Irondad Oneshots

Kidnapped - Irondad

Peter's POV

I don't know how much time has passed. Time seems meaningless in this prison.

Every day, three times a day, without fail, i get beat up or hurt in terrible ways, given food, a very little bit of awful food, and then I'm reattached to die. Wrists handcuffed above my head to the ceiling, metal digging into my flesh, feet barely touching the floor. Constantly straining to keep as much weight of my wrists as I can.

Judging by how many times those men come in to hurt me, I'd say it's been just a little over 2 weeks. Too long. I can feel myself falling apart.

All I want is Auntie Tasha and Dad and Uncle Steve to come find me and get me out of this hell.

All I want is my dad.

So, so alone. I don't want to die alone. I don't want to be alone.

I haven't slept, barely eaten, barely gotten water, lost blood, so much blood.

My head is spinning as they let me collapse to the floor, laughing. Laughing at me.

Everything hurts.

I can't breathe.

Blood. So much blood.

And then the pain, the never-ending pain, explodes through me once again.

Tony's POV

"It's been 2 weeks! How have you not found anything yet?!" I shout, throwing my anger at my teammates because I've got nothing else I can do.

"I know, Tony. I know, but we need to start thinking logically here-"

"He's my son, Natasha. He's 15. And who knows what sort of torture they're putting him through in that hell. You better find him. Soon," I hiss, leaving it all an empty threat. She knows I wouldn't actually hurt her, even if it's about Peter. He wouldn't want me to be this angry at them because they're trying.

"I know. And I'm sorry. But he's alive. We know he's at least alive."

Peter tracker was broken, but Friday was able to track some vitals through the chip, mostly just heartbeat, but it's enough to keep us hopeful.

My phone rings and I dive for it, pressing it up to my ear, crossing my fingers and praying to a god that I don't even believe in, that it's Peter.

"Daddy?" Peter whispers.

My heart drops and I collapse into a chair nodding at Nat who quickly goes to track the phone call.

"Pete? Pete, it's me. Are you okay? Where are you? What happened?" I say, heart racing.

Peter hadn't called me daddy in years. To him, I'm just dad now that he was in his teenage years and it was no longer cool to call your father daddy. But he's obviously scared, so scared that he feels like a child. That he feels small.

"Daddy? Please. I need you. Please. I can't do this. Please," he sobs into the phone, voice staticky and shaking.

"Pete, it's okay. I'm here. I need you to give me something to work with. Anything. Come on," I say, keeping my voice soft and even.

"I don't know. I don't know. I'm scared. I'm scared. Please," he cries, barely able to breathe.

"Petey, kiddo, you've gotta breathe. You've gotta calm down and talk to me. Where are you? I can't help if I don't know where you are," I say carefully.

"I'm scared, Daddy. Please. I need you," he whimpers, desperately. His cries fade as the phone is pulled away from him and a man's voice replaces his.