Chapter Text
When Peter wakes up, several things become very clear all at once: he’s underground somewhere unpleasant, something is messing with his powers, and his entire body hurts. A lot.
He blinks as his eyes adjust to the darkness. He’s tied—no, he realizes, testing it, chained—to an incredibly uncomfortable metal chair, in the middle of what seems to be some kind of…dungeon? Dungeon is the word that comes to mind. High stone walls; a mossy, muddy smell clinging to the air; water dripping somewhere far off, echoing down what must be cavernous halls. There’s only one door, and two men in black stand by it, carrying very dangerous-looking, possibly enhanced guns.
So. This isn’t good.
He tugs at the chains again, but he’s weak, muscles mushy and trembling, the way they used to feel after he had to run a mile in gym in middle school, before he got his powers. Every movement sends a sharp pain ripping through his side, making his stomach heave; his ribs might be broken. The left side of his face is definitely swollen. Each time he swallows his jaw aches.
At least his mind is clear. How did he get here? Last thing he remembers is heading back to his dorm after a disappointing party. He’s still in the same clothes, so that’s a clue, but not much of one. He’d been sober on his walk home, toying with the idea of heading out for an hour or two of patrol, and then—nothing. Nada. Nope. He has no idea if he’s even still in Boston. It doesn’t feel like it, somehow.
Well, he needs to know where he is. Seems like there’s an easy source for that.
“Uh, guys?” he says. It comes out scratchy, and he notices he’s very thirsty. “What’s the deal here? Who’d I piss off this time?”
The men glance at each other, but don’t say anything.
“Aw, man,” Peter complains, faking a confidence he doesn’t feel. It’s easier to be casual about his safety when he’s not chained up and shaking, strength sapped. He wonders if whatever they’ve done to him effects his healing powers, too. That would not be ideal. “Are you gonna make this hard? You know twenty questions? Let’s do twenty questions. Are we within the state of Massachusetts?”
One of the man stalks over and slams the butt of his gun into Peter’s face. A burst of agony shoots through his entire system, sending his senses haywire.
“Okay, rude,” he manages to choke out, which earns him another strike across the jaw. There’s a searing pain in his mouth and he tastes metal. He must’ve bit his tongue. Fuck. He spits blood, but doesn’t say anything else. They’ve made their point.
They must be keeping him here for a reason. He’ll find out if he waits.
---
He slips in and out of consciousness over the next few—hours? It feels like hours, though there’s not a lot to go on. He tries wriggling his wrists out of the chains, but it’s useless; whatever’s binding him is thick and tight, without room to maneuver. His ankles are attached to the back of the chair, making his knees bend uncomfortably and keeping his feet off the ground, so there’s not even a chance of launching himself at the next person who comes close. He’s starting to get really hungry, and he needs to pee, which is a thing he’ll have to deal with if this keeps up for much longer.
He’s been playing Star Wars in his head to distract from how sore every inch of him feels; just as he’s trying to remember exactly what happens after the rebels escape from Hoth, a radio on one of the men’s hips crackles to life. A voice clearly says, “He’s here.”
The men jump into high alert, holding their guns.
“Who’s here? Hey guys, who’s here?” Peter asks, but they don’t reply.
It doesn’t take very long to figure it out: shouts echo through the building, far off at first but rapidly getting closer, followed by the very distinctive sound of Iron Man’s blasters.
Mr. Stark.
Peter can feel himself smile, despite everything. It’s going to be okay. He tracks the screaming and shooting and blasts as they get closer. Just a few halls away, then just outside, then the door’s bursting open and Mr. Stark sweeps in.
“There you are,” he says in Iron Man’s metallic voice, but Peter can still pick up the relief. “It’s a maze ou—”
He’s cut off by a blinding blast from one of the guards’ guns. The Iron Man suit melts away, nanobots breaking apart as he’s thrown across the room. He slams against the stone wall with a sickening thud and falls, at least twelve feet, crashing into the ground head first. A snap rings through Peter’s ears, followed by a loud scream that blocks everything else out. It takes Peter several seconds to realize it’s the sound of his own voice.
Mr. Stark sprawls limp and lifeless, head at an impossible angle. No. No. This can’t—it can’t, it just can’t—
“You idiot!” one of the men is shouting at the other. “You weren’t supposed to hit him so high up! Boss is going to kill you.”
“Fuck,” the other man says. “Is he—?”
The first man reaches Mr. Starks body and kneels by it, shaking him. Nothing. Of course nothing, there’s no way anyone could—
“Yeah,” the man snorts. “You’re fucked.”
As he says it, the words seem to bleed away; the edges of the world blend and smudge, as if someone’s taken a paintbrush to the whole thing. Peter feels a swell of nausea, the room spins.
He passes out.
---
He comes to in the same basement, muscles still trembling, ribs still feeling broken, face still swollen. He scrambles around in panic, but there’s no sign of Mr. Stark’s body on the floor. The two men are back at the door, leaning casually, looking bored.
