Chapter Text
The creak of rusted metal groaned through the air, a sharp sound that echoed in the hollow space of the mechanic’s shop. Dust hung in the fading light, catching on Tony Stark’s grease-streaked hands as he tightened a bolt on an old engine. His shirt clung to his skin from the heat, the faint scent of oil and sweat mixing in the air. The Great Depression had bled everyone dry, and in the quiet of the shop, it seemed even louder.
Tony wiped his brow with the back of his hand, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was well past closing, but he stayed late, hoping for another job—anything to bring a little more money home. He exhaled slowly, dropping the wrench onto the tool bench. His mind wasn’t here.
Three days.
Peter hadn’t been home in three days.
The thought twisted in his gut, the wrench in his hand suddenly feeling heavier. He didn’t want to imagine the worst, but the city wasn’t safe. Not for boys like Peter, fragile and thin from too many missed meals, too many hard days at the factory.
Tony ran a hand through his messy hair, pushing the anxiety back down. He needed to finish this job, needed to stay focused. But no matter how hard he tried, his mind wandered back to their tiny one-room apartment, to the empty spot where Peter should have been sleeping.
By the time Tony trudged through the door, the air was thick with worry. Steve sat by the small table in the corner, his back hunched, sketching something, though it was clear his mind was elsewhere. The single oil lamp barely lit the cramped space, casting long shadows on the walls. Their bed was tucked in the far corner, a thin mattress with patches from too many years of use. Beside it, Peter’s makeshift cot lay undisturbed.
Steve didn’t look up when Tony entered. His brow was furrowed, the pencil in his hand moving slowly across the paper. The posters Steve drew—optimistic messages about hope and resilience for people who had neither—felt hollow now. His art had once brought him joy, but tonight, it was just another distraction from the fear gnawing at his insides.
Tony sighed, dropping his tools by the door. “I checked the factory again.”
Steve’s hand paused, the pencil stilling on the page. “Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
Steve set the pencil down, rubbing a hand over his tired face. “It’s been three days, Tony. He wouldn’t just vanish.”
“I know.” Tony’s voice was low, steady, but Steve could hear the strain beneath it. He crossed the room, sitting beside Steve, close enough that their knees touched. “We’ll find him.”
Steve didn’t respond. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, fingers threading through his messy blond hair. The weight of the day, of the past three days, hung heavy between them.
Tony’s hand found Steve’s, squeezing gently.
“He’s a strong kid,” Tony said, trying to sound convincing.
But they both knew the truth—Peter had been born early, too early. He had spent the first weeks of his life fighting for every breath, tiny lungs not quite ready for the world.
And he still struggled. His breathing was shallow, his frame too thin, his skin pale. The factory work wore him down more than it did other boys his age, but Peter insisted on working. To help, he’d said. Always wanting to help.
But three days with no word? It wasn’t like Peter.
Steve’s hand trembled slightly in Tony’s. “What if something happened to him?” he whispered, the words catching in his throat. “He’s just a kid.”
“We’ll find him,” Tony repeated, this time more firmly. He had to believe that, because the alternative—the idea of Peter out there alone, lost in a city full of hungry, desperate people—was too much to bear. “We’ll go out tonight, check the streets.”
Steve nodded, though his eyes remained fixed on the paper in front of him, the lines of his drawing blurring together in his mind. His chest ached with the same helplessness he had felt when Peter was born, so small in the hospital, the doctors telling them he might not make it. They had survived that. Somehow, they had made it this far.
But this felt different. This time, they weren’t there to protect him.
The small room felt colder as night settled in, the thin walls doing little to keep the chill away. Tony stoked the dying fire in the small stove, the orange glow flickering weakly across their faces. Steve sat on the edge of the bed, watching the flames dance, lost in thought. The silence between them was thick, filled with all the unspoken fears they didn’t dare voice.
Tony sat beside him, their shoulders brushing. In the dim light, they looked older than their years, the strain of survival etched into every line on their faces.
Steve’s eyes flickered to the empty cot on the floor, Peter’s blanket folded neatly at the foot.
“He should be here,” Steve whispered, his voice barely audible.
Tony reached out, pulling Steve into his arms. “I know.” He pressed a kiss to the top of Steve’s head, holding him close. “We’ll find him. We’ll bring him home.”
