Chapter Text
The air is cold, and a perpetual chill seeps into the avenger’s bones as they stand at a large desk, attempting to speak to a guard. His voice drones as he tells them to wait a few minutes before he leaves out the back door.
“I can’t believe this is happening” Clint says as he stares at the empty spot the guard left. “I- I was so sure that we were right.”
He stares at the stains that are splotched on the concrete wall, looking down as he avoids wondering what they might be.
Time achingly ticks on, thick silence filling the room, and Sam pats Clint on the shoulder, while Bucky stands close to Steve.
The Black Widow stands still, yet her eyes constantly dart across the room, taking in each speck of dust.
Captain America rubs his hand against his chin in an attempt to comfort himself, as his feet shift slightly in place. “I know. I don’t know… what we’re going to do. Or say to him.”
From a dark corner at the edge of the room, an unexpected voice rings out. “There’s nothing we can do.. it’s been three years. There’s literally nothing we can do to fix this.”
Tony moves out of the spot. He had been a silent observer for the entire trip, his knee bouncing in place as the jet made its way to the landing strip of their destination, the raft.
Dark circles sat under his bloodshot eyes, and his hair was ragged, as if he hadn’t brushed it in weeks. Dark stubble sat on his gray skin and he rubbed a hand across it, the scratchy sound echoing through the large, damp room. His glassy eyes gaze on the wooden desk, and he sighs as he unsuccessfully attempts to shake off the emotion that’s displayed in them. “Is this guard ever coming back?” The other avengers watched as he spoke, guilt steaming in his face.—
As he finishes his snarky remark, the guard returns with a stony face and a pile of papers. The sound of them being slammed into wood reverberates as his emotionless voice grumbles “fill these out and you can see him.”
—-
He sits on the freezing floor, huddled in the corner as he aches for warmth. His feet turn towards himself, as he grasps to his legs. He’s used to the cold now, but his body continues to shiver on long nights. He pulls his raggedy blanket towards him, pressing it so hard into his chest that he almost felt as if it morphed into him. He stares at his hands, the grime mixing with wounds from earlier in the day. He curls further into himself at the memories, as he leans down and starts to gnaw at his threadbare blanket. Rips are spread through it, revealing his nervous tick as his fangs chew down. His stomach doesn’t grumble anymore, but he can feel the deep pang within him.
His nails scrape across the concrete floor, picking flakes of a substance he had no idea the contents of, whether it was dirt, blood, vomit, or any other liquid that had seeped into the ground and dried with time. He scoffs at the idea that his past self would feel sick at not knowing, however he couldn’t care less as he kept scraping the floor.
His heart began to race as a wave of anxiety rushes through his being. His head snaps up towards the door, and though it blocks out all outside sound, his spider sense still cut through him whenever someone approaches it. He silently stands up, though his entire body aches, and stares at the metal door, not moving a single inch. He learnt long ago that flinching did nothing to stop the pain.
He stands up straighter as Tom opens the door, and the creak fills the space as the guard walks into the small room, raising an eyebrow. He knows each guard by name, all of which rotated through his block. He tries to forget how he learnt them.
His heart stutters as he tries to decipher the look, willing himself to figure out the next torture they might have planned.
His spider sense screams at him as the guard reaches forwards, however, instead of roughly dragging him out, Tom places a hand on his shoulder and steers him towards the hallway.
“This way Red, think you’re finally getting out.”
His heart seems to freeze between his ribs.
—-
Tony’s body stayed stiff as he sat rigidly in the small metal chair. The tapping of his feet echoed through the room, and Natasha stepped forwards slightly as an almost unidentifiable comfort. Her eyes narrowed as she watched the door, glancing towards Bucky, who seemed almost as tense as Tony, standing straight up against the wall.
Tony took a sharp intake of breath as he heard footsteps coming closer, and the world seemed to tilt as the group froze, the tense atmosphere turning to stone.
The first thing Tony realized was that Peter looked nothing like himself. His sunken features seemed more suited to a corpse, and the only sign of life was the sharp rise and fall of his small chest. His old, dirty clothes that used to be grey now seemed caked in dirt. Tony’s eyes fixated on the patches of red that seemed to spread down across his front and pants. His brown hair is now a tangled mess, blood matted into his greasy curls that are slick on his face. As Tony’s eyes roll down, he sees how Peter is barefoot, and in the dull, flickering light of the room he can vaguely identify the wounds that cover the flesh. Guilt rises up inside of him, and he feels like vomiting it up as he glances at the rest of the team. Their faces hold waves of emotion, Clint looking as if he wants to throw up as well, while Steve squinted his eyes as they became glassy. Tony turned to Nat and Bucky, and while their faces were still, their eyes couldn’t help but betray them. It had taken Tony a long time to feel okay around Bucky, but as he looked at the ex-Soldier’s pain, he was reminded of why he became friends with him. Bucky was a victim too… just like Peter.