“What the hell?” he demands. “What—what’d you do?”
“Oh look, sleeping beauty is awake,” the man who didn’t shoot Mr. Stark says. “Hello, princess. Welcome to your captivity.”
“Welcome? I’ve been—” But as he’s saying it, he realizes his tongue doesn’t hurt, and he’s not as hungry as before. He doesn’t need to pee, either. He mutters, “Never mind,” before he provokes them.
“That’s what I thought,” the man replies. When Peter doesn’t say anything else, he appears to lose interest, turning back to his watch.
Okay. This is weird. Maybe…maybe he dreamed the whole thing? Yeah, he decides after a couple seconds of thinking it over. That’s the only thing that makes sense. He must’ve woken up briefly, absorbed enough of the scene for it to work its way into his subconscious, and then dreamed the rest of it.
He feels himself relax. That means Mr. Stark is alive. Who knows if he’s actually coming to rescue him. He might not even know Peter’s captured. But at least he’s alive.
---
If he dreamed it, he got the details eerily spot on, because right around the time his mental replay of Star Wars gets to the Millennium Falcon flying into an asteroid field (he remembers that, this time), his concentration is broken by the echo of screams, and soon Mr. Stark is swooping into the room. He’s not hit by the gun this time—he dodges the shot, stuns the guards, and is by Peter’s side in seconds. He blasts him free from the chair and hauls him to his feet, faceplate opening.
“Kid, you okay?” he asks. His voice is pitched low, tinged with an emotion Peter hasn’t heard since right after Titan.
“I think so?” Just living through the most surreal déjà vu of his life, but that’s probably not super high on the priority list right now. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
Mr. Stark retracts his suit from around his hand so he can ghost his fingers across Peter’s face, tracing what must be a cut along his cheek. He presses down on a bruise, and Peter can’t help flinching as pain sparks through his head. He misses his powers.
“I’m sorry, Pete.” Mr. Stark’s eyes go dark and dangerous. “This is my fault.”
“Let’s play the blame game after we get out of here,” Peter suggests, picking up the thud of heavy boots pounding along the halls. “Someone’s coming.”
Mr. Stark nods, momentary softness gone as the suit closes around him. He tries to get Peter to walk, but his legs give way as soon as he takes his first step.
“Okay, we’ll do it by flying.” Metal arms grip Peter’s waist, tight and secure.
They get halfway down the hall before a man dashes around the corner, waving a dangerous-looking gun. Tony takes aim, but before he lets off his first blast they’re hit with a bolt that knocks Peter out cold.
---
He wakes up chained to a chair, in the same room, but he instantly realizes it’s different. His body feels like it’s been through a blender, there’s a looming giant of a man stalking around the space, and—shit—Mr. Stark is chained to another chair a few feet away, slumped over, suit gone.
A second man comes through the door. Smaller, but there’s something chilling about his stretched and wane face. When he speaks, telling the big guy, “It’s time,” it’s like there are too many teeth in his mouth.
The big guy revives Mr. Stark by punching him in the face. Peter barely manages to bite back a yell, heart contracting at the sound Mr. Stark makes, a guttural groan that hangs heavy in the room.
“I’m up, I’m up!” Mr. Stark grumbles, somehow managing to come off more disgruntled than hurt. “Okay, Mike Tyson, what’s the deal?”
It’s the gaunt man who replies, stepping forward with an alarming grin. “You have information our employer wants.”
“You’re going to have to be more specific.” Mr. Stark toys with his chains as he talks, fingers feeling around his cuffs, clearly trying to work out if there’s a way to get them off. Peter knows from experience the answer is no, but then again, Mr. Stark is a lot better at this stuff than he is. Maybe he’ll figure it out. “I have a lot of information a lot of people would want.”
“Project Spector,” the man says, a bit of amusement in his voice. And no wonder—no one is supposed to know that exists. Peter barely knows it exists, only found out because he saw a piece of paper with the name on it when he dropped by the lab unexpectedly. (“This is what I get for giving you unlimited access,” Mr. Stark had sighed. “Pretend you didn’t see that, and don’t even try to get me to tell you more, because I won’t. Hey, don’t give me that expression. It’s because I like you too much to risk it. And do me a favor and don’t tell Fury any of this.”)
“Not sure what you’re talking about,” Mr. Stark says. His feigned ignorance sounds natural, but apparently it doesn’t convince their captor, who raises his hand with mild amusement.
“Stefan?” he says, twitching a finger in the direction of the big guy.
A giant fist connects with Peter’s cheek, blow reverberating through his skull. Unprepared, he lets out an undignified yelp. The world goes blurry with tears. He blinks quickly, trying to clear his vision.
“What the hell!” Mr. Stark yells, pulling fiercely at his chains. “He didn’t do anything!”
