Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter was swinging through the streets of NY when his senses screamed at him. DANGER DANGER DANGER He looks every which way but sees nothing. Before he could even ask Karen if there was a threat nearby, he felt an even sharper warning as he instinctively dodged what looked like a dart, which sped past him. His eyes watched as it hit a brick wall. He was so focused on the object that he wasn’t fast enough when he went to dodge the next one. It lodged into his neck. He started swinging away as fast as he could, but his arms started feeling unbelievably heavy. Each time he brought his arm up to shoot a new web, it raised less and less until he could barely lift it. The next web didn’t shoot high enough; it fell to the ground gracefully in the wind. Peter, on the other hand, followed, gracelessly, plummeting toward the ground. He more heard, then felt, his head smack against the pavement before the world went black. 

When he woke, his head felt like someone was physically squeezing his skull. Behind his eyes was the worst, the light making it through his eyelids hurt like needles. 

“I think he’s waking up.”

He hears, he goes to try and rub his temple, hoping that would help his headache. But when he pulled, his arms stayed in place. He searched his rattled brain for information. He remembered patrol and something being shot at him, but not much after. He squints his eyes, making the pain even worse as the light filters into his irises. He is in a chair with strong metal restraints on his arms and legs. Vibranium, possibly because he can’t break them. Around him are metal walls, a rectangular empty space. In front of him is a table with paper and a pencil. Even with his super hearing on the fritz, he can hear that he is clearly near a body of water. He can’t smell salt, so he figures it’s the Hudson River. Even that bit of small awareness and information makes his head hurt worse, his brain begging him to stop thinking. 

His eyes drifted off to a distant wall, trying to take a second and give his brain a break.

‘Snap ‘Snap ‘Snap

Peter jerked in the chair as someone snapped their finger right in front of his face. “Yeah, he’s awake.” Peter groaned, wanting to just sink back into the darkness, but obviously that wasn’t happening. “Spider-Man, we want something from Tony Stark.”

“The’ why take me?” He asks, his words slightly slurred. 

“We know you have a close relationship with him, in and out of the suit. We knew he wasn’t just going to give us the money if we asked… not unless we had something he cared about.”

“So I’m a barg’n’ng chip, great.” There was one man in front of him with short, almost jet black hair and brown eyes. He was not too tall, but as he was looking down at Peter bound to the chair, he looked a lot bigger. There was also a woman with ginger shoulder length hair and green eyes watching from the corner, working on what looked like a drone. Peter could also faintly hear others outside of, what seemed to be a shipping container.

Snap

The man in front of him snapped his fingers once again, “Eyes here,” he says, pointing to the paper on top of the table in front of him. “You’re going to write a ransom note.”

“That’s gonna to be kinda hard,” Peter said, trying to move his wrists, which are still clamped to the chair. His thoughts were still slow, his responses lagging a few seconds more than usual. His few movements are sluggish. 

“Right or left?”

“Huh?” His head felt so heavy.

“Are you right or left-handed?!”

Peter winced hard at the volume, “R-right.”

The man comes over to his right side and starts undoing the restraints on his arm, “Don’t try anything funny.”

“Cou-coul’n’t if I wan’ed to,” Peter said, even though he didn’t mean to.

Once his arm was free, the man pointed to the paper and pencil once more, “Write your dear old mentor a note, tell them you have been kidnapped, that you are hurt, we want 20 million dollars, and that if we don’t have it by tomorrow at 10pm you will be killed.”

Peter’s thoughts kept drifting, “S’rry, could you repeat tha’?”

The man sighed dramatically, turned around, and walked away. Peter was left blinking in his absence, looking over at the woman who was still tinkering with wires on the black drone in front of her. She didn’t even look at him. Peter starts moving his arm, it felt as heavy as someone unworthy trying to lift Mjolnir. He sets his weighted limb on the table and slowly picks up the pencil. Just then the man came back in with a wrinkled piece of torn paper. He slams it on the table, making Peter jump in surprise, the restraints holding him still. “There, now write!” Peter winced at the loud voice again and looked at the new piece of paper, which had four bullet points on it:

• Kidnapped

• Hurt

• 20 million by 10 pm tomorrow

• If we don’t get the money, you die.

Straight and to the point. “I c’n hard-hardly l’ft my arm,” Peter said, glaring at him.

“We took precautions and gave you a few extra doses of the tranquilizer while you were out.” The man shrugged nonchalantly.

“How ‘m I s’pposed to-”

“Figure it out or die.” He said, leaving the room. The woman stayed, maybe to work on her project, maybe to keep an eye on Peter.

Peter takes a shaky breath, trying to focus. He looked around at his surroundings again, and his foggy, bleary mind gave him an idea. His plan takes brainpower, though, and he’s not sure he has it in him. Still, it’s his only chance; he tries his best to clear his drug-addled mind, thinking as hard as he can, trying to ignore the pain it causes. He starts

“You're still not done?! It's been over an hour.” Peter flinched at the voice; he was so focused, he didn’t even hear the man return.

