When morning comes, things don't feel any better.
Harley had barely slept, staying up most of the night curled between his dad and his little sister, his pops's arm slung over his stomach. Tony didn't sleep either to Harley's knowledge, spending most of the time flipping through security footage to see if he could find anything that brought him close to finding Peter.
It's been a week and a half. Peter's been gone for ten days. Nobody has found anything yet and Harley worries he might have to start the grieving process. He doesn't know what the time limit is yet to when Tony and Steve give up and call him dead.
Harley's never grieved anyone before. Not properly at least. He was too young to really care when his dad left and he's still in touch with his mom and little sister who're living in Tennessee. He's never really lost anyone before.
"How do I grieve?" he murmurs, words muffled by Tony's t-shirt. His dad's hand stills in its path through Harley's curls and his lungs stutter. "I'm supposed to start grieving, right? That's how this works. When we give up, how do I grieve?"
Tony's silent for a long few moments to the point where Harley wonders if he's sent him into cardiovascular arrest.
Finally, "I don't know. I don't think I could give up on him ever... I'm going to find him. I- I have to. There's no other option."
Harley pulls his head off his dad's stomach, curls falling in his face when he shakes his head.
"There's a point where giving up is the only option. I'm not saying... I'm not saying we should because, believe me, I'd do anything to get him back, but there comes a point in time when-"
"No," Tony says, face falling to sympathy and sadness despite his firm tone. He tugs Harley back against his chest, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. "No, I'm going to find him. We're going to find him. I'm not giving up on Peter no matter what. I don't care what it takes."
"Thank you," Harley says, letting out a breath of relief. "Not to get all emotional or anything but thank you."
"You're allowed to be as emotional as you want to, bambino. I know I have the longest track record of not being good with emotions, but I've learned. We can have all those sappy talks if you really want it."
Harley's laugh is watery and a little too over the top for the stupid situation, but it's a start.
"It's okay. You don't need to do that. Just... Just thank you."
*
Morgan escapes from the movie marathon sometime past noon, when Harley had finally passed out after not sleeping the night before. She wanders nervously into the lab where the adults have been since breakfast.
Dad is lying across a table, flicking through dozens of holographic screens projected above him, bickering quietly with Jarvis and Dum-E. There are a few picture frames crowded just above where his head is.
Pops and Tasha are arguing on the other side of the lab, voices lifting louder as they struggle to get their points across. Tasha wants Pops to join the movie marathon. She wants him to take a break with his other kids while she continues to follow leads. He doesn't want to stop. He can't stop.
Rhodey is sitting on a chair by Dad's feet, a tablet in hand and a few holograms around his head. He's saying something to Dad about the others' progress in their leads. Absolutely none. They're still checking through abandoned buildings in New Jersey, trying to use a different approach to find Peter.
Morgan tugs her sleeves of her Spider-Man hoodie over her small hands, letting her hair fall in front of her face as she nervously shuffles into the room.
"Daddy?" she murmurs, wide green eyes bouncing between the adults who all snap their attention to her.
Tony sits up quickly, pushing the picture frames down and waving his hand to make the holograms all disappear in a single motion.
"Hey, baby, what's up? Is Harley not entertaining you?" Tony says, attempting to twist his voice to sound sarcastic and teasing. He checks his watch quickly, waving Rhodey away as he swings his legs over the edge of the table and beckons his daughter over. "You ready for lunch?"
"Lee's sleeping," Morgan explains quietly, moving as close to her dad as she can without seeming too noticeable. "I suggested we watch Star Wars and he got all sad and went to his room. When I checked on him, he had fallen asleep."
Tony's lungs stutter at the mention of Star Wars, a deep ache making his way through his heart.
"Lee's having a hard time right now," Tony murmurs, helping Morgan to sit up on the table beside him. She's so young. Too young to ever have experienced what she did. It's not fair. Luckily, her green eyes still shimmer with her childish innocence, only eleven years old. "He's going to be okay, but for now, you'll have to be patient with him... How are you doing?"
Morgan's face falls, shoulders drooping as she looks down at her lap, fingers twisting in the red hoodie.
"I miss Petey," she whispers, blinking rapidly to rid her eyes of tears.
Tony leans close, pressing a long kiss against her temple and brushing her hair out of her face.
"I miss Petey too," he replies. He wraps his arms tightly around her stomach, drawing her body in close. "He'll be back before you know it, though. I promise, me and Pops are doing everything we can to get him back."
"You really promise?" Morgan asks, looking younger than ever.
Tony pushes a strand of her hair behind her ear and kisses her forehead again. Over the top of her head, he can see Steve rubbing his eyes, knees wobbling under the weight of the promises Tony's making.
"I really, really promise, sweetie. I'm going to do everything in my power to get him back," Tony swears. It fills him with even more strength to complete the daunting task ahead of him.
He picks up one of the picture frames and pushes it into Morgan's lap.
In the picture, his three kids are sprawled together on the couch. Harley's on the left, legs tossed over the arm of the chair and head resting on the back of the couch. Peter is on the other end, legs tucked behind Morgan and underneath Harley, head on the armrest. Morgan's in the middle, head resting on Peter's chest and legs overtop of Harley, one hand is tangled in Harley's sweater, the other resting on Peter's stomach. They're all fast asleep.
"Bring that up to your brother for me. He'll want to see it when he wakes up. I'll be up in an hour or so to make lunch, okay? Do you want to do anything today?" Tony says.
Morgan thinks for a moment before nodding. "Can we go to the park later? Peter loved going to the park."
Tony barely manages to contain the flinch at the past-tensed version of the word.
