Irondad Oneshots

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

Training would be heck today.

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The guard came to get him after several minutes of waiting.

He hadn't given a name, but Peter privately called him Bob.

He seemed like a Bob to the ten year old.

Not that he mentioned it, of course.

His mouth had gotten him in trouble more than once over the course of his captivity, and he had learned not to make quips, and snarky comebacks.

Most painful was the time when he called the overseer Squidward.

It hadn't been so funny after a night spent in freezing salt water after being beaten with some kind of sharp hand weapon.

"Where am I training today?" Peter asked quietly.

"The rocks."

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The rocks, as they were called, were cliffs, with no hand holds, kept slick with water, and very painful to fall from.

Which he had, multiple times, before he got control of his abilities.

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The instructor for today was a gruff, weather beaten man with a tanned, wrinkled face.

He was the coolest of all of them.

Not that any of them were nice, but he actually learned stuff from this one.

Ironically, his name was actually Gruff.

Or that was what the guards called him.

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He was broken out of his thoughts when he heard an alarm.

A soldier came to whisper something to the old man, and his eyes had gone wide with panic.

"Get the spider out of here before he comes."

That was Peter.

As if they didn't know he had a name.

Who was the he they were talking about?

"Go," The new guard barked, shoving Peter towards a small door to the side.

Peter went with it, until he heard the sound of repulsors in the distance.

His eyes widened.

They sounded familiar.

He had seen the Iron Man on a news report one of the guards had been watching, when they thought he was in his cell. That hadn't gone well.

But the flying weaponized machine had made him curious.

The suit, if it could be called that, was most likely manned.

By who, he didn't know.

But as the sound reached his ears, he made a split second decision, spinning, and giving a sharp blow to the nerve clusters on the guard's neck.

The man dropped without a sound, and Peter headed toward the sound, pulling up his hood

The noise grew louder as he raced through the corridor, relying on his senses to guide him in the darkness.

Then he was in the room.

Red and gold flashed in front of his eyes as the suit bent over, fingers curling around the neck of the Squidward man. "Where is he?"

The distorted and mechanical voice was extremely unsettling.

The man on the floor gasped, fingers scrabbling weakly as his breath depleted. "Don't- know- what- talking- 'bout-"

The fingers around his throat tightened as the voice lowered, sounding even more deadly. "Tell me where my son is, or I swear I will kill you, and enjoy doing it."

Peter's eyes widened, and he took a half step forward. Son?

The man on the ground smirked, blood bubbling over his lips as he laughed. "Where you will never find him."

He choked once, then twice, as white foam bubbled up, replacing the blood, and then he stilled, sightless eyes gazing into nothingness.

Peter moved around the desk, intending to approach, but the slight movement dislodged a piece of metal, and instantly the suit was in front of him, repulsors aimed at his face. "Not another step."

Peter raised his hands, eyes narrowing. "Wouldn't dream of it," he said quietly. "Who's your son?"

The hands dropped a bit, and the voice was more guarded. "Peter. Peter Stark."

Peter froze, lowering his hands to his sides. "Dad?" His voice came out soft, and scared.

The glowing hands dropped completely then, and the suit dismantled in seconds, leaving a dark haired, so familiar man. His eyes were wide, and his breath halted as he stared. "What-"

Peter jerked the hood off quickly, the fabric falling forgotten on the ground "Dad," he said again, his eyes starting to burn. "Dad."

His father stepped in and pulled Peter closer in one fluid movement, wrapping him close in his arms.

Both figures were shaking, both asking themselves if it was real.

Peter gripped the soft fabric of his dad's shirt, soft sobs muffled by the cloth. "Dad."

Tony cradled him close, rocking back and forth, meaningless words flowing as he tried to comfort them both. "Sono io, piccola. Sono io."