“I-I’m a’most done,” Peter said, looking at the man, “I woul’ve been done alr’dy if you hadn’ d’ugged me up.” He slurred. Not to mention how they let him fall and smack his skull against the concrete. 

“Just hurry up and finish it. Are you almost done?” The man says the last sentence to the woman still in the corner. Peter tries to tune her response out, trying to see where he left off. He can’t lose his place, or it’s game over. He looks back at what he wrote so far and knew he had to start writing again before they take the paper away unfinished. 

“I-I’m done,” Peter said, putting the pencil down and resting his slightly numb but heavy limb on the table. 

The man comes over and takes the paper. Peter holds his breath as the man scans it, praying he’s not smart enough to realize the boy’s plan. “Jesus,” Peter looks at him, terrified, “How much sedative did you give him? This note is a mess!” Peter lets out a breath, still on edge though. “Whatever, it’ll have to do. That drone better be ready.”

“It is.” That was the first time Peter heard her talk, or at least the first time he paid attention to her speaking.

The man nodded, took Peter's arm, and restrained it back to the chair’s armrest. All of Peter’s remaining energy and brain power were depleted by writing the note correctly. He didn’t fight as he let his eyes close, both the man and woman leaving the room. He finally let the weighted blanket of sleep swallow him.

Chapter Text

“Boss, there has been an explosion at the front doors of the Tower.” FRIDAY reported as Tony was trying to track Peter’s suit after it suddenly went offline. He only got the notification about the suit going awol a few minutes ago as FRIDAY was down for maintenance beforehand.  

He stopped his frantic search to stand and reply, “Was anyone hurt?”

“Negative.”

“Tell Happy to clear the area and that I’ll be right down.” He calls a suit and starts running to the elevator. He gets to the lobby, the doors held open by security, happy, standing with an envelope in his hand. “What’s going on?”

Happy turns to him, “Footage shows a drone dropping this envelope on our doorstep and then flying up 30 feet before it self-destructed." Tony looks at the envelope in his friend’s hand. “We did a scan; it’s not dangerous, but it is addressed to you.”

Tony disassembles the suit and reaches for the white envelope. He tears it open carefully, finding a single piece of paper folded into thirds. He opens it and immediately recognizes the handwriting. Peter.

What happened to ‘Mr. Stark?’

Oh god. 

Shit!

That doesn't sound okay! Tony also wasn’t used to the kid being honest about injuries.  

No. I won’t let that happen. I’ll pay whatever they want.

Partly?

Ben? Peter doesn’t talk about it often, but Tony knows his uncle died not too long before Tony recruited him. 

Don’t talk like that.

Tony knows Peter misses Ben. But there has to be a reason Peter is bringing up his dead uncle, something he rarely ever does. Then again maybe it’s the sedatives and concussion. 

It’s then that Tony’s brain catches up and supersedes his emotions, noticing for the first time the  dash ‘–’ Peter uses instead of a period ‘.’ 

That stops the mechanic’s logical side for a moment. 

No, it’s not Pete.

I would give all the money I have for you kid. Tony didn’t realize he was crying until a tear hit the paper and Happy’s hand landed on his shoulder in support.

I’m getting you out of there and you never have to pay me back, ever. Tony’s logic started questioning the dash at the end of the sentence once again, but he needed to finish reading before his panic overpowers him. 

This only ends one way, the only way I will allow this to end.  

No. He knows it’s just a piece of paper, but it’s a tactile reminder that Peter is still alive. He wrote these words. 

You never have to thank me kid. 

Not an option. 

I love you, too, Peter, and I’ll tell you that in person when I come to get you. 

“Tony, what is it?” Happy’s voice makes him tear his eyes away from the offending gut-wrenching note.

“Ransom note, written by Peter.” His voice was softer than he thought it would be.

“What do they want?”

“20 Million. But, something’s up with this note.”

“Well, yeah, obviously. It is a ransom note.” Happy said, a grim expression adorning his features.

“Yes, but it’s more than that. He called me Tony.” Happy didn’t seem to understand, so the mechanic continued, “He said to check in on May and Ben.”

“Ben?” Happy asks, confused, knowing the kid’s history of loss. 

“Yes. He wrote that if he doesn’t make it, I should tell Ben he was the best uncle. It doesn’t make sense.” Happy doesn’t seem to know what to say, his face getting grimmer by the second, lines of confusion appearing between his brows. Tony looks back down at the message, scanning it, “Happy, the kid must be completely out of it. This note is chaos. He rambles, uses many tiny incomplete sentences, and instead of periods often uses dashe-” He stops talking abruptly.

“Tony?” Happy asked, worried.

“I’m an idiot!!!!” He exclaimed, using his hand not grasping the note, to hit himself in the head angrily. 

“What are you talking about?”

“They’re not periods and dashes, they're dots and dashes… dits and dahs. It’s Morse code!!!” Tony says, a sense of hopeful excitement overtakes his exhausted body. “I need a pen and paper now!” 