Peter was guided to another metal chair, and Tony noticed the slight shuffle of his feet as he tried to avoid putting too much pressure on them. His eyes sharpened as a flood of anger at the guards filled his being. Peter slowly sat in the chair, fixing his position as he preemptively placed his wrists in the open vibranium cuffs that were fixed to the table. No one made any move to close them around his hands, yet Peter kept them there, opening and closing his fingers.
Tony looked across the metal table at the ghost in front of him, eyes flickering over his face, trying to find a semblance of the kid they had sent away. His eyes were distant, scanning across the room as if he wasn’t able to take in the image in front of him, as if he didn’t believe that the avengers were actually there. Another rush of anger flooded Tony’s veins, but not at the guards, at himself.
“Hey kid, long time no see?” Tony winced at his words as nervousness buzzed in his head.
“Sorry- I just. I don’t-“ His eyes glanced to his team but they avoided his eyes, instead continuing to watch Peter’s every move. The kid stared at him blankly, not acknowledging his existence as his nose slightly twitched.
Tears filled Tony’s eyes as he moved his hand towards Peter’s, wincing at how the touch didn’t seem to register within his blank eyes.
“We’re here to bring you home Pete”, Tony’s face tightened as tears slipped down his cheeks. “I’m so so sorry, kid. I’m so sorry.”
Peter blinked at him, and Tony breathed in deep as he waited for the kid’s response. He counted ten agonising seconds before he heard a horse voice echo through the room that cracked mid-way through the word as if speech didn’t come easy. A voice he never thought he’d listen to again, a voice that he hadn’t heard in three years.
“..home?”
—-
Peter’s head hurt. It hurt a lot. As he had walked into that small room with the metal table, his heart pounded in his chest. Were they experimenting again? He thought they were done with that..
Tom’s voice rang through his head
think you’re finally getting out
Peter hoped that was true. He was so tired, and he would do anything to finally leave the world. To be able to drift off and never wake up, no matter the pain that accompanied it. He couldn’t wait to leave. He hoped the experiment would end him for good.
His mind froze and twisted as he saw a brown haired man in a suit, surrounded by a group of people in various styles of clothing. Recognition flicked through his mind, and images of working in a workshop, training with someone who had red hair, watching a movie he couldn’t remember the name of and sweets he couldn’t remember the taste of.
His head felt as if it was splitting in two as a name drifted through the fog.
Mr Stark.. Tony?
The name seemed to take form in his head, and began to repeat itself over and over and over and over as Tom lead him into his seat. He had to be lead most places now, his body didn’t seem to catch up with his mind.
He stared at the man in front of him as he placed his hands in the cuffs on the cold table.
Anxiety shifted through him as he wondered if that was what they wanted him to do, but he didn’t move. They didn’t like it when he seemed too weak. Except on those ‘special days.’
His eyes snapped back to focus, glancing at the group of people in front of him. He felt the urge to look for escapes, but he knew there would be none. He didn’t know why things were changing.. why there were new people.
No, not new. Mr Stark.
The person who sent him here..
Warnings started to blare through his head, while images of warmth mixed through each warning. He felt conflicted, pulled in different directions. He didn’t understand why -Tony- was here, when he was the one who had condemned him to his fate, who hadn’t listen to his cries, and who had turned away as he was sentenced.
Muffled sounds swam through his head, the words not reaching him. His mind sent out a warning, and he tried to focus his senses to not miss the man’s- Tony’s he had to keep reminding himself- instructions.
He felt his nose suddenly twitch, as the scent of Tony’s cologne wafted towards his face. Memories sifted through his brain, and he was able to catch a couple as the rest settled back into his head. Listening to AC/DC in Tony’s workshop, making pasta with him and Pepper as he knocked over the flour and got it everywhere, the feeling of betrayal when Tony said he didn’t believe him.
Another wave of panic flooded him as he realised he had missed more words, catching onto one of the last as he heard Tony dissolve into sobs. Confusion filled him as a flicker of dulled annoyance made his eyebrows twitch inwards before he immediately straightened them.
Why should Tony be crying?
But the thought was disregarded for a much more important word. A word that he had repeated over and over in the dark corners of his concrete room. As hands pulled at him and pain became his routine. As he began to loose memories and fear became his setting.
“…home?”