Steve is…confused.
Confused, and wary.
"This says Maria Stark killed herself," Steve says quietly, scrolling through the webpage on the beat-up laptop Bruce miraculously manages to keep functioning. "Says she threw herself off a nine-story building a few years ago. It—" Steve sighs. "Tony was…downstairs. Saw her pass by the window."
"Shit," Clint mutters. "That's gotta suck. He was…what, ten? Eleven?"
Steve nods. "But he seemed really sure. He's not…I've never seen him like that."
"We've only seen him three times," Bucky reminds him, cleaning one of his guns. They carry guns, yes, but they're all good shots, and they know where to shoot to injure and not kill. Bruce has configured a couple of them to house anesthetic darts, too, when they can scrounge them up on the black market for a fair price. "That's not a lot to go on."
"Maybe," Steve murmurs, scanning the article. "He seemed serious, though."
Clint sighs. "We'll look into it a little more. Owe the kid at least that."
Steve nods in agreement, still contemplative. He's missing something.
He doesn't like it when he's missing something.
"We've returned," a new voice says from the doorway. Steve glances back to see Bruce, Nat, and Thor piling in through the doorway, escaping the rain. They'd left Tony last night; it's morning now, but the sky remains dark and the rain is pounding steadily.
Thor had been the one to speak, but Steve knows him well enough—knows them all well enough—to realize that something is very wrong.
Clint beats him to it. "What happened?" His voice is wary. Bucky stops cleaning, glancing up.
Nat takes a deep breath, tossing a newspaper onto the table. "Passed a TV store; news was playing out front. Thought it was a joke, but then we saw this." Her body is coiled with tension, eyes angry behind her trademark indifference. "We're doing something about this, right?"
Intrigued, worried, Steve drags the paper towards him. Bruce has gone straight to Bucky, who puts his arm around the kid's shoulders and pulls him close. Bruce looks the worst—pale and shivering from the cold, eyes wide. Scared.
Steve reads the headline, and his heart drops.
"Wait, really?" Clint asks, reading over his shoulder. His voice is uncertain. "We just saw him!"
"When?" Nat asks, crossing her arms. Steve sees the wheels turning in her head.
"Last night, we ran into him," Bucky offers, glancing at the paper and scowling thoughtfully. Thor looks grave and serious, his huge, dripping frame imposing in the small room. "At the little black market shop; damn kid was trying to ask some questions. I guess someone saw him."
Anthony Stark Kidnapped—Ransom Demanded!
The headline stares Steve in the face. A grainy photo of Tony, presumably a mandatory school photo, shows his characteristic cocky grin and his mischievous eyes. The blotched gray paper has running ink and little tears from the heavy rain, but the message is still large and bold. The paper article is on the front cover and has obviously been rushed to print, simple in its structure—the facts, the case so far, and a plea for anyone with information to come forward.
"Yeah," Steve says, hands fisted at his sides. Tony is—something to them, at least. Steve is hesitant to say a friend, but he's more than just a random kid. "We're doing something about this. Everybody in?"
No one says otherwise.
They start to plan.
…
Tony's head is killing him.
That's his first conscious thought, anyways. The next few are that the rest of him hurts, too, but that's more of a dull ache. His head is fuzzy, his surroundings full of muted, dull sound and blurring colors. He reaches up to rub his forehead—or tries, anyway. His hands are bound tightly together behind his back.
Tony's heart leaps.
"Kid's awake," a distorted voice says to his left. Blearily, he cuts a glance to the side, but he's still too out of it to process much. "Get Alpha."
Another someone's voice hits his ears and he sees someone slip out of the room. Shapes are becoming more defined, sounds more clear, but he's used to information being processed in his brain in the blink of an eye, and the sluggishness is frustrating.
"Quit struggling," the same voice says, and Tony glances to the side, able to make out a woman leaning against one of the cement walls, the bulge under her jacket indicating a gun, a scowl on her face indicating her willingness to use it. "You're not going anywhere."
Tony would usually have a snappy comeback up and waiting, a couple extras queued up, but his lips are just barely cooperating and his brain is still lagging.
He remembers what happened—a mélange of blurred images and the memory of crystal-clear panic. Someone had manhandled him into the back of a cab, knocked him out—probably trichloromethane, and a lot of it. He's small, so they probably went a little overboard on the dosage, if this headache is anything to go by.
Oh, yeah. And it's Clint's fault.
The door opens, two men slipping inside. One sends a smile in his directions. "Awake? Sorry about the rough treatment, kid. Didn't mean to give you that much."
Tony figured. "Coulda asked politely," he snarks, his tongue thick and heavy. He blinks heavily, still trying to bring everything into focus. "Maybe offered me some candy from the back of a white van."
The man smirks. "Cute."
"So I've been told."
The man doesn't offer a response, just drags a chair in front of him and flips it around, straddling it to put himself on eye-level with Tony. "So, Anthony. Or Tony?"
Tony just scoffs. "Kidnaps me, knocks me out, but how I prefer to be addressed is still up to me. Such a gentleman. It's also nice to introduce yourself first, you know."
Tony expects the man to get mad, but instead he quirks a smile. "Those are some big words for a kid. You can call me Alpha."
Tony raises an eyebrow. "Your parents were either drunk or high, huh?"
"Damn, they told me you had a mouth. I'd be nicer to me. It's a code name; that's Beta," he nodded towards the woman, still scowling spectacularly, "and Gamma." He nodded to the man standing in the corner of the room, keeping watch.
Tony doesn't like this. Code names mean they've done this before, and they know what they're doing.
Nervousness is bubbling in his gut, and he's getting antsy.
"I'll call you Tony; less stuffy," the man continues, rolling his neck. "It's very simple, okay? Your dad and your uncle cough up the money, you go home without a scratch. You'll be back in your mansion before you know it."
Great, Tony thinks. I'm never getting out of here.