Happy says nothing as he runs to his office and returns with a small notebook and a pen. “Okay, Happy, you write what I say, got it?” The bodyguard nodded. Tony looked down at the ransom note. “Dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dash dash dot dot dash dash dot dot dot dash dot dash dash dot” Tony comes to where Peter first mentions Ben. With the man’s name and May’s name separated by a slash. He realized then why Peter wrote about his uncle; he needed a plausible reason to put in the slash, in order to separate the words, which he also does later with Ned and Mj’s names. He is beyond grateful for how smart his kid is, even when drugged. He continues to dictate. Once he’s done and Happy wrote down the last dot, he handed the notebook to Tony. 

..........--..--...-.--./-.-.----.-.-..-...-./.-......-..-.

It was gibberish without the spaces needed to differentiate the letters. “FRI, scan and calculate all possible letter combinations until one makes sense.”

“Will do, boss.”

Tony was glad his AI was on it, but he felt like he had to do something. Had to move. He wished he could use the drone to track Peter, but they thought ahead, making it self-destruct. Instead, he takes the letter down to the lab, scanning for any fingerprints other than his own and Peter’s. He finds a partial print, running it through an international database. As his technology takes over, he once again feels the itch to do something. To be useful. Every time he so much as blinks, he pictures Peter in the worst circumstances, beaten, bloody…

He lets out a frustrated, terrified sigh. He tracks the last place Peter’s suit was active and checks the camera’s nearby. He watches Spider-Man swing through the streets, whipping past the buildings until he starts to slow down. His trajectory gets sloppy, as if there is a lag between his mind and body. He watches as Peter’s next web falls to the ground, followed by the vigilante himself. Tony flinches as the hero roughly lands against the ground. He didn’t get up. The Mechanic watches as goons in black approach the incapacitated spider.  They start picking up Peter’s limp form and Tony wants to reach through and grab the boy, but what he is watching is nothing more than a memory now.

The suit’s GPS cuts out almost as soon as the van doors close with Peter inside. He does his best to track the van, but there is no license plate. After following the vehicle through traffic cameras, he loses it around mile ten. He kept going back and checking, but it’s as if it just disappeared in thin air. At least he knows now that they were heading southwest out of Queens. 

Ding

Tony turns to the hologram containing the fingerprint search to see a match. Not just that, but a former, fired employee of his. Because of course, why not?  His name is Liam Brown. Tony remembers him, he was smart but way too impulsive to be working with weapons. He was part of SI before Tony stopped manufacturing mass weapons. This knowledge just makes him even more worried for Peter. 

He would transfer the money immediately if he thought he would get the kid back, but this guy is unpredictable. Tony has to at least know where Peter is before he gives them the money, if he gives them the money. 

“How’s the Morse code message going FRI?” He asks impatiently, his knee bouncing so fast it almost looks like a blur. 

“Due to there being two slash marks, I determined there are three words. I have deciphered the first word and I am working on the second and third.”

She’s not going fast enough. “What’s the first word?”

“Shipping.”

“Shipping?”

“Yes, boss.”

He has no idea what to do with that, “Hurry it up with the other words FRI.” It was an order but it came out as more of a plea. 

“I will do my best, boss. For now, I suggest looking into Liam Brown’s recent purchases.”

Duh. He felt like an idiot, something that is unusual for him. He started pulling up his bank statements, but nothing screams kidnapping. No new property purchases, no weapons, nothing. His expenses were those of an average middle-class New Yorker: rent, coffee, utility bills, bars, restaurants, the movies, grocery store, etc. Nothing suspicious, which, in this situation, was somehow even more suspicious. Tony did see more than one person grab Peter; maybe all of the kidnapping money came from someone else's account. Another dead end. 

“I have worked out the second word, it is ‘container.’”

Shipping container. 

Tony wanted to cry, “Seriously, that's it? Shipping container? There are like what? 5 million or more in New York City Alone?!” He feels like he’s going to break down. He has all these little clues, a person, a hidden message, a bank account, but none of them fit together. Here he is about to fall apart when Peter needs him, but that’s the issue, Peter needs him, and he’s not there. He’s in his lab on the verge of a panic attack, his heart feeling like it is going to beat right through his Arc Reactor. 

He picks up the letter with his kid’s handwriting. This, this right here, is why he tried to push the kid away after the Vulture. He saw the kid hurt from one, the boy’s own actions, but also, more importantly, because Tony brought him into this world. A world of danger and brutality. Before him, Peter was just the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man. Tony decided to be selfish and had asked the Spider for his help, thus putting a target on his back. This is his fault. Peter is locked away, scared, drugged, and hurt because of him. If Peter doesn’t make it Tony doesn’t know if he could live with himself. If he could go on with his life after he was the reason such a bright light was snuffed out so young.  He can’t- he can’t- I can’t- I can’t- I can’t do it- I can’t let Peter-

“Boss?”