“Does this strike you as a situation where fairness is the primary consideration?” the man asks. He nods at the big guy—Stefan—and another fist rams into Peter’s stomach. He manages not to shout this time, but he can’t hold back a hollow gasp, air ripped out of his lungs by the force of the pain. “Do I need to repeat my question?”
Mr. Stark’s eyes flick from Stefan to Peter to the corners of the room. Peter recognizes the way his face goes tight, jaw working: it’s the expression he gets when he’s trying to make a lot of choices very quickly.
“I’m fine, sir,” Peter tries to say, but it comes out a garbled groan. There’s blood in his mouth again.
He meant to be reassuring, but he totally messed that up. A muscle in Mr. Stark’s cheek twitches. He straightens, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for a fight. “Not sure what you think you’re achieving here, Dracula.”
This time the punch is so hard it leaves the room spinning. A faint buzz rings through Peter’s ears.
“I was told you’re a genius,” the leader says, sounding bored. “Surely you understand the boy keeps getting hurt every time you refuse to answer.”
“Yeah, I picked up on that.” There’s a brutal nonchalance to Mr. Stark’s tone, a mirror of the leader’s boredom. “I’m just telling you, it’s a waste of your time.”
Peter gets what he’s doing immediately. “Sir, no.” It’s frightening how his own voice cracks and strains; something’s definitely not right. Breathing is like sharp knives.
“Shut up! You’ve caused enough problems.” Mr. Stark’s snarl sounds truly cold, so cold that for a moment Peter wonders if it’s not an act after all, if he really is that mad. “I never should’ve trusted you with—”
He stops short, eyes widening as if he’s made a mistake, just exaggerated enough that Peter can tell the comment was one-hundred percent intentional.
The man seems to buy it, though, cruel smirk widening as he turns to Peter. “Interesting. Very interesting.”
“What? No, I don’t know—”
But he catches sight of Mr. Stark, who throws a lightning-fast wink. Okay. He’s supposed to play along.
He swallows. He needs to make a quick decision. He has absolutely zero desire to let Mr. Stark take the torture if he’s just being stupid and self-sacrificing. Stefan punches hard, and he’s worried the only thing keeping him upright is some amount of his healing powers still lingering under whatever they’ve done to suppress them. On the other hand, maybe Mr. Stark has an actual plan. Peter wouldn’t put it past him to have some special suit that only activates when he’s reached a certain level of injury or something. It’s the kind of thing he would do.
He’s been thinking about this too long. Okay, okay. It’s Mr. Stark he’s talking about. He trusts him, more than maybe anyone. Fine.
“I won’t tell you anything,” he says to the pale man, with false bravado. As if he actually has something to tell. He doesn’t even know what the project is.
The man’s eyes snap between them, evaluating. Apparently deciding Peter is the easier target, he tells the monster to hit Mr. Stark instead.
He does.
And does.
And does.
It’s worse than taking the punches himself. A million times worse. Each blow lands with a solid slapping sound that echoes through the chamber as sharply as a gunshot. Mr. Stark’s groans grow wailing and animalistic as the beating continues, relentless.
Peter hears something crack. It must be a rib.
“Stop!” he shouts, and his own voice is wet with tears. He hadn’t realized he’d started crying. He tugs at the chains holding him to the chair, yanking until they cut into his skin. “You’ll kill him.”
“Where can we find the device?” the man drawls, as calmly as if he were asking directions to the nearest Starbucks.
What’s he supposed to do now? Lie? Is that the plan?
“Don’t tell him anything, Pete.” It’s a command, and Peter doesn’t think it’s just for show. That’s an actual instruction.
“But, sir—”
“That the best you got?” Now Mr. Stark’s addressing his torturer, voice shaking but defiant. “Come on, this is barely a scratch.”
A fist meets Mr. Stark’s nose with a crunch Peter can feel in his own bones. “Stop!” he screams again, but the man ignores him, landing another blow on Mr. Stark’s jaw. Followed by another, and another, Mr. Stark’s face becoming a mess of bruises and red. Blood drips from the corner of his mouth; he pants heavily, breaths bubbling and strained.
“S.H.E.I.L.D.!” Peter yells desperately. Fuck Mr. Stark telling him no, whatever plan he had clearly isn’t working. “It’s at S.H.E.I.L.D. headquarters.”
The gaunt man shakes his head sharply. “We know that’s not true.”
A fist in Mr. Stark’s stomach, his chest. Another snap, a wail. Wheezing.
“The compound!” Peter tries again.
A laugh, sharp and annoyed. “You think we’re idiots.”
The assault doesn’t let up, blow after blow. Peter starts to babble out every location he can think of, panic growing as Mr. Stark’s gasps come weaker and weaker, his head nodding forward. The man doesn’t seem to believe anything Peter has to say; his mouth fills with the salt of his tears and he can’t figure out what he’s supposed to do. He loses track of what he’s saying, dissolves into screaming, begging, but he has nothing to tell them, no way to make them stop—
Peter can see the moment his captor realizes he really doesn’t know anything. He immediately holds up his hand, calling off the attack. Mr. Stark slumps forward, unconscious. As Peter strains to hear, he realizes he can’t catch the sound of his breath. He’s not moving, not even trembling in pain—
That’s when the world goes smudged and blurry again.