"Give me a computer and I can transfer it myself," Tony tries. He knows he'll be able to change their account balance without actually giving them any money, and he knows he'll be able to alert Jarvis or someone or what's happening—but he doesn't have a location. The drug couldn't have knocked him out for more than a couple hours, so he's likely still somewhere in New York, just a bit outside the city; still, it's a big place, and there are plenty of places to hide.
"Ambitious. I like that. Unfortunately, I know what you can do with a computer, kiddo. I'm not as stupid as you think." Alpha stands, setting the chair aside. "If all goes well, you'll be out of here in less than a day."
"If it doesn't?" Tony asks quietly, refusing to lower his eyes.
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Alpha says with an emotionless smile. The look in his eyes tells Tony that despite his elusive answer, he has no qualms about hurting him to get the money. "For now, sit tight. Gamma, with me."
"Can you at least untie me?" He shouts after the man, but the door shuts with a resounding thud, giving him his answer.
Beta scoffs in the corner, her face turned up in an ugly sneer. "Good luck, kid."
Tony sighs. He tugs at the ropes, but he's smart enough to know that he's not going anywhere.
Not for a while, anyways.
…
They've got some semblance of a plan, after several hours of careful research.
Bruce had been able to find street cam footage of Tony being taken off the street in a cab. It was hard to follow the car through the throes of New York traffic, where you saw an identical yellow cab ever two or three cars, but Bruce managed, cross-referencing the license plate to be sure.
"Where'd you learn to do all this?" Natasha asked, an eyebrow raised. She looked impressed.
Bruce smiled shyly, ducking his head. "Tony showed me some things when we were there last. About how to hack into basic stuff; things like that."
"Hm," she responded, watching Bruce work.
On the CCTV footage, the cab pulled into an alley, and then there was a delay; a black van emerged three minutes later, the cab five minutes after that. They ran the footage twice, following both cars; the cab had been returned to the cabbie service on 49th and 11th, the driver exiting and clocking out as normal. The van was a different story.
They followed it as far as they could with traffic cams, but when it turned onto the freeway, it was lost among the traffic.
Then, Bucky saved them all: "He had his phone, didn't he?"
"What phone?" Steve had asked absently, still scanning the traffic, trying to keep with the black van even as it disappeared off an exit ramp.
"The phone we gave him, dimwit," Bucky said, looking up from the equipment we was readying for the ambush, when they got that far. "Didn't it have a tracker?"
The room went dead silent, and Clint smacked himself. "We're idiots."
From then, they'd been smarter about it, tracking his phone, pinpointing his location, cross-referencing it to a map of New York.
"Tony is located in…a storage facility," Thor says, scanning the report as Bruce yawns. "It says here…David's Self Storage. This is Tony's location."
Steve regards the find with dark eyes, thinking. "It's in Hell's Kitchen, in Manhattan." Steve considers, cautious about this whole thing. "We can't go in blind. We can't just search every storage room; there has to be a way to figure out which one he's in."
"Let's relocate," Natasha suggests, picking up her gun and shoving it into the holster at her hip, crossing her arms. "Move closer to the target sight. Clint and I will do reconnaissance, scope out the area and pinpoint the target location. Bruce can analyze the power grid, see if he can knock out some lights to help us along." Steve leans back, smiling fondly despite the situation. Natasha always slips into the intelligence jargon used in her Russian program when she starts analyzing, and even though he knows it's a habit she doesn't like, he can't say he doesn't find it endearing.
"When the mission goes live," she continues, "Bucky, Thor, Clint, you'll be muscle; take out the guards, get us inside. I'll see if I can sneak past someone and find Tony; Steve, you do the same. Whoever finds him first, radio in, we'll set up a rendezvous point when we've analyzed the field better. Bruce, you'll be managing comms and watching on the security system, if we can hack it. Any questions?"
She turns to the rest of them, seeing a lot of raised eyebrows. Pausing, frowning, she says, "I did it again, didn't I?"
"No, no, keep going," Clint says, gesturing at her with a grin. "Very double-oh-seven-esque, Nat. Compelling monologue."
Natasha gives him her sweetest smile and flips him off.
…
Tony's head falls to his chest as he dozes, only for him to jerk it back up, blinking rapidly. The fatigue is weighing on him, and he knows he needs to stay awake, alert, but he can't help the exhaustion and panic threatening to overwhelm him.
Beta left earlier; she took a break, he presumed, and switched out with a hulking man named Delta. He was just as silent, much more stoic, and didn't pay him any mind as he sat in the corner and scrolled through his phone.
Tony had tried taunting him, teasing him, anything to break the stifling silence of this unbearable room, but it had fallen on deaf ears. He'd sighed, giving up, trying again to find a way out of the bonds on his wrists.
His fingers are numb, by now, and he's subconsciously very, very scared.
If this damages his hands, if he loses use of them, or develops a tremor, or God forbid has to have them braced or reset or amputated because some yahoos tied the ropes too tight and cut off circulation to his extremities for hours, maybe days…even if he survives this, he'll be dead the moment Howard and Obadiah see, because he'll be of absolutely no use to them anymore.
But before he can worry about that, he has to worry about getting out.
Unfortunately, he doesn't have much time to plan, because Alpha returns, Beta and Gamma in tow.
"Oh, strong kid," Alpha smirks, dragging in a chair and sitting in front of him again. "Woulda thought you'd be asleep by now."
"Nah, I'm a partier," Tony snarks, giving him a cocky grin.
"Hm," is all Alpha says, smirking right back. "I have a question. My lovely associates searched your pockets, standard procedure and all that, and found something interesting…along with a lot of cash, so thank you for the Christmas bonus."
Tony groans internally. Of course he has plenty more money, but that's cheating.
What else had been in his pockets? His memory is a little fuzzy, probably the effects of the absurd amount of chloroform he's been dosed with, so he can't recall right away.
His confusion must show, because Alpha seems to understand, fishing something out of his pocket and dangling it in front of his face. "So…what's up with the dinosaur phone in the pocket of the world's youngest billionaire, son of the technological mastermind of this century? Bet it's bad for business."
