Chapter Text
There are so many things you don't appreciate until they're gone.
Like breathing, for example. You breathe all the time without really thinking about it, but when you get a stuffy nose, breathing clearly though your nose is something you swear you'd never take for granted again. Just to inhale and exhale through your nostrils without obstruction while you sleep is something so deeply desired that it just about drives you crazy.
Sometimes, people take food for granted. Stocked shelves and a full fridge are a guarantee for many people, but they don't really appreciate how fortunate they are to even have that food until they starve and don't have quick access to something to full their hunger.
One might take walking for granted, or simply just reaching over to grab the remote. They don't think twice about it, but when they have a nasty fall and become paralyzed from the neck down, the only thing they want to do is move. They regret not appreciating how easily they could tell their muscles to move without pain and without much effort at all.
For Peter, he never really appreciated being able to look out his window, or to look up while swinging around Queens, and see the moon until it was stripped from him.
Growing up in New York, Peter had never really been able to see the grandiose masterpiece that is a sky full of glittery stars, but the moon was almost always visible. It hung in the dark sky while he sat at his desk by the window in his bedroom, completing homework late at night while nursing sore ribs from a rough patrol as Spider-Man. It lit his path as he stayed out past his curfew to chase hooligans and criminals through the streets of Queens. It was a beacon of something constant in his life when he felt that everything else was falling apart.
Now, it's just a memory.
As he lies against the cool wall that gives him the only sense of relief to the pain lighting his entire body, his wrists shackled together and one ankle chained to the wall, he just wants to be able to look up and see the moon. The dark concrete ceiling with a dim light bulb that he has been sleeping under for the past few days (Or has it already been weeks, or maybe months?) prevents him from doing so. The ache in his neck where the fading finger-shaped bruises stain his pale skin prevent him from looking up, so even if he were to have a view of the sky, he wouldn't be able to enjoy the view.
It's not just the moon that he regrets not being more appreciative of. It's also Aunt May's adamance of following crazy recipes, despite her terrible cooking skills when making even the simplest dishes. It's Happy's (ironic) grumpiness when he'd pick Peter up after school on Fridays to take him to the compound for the weekend. It's the loud music Mr. Stark plays in the lab while they're tinkering with chemistry or mechanics or new suit upgrades. The volume of the music always hurt Peter's sensitive ears, but he'd never dare say anything because he knows that's how Mr. Stark likes to work. It's the stupid inside jokes between him and Ned, and the Decathlon practices Michelle—or MJ—likes to drag out as long as possible to secure the winning spot at Nationals again next year.
He misses his life.
He doesn't think he took it all for granted, but if he had known that it'd all be ripped from him, he would have cherished it more and lived more in the moments that he replays in his mind to keep him from giving up during the experiments.
A twinge of pain shoots through his hips when he tries to shift to relieve the pins in needles sensation in his left foot.
He gasps, and a second after the twinge of pain comes, a wave of nauseating, bone-deep pain washes over him like a tidal wave. Moving will only make it worse, so the only thing he can do is tremble helplessly against the wall.
The pain brings the reminder of what Dr. Reed had done to him in the lab today.
No longer did the prospect of a lab bring Peter fond memories of spending time with his mentor and—dare he say—father-figure. Instead, the first things that flooded his mind when he heard the word was pain.
Thanks to the most recent session in the lab, that pain is centered in his hips. It's where Dr. Reed had chosen to extract bone marrow for testing. He doesn't have the proper medications needed for Peter's super-metabolism and forgot about the prospect of anesthesia a while ago, so the extraction occurred while he was conscious.
The pain was—and still is—indescribable. He screamed and writhed as much as the vibranium cuffs on the lab table allowed him. His vocals chords are ripped to shreds, it feels, and the echoes of the power drill still ring in his head like the whispers of ghosts.
To distract himself of the pain, Peter thinks of what he would wish for if a genie, like in Aunt May's favorite Disney movie Aladdin, popped into his concrete cell. The first thing he can think of is the moon.
He knows it's kind of stupid since he should wish for Iron Man to bust him out, or maybe a big meal to help kickstart his healing factor back up, but he doesn't care. He really just wants to see the moon again.
Time passes oddly in the cell, thanks to the lack of windows and a clock. He isn't sure what time of day it is, or what day it is, and it's messing with his head. He'll be eating his rations, and in a blink of an eye, he's starving and his stomach is rumbling like thunder again. Sometimes it feels like whole days go by before he gets his rations again. For all he knows, that's actually true.
He isn't sure how long he spends curled up against the wall like a pathetic child until the metal door clicks.
His entire body tenses.
No, not yet. I just got back from lab. Please, no no no no no—
The door slowly swings open. Peter's eyes are shut tight, hands balled into fists despite a few fingers that aren't aligned quite right. His jaw clenches tighter with each agonizingly slow footstep.
A rough hand wraps around his bicep and he's yanked to his feet. He gasps, a cry of pain caught in his throat.