---
Peter wakes up with a scream, heart pounding. It’s started over again: he hurts, but not as much as he had, and the original guards are back.
He can’t convince himself it was a dream anymore. He doesn’t say anything to the guards. He waits.
---
This time, Mr. Stark doesn’t stop to ask him how he is. Just lands, blasts him free, and scoops him up, saying confidently, “I’ve got you kid, you’re going to be fine.”
They make it most of the way out of the complex, Mr. Stark deftly dodging guards with guns, muttering reassurances to Peter, who clings to him, head hidden in his neck, shaking, exhausted, shocked to feel him alive, mind screaming that none of this is real, how can any of this be happening?
And then something hits his back. This feels more like it, part of his mind manages to think before he goes black.
---
He doesn’t wake up back in the chair. That’s a surprise.
Also a surprise: he’s lying down, on a stiff mattress. As his senses turn back on, slowly resolving the scene, he realizes he’s in some sort of bedroom, large but bare, with metal cabinets lining the wall. Mr. Stark is sitting next to him in an uncomfortable-looking chair, head in his hands.
Peter tries to reach for him. His arm won’t follow the instruction. Neither will the other one. That’s concerning. “Sir?” he asks.
Mr. Stark’s head jerks up. His eyes are red, but he’s uninjured, nothing like the pulverized mess Peter remembers as if it were only hours ago. “Peter,” he gasps. “Peter, I’m so sorry.”
Peter has no idea what to say, where to start. He wants to be rational, ask if Mr. Stark remembers what he remembers, but his throat squeezes shut as he tries to find the words. He saw him die. He saw him die twice. Even looking at him makes panic clutch around his chest, the sound of snapping bones echoing through his memory. And where is he? And why can’t he move his arms? He can’t—he can’t even wiggle his fingers.
“What?” is all he manages to choke out before he starts sobbing.
Immediately Mr. Stark is on him, pulling him to sitting, holding his head against his chest, fingers stroking through his hair. “It’s okay,” he whispers somewhere above Peter’s head. “It’s going to be okay.”
He smells like singed skin and sweat, and under that something chemically floral and familiar. Laundry detergent, Peter’s brain supplies. The mundaneness of that scent, the only thing that makes any sense, is strangely soothing. The warmth of Mr. Stark’s body surrounds him; the tautness of his muscles under the thin cotton of his shirt, the steady thump of his heart. It calms him down.
This is funny, some corner of his mind thinks wildly. If someone had told him a few days ago that he’d be resting his head against Mr. Stark’s chest, he’d have called them crazy, and if they’d insisted, he’d have flipped out in happiness. This was not, however, the kind of thing he would’ve had in mind.
After—seconds? Minutes? He’s so lost in it he has no sense of time—his sobs subside into hiccups, and Mr. Stark arranges him so he can sit against the pillows. A little experimentation tells him he can still move his legs, flex his stomach, twist his head. It’s just the arms then.
Kind of a big just.
“Where are we?” he asks, because it seems like a simple place to start. Something he can deal with.
“S.H.I.E.L.D. safe house,” Mr. Stark says. “Near Sokovia.”
“Whoa.” So, definitely not the state of Massachusetts.
“Yeah.” Mr. Stark makes a gesture like he’s going to touch Peter’s cheek, but then seems to think better of it; his hand lands on his shoulder instead. “A terrorist cell went after you to get to me. This is my fault. I’m sorry.”
Yeah, but you died for me. Twice . He doesn’t say it. It sounds crazy, and Mr. Stark isn’t acting like a person who recently had the world rewound. Maybe it really was a dream, somehow, even though it seemed so fresh and real, and unfolded so similarly to the truth. Maybe it was a mind-bending glimpse into an alternate, worse—devastatingly worse—reality.
Maybe it’s an aftereffect of Titan. Maybe the miracle of being alive has finally caught up with him. He’s spent the last few years waiting for it, constantly looking over his shoulder for the universe to snatch it back, to point and laugh at him for daring to get comfortable, like he could possibly escape death so easily. It certainly feels like it’s pointing and laughing now, mocking him with images he can’t push aside: twisted necks, pulverized bodies—
Mr. Stark’s hand comes to his face, brushing under his eyes. Tears. He’s brushing away tears.
“I’m so sorry,” he says again, and Peter realizes he has tears in his eyes, too. “No one’s supposed to know about you, I don’t know how—we’re going to track them all down, make sure we wipe every mention of you away—”
“It’s okay,” Peter says. “Mr. Stark it’s really okay. It’s—it comes with the territory.” That doesn’t do anything to get rid of the devastated expression hovering over him. “So,” he adds, trying to sound casual. “What’s with my arms?”