Tony's eyes widen.
It's the phone the Avengers gave him. With all their numbers, saved…their locations, practically…
If Alpha figures out what this is, if they're really just in it for the money, those six will be in more danger than they've ever been before, because Tony knows just from this one experience that Alpha is a very dangerous man.
He tries to think of a lie, something, but he's not quick enough. Alpha lashes out, and Tony isn't expecting it; the brutal backhand sends his face whipping aside, tearing a grunt from his lips.
Tony shuts his eyes, breathing through his nose, spitting to the side. The coppery taste of blood floods his mouth, and he can feel the incision on his lip where his teeth have split the skin.
"It's not a good idea to keep me waiting, kiddo," Alpha says, leaning down in front of him. "What's with the phone?"
Tony swallows, looking down. He doesn't like how close Alpha is. He doesn't like how helpless he is.
"It's…" Tony begins, feeling a drop of blood snake down his chin. "I…m-my dad, uh, doesn't want me to be friends with…with kids who aren't…you know, rich. I wanted to stay in contact with them, but it had to be a way my dad wouldn't find out, so…I got that. To…stay in touch with them, in a way he couldn't catch me."
Tony gains confidence in the story as he goes on, trying to lift his head under the weight of Alpha's gaze. By the end, he's maintaining eye contact, his eyes glancing fleetingly at the phone still in Alpha's hand.
For a brief second, there's tense silence, and Tony is sure he won't believe the story, his heart clenching. He's going to get so much worse than a backhand for this, and he's scared.
But to his astonishment, Alpha just smirks, pocketing the phone. "That's…really pathetic, kid. I guess the life of a silver spoon isn't all it's cracked up to be."
Tony releases a shaky breath, relieved. You have no idea, jackass.
"Update for you," Alpha says, taking a swig of water. Tony realizes just how thirsty he is as the sound of the water sloshing in the plastic bottle reaches his ears, and he licks his lips, only for the taste of blood to overwhelm his tongue. "Dad and uncle are conferring with the lawyers, or cops…somebody. It's all very public, don't worry. You're getting a good amount of limelight," he adds with a wink.
Tony scoffs, looking away.
"Anyways," Alpha continues, looking unperturbed, "it's been twelve hours. If we don't have the money in another twelve…" Alpha shrugs, sharing a look with Beta, who smirks. It's the first semblance of a smile he's seen on Beta's face, and it's anything but reassuring. "Then we start…taking steps to correct their course of action."
Tony shivers, looking down at the concrete floor.
"Make yourself comfy," Alpha says. "Hopefully for you, this nightmare will be over in just a few hours."
He leaves again, and through the sliver of open door, he can barely see a closed steel garage door just twenty or so feet from the wooden door leading to the concrete room.
He's confused. He thought he was in a building of some sort, maybe a warehouse, but now he's not so sure. Is it someone's garage, partially reconfigured as a holding cell? Maybe?
Tony's too tired, and suddenly too hungry, to think straight. His stomach gives a growl, and he feels his cheeks heat up as Beta snorts. Tony guesses her break if over, because she's in the chair in the corner, now, and Delta left with Alpha.
"Are you going to watch me sleep?" He snarks, shooting her a look.
She raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Yes."
Tony shakes his head, looking away. He may as well try to stay awake, see if he can learn anything useful that might help him.
He's asleep within the hour.
…
Tony drifts in and out of consciousness for several hours, the lack of food, water, and real sleep finally getting the best of him. His body aches, his muscles cramping from remaining in such a constricting position for so long. He's sure his spine is screwed six ways to Sunday by now. When the door gives a particularly violent shudder as it's thrown open, he snaps to awareness, blinking rapidly to try to make sense of the chaos before him.
It's Alpha; he knew it would be. Beta's in tow, with Delta, as well. He wonders if it's just the four of them; there must be more outside, but he wonders how many he's really up against, here.
It's a fleeting, mindless thought, and as it drifts away, he finally registers the rage on Alpha's face.
His heart begins to hammer in his chest.
"It looks like," Alpha says, slowly and carefully, "your dad and uncle don't give two shits about you."
Tony almost laughs. Coulda told you that.
Instead, he tries to look confused, questioning. He remains silent. He doesn't like the look in Alpha's eyes.
It's the look that asks for him to make one wrong move, say one more damn word, just to give him the excuse. To give him a reason to hurt him.
Tony knows that look like he knows his own name.
Alpha laughs to himself, quietly, dragging a hand down his face. "They refused. They—they really refused. I don't know if it's a damn cop ploy, I don't know if they just really don't care about you, but you're the one who's gonna suffer."
Tony bristles, readying himself, but something unexpected happens. At first, no one touches him; instead, Alpha reaches into his pocket, taking out a thick strip of cloth that looks like it's been sewn with reinforced thread the metallic strands crisscrossing around the edges. "Like it?" Alpha asks, catching his interest. He flinches, and Alpha continues, "New project with black-out curtains, tripled strength and reinforced with steel thread."
Tony's heart drops.
Alpha steps forward.
"No," Tony says quickly, fearful eyes darting between the man and the blindfold in his hand. "Don't, stop—"
Someone steps up behind him and grabs his jaw, forcing his mouth wide. He grunts, thrashes, but the ropes hold, and someone stuffs a cloth in his mouth, tying it tightly at the back of his head. His cheeks ache, his jaw locks, but he can't do anything about it.
"Sorry, kiddo," Alpha says, not looking all that sorry. "We can't hurt you—not really. Well, we could, but it's a lot messier than this. Now, this—" he holds up the blindfold, and Tony blinks, trying desperately to hide his fear, "is going to block out all the light in the room, and these—" he takes a pair of headphones from Delta, something you'd see a teenager wear on the street, "—are going to block out every sound. Every sound, even the smallest."
