Kid, tell me what happened: The Sequel

just hold me close

Peter Stark tossed and turned in his sleep, mumbling deliberate pleas and begs for help, please, please, no I’m so sorry just please stop hurting me. 

It’s been the same nightmare for months. He’s had some form of this nightmare for eleven months, thirteen days and six hours, plus the six months spent in recovery. Much like the other horrible dreams before this one, he wakes up stuck, claustrophobic and strapped to cold metal. 

The first thing he felt was a sharp ringing pain from the back of his head as his eyes fluttered open. He finds himself in a dim-lighted room, unable to move. The feeling of being stuck triggered his claustrophobia, and Peter began to wheeze as panic overtook his body. And then out of nowhere, he appeared. And by “he”, Quentin Beck appeared. 

The man was silent as he fiddled with a blade, allowing his victim to inspect the tool that he was going to be tortured with. Peter’s face was sheen in sweat from all the days of torture before this one and before the silently crying boy knew it, metal was plunged in his chest and Peter screamed. 

White-hot furious pain rocketed through his body as the metal was sharply pulled out, drawing a spray of blood just to be forced back into flesh again. Another scream tore through Peter’s lips at the pain. As if it wasn’t enough, the collar fastened on his neck jolted, and electricity began to sizzle all over Peter’s bloodied form, drawing agonizing screams with it. 

Peter whimpered as tears rolled down his cheeks, “Just stop, please! I’m sorry, I'll be good, I promise!” He pleaded through sobs, “Just stop hurting me!” 

Beck paid no heed to Peter’s cries, and it stung even though Peter had already expected the lack of an answer. Beck spat vehemently at a sobbing Peter, “You pathetic scum, you disgust me! Every ounce of your being is enough to rattle my disgust! It’s a wonder I haven’t killed you yet.” 

A creeping smile formed over Beck’s face as his eyes glittered darkly. He raised the blade over Peter’s heart, tilting his head as he pretended to contemplate the matter. The already evident unhealthy amount of panic in the boy’s body blossomed tenfold. His eyes widened, the asthma attacks that he hadn’t had in years crept up his throat, snaking a hold on his breathing and his vision suddenly blurred, unable to panic but at the same time only able to do so. 

“No, no, no” he yelled in anguish as metal was plunged into his heart. Peter screamed as he felt everything within him cut and break and then the darkness. 

Peter bolted upright, panting heavily as a hand firmly clutched the shirt material right over his heart, feeling it for any cuts or blood. The boy wasn’t aware that he was sobbing into his hands when the soft voice of his father, Tony Stark lured him, “Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Another bad dream?”  

Cold sweat dripped down Peter’s frame as the trembling boy threw himself in his father’s arms. Peter’s breathing is labored and his already hollowed eyes darken further, heavily resembling a lost man at churning, boiling waters. The only thing the traumatized child can feel is metal entering him and ripping out, slashing his mind and body until there’s more blood than life left in him. His breath is as shaky as his fingers, “Yeah.”

Tony sat too, pulling his son close to his chest, whispering soft reassurances to ground the boy back to reality. His touch is warm and soft which mirrors the tone of the father’s voice as he spoke, “Hey, kiddo, it’s okay, you’re okay, you’re okay. Ssh, I’m here.  “ He guided Peter’s head to his arc reactor, letting the boy sob all the pain out of his chest. Hating to see his baby so hurt, he moved one hand to tug on Peter’s stubborn curls and the other ran over clothed scars that littered Peter’s body. “Talk to me bear.”