Tony’s breathing was way too fast and way too shallow, but through the fear, he heard FRIDAY’s voice, it sounded like an Angel, “Pl-Please tell me you h-have the-the fin-final word.” He barely got out. 

“Affirmative. The final word is ‘River’”

Shipping Container River

... .... .. .--. .--. .. -. --. / -.-. --- -. - .- .. -. . .-. / .-. .. ...- . .-.

That still doesn't narrow it down that much. What little breath he was able to catch starts to drift away faster than his lungs inhale, spiraling once more. But before the panic can fully engulf him, his Angel calls out through the thick fog. 

“Based on the time of the CCTV footage, the direction of the van, estimating the time needed for Peter to come back to consciousness and write the letter, taking into account the fact that he most likley took extra time writing due to the drugs and the hidden message, as well as the timing of the letter delivery, I deduced that they could not have driven for more than an hour.” FRIDAY's mechanical Irish voice acting as a rope, slowly pulling him out of the quicksand of dread, “Knowing this, I devise they are, most likely, at Red Hook Terminal in Brooklyn. There is a container terminal, and it is on the river. ”

His breaths slowed the more information she set forth. “You have no idea how much I adroe you, FRI!” He summons a suit. “Input the address into the suit’s GPS.”

“Done,” FRIDAY confirms, right as the suit finishes perfectly melding around Tony’s frame. He runs to the helipad to take off. 

I’m coming, Pete.

Chapter Text

Peter is so out of it, his chin rests against his chest, but he’s awake and in and out of coherency. Earlier, they stuck an IV into his forearm, continuously feeding a sedative into his veins. The woman is no longer there, but now there are three others in the room having quiet conversations nearby him. 

“I honestly thought he’d pay it right away,” He heard the captors talking. “20 million is nothing to that rich bastard.”

Peter vaguely notices the true malice in the man’s voice, as if Mr. Stark personally offends him. He also has a fleeting thought. Why would the captors think that Tony would only send the money right away because it wouldn’t make a dent in his outrageous fortune, and not because he’s worried about Peter Spider-Man? 

Peter was really tired. He hated feeling like this. He hated feeling weighed down, heavy, weak, and helpless. He was Spider-Man. But now, though, he felt like Peter Parker, pre-spider bite. Even worse than that, even without the asthma from his younger years. Although the sedatives were making his vision blurry, like when he needed glasses as a kid. He almost laughed, his loopy, drug-addled mind wondering why he doesn’t count himself as a kid anymore; he’s not even sixteen yet.  

“Are we really going to kill him if Stark doesn’t send the money?” Peter hears one ask, but decides the effort to lift his head and find out which goon said it was too much. 

“If Stark can’t cough 20 million out of his billions of dollars, then he deserves Spider-Man’s life on his conscience.” Another replies. Peter really hopes Tony sends the money soon. He wished more than anything he could get out of this himself, but he knows he can’t, not this time. 

Peter was tuning in and out of the conversation. He has never felt this weighed down before, as if there was a lead blanket pinning him to the chair. His thoughts are trying to trudge their way to his prefrontal cortex, but it’s as if a thick haze has settled over his brain. His thoughts were breaking apart, getting lost in his disoriented, drugged mind. He can sometimes latch on to one or two, but each notion he grasps at is fragmented and confusing in his current state. 

“Here’s the real question.” Peter vaguely heard one of them say. “When that clock hits 10 pm tomorrow, who gets the honor of killing him?”

Yeah, Peter heard that, although he really wished he didn’t. He starts to panic even more. His clouded brain becomes even more muddled with the panic, but his body stays quite still with the IV still feeding him the powerful sedative. With his anxiety building, he feels even more trapped, something he didn’t think was possible.

“Dibs!!!”

“You can’t call dibs!”

“I just did!”

They were fighting over who gets to kill him, but what’s worse is that they were acting like children doing it. Peter wants to scream at himself for letting these immature idiots take him down. 

“Rock Paper Scissors?”

“No.”

“Highest card wins?”

“No.”

“What the hell man, what about drawing straws?”

“You’ll cheat.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

“Won’t”

“Will”

“Won-”

“Enough!!!” Peter sluggishly flinched at the loud voice. “Both of you just shut up! I put this whole thing together, and I obtained the sedative. I get to kill him.”

“Killjoy.” One spoke.

“You can walk out that door right now if you want!” The loud one announced in a sinister voice, “But just know, if you do leave, and Stark does come through with the money, you won’t get a penny.”

It was quiet once more. Peter couldn't tell if the other goon left or was just shamed into silence. He let his fog-covered mind drift to better things. People he would truly miss if he didn’t make it out. He may not be fully coherent, but even in this disarray, he remembers the names of those he loves. May, Tony, Ned, MJ, Pepper, and Happy. There are more names, but those people are no longer on this planet: his mom, dad, and Ben. 