Alpha smirks, crouching down and looking him in the eye. Tony sucks in a breath through his nose, but it's not enough; the fear is making him light-headed, and he can't seem to draw in enough air. "A little sensory deprivation can do a lot more damage than physical torture. Maybe your family, or whoever's pulling the strings, will reconsider after we tell them what you're going through. Because trust me—especially for a kid like you, I'm sure this is hell."
Tony flinches, eyes watering even as he tries to remain impassive. As Alpha reaches forward, he tries to twist his head away, to jerk out of his hand's path, but someone fists a hand in his hair and jerks his head up, forcing it to remain still. Alpha smirks, and that's the last thing Tony sees before the blindfold is shoved against his eyes, pinching his eyelids shut as it's knotted at the back of his head.
Tony feels horribly vulnerable, complete darkness keeping him exposed. He can still hear people moving around, but that's it.
"Nn—" he tries to protest, but the gag is tied too tightly. "Nn, nn—!"
There's a hand in his hair again and hot breath by his ear. He flinches away, as much as he can, but it's not far enough. "If I were you," Alpha's voice says clearly, "I'd hope your dad pays up soon. I don't think you have any heroes coming."
Someone puts the headphones on—maybe Alpha, maybe Gamma—but then it's…it's gone.
Everything's gone.
There isn't the smallest whisper of sound, the barest hint of light. He's well and truly trapped inside his own mind. He jerks against the ropes, tries to dislodge the blindfold, shake off the headphones, anything, but they're all fixed securely to his head.
Someone tousles his hair, and it would feel almost affectionate if the movement didn't scare the shit out of him. He jerks violently, and for some reason he knows they're laughing at him, at his fear, but he can't hear it, can't see it.
Can't hear, can't see, anything at all.
He's lost in the darkness, barely sane enough to know he's awake, it's so black and endless. He has so many nightmares of the dark, and the things that hide in the dark, his demons and his past, and now he's trapped in his own mind with nothing for company but those exact demons, and he can't do it, he's panicking and everything's too much—
He takes a deep, shuddering breath through his nose, trying to stave off the panic in his lungs, in his heart and swelling in his chest, but all he can do is sit and wonder just how long he'll be trapped like this.
After all, Alpha is right.
He has no heroes coming for him.
…
It could be hours later, or minutes later…Tony can't tell. He's spent all his time trying to get a grip on the panic, trying to ignore the pain, trying to keep himself sane in the silent darkness. At least he can feel. He can feel the blindfold over his eyes, the headphones over his ears, the ropes around his wrists and ankles. He can smell—there's not much to smell, just dust and concrete, but it's enough to remind him that he's alive. He's awake, and still lucid.
Otherwise, he may actually convince himself he's blind, deaf, both, or dead.
His breaths come in short pants through his nose, quick intakes of breath barely enough to keep him conscious. The darkness surrounding him is warped with shadows and memories, the worst of his demons that come out when he's weak, vulnerable.
His father, his uncle. The bomb. The hundreds of people he killed.
It's silent, deadly silent, and he knows it, but his mind taunts him with whispers and cutting voices that he knows aren't real. And it's dark, and black and still, but there's a bleeding red, a vague outline of dripping crimson in his mind's eye, and even though he knows it's not real, this isn't like the other times where he could just…wake up, look around, listen to music to drown out the voices.
Tony can't open his eyes. He can't hear anything.
There is absolutely no distraction, and he knows if this continues, he'll be driven past insanity within the day.
The thought sends him spiraling into panic, and he jerks against the ropes, strains and strains and heaves and prays and God, he thinks he's crying because he can't get out, and the longer he stays in this horrible dark place, the longer he sits in his hellhole, the more his grip on reality weakens and frays.
He prays, because he's pretty sure that's the only help he's going to get.
A few seconds pass, and he tries to get a grip, but there's still nothing…and then, something.
But it's nothing good.
A hand fists in his hair. He jerks in surprise and panic at the movement, his surroundings completely devoid of stimulus—he had absolutely no warning. His neck locks up, so when it's jerked back, it's painful and sore. His throat is overextended, and he's having a hard time breathing.
Tony's held in that position for a few seconds, feels something sharp and cold just barely touch his throat. Every muscle tightens.
He can't do a single damn thing to save himself, and he's never felt like such an incompetent, useless child.
He can't quite breath, too afraid to jostle the thing against his neck, but after a second, he's released with a sharp shove. He takes a shuddering breath, but that's all he manages before a closed fist hits his nose. His entire body heaves to the side with the force of the punch—he couldn't see it, couldn't brace himself, so his pliable body is sent reeling. He's sure the chair will tip over, but something steadies it, jolting his body right side up.
His brain is addled from the hit, blood running down his lips and chin, soaking into the gag in his mouth, but his brain is also running a hundred miles a minute.
They're not asking him for anything, not giving him any indication of what they're doing. He figures they're probably using him for something—maybe a video. Probably a video, actually; a tape recording would be worthless since he can't speak. They're probably videoing him.
Dammit, they're probably going to leak it. They said the whole case was public; they'd leak the video instead of sending it straight to Howard and Obadiah.
He doesn't want everyone in the world to see him this—this pathetic.
He shudders, trying to take a deep breath through his swelling nose.
Oh, shit. If his nose swells too much, if his nostrils close—dammit, are they really going to let him suffocate?
The panic comes again, and this time, he can't shake it.
He's lost in his mind, and he doesn't know if he'll ever make it out.
…
It's been three days since the Avengers heard about Tony, and they're finally ready to get him out.
Clint and Natasha did some extensive surveillance, and finally caught armed guards congregating around a particular steel door, with a couple select men and women coming in and out of the storage unit regularly. They'd decided that, even without visual confirmation that Tony was inside, they could at least give some intel, even if Tony wasn't there.
They're putting their plan into action tonight. Steve hates to wait, knows that Tony likely isn't getting five-star treatment, but he wants to do this under the cover of darkness, and the rest of them agree.
"After we tell him to stay out of trouble," Bucky grumbles without any heat, "he goes and gets himself kidnapped."
