Work Text:
Tony wakes to the oppressive embrace of darkness, his head throbbing with the relentless ache of someone who’s had a close encounter with a particularly nasty blast—because, well, he probably has. It’s not exactly the most stellar way to start the day. He tries to shift, but his wrists are bound, the metal cuffs biting into his skin with a cold precision that’s both infuriating and oddly impressive. Clearly, whoever rigged this knows their craft. Unfortunately for them, so does Tony.
His mind springs into action, sifting through fragmented memories and details. The convoy ambush, the explosive demo, the blinding flash of fire, and then—blankness. Now, he finds himself in what can only be described as a dungeon plucked from the worst of low-budget horror films. The floor beneath him is gritty and uneven, a textured surface that scrapes and scratches against his skin with every movement, making his skin crawl. The stale, musty air carries a faint odor of damp stone and mildew, mingling with the metallic tang of blood that Tony tries to ignore.
Tony shifts uncomfortably, the weight of the cold metal cuffs digging into his wrists with every subtle motion. There’s a tremor in his hands, an involuntary quiver that he’s trying hard to mask. He flexes his fingers in and out, like a magician trying to ignore a trick gone terribly awry. His fingers are twitching with a life of their own, betraying the stress he’s trying to suppress. The irritation of the cuffs is compounded by the sheer frustration of being so helpless, and the cold, grimy floor only adds to his growing sense of discomfort.
Despite the dire circumstances, his mind remains sharp, analyzing every sound and sensation with relentless precision. The faint echoes of distant voices and the creaking of old pipes provide a soundtrack to his internal monologue, a grim reminder of his current predicament.
"Perfect," Tony mutters, voice rough and dry. His throat feels like sandpaper, but he forces a smirk anyway. He peers at the weak light filtering through the door's edges, mentally assessing his surroundings. The air is thick, musty—definitely not climate-controlled. And the floor? It's more akin to a construction site than any place with a hint of refinement.
Tony’s brain churns like an overclocked processor, cycling through scenarios, escape plans, and potential countermeasures with frenetic efficiency. Each option is meticulously analyzed, even as the chains rattle with his every movement. His attempts to adjust are met with the biting cold of the metal cuffs and the discomfort of the grimy floor beneath him, the coarse texture pressing against his skin with an almost mocking persistence. Despite the irritation gnawing at him, there’s a sharp clarity in his thoughts—Tony Stark thrives under pressure, and he’s not about to let this setback derail his ingenuity.
The sudden creak of the door slices through the oppressive darkness, unleashing a flood of harsh, fluorescent light that assaults Tony’s eyes. He squints, his pupils adjusting with the precision of a high-end camera lens, and takes in the scene with a quick, practiced gaze. One man stands at the threshold, flanked by two others armed with guns that glint menacingly in the harsh light. The trio’s attire and stance broadcast “mercenary” louder than any name tag could.
The man in the center steps forward, partially obscured by the blinding glare, but his presence is unmistakably authoritative. The way he carries himself, the controlled confidence in his movements, suggests a man who’s used to calling the shots. Tony’s mind races to process the details—the type of weapons, the posture of the men, the potential for hidden traps or backup.
The light’s harshness contrasts sharply with the musty, damp air of the room, which still carries the scent of mildew and stale stone. Tony's senses are on high alert, absorbing every detail as he prepares to pivot from his current predicament to the next move in his mental playbook.
"So, what's the plan, guys?" Tony asks, infusing casual swagger into his tone. "Gonna play bad cop, worse cop, or are we skipping to the part where I MacGyver my way out of here?"
The central figure steps closer, his expression cold, unreadable. Tony feels a prickle of unease, his fingers twitching again. He shoves the feeling down, straightening his posture like he's back at one of his board meetings. But there's a small, almost imperceptible bite to his lip—something he'd usually save for a moment of private frustration.
"We know who you are, Mr. Stark," the man says, his tone as neutral as a machine. "And we know you better than anyone."
Tony's smirk flickers back into place, though there's a tightness in his chest he doesn't care to examine. Deep down, anxiety coils around him, and wow, not his most rational moment. Do they know something, really? Do they know about the one thing he's never breathed a word of? The thought gnaws at him—he never shared this with anyone. No way they could have found out. It must be a trick, and if it is, he's not about to let them see how much it's working. To the hell with this. "Of course you do. But I've got to say, this whole setup? Feels a little... amateur hour. I expected more."
The man doesn't bite, just stares at Tony with that same unnerving calm, before nodding to his men. The door slams shut, and Tony's left alone with his thoughts. The darkness presses in, and for a moment, he clenches his fists so tight the cuffs dig into his palms.
Here’s the thing: Tony Stark has faced worse than this and still managed to come out on top. This is far from over, and he’s not about to give up. But even as he mentally gears up for a comeback, there’s a new, unsettling undercurrent to his situation. Maybe it’s just age catching up with him, or maybe it’s something else, but lately, he’s found himself mellowing out in ways he never anticipated.