He takes it back. Mr. Stark didn’t look devastated before, because this is what devastated looks like: eyes wide, shoulders slumped.
“You got hit with something,” Mr. Stark explains, face twisting in anger. “Some fucking overpowered alien bullshit.” He stops, visibly pulling himself together. “We were almost clear. I almost got you out, and then—”
Peter has never seen a shrug look so defeated.
“Is it…” Fuck. He does not want to ask this question. “Is it permanent?”
“Not sure.” Mr. Stark places his hand on Peter’s elbow; he can’t feel it. “They’ve drugged you with something that’s suppressed your powers, but based on my scans that should wear off in the next few hours. Once your healing kicks back in, maybe your body will take care of itself.”
“Okay.” That’s good. Yeah, he just has to wait. His powers have fixed worse than this.
He lets himself unwind, trying to release the tension that’s been coiled through him for what feels like days. It doesn’t work. Now that his mind is settling, he has room to register his senses, and none of it is good. Each movement pinches and stings, as if every inch of him is bruised or cut. His clothing clings to him, sticky with dry blood and sweat, and there’s a damp patch on the inside of his thighs. He sniffs, catching a whiff of urine. Well, fuck. That’s embarrassing. He has the urge to cover his face in his hands, is hit by how strange it is not to be able to.
As if reading his mind, Mr. Stark asks if he wants to get cleaned up. “I can—” He clears his throat, dropping his eyes. “I can help. If you want.”
It’s also embarrassing how relieved Peter feels at the suggestion. He nods. “Please.”
---
He’s fantasized about Mr. Stark undressing him. Fleeting thoughts when they first met; images he tried to push aside, because that was his mentor, an adult, it felt forbidden and somehow unfair to this person he’d idolized since childhood. Images which, despite his best efforts, refused to go away, stubbornly jumping into his mind at inconvenient times (yeah, inconvenient, that’s what he’s calling it, late at night, hands sneaking downward). Images he’s indulged with increasing frequency and boldness in recent years, ever since he turned old enough to pretend Mr. Stark might return his desire. Not that he actually does—he obviously doesn’t think of Peter that way at all, so willing to casually touch him, completely unaware of its effect on him. But in his fantasies? Sure.
Point is, Peter is currently living through a moment he’s thought about a lot, but the real thing is distorted, broken and sad. Though, even in the middle of feeling miserable and the opposite of sexy, there is something nice about the way Mr. Stark carefully maneuvers his arms out of his ruined button-down, hands working with a gentle precision Peter associates with hours spent in the lab.
“Not your usual style,” Mr. Stark observes, tossing the button-down to the side and beginning to pull Peter’s vintage Star Wars t-shirt over his head.
“I was at a party.” The absurdity of that—the distance of the memory, deciding to go for the layered look MJ referred to as “geek chic,” hoping he would finally meet someone who could take his mind off the person currently undressing him, the person he’s watched die for him, twice (twice! what even was that?)—makes him laugh, a barking, hysterical sound.
Mr. Stark stills. Peter’s not sure if it’s because of his comment, or the laugh, or because the shirt’s finally off and he and can see the extent of the damage, but he sighs and says, again, “I’m so sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. I don’t blame you.” That’s true. This sucks. It sucks unbelievably, but it really is part of the job. He signed up for this.
“You should.” But he doesn’t press the issue, instead turns to unbuttoning Peter’s pants. He pulls them down in a swift motion, holding Peter steady as he steps out of them.
Tony Stark just pulled his pants down. Man. It’s a sign of how much pain he’s in that somehow that didn’t turn him on even a little bit.
Mr. Stark’s eyes sweep over him, frown deepening. Peter glances down and—yeah, okay, no wonder he looks upset. It’s not exactly a pretty sight. About the same as after he fought Mr. Toomes, but he doesn’t voice that out loud. He never told Mr. Stark the details of that night, at first because he was afraid it would freak him out, and then later because it didn’t seem particularly significant in light of everything else. Now doesn’t seem like the time to bring it up.
He’s so distracted by the thought he doesn’t notice Mr. Stark reaching for him, and nearly jumps when his fingers land on his chest, tracing a particularly dark bruise. When his eyes catch Peter’s they’re wet again.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s keep the boxers on and get you cleaned up.”
---
Peter’s surprised to find out S.H.I.E.L.D. safe houses come equipped with deep bathtubs—“It’s for exactly this purpose, kid”—but he’s grateful for it. He tells Mr. Stark to make it as hot as possible. His sore muscles thank him, tensions seeping out as soon as he sinks in.
After a few minutes of just enjoying the hot water slopping up to his chest, he has to admit he’s still sticky under the wetness. He looks around the bathroom, which is as bare as the rest of the safe house, grey and depressing. “Is there any soap?”
Mr. Stark, who’s flopped the toilet seat down and is sitting, staring at the tiles, jolts to his feet. “Yeah, there must be,” he says, going to the bathroom’s single cabinet. He quickly emerges with a bar of plain white soap. “Uh, do you want me to…?”