Steve leaned into Tony’s warmth, closing his eyes for a moment, letting himself believe that they would. But as the night dragged on, sleep didn’t come.
Hours later, they lay together on the thin mattress, the room silent except for the distant hum of the city outside. Tony’s arm was wrapped protectively around Steve’s waist, but neither of them slept. The space where Peter should have been weighed heavy in the room.
Steve stared at the ceiling, his mind racing. He pictured Peter, small and fragile, out there in the dark. Every passing hour felt like a lifetime.
As the clock ticked towards dawn, Steve whispered into the quiet, his voice broken. “Where is he, Tony?”
Tony had no answer. All he could do was hold on tighter.
The sound of clanking metal echoed in the empty garage as Tony worked on an orange truck. His hands moved automatically, tightening bolts and loosening screws, but his mind was elsewhere. It had been five days since Peter disappeared, and each day felt heavier than the last. The ache in his chest was constant now, a dull throb that wouldn’t go away no matter how hard he tried to drown it out with work.
Where are you, Petey? The thought repeated like a mantra in his head, gnawing at him.
The sun had barely risen, but Tony had been at the shop since dawn, the exhaustion weighing him down like lead.
There was no point in resting—sleep only brought nightmares of Peter lost, cold, or worse.
Suddenly, the sound of the garage door slamming open startled him, and Tony turned sharply, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. In the doorway stood Bucky Barnes, Steve’s childhood pal, his chest heaving, eyes wide with urgency.
“They found him,” Bucky gasped, barely able to catch his breath.
Tony’s heart stopped. The rag fell from his hands.
“Peter?” Tony’s voice cracked as he crossed the room, his legs moving before his mind could catch up. “Where? Is he—?”
“Sam has him,” Bucky interrupted, shaking his head, his face pale. “But, Tony... it's bad.”
For a second, everything around Tony blurred—the tools, the walls of the shop, even Bucky’s voice. All that mattered was Peter. Tony shoved past Bucky and out into the street, barely registering the cold wind biting at his face. His body moved on autopilot, every step pounding against the pavement as he rushed home, Bucky’s footsteps close behind him.
When Tony burst through the door of their tiny apartment, the first thing he saw was Steve kneeling on the floor next to Peter. Steve’s hands trembled as he reached out, his face pale and stricken with horror.
Sam Wilson, Bucky’s husband, hovered nearby, his own expression tense and grim.
Peter lay on the floor between them, limp and unmoving.
Tony’s breath caught in his throat. His knees almost gave out as he dropped beside Steve. His hands hovered uselessly over Peter’s fragile body, too afraid to touch him, too afraid to hurt him.
Peter’s clothes were torn. His pants ripped, his shirt filthy and stained. Dark bruises bloomed across his arms and neck, and there was blood caked in the corner of his mouth. His face was blank, hollow, his eyes open but not seeing anything. His body was still, unnervingly so, and a deep, jagged silence filled the room.
“Peter...” Tony’s voice broke as he reached out, gently touching Peter’s arm. The boy didn’t react, his body still as stone. “Oh, God...”
Steve’s breath was shaky, his face ghostly pale. “He’s not—he hasn’t said anything. He won’t...”
Tony’s stomach churned, bile rising in his throat as the reality of it all settled in. He forced himself to look at Peter’s bruised body, the torn fabric of his pants, the bruises that told a story no one wanted to hear. The room seemed to close in on him, the air thick with despair.
Sam crouched down, his voice quiet, apologetic. “We found him in an alley near the factory. He was just... lying there. Didn’t move, didn’t say a word. I don’t know how long he was there.”
Steve’s hands shook as he tried to wipe the grime off Peter’s face, his fingers brushing over the bruises. “My God,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “My poor boy...”
Peter didn’t flinch. His eyes remained unfocused, distant, as if he had already left this world behind.
Tony’s hand tightened into a fist. “We need to get him to a doctor,” he said, his voice hoarse. “We need—”
“There’s no money,” Steve cut in, his voice trembling. “We can’t afford it. Tony... we can’t.”
The weight of that truth hung heavy in the air. There wasn’t enough money for food most days, let alone for a doctor. And even if they did manage to find the money, no hospital would treat Peter for what had happened. Not a boy like him, from a family like theirs.
Bucky’s eyes flickered toward the door. “Stephen Strange could help. He’s... odd, but he knows more than most of the doctors around here.”