"Peter loves the park," Tony repeats quickly. "He'll be happy we went even if he can't go with us. In an hour, you can wake your brother up for lunch, give him the picture, and tell him our plans for later. Sound good?"
"Sounds great! I'll go finish my movie!" Morgan says, brightening up quite a bit at that. She smiles, kissing her dad on the cheek, before hopping off the counter. She studies the picture for a moment before dutifully hugging it to her chest and racing for the door.
*
Peter can't tell how long it's been. All he knows is that it feels like it's been forever if his hunger is anything to go by.
He definitely would've died by now if it weren't for Luc and Elodie. A few weeks ago, he could never imagine saying something like that, but now, they're the least of his worries. They've been bringing him food to eat every long while, whenever the hunger becomes unbearable, they show up with food for him to eat or juice to drink. They've each taken him to a bathroom a few times just to save him from the embarrassment. There was one cold night recently where Luc even brought him a blanket. (Later, that blanket had been set on fire by Sir who was more furious than ever. Peter's stomach is still covered in the burn marks from where the fire had licked before he had managed to throw it off him.)
He can see the changing between day and night through the windows along the wall, but after a while, he gave up counting. Why did it matter how many days it had been? Instead, he slept almost all the time, staying quiet and still on his 'bed.' He learned the hard way, multiple times, what would happen if he was loud in any way.
Sir only comes through every once in a while. He's said something about needing to wait before he makes any real moves to get his project started. Peter almost prefers it when Sir's around nowadays because the quiet emptiness is getting harder and harder to stand. When Sir's around, he gets spoken to and he gets to respond to questions, and he's allowed to cry as loud as he wants to.
Peter's got a sinking suspicion that he'll be easier for Sir to break if he's isolated like he is now. Isolated and starving and freezing and desperate.
Physical attention is something that Peter has always needed. So this, where he can't even talk to people without there being consequences, it's hard for him to handle.
The days have all meshed into one big blur of absence.
Peter hasn't dissociated like this since his aunt and uncle had died a few years prior and he was newly being accepted into the household.
"-when I speak!" Sir is shouting, eyes blazing with his anger. Nothing hurts though, so Peter figures it must just be a strike. He normally gets three before getting disciplined. "I asked you a question."
"I- I, um- What was your question, sir?" Peter squeaks, voice hoarse with the lack of use. He can't remember why Sir is angry. Half the time it seems like his reasons are made up anyways.
"I asked you if you were enjoying your time here, pet?" he spits. He's standing at the end of Peter's table, hands holding Peter's ankles just above where the cuffs are locked in place. "I think we are prepared to move you to your own bedroom, so you have the freedom to move about a little more. I'm not here to ruin your life, I'm here to save the world from abominations like yourself."
"Yes, sir," Peter mutters, keeping his eyes trained obediently on the ceiling high above him. He tells himself the obedience is simply to bide his time and get on Sir's good side. It's self-preservation skills like Dad tried to teach them all. The talks never went well because they're all painfully aware of their father's lack of those skills.
"Good pet," Sir says, an almost fondness taking over his voice as his thumb rubs little patterns into the side of his ankle. "Luc! Elodie!"
The two Frenches scurry into the room and Peter has never been more grateful to be hearing their thick accents.
"Yes, sir?" Elodie says, glancing quickly over at Peter. "Is it cooperating?"
"It is compliant, but I worry it may still have too much strength. What do you suggest?" he drawls, continuing to trace the gentle circles into Peter's leg.
"You could always wheel him over on the table?" Luc suggests sarcastically with a dramatic eye roll. "I don't think you really needed us to decide that."
Peter flinches hard at the sound of the gunshot, head snapping back and hitting the metal table violently, unprepared for the deafening noise in the normally silent room.
Luc falls to the ground, clutching at his thigh as he cries out in pain. There are already tears streaming down his rapidly paling face and his sister hurries to help him stabilize.
"Let him go," Sir instructs, rolling his eyes. "He'll be fine. For now, help me move his table. It wasn't a bad idea."
Elodie regretfully let's go of Luc who falls to the floor in agony and hurries to help Sir with Peter's bed. Probably only because she doesn't want to be shot like Luc had been for rolling his eyes.
The metal table is rolled out of the lab, no care for when it hits the edges of the lab benches. He's taken down a long, bright hallway and then a narrow door is opening, revealing a small room on the other side. And by small, Peter means it looks more like a cupboard than a room.
There are no windows now, no lights even, except for the little flashing red light in the top right corner where Peter assumes a camera is watching him. It's barely tall enough for him to stand in, he'd probably need to scrunch down awkwardly to fit properly. It's a tiny room. Peter wouldn't even be able to lay down flat properly. If he had to guess, he'd say it's probably 4x4x4. Tiny.
And it's absolutely barren. Nothing in the room.
Sir's unlocking his cuffs before he even realizes that this is his room. Because nobody believes he deserves anything more than a cage. He leaves the neck one tight against his skin but detaches it from the table.
Elodie has a tight grip on his forearm, a gun in her other hand pressed against his side. Like he'd try to fight back now anyway. Not when Sir's there.
Once he's tossed into the cell, the door is slammed shut and he's sent into total darkness. He couldn't even see his own hands if he tried. The red light from the camera doesn't even send any light around the room and Peter's limbs are already cramping from the awkward positioning.
He tucks himself into a little ball, ignoring the collar digging into his skin and the cramps in his knees, and cries.
____
I probably will miss the update I'm supposed to do for Thursday (Considering this is already like three days late or something) I've jsut been super busy this past week and have been stressed with school work ugh
Kinda taking a break from a regular updating schedule I guess :/ I'll update again as soon as I can though!
Lyss