Clint snorts, fingering an arrow. "What did you expect? Damn kid walked into a black-market hotspot hoping to interview a psycho."
Natasha shoves a knife into her hip holster, shrugging on her faded leather jacket. "Well, he's just a kid. He isn't going to make the smartest decisions left to his own devices."
Bruce sits quietly, staring at the computer screen, his eyes downcast.
"What ails you, Bruce?" Thor asks quietly, ruffling the kid's hair. Steve scoots closer, hoping that Bruce will open up. He's been unusually quiet the past couple days.
Bruce shrugs, adjusting his glasses. His face falls.
"Kiddo," Bucky says quietly. Bucky's always had a knack for getting Bruce to talk when he's quiet or upset, so Steve sits back and lets his best friend work. Bucky moves to sit by Bruce, his flash arm around the kid's shoulders. "Remember? No secrets, no judging. You talk, we listen. It's not that hard."
Bruce quirks half a smile, leaning into his side. The room is quiet as Bruce takes a breath. "Whenever…w-when we do this with other kids, it's…easier. We don't…we don't know them, you know?" He blinks, his eyes filling. "I—Tony—I really liked Tony," he admits, looking down. "He's…way nicer than he acts, and we had a lot of fun the other night. I just…don't want him to get hurt."
Steve sighs. He'd thought that was the problem. He walks over to the pair, crouching in front of Bruce. "Hey." Bruce won't look at him; Steve gently tucks a finger under his chin and nudges his head up, and Bruce reluctantly meets his gaze. "We're gonna get him out. Okay?" Bruce nods, but doesn't look convinced. "I know, kiddo. I know you two had fun that night, and I know you want to keep being friends with him. You can, Bruce. We're going to get him out. We're going to get him home, safe and sound, and he's going to be okay."
Steve knows he's lying through his teeth. If he's right about Tony's father, home is the last place he should go.
But for Bruce's sake, for Tony's…maybe even for his own sake, he lies, and prays it's true.
Bruce sniffs, nodding. "Okay. O-okay." He turns back to the computer. "I just…hate that I can't help. I feel useless sitting here."
Clint scoffs. "You think any of the rest of us are smart enough to come up with all this comm equipment?" Clint asks dubiously, his earpiece dangling from his fingers. "We're all about as smart as a sack of hammers when it comes to technology. If we didn't have you, we wouldn't be able to do this, runt."
Bruce's eyes get wide, and he quickly turns away, trying to hide a blush. "Um…"
Bucky snorts, ruffling the kid's hair, and Nat chimes in, "Tony's not the only genius around, you know. You're pretty handy yourself." She sends an affectionate smirk in his direction, and all he can do is look down, red as a tomato, and mumble a thank you.
Thor laughs heartily, grinning, and claps him on the back. "Aye, Bruce! Your intelligence surpasses that of many grown men, let alone your peers. You are integral to the Avengers' success, and imperative to the safety of the children we aid."
Bruce grips the chair, his ears burning scarlet. "Guys, stop…"
Steve can't help but laugh at the look of utter mortification on the kid's face.
God, it feels good. He needed to laugh.
"Better?" He asks, only to get a small nod as the kid buries his face in his keyboard, trying to escape eye contact. He can't help another snort, squeezing Bruce's neck affectionately. "Let's get ready, guys. We move in ten."
He looks around the room, to see everyone gearing up. There's a different sense of determination this time, and Steve realizes that Bruce is right.
This isn't like another mission with a faceless monster beating an innocent child. It's not just another criminal whose loved ones are facing the consequences.
This is Tony. This is—someone they know, someone who opened his home to them, who went above and beyond for them, in some of their darkest moments, and never asked for a single thing in return. It's a cocky brat who refuses to show the world the extent of his kindness.
It's personal, and Steve will be damned to hell before he lets Tony suffer another day.
…
Getting in position is easy. Causing a distraction is easy. Slipping past the immediate guards and cameras is easy.
Once he and Nat hit thirty feet within the garage door, though, it's not easy.
Bucky and Thor are fighting the men and women guarding the gate after setting off a small explosive around the complex to draw some bodies away, with Clint firing electrified, blunt arrows from the rooftop next door, trying to pick off the immediate guards. Steve and Nat are trying to sneak in through the side, where they'll find a side door or a vent, but there were more guards than they'd thought.
They'd been smart, too—a ton of people dressed in black standing guard at the gate, main entrance, and surrounding areas would have been too suspicious—would have tipped off the employees immediately. No, everyone's in casual clothing. A lot of them were disguised as construction workers building some type of guard post beside the front gate, a perfect excuse to hang out all day and a perfect spot to keep track of everyone going in and out.
Then there are the others, lounging at a nearby picnic table, watching intently, food spread out before them in an apparent picnic. Others walk around in suits, pretending to survey the land, the units, but their sharp eyes give them away, at least to Steve and the others.
These are professionals with the money and resources to keep this place under their thumb and make it look like a run of the mill storage facility. This isn't just a kidnapping for some quick cash—this is a huge operation, practically its own crime syndicate hiding out in a storage facility in New York.
Steve can't help but feel like they're in way over their heads, but there's no going back now.
The plan is to have Bucky and Thor continue the distraction. Once Clint has taken care of enough to keep Thor and Bucky from being overwhelmed, he'll head down and find one of the cars, hotwire it, and be waiting for the signal to pull up, providing them with a convenient escape.
Finding Tony isn't a problem. Steve knows he's just beyond the metal door, probably another wall and door, and then a room within the storage unit—they wouldn't be stupid enough to leave him exposed and visible with the main door open, but they wouldn't be able to create a bigger unit by knocking out the back wall without raising some eyebrows, either.
Nat and he are both capable fighters, but they're still just kids, and sometimes Steve forgets.
They try to sneak in covertly, but they're made two seconds into the attempt.
"How's the gate coming?" He asks, hoping the comm picks him up over all the noise. He blocks a punch from the person to his right, grabbing the wrist and slinging his opponent into the approaching left goon.
