Becoming Spider-Man // Son of Stark 1

Chapter 17

clickingkey-boards helped write the Steve and Tony scene so I could get this up in time.

Peter awoke to what he could vaguely identify as the sound of a light switch being flicked. His head was throbbing as if he was resting his head against a speaker. His restless sleep had only provided a brief solace to soothe his injuries, though he seemed to be making up for those hours without pain in those first few moments after waking up: the pain seared for several agonising moments before settling. He resisted the urge to curl up into a ball and sleep until the horrific ordeal was open, but he knew that he had probably been woken up for a reason.

His metabolism seemed to be finally taking his toll, as his insides felt as if his stomach was eating away at itself. There had to be food, he thought to himself, there just had to be. No place, no matter how horrid, had no food inside it. Fortunately, luck was on his side for seemingly the first time in hours, as his heightened senses picked up food that proved to be there. On a tray - a white tray, of course - was a glass of water and a bowl of soup.

Clambering out of the bed as eagerly as he would on Christmas day, Peter scampered across the room and crouched down beside the tray. Cautiously, as if fearing that it was a trick and would explode the second he touched it, Peter picked up the spoon and cautiously sipped at the soup. It was watery, bland, and bitty, but it tasted like the finest chocolates to his starved body. He couldn't fool himself into thinking it was chocolate for long, as it was freezing cold and couldn't warm his insides as chocolate would.

Eventually, he forgot that people could be watching and picked up the bowl, drinking directly from it until he had drained it entirely. The water was lukewarm and quite disgusting, but Peter still drank all of it until the glass was empty, not even thinking about how he may have to save the food and make it last.

Peter glanced around the room, and was soon to realise that his old clothes were gone. The last bit of home he had been able to cling to was gone. Even his watch, the one his Dad had given him for his most recent birthday (a rolex, which had been tinkered with repeatedly) was gone. He probably wouldn't get them back; there was no point in trying to 'look on the bright side of things' because nobody even knew he was here. No one except the man that his Pops has trusted. That he had trusted. That had brought this fate upon him.

The door opened, causing Peter to flinch back in fear of what was to come. There was a blond man stood there, one he hadn't seen before: but one he already knew not to trust. Everyone here was dangerous... even Bucky.

"Stand up."

The young teen did as he was told, forcing himself up off of the ground. He was slightly grateful to see something, or someone, other than the white walls that made up the room, but he knew that his gratitude wouldn't last for long. His knees were shaking, causing the rest of his body to tremble alongside them. His face was pale, and he was certain that everything that had happened yesterday would be a walk in the park compared to whatever would happen today.

"Arms out."

Peter once more obliged, stretching his hands out in front of him, and letting his gaze fall to the floor. The metal cuffs that were placed around his wrists gnawed into his skin. They dug into his skin and almost drew blood. After taking a deep breath, he asked bravely, "Where are you taking me?"

"Did I say you could talk?" the man spat, glaring at the small boy in front of him. Peter shook his head, not sure if the question was rhetorical or not. Regardless of that, he didn't want to risk speaking again.

Backhanding Peter across the face, the blond scoffed, "Then don't." The fourteen-year-old brought his tied hands to his cheek. The hit had hurt: mostly from the shock of it, but the force stung too. He didn't cry, though; he didn't want to succumb to the weakness inside of him. He was Spider-Man... he had to be brave,

"Don't even think about crying, boy. You don't wanna know what'll happen if you do," the man said sharply, grabbing Peter's shirt collar - pulling him out of the room.

Peter's feet skidded against the marble floor as he was led along a hallway. It didn't look like the same one that they had come through yesterday, meaning it hopefully didn't lead to another room filled with torture. But this was the same Hydra his Pops had fought against during the war, so that was very unlikely.

The blond pushed him in through a door to his right, and forced him onto a chair.

* * *

When Tony burst into Steve's house, it became apparent the man had been stress-painting. Not that Tony wasn't accustomed to this - he and Steve has been married for goodness sake, he knew all too well the abundance of paint that could find its way anywhere and everywhere when Steve went on a spree of anxiety-sketching. However, it was an excessive amount of art.

Sitting at the kitchen table was the man himself, rather haphazardly streaking his pencils across a piece of paper. Rolling his eyes and snorting, Tony picked up a discarded eraser and threw it at Steve's face. "Oi, Rogers? I'm here to find out where your crazy boyfriend has kidnapped my - sorry, our - son to."

"Bucky isn't crazy!" Steve blurted suddenly, eyes snapping up to lock with Tony's. It sounded as if he hadn't spoken for hours.

Wordlessly, Tony helped himself to a drink from the fridge and filled a glass of water for Steve. "Drink it," he ordered.

"I have drunk something," he protested.

"Which was?" Tony challenged.

Steve smiled weakly. "It may or may not have been paint water."

Once again, he rolled his eyes. "Right, what were we saying about your boyfriend?"

"He isn't crazy," Steve repeatedly. "He may have... the Winter Soldier, but he's not crazy."

"Provided I'm not totally misreading this situation, you're implying that it isn't Bucky but it could be the Winter Soldier?"

Steve nodded numbly. "Why are we automatically assuming that Peter's been kidnapped? That really says something about how much faith you have in me as a parent."

"I have as much faith in your parenting skills as I have in you not dying via drinking paint water," he deadpanned.