Either he gets saved and goes home to his family. Or, they kill him and he gets to see his family again. It’s a sliver of comfort to know that his family is waiting for him no matter which way things turn out. 

He lets his brain soak in the memories of his loved ones, no matter how fragmented and fuzzy they are. At some point, he falls into a sedative and anxiety-fueled sleep.

Chapter Text

Peter only wakes when he hears yelling and blasts. His mind refuses to catch up to him. He opens his eyes, but everything is blurry. He sees the black of his kidnapper’s clothes, the grey of the walls, and something red and gold moving fast. His head hurts, so he shuts his eyes again. If they are going to kill him, he doesn’t want to see it. He takes some deep breaths, the drugs making that even an effort. He enjoys the air while he still has it. He can hear fighting, and he distantly wonders if the head captor finally snapped at the other two. Although the red and gold is new. In the back of his brain, there was a spark of hope, but the sedative created fog kept it from his cerebrum, keeping Peter in the dark.

The loud noises cause his head to hurt worse, he keeps his eyes shut and tries to tune it out. But it’s much louder now, and people are screaming, shoes are shuffling, and explosions are happening. It’s all too much. Peter can’t feel a lot right now, excluding his aching head and senses, but he does feel the twin tears racing themself down his face. His tears wanting to escape just as much as he does.   

He tries to succumb to the weighted feeling, hoping that it drags him under, away from the din, away from this situation. But before he can fully give into the darkness once more, things settle down. It’s quiet, eerily quiet. He wonders if they kept their promise. Did they kill me? Is that why it’s so quiet? Before he can give more thought to his own demise, he hears thumps, like metal hitting against something hard. The beat of the sound is even but fast, like someone jogging. Peter almost wants to laugh. Who has metal feet?

He hears mechanical whirring getting louder and louder the closer the thumps get. “Peter!” Even with his head and the drugs, he would know that voice anywhere. “Come on, buddy, open those eyes for me.” The thumps stopped, but the mechanical whirring was now right in front of him. Tony sounded frantic and shaky, emotions Peter wasn’t used to hearing in the mechanic's voice. 

“M’s’r S’rk.” He slurred, opening his blurry eyes. Tears that have yet to fall teeter on the boy’s waterline. 

“Yeah, Bambi,” Peter hears a deep breath. An exhale of relief.  “It’s me, I’m getting you out of here.” He can’t see his mentor well, but even with the billionaire’s features coming in and out of focus, Peter can see the deep worry lines adorning the man’s face. He’s still in the suit, and he’s on one knee in front of the chair the kid is unwillingly bound to.

“Fo’und m’?”

“Yeah, kid, I found you. Your letter was genius.” Tony says, trying to mask his overwhelming concern for Peter’s sake. 

“M’rs’ c’de.”

“Yup, got your message within a message, you really are a genius, kiddo.”

Peter feels a sharp pain in his arm and makes a small sound. “Sorry, I just want this stuff out of your system as fast as possible.” Peter slowly moves his head sluggishly toward the pain and realizes that Tony just took out the IV. The man then starts working on lasering through the cuffs. “Hold still while I break you out, Pete.”

Peter let out a small huff of a laugh, it was weak and barely heard. But it’s funny because, it’s not like he can move much anyway. The drugs still making him feel like there is a cinderblock tied to each limb and his neck, pulling them down down down. 

Tony takes his time, even if he wants to free his kid as fast as possible, he also doesn’t want to be sloppy and accidentally hurt the boy with the laser. After the final cuff is off, Peter doesn’t move, not intentionally anyhow, he dips forward a little. His drugged body is not ready to support itself. Tony uses his metal-encased hands to gently hold Peter’s shoulders, stopping the kid from falling face-first into his Iron-Man chest plate. 

“He, hey, no sleeping, Pete, I need you to focus on me.” Peter lifts his head as much as he can, squinting at Tony, eyes drifting. “Are you hurt?” Tony knows it’s a stupid question, but he wants to know the whole picture before picking the kid up and flying back to the medbay.

“D’gg’d.”Peter said, head lowering again. 

“Yeah, I got that, but other than being drugged up to your eyeballs, are you hurt?” Tony asked. He wasn’t trying to diminish the drug's effect, but if he had to choose between the kid being drugged and bleeding out, he would choose the drugs. Peter’s metabolism should eat through it pretty quickly. 

“Cuss’d.” 

It took Tony a moment to translate the slurred, broken word. “Right, yes, you said you were concussed in the letter.” Not to mention the video. With that in mind, he looks a bit closer, now that he wasn’t actively trying to free the kid and noticed the plastered, dark hair on Peter’s head, toward the right back side. He sees a similar, smaller patch on the other side of his head, but toward the front, a few inches from his temple. He keeps one hand on Peter's shoulder, moving it slightly more center, to distribute the vigilante’s weight better. He has the suit on his other hand recede, and he lightly touches the larger area carefully. Peter lazily flinches, letting out a whine. “Shit, sorry.” He takes his hand back and sees flecks of dark dried blood. 

