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It starts with a phone call, an unknown number. Tony doesn’t answer. They call again, and he rolls his eyes, declining it once more. He’s already planning to talk to Happy, wondering if his cell was somehow released online somewhere, but FRIDAY should have caught it if that happened. But when the number called back a third time, he decided to pick up, if nothing else, to let the person on the other line have it. “Lose this number!”
“I think you’ll want to listen to what I have to say.” A deep male voice says.
“Somehow I really doubt that,” Tony said, beyond irritated. He was busy getting his surprise of new Web Shooters out and ready for when Peter arrives from his patrol.
“What if I say that just one word will make you stay on this call?”
Tony hates to admit it, but he’s curious what word, in all the hundreds of thousands of words available in the English language, would make him stay on this call. “And what word might that be?”
There’s shuffling on the other line. The words are muffled, but Tony thinks he hears, “Say it, brat!” before there is a scream. Tony cringed, now paying a bit more attention, on edge. Mostly because that was an obvious scream of pain. But right after the scream dies out, one word is spoken close to the speaker, its breath and shaky, “Help.”
Tony’s world freezes; his hand is suddenly holding his phone with a death grip. He knows that voice, the slightly higher tone, the youthful lilt now shrouded by the traumatic situation. He would know Peter’s voice anywhere. “You have five seconds to tell me where you are!” His intense fear came out as uncensored anger.
“I don’t think you’re in the position to be ordering me around, isn't that right, Spider-Man?”
Another scream cuts through the call, and Tony has to take the phone away from his ear from just the sheer volume of it. It wasn’t his pain, but tears made it past his lids anyhow. “Stop!” He demands getting FRIDAY to try and trace the call.
“This stops if you give up what we want.”
“What do you want?” He asked, no, he pleaded.
“Nuclear Codes.”
If they had asked for suits, done. He would have just made them self-destruct as soon as his kid was safe. If they asked for money, easy. If they asked for him to resign as Iron Man, he would have even done that, anything for Peter. But, nuclear codes? Those can start WW3. He couldn’t do it. He thought about giving fake codes, but if they find out they are false before he can get to Peter… He couldn’t do it. He took a shaky breath away from the phone. “You know I can’t give you those.”
“That’s such a shame.” The man’s tone was an eerie blend of fictitious disappointment and concern. “I see you have chosen the codes over his life.”
“No, no wait!” He looks at the screen where FRIDAY is trying to track the call. She’s made progress, but it looks like the caller is rerouting the calls through different towers all over the world. Each time she decrypts one, it leads her to another false location.
“Are you going to give me the codes?”
“You have to think about what you’re asking for.”
“I have.”
“Then you know I can’t give them to you.” He admits, trying to convince himself. Somehow his mind is trying to tell him that Peter’s life is more important than all other life on earth, and he desperately wants to listen, but, “I-I can’t.”
“That’s too bad. Never thought Iron Man would be the reason another superhero dies.”
“Wait, what else do you want?!” He would give anything. He looks to the screen, but FRIDAY is still trying to untangle the never-ending web of cell phone towers.
“Too late.”
He hears something that sounds like a gunshot, and his heart drops. He tries to convince himself he’s wrong. “No! Please! I’ll give you anything else!”
“Too late.” The menacing voice states again.
“No. No. Ju-just let me talk to him.” The tears that have started now won’t stop. His mind was swirling with worst-case scenarios.
“I’m sorry, Spider-Man can’t come to the phone right now.”
Tony was terrified, but he had to ask, “W-Why?”
“Oh, cause he’s dead.” And the phone call disconnects.
“No!!!!” His heart-wrenching scream is heard by no one. “FRIDAY, please tell me you have a location.” He begs. But another part of his mind whispers, does it even matter anymore? He’s gone.
“Almost, boss.”
“Hurry!!!” He screams at his AI, something he rarely does, already getting his suit on. One, to be ready for when the address comes in. And two, because he feels so small right now. So soft, so weak, so helpless. The armor is a concrete barrier, both physically and emotionally. It is the only thing keeping him standing now, the only thing keeping him ready to fight instead of completely unraveling and falling apart. He glances at the new Web Shooters lying on the kid’s lab bench. He’ll never get to wear them. A cruel voice whispers. Another joins in, Because of you. He’s physically trembling in the suit, skin hitting the inside of the metal endlessly as he waits.
Finally, “Got it, boss.”
He’s running out the door to the Hellipad the moment she confirms the address, heavy iron boots thunking against the floor before he takes off outside. He’s flying as fast as he can, but two dual thoughts war in his mind: it’s not fast enough and it’s too late. His tears blurred the display on his HUD, glad that FRIDAY is navigating.
The moment he touches down, he doesn’t wait for his AI to tell him how many heat signatures there are; he just kicks down the door to the warehouse in Queens, gauntlets raised. In his emotional distress, he also doesn’t give the assailants a moment, blasting them the moment they come into view. He’s breathing hard, fear and anger mixing into a deathly cocktail. When no one else comes at him, he makes his way further in the building, following a red dot FRIDAY highlighted. It’s a heat signature, and he wants to believe it’s Peter. He runs, ripping the door of the room off its hinges.
It was him. “Peter!” He didn’t even realize he had ordered the suit to dismantle until he was already running to the kid, out of the confining metal. Armor standing sentient in the doorway.
