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.
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."