"Still overrun, thank you for the distraction," Bucky grunts, and Steve hears a spurt of gunfire.
His heart leaps. "Everyone okay?"
"All is well, Steven," Thor shouts, giving a mighty yell as he assumedly downs another opponent. "Bucky and I will surpass them yet!"
Bucky scoffs, grunting. "Yep, lots of surpassing going on here, Steve. Go find Miracle Kid."
Steve ducks a swing, and it may have saved his life, because a bullet whizzes over his head.
Dammit, he thinks, whipping around to see a shooter on the roof. "Clint! Two o'clock!"
"Yeah, I got 'im," Clint mutters, and Steve can almost see him, one eye closed in concentration, as he fires dead center, just like Steve knows he will.
No more bullets come whizzing their way.
They've whittled down their numbers, but Nat and Steve are both breathing heavily, sporting bruises and cuts that won't look good in the morning.
"Steve," Nat yells, shooting three guys in the feet in quick succession. They go down with cries of pain, and Steve knows they won't be causing trouble for a while. "Go find Tony. I'll finish up here."
Steve hesitates. He's reluctant to leave her alone. "Tash—"
"Go, you moron," she scoffs, sending him a wink. "I think I'll be fine."
Smiling back, his heart hammering, he rushes the door, slipping inside.
It's like he's stepping into a different world—the outside is so chaotic, and the inside is so devoid of sound. He can hear distant spurts of gunfire, grunts, clangs, but it's too muted to be of much importance.
There's a man waiting for him, a gun pointed straight at his head.
Steve stops short.
"Damn," the man says, rolling his eyes towards the sky in a show of exasperation. "I knew it was taking too long. Thought the feds were gearing up for a prison break, but I didn't know it would be a bunch of kids."
Steve narrows his eyes, taking a step forwards, only for a bullet to gouge the ground at his feet. "Stay."
Steve doesn't move forward, and the man smirks. "Good. You're not a fed, so who the hell are you?"
Steve is hesitant to answer, but he raises his chin and does so anyways. "The Avengers. You may have heard of us; media doesn't like us very much, but we get the job done."
The man's face is blank for a moment, but then he snorts, laughing. "Shit, it's you guys? The ragtag group of angtsy teenagers, going around, hunting child abusers? You guys exist?" The man laughs again, and Steve can't help but feel a little offended.
"Yes, we exist," he says through clenched teeth. "And so far, we have a perfect track record, so I'm not liking your odds."
"God, this is a telenovela," the man mutters, still grinning. "It's—it's fascinating. Who knew you kids would be stupid enough to storm this place?"
Steve shrugs, but his eyes flick to the simple door at the man's back.
He's wiling to bet everything he has that Tony's through there.
"You have a kid in there," Steve says authoritatively, "who doesn't belong to you. So you're on my list."
"Oh, I'm quivering," the man deadpans. "So what if I just…you know, shoot you? I don't see you having much luck getting past me, kiddo."
"Nah," Steve says, smiling confidently. "I think you're scared."
The man smirks, clearly amused. He finds this whole situation hilarious, and his ego is the size of New York, and that's something Steve can work with. "You don't say."
"Yeah," Steve says, relaxing his posture. "You're standing right under the vent. You getting a little hot? Nervous, maybe?"
The man's smirk turns confused, but he still looks unruffled. "You're a weird kid."
"You know why we have a perfect track record?" Steve asks, praying this works.
"Enlighten me."
Steve smirks, now, hearing a slight scuffle above them. "Because people always underestimate kids."
The vent pops open, and the man's smirk falls. His head whips up just in time for Natasha to land on him, knocking him out with a sharp elbow to the temple. His body falls forward and she rolls off his shoulders, landing in a crouch.
"You're getting rusty, Rogers," she chides, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "'You getting a little hot?' Seriously? That was about as subtle as Bruce's anger management tactics."
"Hey," Bruce says weakly, his voice staticky over the line.
"No, I agree," Clint grunts, obviously straining. He's probably scaling down the building, going to get the car now that we're inside. "That was weak, man."
Steve huffs. "It worked, didn't it?" He hustles to the door; it's locked, unsurprisingly, so he crouches, pulling out his lockpick. "Nat, watch the door, okay?"
"Yes, boss," she says, slipping toward the entrance.
Steve is scared of the state Tony will be in—that man seemed…cruel. Not just egotistical, but cruel, and Tony's been at his mercy for nearly four days.
Steve sighs, finally feeling the lock give, easing the door open. He prepares himself as much as he can.
For better or worse, at least they found him.
…
Clint drops from the wall and turns, ready to grab a car, when someone tackles him.
He isn't expecting it; he was sure he cleared the area, and he tried to change the trajectory of his arrows so no one could pinpoint his location, but apparently he needs to brush up on that.
"You little shit," the man atop him says, sending a fist crashing into his temple. Clint is stunned enough to miss the next hit coming, and his head whips back the other way. He knows he needs to block, fight, get this man off of him and get a car to help his friends, but his head is still foggy from the hits. The man is crushing his ribcage, and his lungs refuse to inflate. He wheezes, sending a weak punch towards his assailant, but his wrist is grabbed and pinned.
His bow is digging into his back, useless, and the knife strapped to his ankle is out of reach. He blinks heavily, trying to clear the black dots away, lashing out with his other hand, but he's still disoriented.
"You hurt a lot of my friends," the man growls, punching him again. Clint groans, distantly aware that he can't feel his earpiece; his friends can't hear this, can't hear him.
They don't know he's in trouble, so no one's coming.
A sharp stab of fear hits him, and he tries to buck the man off, but another hit sends his skull ratting against the concrete. He groans, feeling his arm go limp at his side, the man's bruising grip on his other wrist not letting up.
"I figure I should return the favor, you know?" He growls, reaching behind him. Clint's blurry eyes zone in on a knife, and the man raises it high above his head.
Clint's breath hitches, and he squeezes his eyes shut.