Heights, once a mere inconvenience, have started to unsettle him in ways that are frustrating. Movies with questionable ratings? They’ve become a minefield of distress, each scene capable of spawning nightmares that linger long after the credits roll. It’s as if the safety net of what he once was has begun to fray, exposing vulnerabilities he’d previously ignored or suppressed. A little or not.
Tony leans more heavily on Peter for lab safety than he ever thought he would, a testament to the unanticipated changes in his personal dynamics. His usual self-reliance is increasingly overshadowed by a dependency he never planned for, adding another layer of complexity to his already convoluted life.
Then there’s this nagging fear gnawing at him—a fear he never imagined would take root: the fear that no one will ever love him. It’s a sentiment that seems so alien to Tony Stark, so at odds with the persona he’s cultivated. The very notion of being unloved, of being unworthy of affection, is an unsettling reality he thought he’d never confront. It’s as if the universe has decided to flip the script, forcing him to face the uncomfortable truth he’s long kept at bay.
The awareness of his fear—of being scared at all—is a harsh reality he’s grappling with. The very fact that he’s experiencing this level of vulnerability is a new chapter in his life, one that feels both disorienting and deeply introspective. It’s a reality check that he never expected, a bizarre twist in a life that’s already been full of unexpected turns.
Tony's mind wanders through a fog of exhaustion and hunger as the hours drag on. The cold concrete beneath him saps his energy, and his stomach growls in protest. He slumps against the wall, his eyes gritty and heavy, each moment stretching longer than the last.
The door creaks open, cutting through the monotony of silence. One of the captors steps in, carrying a chair, while another carries a file. They set the chair down in front of Tony and place the file beside him. Tony's bleary eyes catch glimpses of his name and age—35—on the document, and a wave of despair washes over him.
As exhaustion wraps around him like a vice, Tony drags the heel of his hand over his left eye, battling the encroaching fog of sleepiness. The friction against his eyelid feels abrasive, a fleeting distraction from the overwhelming weariness seeping into his bones. His posture collapses further, his body folding into itself in a near-defenseless slump. The contrast between his current state and his usual poised composure is jarring, revealing an unexpected depth of vulnerability beneath his resilient facade.
His thoughts wander, as if drawn by an invisible force, to Pepper. What could she be doing at this very moment? He imagines her piecing together the puzzle of his disappearance, her sharp intellect and indomitable will racing against the clock. The mental image of her navigating the chaos with her signature blend of grace and urgent concern is poignant and painful. The thought of her worrying about him stings, a bitter reminder of the gravity of his situation. It’s frustrating, this juxtaposition of his helplessness with her unwavering care. But despite the discomfort, it’s oddly comforting to know she still cares. It’s Pepper—dammit, it’s Pepper.
One of the men, with a smug expression, finally breaks the silence. “Need a pillow or something? Maybe a blanket too?” His voice carries a mocking undertone, a thinly veiled attempt to belittle Tony’s plight.
Tony barely acknowledges the comment, too drained to respond. He sighs deeply, the weight of his predicament pressing down on him. The casual offer of comfort feels like a cruel mockery of his true self. He closes his eyes for a moment, letting it envelop him, and in that fleeting darkness, he can't help but picture Pepper's face, and Peter's frown, and the reality of his situation settles in—he's far from his usual high-flying self, and the predicament is both stark and bitter.
One of the men flips through the file, his voice impassive as he reads aloud. "Classification: Little. Age range: Toddler. It appears you've been... categorized differently than expected."
Tony's heart plummets, a visceral reaction that makes him feel as if the world has shifted on its axis. Panic begins to claw at him with insidious persistence, each breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps that do little to quell the rising tide of fear. He clenches his fists, the metal cuffs biting into his skin, in a futile attempt to stave off the impending panic attack. His effort is as ineffectual as trying to hold back a tidal wave with a sandbag.
Despite his best efforts, his voice falters, all inner turmoil. “This is crap. Where did you get that?”
In that moment, everything feels irreparably ruined. The realization that his carefully constructed world is unraveling before his eyes is a bitter pill to swallow. His mind races with the crushing weight of impending disaster, each thought compounding his sense of impending ruin. The feeling of his life spiraling out of control is palpable, a heavy cloak of dread settling over him.
The man looks at Tony with a cold, measured gaze. "See? I told you. All I need to know about you is right here. You're going to be just fine, boy. Now, what I need from you is for you to take me to where Steve and his pet are."
"Then I'm not your guy, what the fuck?" He knows that the "pet" they're referring to is Bucky, and he's aware that there's people after him. They're not getting that information from him—no chance. He steels himself, refusing to give them anything.
"Don't play games with me."
"You're not getting a damn thing from me," Tony says, his voice steady despite the tightness in his chest.
The man's expression remains unchanged as he stands up. "Your daddy would be disappointed."
Even though they're likely referring to Howard, the name conjures up an image of Peter's face in Tony's mind. Argh, Tony, stop. He's not even old enough for the test, and a caregiver… now? Really? He's a little late. The thought tugs at him, still a painful reminder of what's at stake. What if they know about Peter too? Well, even if he's such a recent constant to his life, what if? What if they do something to him?
-
The door swings open again, and one of the captors strides in, holding a bright red toy truck. It's a classic model with oversized wheels and a glossy finish, clearly meant to mock Tony.