Another set of footsteps alerts him of Dr. Reed's assistant, the name of whom Peter hasn't learned. He's a younger man, and if he was in a different setting, he would be considered attractive. Under the harsh lighting of the underground facility and the blankness in his eyes as Peter's crying out for help during the experiments, he's nothing but repulsive.
The assistant unlocks his ankle shackle, which allows Dr. Reed to practically drag Peter from the comfort of his cell and out into the short hallway.
He remains silent, other than the occasional whimper from not being able to contain how much pain he is in as he's being listlessly moved, as the two in lab coats assist him to the lab.
Neither Dr. Reed or the assistant has ever directly spoken to him, so he isn't completely sure what's going on exactly. He only knows Dr. Reed's name because the assistant has used it before, but the assistant's name has never been used in front of him before—while he was conscious, at least. He doesn't know exactly what experiments are being done and what their purpose are, but he can use his own common sense to figure out the basics.
He's enhanced. They want to know why.
It's not that hard to figure out.
Maybe that's something else Peter would wish for if the genie from Aladdin appeared: conversation. He has always been a talkative person, much to Happy's chagrin during their long car rides upstate.
He tried talking to Dr. Reeds and the assistant before. He tried jokes, sarcasm, genuine curiosity, and—much to his humiliation—begging. He has begged for the pain to stop, for the experiments to end, for a break to rest, for more to eat, but he has even stooped so low as to beg for a simple response. They don't even acknowledge him with nods or glares or anything, much less words.
That's what's driving Peter insane, perhaps slightly more so than the experiments.
A conversation is probably number two on his list of wishes, under seeing the moon, of course.
The lab is a musty old room almost identical to his cell, only slightly larger in square feet and with a metal cart on wheels and a sleek metal table. The walls, ceiling, and lighting are the same.
Peter pointedly avoids looking at the cart, not wanting to look at what tools they'll be using on him this round, and allows Dr. Reeds to shove him onto the table where the assistant unlocks his handcuffs. Once those are off, the two lock his wrists and ankles into the metal straps attached to the table, then lock on the neck strap, followed by the thigh straps.
The skin left bare from his only article of clothing—dirty cotton shorts that stick to his legs from crusted blood and sticky sweat—feels like ice where it touches the table. Peter relishes in the coldness, though, as it feels like ice packs being administered to his abused body.
A few cold, murmured words are exchanged between the two before they get started. Peter lets his eyes slip shut as soon as he hears the metal of a scalpel scraping against the cart's tray as it is picked up.
He fights the pain off with memories of his life before he was snatched during patrol, but the pain wins.
The pain wins every damn time.
•
Peter thinks he actually loses it the moment he looks up at the ceiling during an operation with Dr. Reed digging into his chest while his assistant holds open his ribs over his heart with a rib spreader and he sees the moon.
His eyes are cloudy with tears as he screams in agony, but his cries lessen into frantic breaths and whimpers at the sight of the bright full moon among a sea of dark tar.
He stares at it, transfixed despite the worse pain he has ever felt that encompasses his whole body, and for a moment believes that he's actually looking at the real deal. He can see every crater, every detailed dip and curve and shadow and imperfection.
But then he blinks. He blinks, and then he's staring at the gray ceiling again.
Just as the moon disappears, Dr. Reed's tool hits something in his chest, and he screams again.
•
"Please, I didn't do anything, please just let me go home," Peter begs through sobs. They rack through his body in waves of pain as his chest alights with fire at every slightly movement.
But he doesn't care. He's been in insufferable pain for longer than he can remember.
"I'm done," he cries, clawing at the lab coat of the assistant as he and Dr. Reed leave him after dumping him off after another—thankfully less intense—round of experiments. "I'm done, please, just—just let me go."
Just let me die.
"Kill me."
Unsurprisingly, they ignore his every plea. The door shuts and clicks behind them. Peter falls silent for a second, then curls in on himself to wail. His cries sound so pathetic and weak, and he'd be so embarrassed if Mr. Stark or anybody ever heard him if he wasn't so done.
He honestly couldn't tell you how long he has been here. He used to have a vague sense of the passage of time, but now it's nonexistent. He doesn't know how old he is. Doesn't know what year it is. He doesn't care.
At this point, he isn't sure if he really wants out, if he still wants Iron Man to burst through the door and rescue him. Maybe it'll be better if he just died in here. He wouldn't have to deal with the memories of this place, or the pain he has endured and is still enduring.
He knows he's pretty messed up beyond repair. If he's rescued now, he wouldn't be the same as before. He isn't Peter Parker anymore. He's...He's just a mold of a human being, broken, abused, and exhausted.
Aunt May wouldn't want this Peter-Parker-lookalike. He isn't the same brilliant mind that could keep up with Mr. Stark's ramblings. The strong and brave superhero that once protected Queens is no longer inside of him.
He considers holding his breath and just never breathing again. Logically that wouldn't work—his survival instincts would kick in and he'd gasp for air before he could pass out—but the fog in his mind conceals and logic.