Natasha, he thinks, icy fear seizing him, making it impossible for him to inhale. Tasha, I'm so sorry.
He tenses, bringing up his free hand in a futile attempt to block the knife—
The man atop him stops short, and a gurgling sound bubbles from his throat, and then he's sliding off of him sideways. Confused, wary, Clint opens his eyes, heaving the man off of him and dragging himself out from under the collapsed weight.
A tall figure dressed in all red, his eyes completely covered by a leather mask, comes into sight.
"Need a hand?" He says, sticking out his arm. Clint takes it hesitantly, and the stranger lifts him to his feet, steadying him when he sways slightly, still trying to get his balance back. "Hit your head?"
Clint nods, and the stranger doesn't respond, simply waiting. The man sighs. "I can't see you if you nod or shake, kid. Did you hit your head?"
Clint stops short, stuttering, "Uh—y-yeah, I think."
"Dizzy?"
Clint starts to nod, then says, "A little, but I'm okay. Uh—thanks."
"No worries," he says, tossing a pair of keys in Clint's general direction. They're too far to his left, and Clint's reactions are off, but he manages to catch them. Eyebrows furrowing, he starts to speak, but the stranger cuts him off.
"A few hundred feet down the street, beat up silver SUV. Should fit the rest of your merry gang." The man sends a smirk in his general direction, turning to a rusty fire escape on the adjacent building. "Next time you want to cause chaos, do it in your own borough, okay?"
"Wait!" Clint yells, scanning the alleyway for anyone else who may have been drawn by the commotion, but they're in the clear. "Who are you? Why'd you help us?"
"They call me the Devil of Hell's Kitchen," the man calls, scaling the fire escape in just a few seconds. Clint looks up, wide-eyed, at a loss for words. "Stay out of here, okay? No place for kids like you."
And then he's gone.
Clint's left alone in a dark alley, staring the keys in his hand, with an unconscious man at his feet and absolutely no clue just what happened.
"Holy shit," he breathes, jogging towards the car the man had indicated.
At first, Clint thought he was hallucinating. Thought the man was his saving grace.
He remembers stories his mom used to tell him about guardian angels, and snorts.
So much for an angel.
…
It's hours before someone touches him again, and Tony knows instantly that something is different.
He can't hear anything through the headphones, can't see anything at all. He's trapped in his own mind with nothing but his thoughts, constantly waiting for something to break the torturous monotony. His numb hands twitch in a feeble attempt to free himself, but he doesn't know how long it's been and he can barely stay awake, let alone escape.
His chin rests on his chest, the gag pulling uncomfortably on his jaw, the blindfold secure around his eyes, as he struggles to draw in breath through his nose with his head tipped forward, the strain on his neck way past just uncomfortable.
When someone first puts a hand on his arm, it isn't threatening, or demanding. It's a soft, gentle touch, from large, warm hands with calloused fingers. Nevertheless, his environment is so muted that he jerks weakly in surprise, his head snapping up and wobbling exhaustedly on his shoulders as he tries to flinch away.
The hand is jerked away, and Tony's breaths pick up, unsure of who this is, what they want, or what they're willing to do.
Suddenly, he feels hands remove the headphones from his ears, and then they move to the knot in the blindfold at the back of his head. The onslaught of sound is staggering, and he flinches at the harsh voices and loud booms of gunshots and clangs of doors and weapons.
When the blindfold is finally pulled away, he squints his eyes closed tightly, the light blinding and piercing and horrible after so much darkness. His senses are being absolutely assaulted, and he can't handle it. He struggles again against the hands and against the ropes, but he only manages to exhaust himself before he realizes that someone is saying his name.
"—ony! Tony, look at me!"
Slowly, he opens his eyes, blinking against the light, and turns his head towards the voice. Their face is blurry, unrecognizable, and he realizes he's shaking.
"Hey, calm down," the voice says, the volume lowered by several decibels, "it's me. It's us. Come on, look at me."
The same large hands come around on either side of his head and work at the knot in the gag while Tony blinks furiously, trying to clear the spots from his vision. The person in front of him bleeds into focus just as the gag is pulled away and he releases a dry cough, sucking in a rattling breath.
"Steve?"
The person in front of him quirks a small smile, but there's worry in his eyes. "Yeah, it's me. Let's get you out of here, okay?"
Tony nods, swallowing as Steve moves behind him to cut the ropes around his wrists. His throat is like sandpaper, but he manages, "How did…you f-find me?"
"I'll explain later," Steve rushes, moving around to grab his shoulders as he sways. "Can you stand?"
Wordlessly, Tony grips Steve's forearms and leverages himself up out of sheer willpower. After two steps, however, his battered body gives out, his knees buckling. Steve catches him under his arms and around his chest, taking most of his weight until Tony gets his bearings.
"I'm okay," Tony breathes, the words rough against his throat.
"Sure you are," Steve says quietly, stopping when the sounds of gunfire grow louder. "You've been gone for four days, Tony. How long ago did they feed you?"
"Uh…" Tony thinks, his muddled mind rifling through his capture. It's all one blur, really, but he remembers someone taking the gag off at some point, forcing water down his throat, then shoving the cloth back on. "They didn't…I had some water, though. Um…I d-don't know how long ago…"
Steve curses quietly. "I don't think you can make it out of here on your own. I'm gonna carry you, okay?"
Tony's about to say something along the lines of hell to the frick no, when Steve sweeps him off his feet like a damn damsel.
"I can walk," Tony says, pushing weakly against Steve's chest.
Steve just holds him tighter, though, shooting him an unimpressed look. "No, you can't, and it's nothing to be ashamed of. We've got you, okay?" He ducks around a corner, and Tony can feel Steve's heartbeat against his side, strong and steady.
For just a second, he allows himself to feel just a little safer, and that's all it takes for the adrenaline to leave his system and exhaustion to overtake him. He feels his limbs fall, his body relaxing into Steve's arms, becoming absolute deadweight. Steve feels the change, because he looks down, eyebrows creased. "Stay with me, okay?"
