Irondad Oneshots

I'll tell you all about it when I see you again.

Peter is Tony's biological son.

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You never know what's going to happen when you wake up.

You can't say for sure that you will or won't die.

You don't spend extra time with your loved ones that morning, or tell them you love them.

Which is a mistake.

For eight year old Peter, he regrets nothing more than not telling his dad that he loves him.

Those three incredibly important words.

And he won't get the chance to tell him again.

Because not even three blocks from his house, he was thrown into a black van, and knocked out.

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He woke up in a cell.

Alone, cold, and in pain.

He screamed for help, for his dad, but neither came.

Finally he slumped to the ground, huddling against the cold wall, rounds of tears slipping out of his eyes.

It was hours later that the door opened again, and someone walked in like they owned the place.

He probably did.

The man paused in front of them, then waved a hand at the door. "Get me some light."

Brightness illuminated the room, Peter wincing as it burned his eyes.

"Little Stark." The man stated. His hair was slicked back, and his uniform was spotless. There was a small insignia on it, something like- an octopus?

His amusement disappeared as he hugged himself. "I want my dad."

His captor rocked back on his heels, grin getting wider by the second. "I'm sure you do. We needed leverage, you see, only leverage, but then we found something that will revolutionize the world of mutants and freaks. And we needed a test subject. So you, little Stark, were perfect for it. We covered our trail so well that your father will never find you."

Peter curled into himself, eyes stinging. "My dad is coming. He won't let you hurt me. He'll find me."

But he didn't.

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Two years later:

Peter stirred on his hard cot, eyes flickering open, and over his familiar surroundings.

The ten year old had grown used to this.

Forgotten as a human, and looked on as a weapon.

He begs himself to wake up, so forget this horror of a dream, and go back to his dad. To his life.

When he had a dad who loved him.

Who called him 'bambino' and tucked him in at night with forehead kisses.

Who sang gentle Italian lullabies when Peter couldn't sleep.

Who let him play in the lab, with strict supervision, and made him breakfast in the mornings before school.

Who had a smile that always made Peter want to smile back.

When he was happy.

He pushed himself off the hard mattress, groaning inwardly at the pain in his arm.

It had been a difficult training session, and he had taken a blade to the forearm.

The wound was nearly healed, but was sore when he moved it.