Tony nodded numbly, too overwhelmed to protest. He didn’t care if Stephen Strange was half-crazy, as long as he could help Peter.
Within minutes, Stephen arrived, his long coat billowing around him as he stepped inside. His face was drawn, his eyes sharp as he took in the sight before him. He knelt by Peter without a word, his fingers brushing over the boy’s bruises, feeling for injuries, assessing the damage.
The room was deathly quiet, except for the shallow sounds of Peter’s breathing.
Stephen didn’t ask questions. His expression remained composed as he worked, cleaning Peter’s cuts with shaking hands, trying to stop the bleeding where he could. He pulled out a few old, worn medical supplies from his coat, doing the best he could with what little he had. His face stayed grim, but his eyes were filled with an unspoken sorrow.
Tony watched helplessly, his heart heavy with each passing second. Steve hovered nearby, his hands wringing together, helpless and broken.
“How bad?” Tony finally whispered, barely able to get the words out.
Stephen didn’t look up, his voice low and grim. “He’ll survive. Physically.”
That wasn’t what Tony had asked, but it was all Stephen could say. There were wounds Stephen couldn’t heal. Wounds that no one could fix.
When Stephen finished, he placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder, trying to reach him in a way none of them could.
“Peter,” he said gently, but firmly. “Can you hear me?”
There was no response. Peter’s eyes remained unfocused, his body unresponsive, his mind somewhere else—somewhere far away from the room, far away from the pain.
Tony’s throat tightened. He had never felt so powerless. All his life, he had prided himself on being able to fix things, to solve problems with his hands and his mind. But now, his son lay broken in front of him, and there was nothing he could do.
Steve sat down on the floor beside Peter, gently pulling him into his arms. His body shook with silent sobs as he cradled Peter’s fragile frame, rocking him gently as if trying to will him back to life.
Tony knelt beside them, his hand resting on Peter’s knee, his eyes wet with unshed tears. “We’re here,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “We’re right here, Peter. We love you. We love you so much.”
But Peter didn’t respond. He didn’t cry, didn’t scream. He didn’t do anything at all. He just stared blankly ahead, lost in the darkness of whatever had happened to him.
The world outside was quiet, as if even the city itself was mourning.
Tony’s fingers tightened around Peter’s hand, holding on as tightly as he could.
The days after Peter’s return were long, heavy, and agonizing.
Their once lively, if cramped, apartment now felt like a shell of what it had been. Peter sat by the small window, staring out at the bleak streets below. He hadn’t said a word since that night. His eyes, once bright with curiosity and determination, were now dull, empty. Tony and Steve would speak to him, touch him, but nothing got through.
Weeks passed, and still, Peter remained silent.
The pressure weighed on Tony’s chest like a constant ache. He worked long hours at the garage, pushing himself beyond his limits, taking any job he could find. The more time he spent working, the less time he spent in that tiny apartment, staring at the son he couldn’t save.
When he’d return, late into the night, the apartment was dark and cold. Steve was always there, hunched over the table, his hands cramped from drawing posters for hours on end. The small lantern barely lit the space around him, but it cast enough light for Tony to see the exhaustion etched into his husband’s face.
Steve’s fingers were raw, blistered from gripping the pencil so tightly, but he kept working, his jaw set with determination. He wouldn’t stop, not when they needed the money. With Peter unable to work, their financial situation was even worse. They barely made enough to keep the small stove going and food on the table—what little Peter would eat, anyway.
It was late one night when Tony stumbled through the door, dirt and oil still clinging to his clothes. Steve was at the table, as always, his face tight with pain. The poster in front of him was only half-finished, but his hands had stopped moving.
“Your hands again?” Tony asked, his voice hoarse from hours of shouting over machinery.
Steve didn’t answer, just flexed his fingers, trying to will them back into working. His eyes flickered toward the bed, where Peter lay, curled up on his side, the blanket pulled tight around his thin frame.
“He didn’t eat again,” Steve muttered after a moment, his voice heavy with frustration and fear.
Tony dropped his tools by the door, running a hand through his hair. “He’s got to eat, Steve. We can’t just—”
“I know.” Steve’s voice was sharp, cutting through the air. “I know, Tony. But what do you want me to do? I’ve tried everything. He just—he won’t.”