Tony blinks heavily, but he doesn't know if he can respond. "I…I don't…"
"Tony, come on," Steve says, spinning around yet another corner. The sound of gunfire is getting closer. In Tony's peripheral, he sees Bucky come up on Steve's side, holstering his handgun. It looks weird—he wonders if it's configured to shoot anesthetic darts instead of bullets, but he's too tired to ask.
His eyes fall closed, and he can't open them this time. His arm goes limp, falling from Steve's shoulder, bouncing as he continues to cart him through the base.
"Tony! Open—"
And Tony's out.
…
Tony's warm and horizontal.
That's such a change to the last time he was lucid that he's not really sure what happened in between.
He opens his eyes hesitantly, bringing up a clumsy hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight. He's lying on something soft, but it's hard beneath it; looking up, he sees a thick copse of trees shielding him from direct sunlight, but there's enough for it to hurt his eyes. The calling of birds and insects surrounds him, and he's confused.
He lifts his heavy head as much as he can, looking down at himself. He's in one of his old sleeping bags—one of the ones he gave to his favorite criminals.
It all comes rushing back.
"You're awake!" A voice says excitedly to his left, and Tony can hear the undisguised relief in it. Turning his head slightly, wincing at the ache in his skull and—well, his everywhere—his squinted eyes come to rest on Bruce, sitting beside him. Bruce looks tired, but he's smiling, his glasses just slightly askew. "How do you feel? Want some water?"
Tony tries to lick his lips, but his mouth is bone dry, and he can barely move his tongue, it feels so swollen. He settles for a small nod, reaching out for the bottle. He only then notices his hand is shaking.
"Let me help you," Bruce says, and for all Bruce's shyness, Tony doesn't think he's going to win this argument, so he can only sigh.
Bruce puts a firm him on his shoulder and helps him sit up, Tony's body aching with each movement. A small noise of discomfort escapes him, and he shuts his eyes tightly, taking a slow, deep breath. Something plastic touches his lips and he opens his eyes to see Bruce holding the bottle to his mouth.
"Drink some," Bruce says, adamant. "You'll feel better, I promise."
Tony does. He reaches a shaking hand up to clasp the bottle, but Bruce keeps a steady hand on it as Tony drinks like a dying man. He feels like he hasn't had water in weeks. He feels his head tilt back as the cool water rushes into his mouth, and soon he's chugging, and he can't get enough—
"Slow down," Bruce says quietly, gently taking the bottle as Tony sucks in a breath, his body shaking. "You'll make yourself sick, Tony. You haven't had anything in a while."
Tony nods, swallowing, and it's so much easier, now. He allows Bruce to set the pace, gently tipping the water bottle against his lips again. Tony fumbles for it, but Bruce is ultimately holding most of the weight. It runs down his chin and seeps into the collar of his shirt, but he can't even care, because he's so thirsty.
Before he really knows it, the bottle is empty. He heaves a breath, trying not to be disappointed as Bruce sets the empty plastic aside. "Better?"
Tony nods, feeling his upper body sway the longer he stays upright.
"Here, lie back down," Bruce says quickly, putting a hand on Tony's back to guide him down. Distantly, Tony's embarrassed by the amount of attention Bruce is giving him, but he can't very well do all this himself, so he has no choice but to accept the help.
"Look who's up," a voice says to his right. He turns his head to see Natasha and Clint walking up, a smirk on Natasha's face. Clint's face is looking a little worse for wear, but he's moving alright. She crouches beside him, gently flicking the side of his head with a smile. "How're you feeling?"
Tony shrugs half-heartedly. "Better." His voice sounds like he's smoked for two decades.
"I can see that," Clint says dubiously, plopping down beside Bruce, slinging his arm around the younger boy's shoulders. "You look a little better, though."
"You don't," he jokes quietly, his voice raspy.
Clint snorts. "Watch it, half pint."
"Do you think you could eat something?" Natasha says, digging around in one of the backpacks, resurfacing with a can of soup.
Tony considers, staring up at the trees. "I…don't know…"
"I'll heat this up for if you change your mind. If not, we'll eat it; there's more you can have later, if you're feeling better."
Tony nods, feeling his eyelids droop. He wants to go back to sleep and ignore everything happening. He doesn't know how to handle it. He hasn't had anyone taking care of him in years now, and it's…odd.
"How's—hey, Tony," Steve says with a grin, emerging from the tree line with Bucky and Thor in his wake. "It's good to see you up."
Tony quirks a little smile, but he can barely keep his eyes open. Steve notices, smiling. "Go back to sleep. You can try to eat when you wake up. We'll talk then, too; answer some questions. Sound good?"
He hums, closing his eyes, drifting off.
The last thing he hears is Natasha saying, "Sure, after I put the soup on."
A/N: There, hope that made up for the cliffhanger last chapter! How'd you like it? It was super long, sorry.
Drop a review if you have a minute? This is definitely the most complex story I've ever attempted, so if I'm missing something or if you see a plot hole pop up, I'd love for you to let me know :) or if I'm doing a good job and you want to tell me, I'd love that too!
Did you like our guest star cameo…? ;) I honestly had no idea I was putting Daredevil in there until I wrote him, but I hope you liked it!
As always, my wonderful reviewers, I appreciate you more than words can say: NostalgicFangirl, Luckias, PhoenixNinja101, Christine-Danielle, The Violent Kurumi, Castar, Kuroshiroryuu, Beakers47, katie owl, Sanako190515, StormShadow13, Katie-the-book-nerd, Guest, FandomFreals, monkeybaby, SavannahWeaver0, Jua, and GiulyITA!
Guest: I'm glad? Lol no but thanks! I'm glad you like it!
Jua: Thanks! I don't know who all will come in yet, but we'll see what happens :) I will! Thanks!
Thanks to everyone who's following and who's favorited! Please drop a review if you want :D I appreciate you all!