense of foreboding starts to sink in, because Tony just knows this can’t be good.
Natasha and May exchange confused glances, while Tony just shuffles closer, and then the image becomes clear, it’s a small clip - only a couple of seconds long, but it’s repeating over and over again.
Tony can’t help but stumble forward, feeling all of the air being ripped from his lungs. Because it’s Peter - AKA Spider-Man, AKA his personal intern, strapped to a metal chair in a stingy basement. He’s bruised and battered, soaking wet and eyes wild, chest moving erratically.
But somehow, it’s not the tears streaked down his face, or the blood speckling the floor that sets a heavy dread in Tony’s stomach, making bile rise in his throat.
No, it’s none of that. It’s the arc reactor messily planted in the centre of the teens chest that sends him crashing to his knees.
A choked off gasp escapes him, and his hands automatically grasp the arc reactor still in his own chest, and for a moment he swears he can still feel the phantom pains from back in that cave.
No, no, no. Anyone but him, god please, anyone but him.
But it is him, and Tony's so incredibly angry and scared that he can barely breath.
The cables and naked wires string from his chest in messy tangles, attached to something off camera, and around the reactor Tony can see how inflamed the skin is, can see the blood that streaks down his abdomen and the veins that protrude from beneath his blistered skin. It’s all to similar to what happened to him but it’s so much worse because it’s Peter, a sixteen-year-old boy who has barely started his life.
May’s sobbing somewhere behind him, but he can’t even bring himself to reach out to her, eyes fixed on the clip that just keeps on repeating. There's a hand on his shoulder, tugging gently yet firmly and he knows it’s Natasha, can tell by the delicate fingers, and lets himself be pulled away.
“I tracked the video.” Natasha says, and though her voice is neutral Tony can see the slight tension in her shoulders, and the way she evens her lips into a thin line.
Tony just blinks at her.
“Tony.” Her voice is louder this time, less comforting and more forward. “We need to go save him.”
That seems to do it as Tony frantically nods, staggering into an upright position and calling one of his suits with the flick of his wrist. It encases around him and he instantly feels calmer, like he has some sense of control among the debilitating panic that’s been consuming him.
***
Peter’s watching the door, hearing for footsteps above him, trying to block out the smell of burnt flesh.
He’s in a basement, that much he can tell, from the singular bulb that hands from the ceiling and the mould crawling down the walls. He even laughs to himself a bit because the kidnapping is so awfully basic that it feels like this can’t be real. It’s straight out of a corny horror movie MJ would make him watch. Ironic.
His wrists are bloody and raw from where he’s been pulling against the cuffs that bind him to the chair - all made of Vibranium, he assumes. Though that isn’t his most pressing issue, his most pressing issue is the hunk of wiry metal that’s lodged right in his chest. It’s an arc reactor, Peter’s studied enough of them in textbooks and articles to know, even though he’s never had the balls to bring it up directly to Tony. Seems like it could still be a sensitive topic.
Every now and then there’s a jolt of electricity, making his heart skip a beat and sending pain shooting across his body. It’s keeping him on edge, and if he ever gets off this damn chair he’s ripping out this damn reactor even if it damn kills him. The panic attacks have been frequent, especially since the kidnappers seem to have just left him some few hours ago, after recording a video of him, much to his embarrassment.
For once he isn’t ashamed of his freak outs though, since he can still feel the grubby fingers inside his chest, and the raw agony that came with it, so he figures he’s warranted a few freak outs. But now another fear is starting to set in, because no one has come back in a while, and for what he can tell it’s silent all around him, which means… they might not come back.
He might just rot here on his own. From starvation - no, stupid, dehydration would kill him long before hunger. But then again, what about the arc reactor? It’s clearly poorly done, and for all he knows he could be bleeding internally, or an infection might be spreading, or soon it might release a voltage strong enough to take down an elephant, and therefore him. It’s a guessing game, one he’s not all too fond of.
Another thing - he can’t look down. Peter knows what’s there, can feel it shifting against his bones every time he moves, but he can’t face it.
There's a sudden rumbling above him and he finds himself both recoiling and trying to listen more intently, only to jolt in his seat at the sound of a door busting open and rusty hinges snapping. There’s the clunk of metal against floorboards directly above him and the smell of mechanical oil - Tony.
It's him, it has to be. He didn’t leave him.
The door of the basement swings open with a creak, and the red and gold boots start to thud down the stairs, the armour so heavy Peter can see the wood bending inwards. He holds his breath, suddenly very aware of how bad this all looks.
Tony’s face plate is down, so he can see the exact moment his eyes land on the glowing arc reactor, the way every muscle in his face stills. And he knows it looks bad - the metal gurney off to the side that’s covered in blood and wires, his withering state, it’s all a lot. It only lasts a second though as then he’s bounding over, closing the gap between them in a few long strides.
“Fuck, Peter, I’m so sorry. God, I’m gonna kill ‘em, I am - “
“Tony,” Peter whispers, and he hates that it comes out more of a sob. He bets Ironman didn’t cry when he woke up with an arc reactor.
“I know, kid,” Tony gently squeezes his shoulder, and he seems to understand. There’s no judgement in his eyes. “Lets get you home.”
Peter nods, leaning his head against Tony’s collar bone as the man fumbles with his restraints, trying not to touch the wires or the nasty machine that’s hooked up to them.
“Let’s get you home.”
***
His shirts don’t fit right anymore.