Okay. So Peter hadn’t exactly thought this through. He can feel his face heating up. He can’t believe he just kind of asked Mr. Stark to wash him. What is that? Blame it on the trauma.
On the other hand, Mr. Stark doesn’t seem completely appalled by the idea, and he is covered in blood and—ug. Other things. It would be nice to do more than stew in hot water. “Would that be weird?” he asks.
To his relief, Mr. Stark shrugs and sinks to his knees by the side of the tub. “I stopped knowing what counts as weird a long time ago,” he tells him with a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’m not too hung up on it.”
“It’d make me feel better.”
Mr. Stark unzips his sweatshirt, placing it to the side. He has bruises running up his arms, bold and splotchy. If those weapons did that through the Iron Man suit, they really must’ve been brutal. He dips the soap in the water, then brings the bar to Peter’s body, rubbing in slow circles, so light he can barely feel it.
“I’m not gonna break if you actually scrub a little,” Peter tells him. “I’m not that delicate.”
“Hey, mister.” Mr. Stark waves the bar at his face. “Who’s doing who the weird favor here?”
“Oh thank god, I was afraid you’d lost your sense of humor.”
Mr. Stark’s comment hadn’t really been up to his normal joke standards, and Peter’s voice still sounds weak and strained, but the exchange punctures the tension. Mr. Stark laughs, and then does scrub harder, enough to actually cut through the grime. He moves from Peter’s chest to his stomach, then his legs, not commenting as he skips over his thighs, where his boxers cling. His hands are steady and firm, moving with confidence, dodging the deepest bruises, cleaning the worst cuts. He starts humming something, a rock song Peter can’t place, but that’s vaguely familiar from Uncle Ben’s favorite oldies station.
By the time Mr. Stark gets back to the top of the tub and starts rubbing soap along his shoulders, Peter has sunk into a kind of exhausted bliss. Everything still hurts, the back of his mind still screams in horror at things he can’t forget maybe having seen, but the warmth of the water and the ease of the touch, the quiet comfort of a half-remembered tune, have drained the remaining adrenaline. He can feel his consciousness flickering, and for the first time in days it’s not frightening. He lets his eyes close. He could sleep for a week.
Callused fingers brush across his face, rubbing, maybe getting rid of blood or something. “Go to sleep, kid.” Mr. Stark’s voice is impossibly gentle. “I’ve got you.”
---
Peter wakes up back in the bed, eyes still heavy and mind only half focused. He’s wrapped in a warm robe and his boxers are dry. The lights are dim, but there’s a glow to his right, and when he turns he’s startled to discover Mr. Stark is lying next to him, propped up on a set of pillows, pouring over a tablet, eyebrows pulled together in deep concentration.
“Hi?” Peter says.
“Look who’s up.” This time Mr. Stark’s smile does reach his eyes, like he’s genuinely glad to see Peter talking. He places the tablet to the side. “How’s my favorite walking guilt trip?”
Peter rolls his eyes at the nickname, but takes a moment to evaluate the answer honestly. He feels stronger, and everything hurts a lot less. But when he tries to wiggle his fingers, it gets him nowhere.
“Better?” he says. “But my arms still aren’t working. Should I be worried about that?”
Mr. Stark keeps smiling, but it goes strained. “Not necessarily. The drug should be wearing off around now—”
“Yeah, it definitely is, I can feel that—”
“Right. But damage like you sustained to your arms will take longer to fix.” He taps something at his wrist, waves it in Peter’s direction and then picks the tablet up again. “Yeah, too early to tell,” he says. But when he glances back over, worry is painted clear across his face. “Go back to sleep. Let your body do its thing.”
Peter wants to protest, but then Mr. Stark starts stroking his hair, and it’s too tempting to melt away. It’ll be okay. Tony Stark’s got him.
---
The next time he opens his eyes, he’s not entirely sure he isn’t dreaming. Mr. Stark is stretched out beside him, on his side, face half a foot away. His hand is cupped against Peter’s head, toying with his hair. When Peter turns to meet his eyes, he sees tears streaming down his face.
“Mr. Stark?” he wants to return the touch, wants to do something about those tears. Are they for him? His arms still don’t move.
“Shh,” Mr. Stark says. “Don’t worry Pete. It’s going to be okay. I’ll make sure you’re okay.”
That doesn’t sound very plausible, but Peter’s too exhausted to stay awake long enough to argue.
---
When he comes to, he’s back in that chair, chains cutting into his wrists. His mind screams in protest, and he passes out again.
---
He wakes up when Mr. Stark comes blasting into the room. Two guards—down. He frees Peter from his chair with the same efficiency as the last go-round, but this time he’s brought something: a suit, nanobots hidden in a small chest plate he throws on Peter without explanation. Peter’s never seen this version before; it must be a new prototype. Metal surrounds him in a tight, protective coat as Mr. Stark picks him up, holding him close.