The mechanic gets even more concerned, but tries his best to stay calm and level-headed for his kid. “Ready to go figlio ?” He asks, both hands back on the boy’s shoulders.

Peter gives an exhausted nod, his head still down. Tony picks Peter up, the kid weakly hooks his legs around the suit’s waist, arms around the neck, and head resting heavily on Tony’s armored shoulder. The cool metal felt good against Peter’s aching head. His face is turned towards Tony. The man can feel Peter's slow, shallow breaths against his neck before he has the helmet reassemble around his head. 

Tony holds the kid tight, one arm around his back and one under his bottom, making sure Peter’s secure before taking off. As they lift off, Tony looks at the mess of what used to be a shipping container. The metal is torn and burnt, and there are bodies (some unconscious, some dead). Peter didn’t notice, and for that, Tony is grateful. 

As they fly toward the medbay, he’s pretty sure Peter is falling asleep, if he’s still at all conscious. He tries to keep the boy awake, at least until Dr. Cho can check him out. To keep the kid somewhat aware and focused, Tony, with the hand securing Peter's back, taps him purposefully. B etween each cryptic word, he would pat the kid’s back with his whole hand to indicate he was starting a new word. He keeps tapping the same sentence over and over as they get closer to the medbay. 

.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-

I love you

Chapter Text

By the time they touch down on the helipad at the tower, Peter is down for the count. Helen and her team meet them there, coming toward him the moment his armor touches the concrete. The nurses try to take the kid from his arms, but there is resistance. They look to Tony, who is known to be quite protective of the teen, but he is not the one stopping them from taking Peter. He won’t lie and say he wouldn’t do that, because even the thought of Peter being taken away, again, chisels away at his heart, but he knows the boy needs medical attention, and he is not about to get in the way of that. It becomes apparent that what little strength Peter has left, he is using to physically sick Tony’s suit with his spider powers, even in sleep. The team has to pry the unconscious teen off the metal armor. At this, Peter comes to slightly, whining and trying to grab onto the suit. 

“Pete, you have to let go. They’re trying to help.” Maybe it was verbalizing the situation, or perhaps it was because of Tony’s specific voice, but Peter’s efforts to reconnect to his mentor stopped. They place him gently onto a gurney and start wheeling him inside while the Iron Man armor disassembles. 

Tony follows, but he knows the rules; he has to wait in the waiting room. It’s his goddamned medbay; he should be able to go wherever he damn well pleases. Still, he’s unwilling to reignite the same fight he has every time with Helen, if only to make sure she has her full attention on Peter. He begrudgingly goes to sit in one of the chairs set up in Peter’s personal Medbay room for when they transfer him there. 

This room, unlike the others, which are predominantly white, is colorful. Pictures lined the walls, so many that they were overlapping, but these depictions were very special. After Spider-Man went down in an Avengers-level fight, and it was all over the news, fans of the vigilante started sending cards, gifts, and, in the case of his younger admirers, hand-drawn pictures. The team compiled all the drawings and hung them all over the boy’s medbay room, so when he finally woke up, he would see just how beloved he was. Since then, they have just added more and more as they come in. Peter, himself, when he was healthy, stuck countless on the ceiling. 

Tony looks around at the colorful, crudely drawn sketches. On one hand, they made him smile. Peter often diminishes his effect on the people he keeps safe, and Tony is glad he has a visual reminder of how much he means to the citizens of New York City. On the other hand, Tony only sees these drawings if Peter is sick or injured. He loves and dreads these heartfelt pieces of art.

He takes a long, deep breath. At least he’s home. No matter how unnerving it is waiting for an update, it’s better than the times he had to wait, not even knowing if his boy was going to make it. 

His boy.

Peter became his kid so inconspicuously that Tony didn’t even realize it until Rhodey had pointed it out. It was one off-handed sentence.

… 

“My kid’s coming over this weekend, you want to join our movie night, Honeybear?” His best friend didn’t reply right away, and he looked up from his workbench to see a smirk on the man’s face. “What?”

“Did you just call Peter ‘your’ kid?” The colonel had asked, his smile not diminishing. 

Tony was about to get defensive when he paused, actually thinking back, “I… I guess I did.”

Instead of making fun of him, Rohdey simply said, “Movie night sounds great.” Although a moment later, the man couldn’t help but add, “Since he’s your kid, I should be Uncle Rhodey though.”

Tony had laughed and rolled his eyes. “Good luck with that Platypus; he still calls me Mr. Stark.” 

…

It was a fond memory; this one, however, is not. He settles in as he waits to hear about Peter’s condition. 