Peter is in his Spider-Man suit, mask on the floor next to the chair Peter is cuffed to. His wrists and ankles are cuffed to the chair with heavy-duty metal. The red and blue fabric looks darker on the left side of his chest and there’s a small red puddle at his feet. What scares Tony more than anything is not only how pale the kid looks, it wasn’t how his head is resting against and supported by the back of the chair, it wasn’t even that his eyes are closed, but the blood dripping from his lips.
“Peter,” He breathes out, the end of the word a bit higher, indicating a question. He gets to the chair, and the smell of copper makes his stomach twist. He puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder and shakes gently at first, but when he gets no reaction, his action gets more frantic. “Peter?!” Sweat is pinning the kid’s fringe to his forehead, but he’s still warm. The heat coming off Peter is the only thing keeping him together. “FRI, vitals!!”
“BP dropping. Temperature rising. Medical intervention needed.” Her voice comes out of his watch, which he is also using as a laser to actively cut the kid out of the cuffs.
“Is it safe to move him?”
“Although it is not advised to move him, according to my calculations, he has more of a chance for you to get him to medical care as fast as possible. I advise you to be gentle and apply pressure on the wound.”
As soon as Peter was free, he got back onto his armor, grabbed the boy’s mask from the floor, and gently as possible, picked the kid up. One arm under his knees and one under his back, coming around his chest, his hand holding pressure. The boy’s head is against his armored shoulder. “Hang in there, kid, I’m getting you help.” He says as he runs out the door and flies up into the sky, precious cargo in his arms.
_______
Tony had spent the rest of the night in the Medbay waiting room, pacing, calling Pepper, May, Happy, and Rhodey, crying, and ultimately terrified. The others joined him in his torment as they waited for any word. They all sit there, staring at the double doors to the OR, until finally a tired Helen Cho emerges.
They all stand up at once, but Tony walks toward her on shaky legs. As if her getting to him would take too much time, “Is he okay?”
“Let’s sit,” The words scare him, but her tired smile helps them all listen and do as she said. Once she is also seated, she looks at the clipboard in her hand. “The bullet missed his heart by a few centimeters.” She explains, “But it hit his left lung, which then collapsed.” Tony’s mind presents him with the memory of the crimson dripping from the boy’s lips when he found him. “We removed the bullet, as well as the air and blood stuck inside the lung. He also had some burns consistent with a taser.” Those words make Tony’s anger, which had been snuffed by his fear, come roaring back. He’s just a kid! Helen finishes her thoughts, “With his healing factor, I believe he will be fully recovered in a few weeks.”
A collective breath was let out, and shoulders deflated at the assurance. “Can we see him?” Tony asked.
“He is staying in the ICU at least for tonight, so only two visitors at a time.” She says regretfully.
There was no discussion, as it was implicitly understood that May and Tony would visit first. They were led by Helen, who walked and told them, “He should wake up in the next few hours. We have an oxygen mask on him for now, and once his O2 increases, we will switch him to a nose cannula.” They both nod as she holds open a door for them. “Also, don’t be surprised if he is very tired or sleeps a lot in the next few days; his body took a big toll, and he needs the rest for his healing to work.”
They walk through the door, and Tony wants to cry again. Peter looks so small in the bed, the oxygen mask taking up half his face, his breath fogging against the plastic. He didn’t even realize he had stopped walking until May gently tugged his wrist, getting him to move again. They each sat on a chair on either side of the kid, and once more, waited.
It was about an hour and a half later that both adults heard a slight groan, and they quickly sat up. “Sweetheart?” May said just as Tony called out, “Pete?”
The boy’s eyes squeezed tighter, his hand instinctively reaching for the plastic mask. Tony caught his wrist gently, “Sorry, kid, that stays on.” Peter groaned again before slowly opening his eyes. His head turns toward May, squinting at her.
“‘’m I on pain m’ds?” May brushes Peter's hair out of his eyes.
“Yeah, you are, honey. Enhanced pain meds at that.”
“O’ good, I th’ught I w’s go’ng crazy.”
“Why’s that?” She asked with a slight smile.
“Wh’n I f’rst w’ke up yo’ soun’ed l’ke Mr. St’rk.” He said, closing his eyes again.
May can’t help her chuckle. As Tony, who is still loosely holding the boy’s wrist, says. “You’re not crazy, Pete.”
Peter's eyes immediately open, and he turns his head the other way, looking at Tony, “Wh’n d’d you g’t h’re?”
Tony laughed, it was only a little forced, “Never left.”
“Th’n wh’n d’d I g’t here?” Peter asked, but his eyes kept closing. He would open them each time his eyelids made it to his lower lash line, but it seemed to be getting harder and harder to keep them open.
“We can talk about that later. Right now it’s time for Spider-Boy to sleep.”
“Spider-Man,” the kid whined, but his eyes were already closing once more; this time, he didn’t open them up again.
“Get some sleep, sweetie, we’ll be here when you wake up,” May promised, kissing his forehead.
Before Peter fully went to sleep again, he wriggled his wrist, still in Tony’s grasp, down, so his hand could loosely clutch Tony’s. The mechanic squeezed the smaller palm, “Love you, kid.” He felt a light grasp back before the boy’s breath evened out, visibly creating a smooth pattern as the plastic fogged up in equal intervals.