Down the halls again. Upstairs, through more halls—whatever building they’re in must be huge, but Mr. Stark seems to know where he’s going. Peter’s heart catches in his throat, lungs constricting as shots fly by, barely missing him. One skims his leg, but the suit absorbs it; it feels like a hard punch, but nothing worse. He can still move his toes.
They burst through a window several stories up, glass shattering around them, and suddenly they’re in open air, the vast bright expanse of the sky startling and stunning. Peter realizes he hasn’t seen the sun in what feels like days, or maybe forever. Just as he’s letting out a whoop of excitement, a harsh green light hits Mr. Stark’s back. He jerks forward and drops, flight mechanisms stuttering. But then he stabilizes and they’re off, flying away from that place.
Peter lets his mask retract, smiling into the cold air, enjoying the way it whips around him. He basks in the light, and for a moment, he lets himself hope it’s over.
---
In the safe house, he immediately runs to the bathroom. Once he’s done, he takes a moment to stop and look at himself in the mirror above the sink. He looks bad, bruises piling on top of each other across his jaw and down his neck. A scratch under one eye. Matted hair. Beneath it all, his skin is pale. But he can move his arms, so this feels like a miracle.
But a miracle he can’t count on sticking. Because he still has no idea what’s going on. Why does the world keep resetting? He’d thought it had to do with being trapped in that place, maybe, but yesterday—is that the right word? It’s as good as anything else—he’d escaped, and yet, here he is. It’s kind of gotten better each time, now that he thinks about it, so it’s not exactly a bad thing? But he’s not a big fan of the laws of physics going out the door without explanation. If time ever stays put, he’ll have to ask Strange if he has any idea what’s up.
He splashes water on his face, scrubbing away some of the dried blood. He attempts to comb his hair with his fingers, but he keeps getting stuck on knots. He’s not really sure why he’s bothering. There’s nothing he can do to make it look any less like he was recently kidnapped, and it’s not like this is the moment Mr. Stark is suddenly going to see him in a different light.
He remembers the feel of those hands rubbing soap across his bruised body, and suddenly he misses yesterday. It’d been hell, he has no idea what he’d do if he actually lost the ability to use his arms—no more swinging from the rooftops, no more fighting crime, his mind bounces off the idea immediately—but he did like the way Mr. Stark held him, undressed him, lay next to him in bed…
None of that is even real, he reminds himself. Whatever this is, that didn’t happen. Not anymore.
He squeezes the edge of the counter. He’s going to need a few more minutes to calm down.
---
When he finally works up the nerve to face Mr. Stark, he finds him sitting slumped on the edge of the bed, head in hands. He looks up, and Peter stops short. His face is ashen, stretched tight in pain.
“Sir?”
Mr. Stark stands and covers the distance between them, strides long and confident, even though he favors his left side. He stops short in front of Peter, reaches out as if he means to touch his hair, but then drops his hand again. “Hey, kid. You look good.”
“You don’t.” He’s taken off his sweatshirt to reveal a black tank, and, this close, Peter can see blood staining the cotton, making dark fabric darker.
“Ouch.” Mr. Stark brings a hand to his heart in mock hurt. “Sorry I didn’t have time to stop by a beauty salon before saving your life.”
Peter relaxes a little. He’s still joking. That seems good.
“That’s not what I meant,” he clarifies. “I meant this.” He reaches out, tugging up Mr. Stark’s shirt to reveal his injury, a large, deep gash cutting across his stomach. He’s already closed it with nanotech, but his skin is angry and red around the wound, spinning out into bruises the rival Peter’s from yesterday.
“I’m—uh, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it, I’ve got it covered.”
It’s only when he looks up and catches Mr. Stark staring at him with confused intensity that Peter realizes he just invaded his space in a big, inappropriate way. Whatever’s happening must've addled him more than he realizes, because randomly undressing his mentor is the kind of impulse he normally keeps in check.
“Sorry,” he whispers, starting to pull his hand away. But Mr. Stark stops him, fingers closing around his wrist. Peter’s skin tingles at the touch; even though his senses are still dulled from whatever they gave him, he can feel those fingers through his body, down to his toes. “Um?”
“Don’t apologize.” Mr. Stark pulls him closer, free hand coming to grasp his shoulder. “I was really worried about you.”
So worried you died for me , Peter doesn’t say. Bathed me. Slept next to me.
And for all he knows, it’s going to start all over again at any moment.
Yeah, this whole thing has definitely messed with him, because the next thing he does is kiss Mr. Stark.
To his shock, Mr. Stark kisses back, fingers curling around his neck, holding him firmly. His lips are rough and chapped, he tastes like blood and smells like metal and sweat. His beard scratches Peter’s chin; he’s never factored that into his fantasies, but he likes it. It makes this seem real, solid and defined in a way it’s never been in his head, definitely real—
Holy shit, this is real.
“Peter?” Mr. Stark sounds worried, and it takes Peter a moment to realize it’s because he’s so shocked by the situation that he’s stopped moving.