—-—-—-—-—-

It was around two hours later that Helen came in. Tony stood up, on instinct. She smiled at him, and that alone eased his tension. “I believe he will be fine.” She said, and once he sat back down, she continued. “We are flushing the sedatives out of his system while also giving him nutrients to kick-start his healing factor.” Tony nodded, “We cleaned up the wounds on his head and stitched them up to be safe. We also did an MRI; his brain functions look good, but he has yet to fully return to consciousness. Although he does have a moderate to severe concussion.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, even with the MRI, we cannot be 100% positive he has no brain damage,” at those two specific words, a look of panic crossed the mechanic’s face, a pit of terror opening in his stomach, “but,” she quickly added, calmly, “based on the information we do have from the MRI and taking into account his healing abilities, I can safely say, in my professional opinion, Peter will be just fine physically. We will know more once he is awake.”

Tony did not miss her intentional use of the word, physically. Kidnapping takes a major toll mentally; he should know. 

“They are just finishing cleaning him up, and then he will be brought in.” Tony again nods, “Do you have any questions for me before I go and start writing my notes in his chart?”

He thought for a moment before replying, “No, just…” he sighed, “Thank you so much, Helen, I don’t know what I- what we would do without you.”

She smiles at him, “Of course, Tony, you know we all love Peter. I’ll just be down the hall if either of you needs anything.” She starts to walk toward the door, before turning back, “Oh, also, he will most likely be tired for at least the next 24 hours, if not longer. Even with us flushing the sedative out of his system, not to mention the extra-strength painkillers we have him on for his unique metabolism, his body has been overtaxed and needs rest. I will have a nurse checking in every few hours as concussion protocol dictates. Slight confusion, slurred words, and headaches are also to be expected. The call button is beside you on the wall.” She points out. Tony, once again, gives a nod of acknowledgement, and with that, she leaves the room, closing the door, quieting the sounds of the hallway behind her.  

He took another deep deep breath. Being a parent is terrifying. Although for the life of him, he couldn’t imagine his father ever worried about him as much as he worries about Peter. Howard was much quicker to anger than to any type of anxiety. That includes the few times he was kidnapped for ransom, before college, which means before he was even 14 years old. 

Tony looks up, like a prayer, but his eyes catch on a certain crayon drawing. It’s a little stick figure girl holding Spider-Man’s limp hand hanging down from where a crude Iron-Man is bridal carrying the vigilante. It's rough and rudimentary, but through the red and blue coloring on one figure and the red and gold of the other, he could clearly tell exactly what the girl was trying to depict. The news showed the live aftermath of that brutal fight almost a year ago, including Iron-Man picking up Spider-Man and flying him to get medical attention. He stares at the drawing, at the Iron figure cradling the young vigilante. He begs that he’s doing a better job than his father did with him. His biggest fear is not waterboarding, it’s not caves, it’s not even wormholes, it’s becoming Howard, and ruining Peter. 

His thoughts fracture as the door to the room is opened. He looks from the ceiling to the doorway and sees a few nurses wheeling a bed into the room. He quickly stands, but doesn’t move, not wanting to get in the way. He even stands on his tiptoes to get a view of the kid before the bed is actually in front of him. He knew what to expect, they’ve done this many times, but the still form of his kid still makes his heart compress, physically grasped from the sight. 

He stays where he is as the nurse plugs things into the wall, changing the IV bag and injecting some medication into it, before nodding to Tony and leaving the room. There was more noise in the room now, even with the kid asleep, a beeping now replaced silence, Peter’s heart. He knew the health of the kid’s heart wasn’t in question, but the noise still soothes his own scared one. 

He scootches the chair forward, cringing at the sound it makes against the tiles, and sits back down. He takes a moment to lower the rail on the side of the bed he is on. A moment is being kind, because, despite how many times he has seen Helen and the nurses do it, he still struggles to find the release mechanism. But once he does, he gently lowers the barricade keeping him from Peter. He looks at the kid, eyes closed, face lax. He has an IV in the crook of his right arm, on the other side of the bed. Now that the boy’s hair is clean and no longer dark and greasy with grime and blood, he can clearly see the black stitches against the soft brown strands. It’s not many, but usually they skip the stitches altogether due to the vigilante’s enhanced healing. From Helen’s words, he knows it's precautionary since his mending abilities aren't first-rate at the moment, most likely due to the sedatives. But, still, they look so unnatural, he lightly brushes some curls from the boy’s face, making sure not to touch the sutures. 

“Hey Pete,” The kid doesn’t move, not that he expected him to, “I’m here kid,” he took Peter’s smaller hand in his. “I-” he had never been good at expressing his emotions, used sarcasm and other types of deflection whenever he or someone else expressed serious emotions. So, he doesn’t say what he wants, not out loud at least. He starts tapping Peter’s hand, the same sentence he had tapped on the kid’s back on the way here. He had memorized it in college. It’s how he said it first to Rohdey, after the man saved him when he got too indulgent at a party and ended up falling asleep on his best friend when they got back to their dorm. 

.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-

I love you

He continued the repetition until it was so ingrained that he, not quite drifted off fully, but zoned out due to the emotional exhaustion of the past few days, but kept up the pattern almost unconsciously. He only tuned back in when he felt the hand he was holding squeeze his. He was about to ask Peter if he was awake, since his eyes were still closed, when the boy continued to squeeze in specific intervals. It took Tony a minute, but he realized it was the same pattern he was using, but with an extra word added on. 