Peter throws one against the wall in anger, rubbing his fists against his eyes roughly. They all look weird, don’t sit right. The outline of the arc reactor is clearly visible over the thin fabric of the shirts, and he knows logically it isn’t a big deal, because he can easily get other shirts with thicker fabric, but he likes his old shirts, the ones with cheesy science puns.
But now, he definitely can’t wear them, because everyone will see and they’ll all know and -
Peter breathes. Counts to five. Breathes out. Repeats.
His chest had healed, the skin was no longer torn and inflamed, but he could still feel it in there, and if he listened hard enough he could hear the mechanical humming. Bruce Banner had said something about how they couldn’t just take it out, something about how his heart couldn’t keep beating without it. Which Peter thinks is bullshit, but he can’t find it in him to argue.
There's a soft knock at the door, and Peter fumbles to get a hoodie over his chest, because he can barely look at himself in the mirror, let alone other people see it.
“Yeah?” He calls out, perching awkwardly on the side of his bed.
The door pushes open, and Tony walks through, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his crumpled blazer. “Food’s nearly ready. Bucky’s been cooking up a storm in there.”
Peter manages a chuckle, though it sounds fake. “Sure. I’ll be there in five.”
“Kid.” Tony says, not really sure what to say. “You okay?”
“None of my shirts fit.” Peter says, glum.
“Well, we can sort that.”
“I know, but -“ Peter blows out a breath, “I just want this thing out. I liked my old body, and I liked my old shirts.”
Tony wants to give some inspirational speech about how he’s the same person, but that isn’t really his style and he’s almost sure he’d butcher it. “We can’t do anything about the reactor, but… I think I can do something about your shirts.”
Peter looks up at him, still defeated but eyes a little brighter.
***
“Tah dah! What you think? Should I become a seamstress?”
Peter rolls his eyes and fights the urge to smile. “Please, you literally bought a printing press, that machine did all the work for you.”
“Okay, fine, but still - did I do a good job?” Tony smirks, because he knows he has.
Peter looks back at himself in the mirror. It’s the same science designs he always wears, but printed onto a thicker fabric, and he can’t see the outline through the shirt. “Yeah, I guess you did.”
“Then my work here is done.” Tony takes a dramatic bow, and winks at the kid, relieved to have finally done something helpful.
***
Peter starts going back to school two weeks after the kidnapping, much to Tony’s dismay, but he knows he can’t afford to miss more education.
At first it’s a good thing, so much so he starts to forget about the metal implanted in his chest, and it doesn’t bother him.
The most difficult part had been telling Ned, by shoving him into the boys toilets and quickly lifting up his shirt, because he wasn’t really sure how to say it out loud. He’d half expected Ned to say something extremely insensitive, like ’wow, dude, that's so awesome’, but instead he’d gotten a slightly frightened and solemn ‘woah’, and for that, he was incredibly grateful.
So, he moves forward, and starts to realise he’s learning to live with it.
That is, until gym class. He has to talk to Coach Wilson about some of the content he’s missed, since he was close to failing it because of his absences, so when he’s jogging back to the locker rooms, it’s empty.
Usually, he’d hide in one of the crappy school toilets and change there, but since there’s no one around he doesn’t think twice before shrugging his shirt off.
"Yo, Penis!" A voice bellows from the showers, and Peter instantly knows its Flash. He hates how much he panics, and whips round so he's facing the other direction, so Flash can't see him as he fumbles to get his other shirt out of his bag. "Got that fake internship today, I assume?"
"It's not fake." Peter mumbles, just as he's pulling the shirt over his head, when his Spidey-sense buzzes, and there is a sharp yank to his shirt.
The fabric is ripped from his head and in a last attempt to save it he uses his sticky fingers, only for the fabric to completely rip.
Flash is standing there. Torn fabric in hand. Eyes glued to his chest. “What the fuck - “
Peter tears the fabric from Flash’s hands easily and fumbles to pull it over his head and doesn’t even notice that it’s now missing one short sleeve. Flash is still staring at him, completely taken back as Peter brushes past him, panic clawing at his stomach. He’s gonna be sick - Flash knows, he saw.
Peter doesn’t go to his last lesson, sitting on the steps to the school entrance instead. His head is racing, palms sweating, and he just sits. Happy will be hear to pick him up in an hour, and he can’t bear to go to chemistry, to have to look Flash in the eyes.
There are footsteps approaching him from behind but he doesn’t make a move to leave, even as the feet stop next to him, and sit down.
“Uhm…”
Shit, it’s Flash. Peter finally looks up to where the boy is sitting, awkwardly rubbing his jeans and obviously trying to look anywhere other than his chest.
“Look, Flash,” Peter starts, “What you saw, I can explain -“
“You don’t have to.” Flash cuts in, and Peter has to take a double take. “I don’t know what I saw - but it seemed a big deal, like some really fucked up shit, so I’m not gonna tell anyone, or anything.”
Peter blows out a breath he didn't realise he was holding. “Really?”
“Nah, I’m not that much of a dickhead.”
“Thank you,” Peter says, genuinely. This was knew territory for him, the only interactions he’d had with Flash had been pretty negative.
Flash scoffs, smoothing the crinkles in his jacket. “Whatever, Penis. Don’t think this means we’re friends, you’re still a loser.”
Peter laughs, because he can tell Flash doesn’t mean any of it, is trying to keep up a reputation, and he’s grateful for the normalcy.
“See you in chemistry, dipshit.”