Dark Irondad One-shorts

Counting The Seconds-mouth_breather011

by-mouth_breather011 on AO3

39659 . . . 39660 . . . 39661 . . .

Sometimes, the ability to think is a curse rather than a blessing.

If Peter couldn't think, then he wouldn't notice the absence, and he wouldn't feel the need to count the seconds until that absence was filled. He wouldn't be able to.

Brain dead. Sometimes Peter wished he was brain dead.

That was a cruel way of thinking, though. So many people had to live with that disability, not even being able to wish they could think straight. And then here's a fifteen year old boy wishing he could get rid of the mind they weren't able to crave.

Ungrateful. Ungrateful.

39711 . . . 39712 . . . 39713 . . .

This was why Peter deserved punishment.

Why he wasn't allowed simple pleasures. Such as the presence of others. Or seeing the outside world. Or entertaining himself with new knowledge.

Knowledge is power. Control the knowledge, control the people.

But Peter wasn't being controlled.

(at least he didn't think so)

He was safe, being kept from the outside world so the world couldn't hurt him.

Keeping the world out so he couldn't hurt it.

39784 . . . 39785 . . . 39786 . . .

Peter was a danger.

Peter was in danger.

Peter was safe.

(was he?)

Yes . . . yes, he was being kept safe. Safe and sound, safe and sound, safe and sound . . .

Where is Tony?

Peter stood up from his place on the cold concrete floor, slowly padding up to the thick metal door. Cold, bare feet slapping gently. Hands carefully curling into fists. Loose clothes swaying softly.

The boy laid the side of his head against the cool metal, ears straining to hear. He had done this countless times (127, now 128), and he knew that his super hearing no longer worked. Peter thought it was still worth a try.

Silence.

39928 . . . 39929 . . . 39930 . . .

Peter sighed and moved back to his spot on the ground. He fell with a soft plop, crossing his legs and twisting his arms together. His room (cell) was never warm enough. No amount of talking to Tony could make him turn up the heat.

The boy considered getting up to grab the thick blanket on his simple bed, but decided against it. Tony would be back soon.

(would he?)

He resorted to humming while he threaded the hem of his shirt through his fingers. The shirt was worn and gray, thick enough to provide comfort, but not enough to warm him up. It reached down past Peter's hands, and it hung loosely off his shoulders. The pants he wore were no different. Simple and gray, enough to provide comfort but not enough to warm up, loosely hanging and long.

Peter considered himself lucky to at least have clothes. How much worse it would have been if he didn't . . .

40004 . . . 40005 . . . 40006 . . .

Tony was late. Why was Tony late?

Peter didn't remember a time when Tony had ever been this late. Or at least this late without reason.