The one thing that holds him back from attempting to hold his breath to suffocate himself is the idea of seeing the moon again. It's a thought that pops into his head while he's imagining his limp body going blue from the lack of oxygen. As soon as he remembers the moon, the fantasy comes to an abrupt halt.
He can't see the moon again if he's dead.
The revelation shakes him to his core. He frowns, shifts to relieve the pain in his, well, everything, and decides then and there that he can't die until he sees the moon again.
•
Peter hasn't hallucinated since seeing the moon that time in the lab when Dr. Reed was performing open heart surgery with his assistant spreading his ribs apart, so when the door swings open and hits the wall with a loud clang and Peter looks up from his spot on the floor and sees Tony Stark in a helmet-less Iron Man suit, he doesn't question it.
The relief on Mr. Stark's face is swamped by overwhelming concern and horror as his eyes trail over Peter's deteriorating form lying on the ground.
Mustering up enough strength to gently lift his head from the floor as Mr. Stark remains frozen, Peter croaks a choked, "Hey."
That springs Mr. Stark into action. He rushes forward and shouts over his shoulder, "Found him!"
There's a distant response, but Peter can't concentrate long enough to make out the words as Mr. Stark's mumbling something about scanning and injuries and if he can move him?
Peter gets his arms under him and pushes with all his strength. Mr. Stark slams to his knees with a metallic clank beside him and gently pushes him back down.
"Easy, easy," he warns, eyes wide as he examines the broken boy. Something akin to pain flashes before his eyes when he looks over the large, bloody bandage over Peter's chest. "What the hell?"
"Mis'er," Peter tries, tongue heavy and vocal chords shredded, "Mis'er S'ar, please—"
"I've got you, Pete," Mr. Stark says, fear replaced by sheer determination. "You're safe now, I just need to get these stupid chains off of you, yeah?"
"No, please—"
"No?" Mr. Stark doesn't drop the chains, but his eyes do flash to Peter's. "What? What do you need?"
Peter licks his chapped, dry lips. "Moon."
Mr. Stark blinks, then confusion flickers in his expression. "Moon? What? You're not making any sense, Pete."
"Please." His voice cracks. He just wants to see the moon, why can't Mr. Stark see that? "Please."
Mr. Stark lifts a metal hand to cup Peter's face as he keeps their gazes level. "You're going to be okay, Peter. Just breathe while I get these chains off, and then we'll have you checked into the medbay and you'll see Aunt May and the rest of the team. Okay?"
He just wants to see the moon, but he doesn't want to make Mr. Stark upset, so he shallows against the metallic taste in his mouth and nods.
A small smile upturns Mr. Stark's lips, his eyes still filled with determination.
"Good. Now, stay still so I can get these off without hurting you any more than you already are."
Peter tries to do as he's told, and it's not too hard when he's got next to zero energy to even hold his head up longer than a few seconds. Tony lifts his wrists away from his body and offers a quick apology when Peter winces at the movement. Those get blasted off, and Peter's arms fall limply to the ground, which elicits a muffled cry.
Next are the ankle shackles, and once those are off, Tony maneuvers Peter into his suit's arms as gently as he can. It still causes sharp pains to shoot throughout his body, but Peter doesn't voice much of it if he can help it.
He's pretty sure he spaces out during their ascend to the surface of the earth, because it seems like in a blink of an eye, Peter's squinting against harsh sunlight and they're walking across a field of overgrown grass and wildflowers towards a deafening jet.
He's disappointed when he looks up and only sees blue skies and no moon. He quickly corrects those feelings, though, because he's being rescued; he should be happy and grateful, not disappointed that he was rescued in the day time instead of the night.
Resting his head against the cool chest of the Iron Man suit, Peter whispers, "Thank you."
Mr. Stark says something—Peter feels the vibrations in his eardrums—but his mind doesn't catch it. He lets his eyes slip closed but doesn't lose consciousness.
Time escapes him—again—and in what feels like a mere minute, he opens his eyes to find that he's in the Avengers compound. He's being laid down into a bed by Mr. Stark and then gets carted off into the medbay.
The doctors and nurses and whoever else is there rushing around him talk to each other over him and it reminds him all too much of Dr. Reed and his assistant.
The moment there's a prick in the crook of his elbow, Peter lurches back, pleading with quick breaths, "No, please, no more tests."
"It's just fluids," the doctor assures him, trying to reach out to put the needle back in his arm.
Maybe it's because the doctor isn't ignoring him, or maybe it's because the doctor's a woman, but Peter finds himself distancing her and the image of Dr. Reed.
Hesitantly, he offers his arm. The doctor smiles and inserts the IV.
"Thank you."
Peter swallows and looks around at the other doctors. Someone reaches over him and places an oxygen mask over his face. At first he's confused because he doesn't need help breathing—he's only hyperventilating a little bit—but then his mind how's foggy and his eyelids get heavy and he slips from consciousness into a peaceful oblivion.