He changes that, more confident this time, wrapping his arms around the body that’s featured in so many of his dreams; reveling in the heat of it, the build of the muscles, the feel of the tongue slipping between his teeth, sending shockwaves down his spine. Mr. Stark’s hands comb through his hair, arms strong and firm, enveloping him, and all he wants to do is get lost in that touch, let it wash away the memory of days that didn’t happen.
Mr. Stark stumbles backwards, pulling Peter with him, not breaking the kiss until they hit one of the room’s bare walls. Mr. Stark leans against it, throwing his head back, taking a deep gulp of air, and Peter realizes he sounds pained.
“Sir?” He looks down and realizes his hand at Mr. Stark’s hip is dabbled red.
“It’s fine,” Mr. Stark hisses, which seems clearly untrue. Even though he’s never wanted to do something less, Peter tries to pull away, but Mr. Stark’s fingers dig into his neck. “Peter, please, give me this. This one time.”
You may as well have ripped Peter’s heart out of his body. He hadn’t had time to figure out why Mr. Stark would kiss him back—whether it was the post-fight high, or maybe a self-sacrificing attempt to give Peter what he wants. Whatever the reason, he hadn’t been prepared for this: the need in Mr. Stark’s voice, the way he’s looking at him like he holds the key to…something. Something bigger than Peter can work out.
And all while he’s hurt so badly Peter can feel his blood wet between his fingers. “But—”
“Trust me.” Mr. Stark’s voice cracks. “Please.”
Peter does trust him, and even more than that, he wants him, more than he’s ever wanted anybody, so even though logic says he needs to get him to lie down and take care of himself, he kisses him again instead.
Kisses him and kisses him.
“Thank you,” Mr. Stark whispers into his ear before sucking on it, exploding Peter’s senses. A coil of longing flames through his body, and he pushes his worry to the side. Mr. Stark says to trust him, he’ll trust him.
Besides, he also said this one time. Only one time. He can’t waste one time. And as those hands move under his shirt, skimming the skin above his jeans, sending a wave of pleasure that washes out the pain of bruises and cuts and nightmare realities, he realizes he needs this, too. Maybe that’s what Mr. Stark meant. An escape, just for a moment.
When Mr. Stark bites his neck, he stops trying to figure it out. When Mr. Stark’s hand slides into his pants, he stops thinking at all.
He lets himself be guided, Mr. Stark pulling him close with his free hand, pressing Peter’s face into his neck. He closes his eyes, overwhelmed: burning lust, firm grip, the scent of the man he’s always wanted, the tickle of his breath against his hair—they blend together, one becoming the other until he loses all track of anything but pleasure.
He makes a sound that should be embarrassing but somehow isn’t; Mr. Stark groans in return, tightening his grip, and suddenly Peter comes undone, spilling over his hand, world retracting to that one moment.
He feels a kiss on the top of his head, and then Mr. Stark is sliding to the ground, coughing loudly. Fuck. Fuck.
“Sir?” Pleasure disappears into concern. He quickly zips his pants and crouches, catching Mr. Stark’s slumping body, helping him sit straight. There’s blood around the edge of his lips. “Shit. You need a doctor. Why didn’t you say—”
Mr. Stark coughs again, and more blood bubbles out of his mouth. “Little late for that, kid,” he says, voice thick with liquid. He’s wheezing. When did that happen? Peter suddenly hates himself for giving into something as stupid as lust.
“What can I do?” he asks, frantic, ignoring Mr. Stark’s defeatist response. “There’s gotta be a first aid kit somewhere, right? Who can I call? A hospital—”
Mr. Stark shakes his head, making a weak gesture in his direction. “Just…hold my hand. And don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry?” Peter repeats, voice rising. “You’re coughing up blood!”
As if to punctuate the point, Mr. Stark coughs deeper, entire body convulsing. His eyelids sag, as if he’s having a hard time holding them open, and suddenly Peter feels like he can’t breathe. Everything’s happening too fast, and the entire room seems to be closing in on him. “You could die—”
“Definitely dying.” Mr. Stark’s voice has gone incredibly weak. “It’s fine. Been doing a lot of that lately.”
Oh.
Oh.
Instantly, a lot of things make more sense.
“You remember?” Peter asks, astonished. “Why didn’t you say something?”
Despite barely being open, Mr. Stark’s eyes somehow convey the unmistakable impression of going wide. “No.” He coughs again, and this time there’s so much blood it spills out of his mouth, dribbling down his chin. “No—you’re not supposed to—”
He starts coughing harder, a fit that wracks his body.
“Wait.” Peter grabs his shoulder, trying to hold him steady. “Do you know what’s going on?”
“I—it—this wasn’t—I’m sorry.” Mr. Stark slumps forward, eyes sliding shut, and no matter how hard he shakes him, screaming his name through tears, Peter can’t get him to wake up again.
It’s a relief when his own mind shuts off.