Tony exhaled, his shoulders slumping as he moved to the small stove, heating up what little soup they had left. The pot rattled slightly as he stirred it, the smell of thin broth filling the room. They hadn’t had meat in weeks. Their savings were gone, spent on the bare essentials just to get by.
The clinking of the spoon against the pot filled the silence. Steve massaged his fingers, staring blankly at the half-finished drawing in front of him. His eyes were bloodshot, and dark circles lined his face.
“I’ll take the soup to him,” Tony said quietly, ladling a portion into a chipped bowl.
He approached the bed carefully, sitting beside Peter, who hadn’t moved. Tony reached out, brushing Peter’s hair back from his forehead. His skin was pale, his face gaunt from days of barely eating.
“Hey, kid,” Tony whispered, his voice soft but filled with pain. “You’ve gotta eat something, okay? Just a few bites.”
Peter didn’t respond. His eyes remained fixed on the window, his face expressionless.
Tony sighed, lifting the spoon to Peter’s lips. He gently coaxed him to take a sip, but Peter barely swallowed, the broth dribbling down his chin.
“I don’t know how much longer we can keep doing this,” Tony muttered as he wiped Peter’s face. “He’s wasting away.”
Steve rose from the table, stretching out his cramping fingers. “We’ll figure it out,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction. “We always do.”
But a few days later, the situation grew worse. Peter had begun vomiting—anything they managed to get into him came back up.
He stopped eating entirely, his body rejecting even the smallest morsels of food. His skin turned ashen, his already thin frame becoming gaunter with each passing day.
Steve paced the small room, his nerves fraying, while Tony sat by Peter’s side, trying to coax him into drinking water. But nothing worked.
“We can’t just wait for this to go away, Tony,” Steve said, his voice tight with panic. “He’s not getting better.”
Tony didn’t argue. He couldn’t. The fear had settled deep in his bones, making it hard to think, hard to breathe. They had no money for a doctor, no way of finding out what was wrong with Peter, but they couldn’t let him suffer like this.
“We’ll get Strange,” Tony finally said, standing up. “He helped before. Maybe he can figure out what’s going on.”
Stephen Strange arrived within the hour, his face perpetually grim as he stepped inside.
He had seen the strain in this family before, but the sight of Peter now—gaunt, sick—was alarming, even for him.
Without a word, Stephen knelt beside Peter and began his examination, his hands moving with quiet precision. Steve and Tony stood nearby, watching anxiously, their hands intertwined as they clung to each other for support.
Stephen frowned as he felt Peter’s abdomen, his brow furrowing. After a moment, he glanced up at Tony and Steve, his face unreadable. “I think I know what’s wrong,” he said carefully, though there was no relief in his voice.
“What is it?” Steve asked, his voice shaking.
Stephen hesitated before speaking. “Peter... he’s pregnant.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
Tony blinked, his mind trying to make sense of what Stephen had just said. “Pregnant?” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. “But... how?”
Steve’s hand tightened around Tony’s, his own breath catching in his throat.
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head as the weight of it all crashed down on him. “No, that can’t... that can’t be.”
“I’m afraid it is,” Stephen said gently, his voice tinged with sorrow. “It’s not uncommon, especially after what Peter went through - that's what the gangs are doing to boys these days. Beating them, abusing them, and leaving them for dead.”
Tony felt his legs buckle, and he sank into the nearest chair, his hands trembling. His mind spun, a whirlwind of emotions—grief, horror, anger—all crashing into him at once.
“He’s just a kid,” Tony muttered, his voice broken. “He can’t—he can’t be...”
Steve stood frozen, his eyes locked on Peter’s frail body. It felt like the ground had been ripped out from under him, leaving him in freefall. The son they had tried so desperately to protect was now facing something they couldn’t save him from.
“What do we do?” Steve asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking any louder would shatter the fragile silence in the room.
Stephen’s gaze softened, but there was no easy answer. “Right now, we take care of him. Make sure he’s getting enough fluids, try to get him to eat something. His health... it’s fragile.”
Tony buried his face in his hands, his chest heaving with quiet sobs. Steve moved toward the bed, sitting beside Peter, his hand trembling as he gently stroked Peter’s hair.
“We’re here, Peter,” Steve whispered, his voice thick with tears. “We’re not going anywhere. We’re going to take care of you.”
But Peter didn’t respond. His eyes remained blank, distant, as if the boy they had known was already too far gone to reach.