.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..- / - --- — 

I love you too

The man smiled as he used his other hand to subtly hit the call button. “How are you feeling, bud?”

Peter took a deep breath through his nose and let it out as he opened his eyes, squinting. “T’red.”

“Yeah? Does anything hurt?” Tony said, using a soft voice only reserved for him. 

Peter’s eyebrows furrowed in thought or in pain, Tony wasn’t quite sure, “He’d.”

“Your head hurts?” 

“Mhmm.” The kid hummed affirmatively, obviously still out of it.

Tony was about to reply when the door opened and Helen walked in. She gave him a nod and calmly walked to the other side of Peter’s bed, where the IV hung. “Hey Peter, can you hear me?”

Peter, who had closed his eyes again, squinted them open, “Ye’h.”

She smiled, “Can you tell me your full name?”

Peter furrowed his brow, but only for a second, “P’ter B’njam’n Park’r.”

“Good, can you tell me where you are?”

Peter looked around the room sluggishly, taking note of all the drawings, “Medb’y.”

“That’s right. How are you feeling?” The kid raised a hand in a so/so motion.

“He said his head hurt.” 

Helen looked to Tony, “I’ll see if it’s safe to up his pain meds, but just know they will probably make him more tired.” At that, Peter started to struggle in the bed.

“N-no m’re sedativ’s,” 

“It’s okay, kiddo, no sedatives, I promise,” Tony said as he squeezed Peter’s hand, his own heart doing the same at Peter’s lethargic panic. 

“It’s just to help with your pain, Peter,” Helen added. 

The kid calmed down a bit, but his face was pinched in apprehension. Tony did not let his hand go. Not to mention that he was pretty sure Peter was, once again, using his sticky power on his hand anyhow. 

Tony must have still looked worried, because before Helen left the room to check on the medication status, she smiled at him reassuringly, “He’s doing well, Tony, some confusion is normal and expected.” She waited for him to nod before she continued, “I or a nurse will be back in a few minutes.” She left the room.

The kid’s face was still lined with unease, but Tony didn’t say anything, thinking the kid had fallen back asleep. But then, Peter’s hand started squeezing his again, but in a different pattern. Tony was having trouble figuring the words out, he’s not that great at Morse code, not like he used to be. But then he heard Peter whisper as he was still squeezing and unsqueezing. 

“Sh’pp’n’ Con’ai’er Riv’r.” He was whispering three words over and over. It only took Tony a moment to translate the slow slurred words. 

Shipping Container River

... .... .. .--. .--. .. -. --. / -.-. --- -. - .- .. -. . .-. / .-. .. ...- . .-.

“Bud, it’s okay, I found you; your message worked.”

“Shhhhhh,” Peter shushed, eyes still closed, hand still squeezing, “Can’t f’rget, can’t los’ my pl’ce. Shipp’n’ c’nta’ner r’ver.” 

Tony was at a loss. Did Peter think he was still there? His eyes drift to the IV bag, an obvious reminder of his ordeal, even if this medication was to help him and not to weaken and incapacitate him.

Peter continued to say the three words over and over, his hand squeezing over and over. “Kiddo, it’s okay, you’re not there anymore. You're at the Tower, in the medbay.”

The boy didn’t stop, so Tony tried a different tactic. He used the hand Peter was not compressing and looked up something on his phone before starting to tap the kid’s blanket covered ankle.

... .- ..-. .

Safe

He then added to it.

-.-- --- ..- .----. .-. . / ... .- ..-. .

You're safe

Peter’s hand on his paused, before it started up again, but different. 

... .- ..-. . ..--..

Safe?

Tony wanted to cry, but he quickly answered by squeezing Peter’s hand back with an answer he knew by heart. 

-.-- . …

Yes

Peter squeezed back, but again with something different. 

Tony looked it up quickly. 

- --- -. -.-- ..--..

Tony?

Tony replied again with the same answer, his hand firm and hopefully reassuring. Inside, though, his heart was a shattered mess of jagged shards. This was the first time Peter had ever called him Tony instead of Mr. Stark, and it wasn’t even out loud. 

-.-- . …

Yes

But he also answered verbally, trying to keep his voice even. “Yeah, kid, it’s me, Tony. You’re safe.” The assurance must have worked to some degree because Peter only squeezed his hand once more before he relaxed more into the bed, and soon after, his breaths evened out. 

A nurse came in and silently gave Peter an approved dose of his painkillers through the IV before exiting. Tony stayed right where he was. He refused to move as he watched over Peter, finding himself subconsciously tapping or gently squeezing Peter’s hand as the boy slept, with the same pattern from earlier. A pattern he memorized and will not forget anytime soon. Something he’s working up to being comfortable saying out loud. Each time the sequence finished, the iron walls around his heart broke a little further.  

.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-

I love you