He places the toy in front of Tony with a smug grin. "Thought you might appreciate this little gift," he says, his tone laced with derision.
Tony's gaze remains fixed on the floor, his face a mask of indifference. The toy goes completely unacknowledged, its presence seemingly irrelevant to him.
The man's grin fades, his frustration simmering to the surface. "What's the matter? You're too proud to give us the satisfaction?"
The man's irritation is palpable, his demeanor shifting from amused to irate as Tony's silence hangs heavily in the air. "Now, what do you know? If you don't start talking quick, I'm going to chop off your little fingers and send them back inside the truck to your asshole friends, make them a lovely suvenir." He threatens, and Tony's almost flinches. The toy truck remains untouched, a symbol of the captors' failed attempt at psychological warfare, his irritation mounting. "Why won't you tell us?" he presses. "Steve was a terrible friend to you, that's what everyone says. Doesn't that matter at all?"
Tony shrugs. "I try not to hold grudges."
The man's eyes narrow, his voice hardening. "You really don't have anyone, do you? No one who cares about you."
Tony's bottom lip begins to respond, wobbly thing, despite his best efforts to maintain composure. He forces a steady voice. "This isn't going to work for me."
The man's gaze sharpens with sudden curiosity. "What about Pepper Potts? Is she significant to you?"
Tony rolls his eyes, masking the truth with a dismissive tone. "I mean, the woman works for me. Look, take your time with this. Maybe you're new to the business, but I'm starting to think your friend should come and try this instead?"
The man's next question is unexpectedly piercing. "What is Pepper Potts to you?"
The question strikes a nerve, and despite his attempts to stay composed, a tear escapes Tony's eye. The cruelty of the situation and the probing nature of the question cut through his defenses, leaving him exposed and vulnerable.
"Fuck off."
The man's gaze sharpens, his voice taking on a probing edge. "Is Pepper your mommy?"
Tony's voice falters as he mutters, "No."
He's not lying. She's not, no matter how, shit, no matter how much he thinks about this. Pepper has been giving off caregiver energy from day one, yet she has no littles of her own. He never had the fortitude to reveal this aspect of himself to her—she's perpetually swamped with work. And to do this, to open up now, after so much shit he put her through, is absurd. He's not the best match to her. He's too young. His little is too young. For her anyway, well—Tony doesn't even know how to talk classification language. Pepper is so nice, smells so good, but he can't even imagine her doing stuff like baby-talk, or whatever. Whatever his little is in need of at the time. She fits an older little like a glove. The thought never fails to make Tony jealous. Tears slip down his face, each drop a testament to his crumbling resolve.
The man's smirk deepens, his satisfaction palpable as he observes Tony's silent anguish. "Don't worry," he intones with a chilling finality. "We're going to take good care of you in here."
-
They have zero time to do any caring, at all.
-
The words barely register in Tony’s disoriented mind before Natasha bursts into the room, transforming the space into a whirlwind of action. She moves with a fluid precision, her every motion calculated. Her entrance is quickly followed by Bucky and Steve, whose imposing presence brings a swift and decisive end to the captor's control. The room is engulfed in the cacophony of restrained conflict—grunts, the thud of bodies, and the metallic clink of weapons—as they handle the situation with a disconcerting efficiency.
Amidst the chaos, Peter, clad in his Spider-Man suit, is the first to reach Tony. His face, through the eyeholes of his mask, is etched with frantic concern. His hands shake slightly as he fumbles with the knots binding Tony’s wrists. Each movement is hurried and somewhat clumsy, a clear sign of his overwhelming anxiety. The ropes are rough against Tony’s skin, and Peter’s touch, though earnest, is marked by the tension of the moment.
"Mr. Stark, dude, are you okay? Like, really okay?" Each word spilling out in a rush. His eyes dart over Tony's face, his hands trembling slightly as he checks for any injuries.
Peter's eyes widen as he examines Tony's bruises, his worry escalating with every new patch he checks out. "Come on, man, you gotta tell me if it hurts or anything. I—" He pauses, taking a shaky breath, "I should've been here sooner. This is totally my fault. Are you hurt? Please, just say you're alright."
Peter's teenage fretfulness adding a layer of urgency to his words. He's all but hovering over Tony, every inch of his body radiating a frantic need to ensure Tony's safety. "Seriously, you better be okay. I don't know what I'd do if—if something happened to you. Please, just let me know you're fine, alright?"
Tony's relief is tempered by a deep, silent need. He longs for more than just medical attention—he craves the comfort of Peter's presence, a hug. He remains quiet, but internally, he's aching for Peter to offer more than just a cursory glance. The need for a reassuring touch, for a moment of genuine connection and care, is palpable. Though he stays still and silent. Tony's stomach growls audibly, and he seizes the moment with characteristic bravado. He glances around and declares, "Hungry."
The statement comes out in a tone that feels surprisingly childlike, an unintentional slip. It's less about the actual hunger and more about redirecting attention—using a basic need as a strategic deflection. Hilarious part is that he can't escape sounding like the child version of a rescued billionaire.