AN: This is the first multichaptered arc of the story! I don't know how many chapters it will be, but I'm super excited to write it so I hope you guys enjoy. The next chapter will hopefully be up in a couple days!
This prompt was from Bookwyrm - "the Avengers (including Tony) end up captured by a Group who don't know about the deaging, and Tony gets them out as they Think he's a (more or less) normal Child." I was going to do this eventually, because I love the trope, but I did it now just for you!
To Me And Not You 1001: you are way, way too nice to me! Everyone is so nice to me in the reviews. I'm glad you're enjoying it.
The first sensation felt was fear, the second being pain. His vision, though his eyes were closed and it was black, was tinged with red, and the pounding in his head was a tell-tale sign of a concussion... or a hangover, but since the last was unlikely as of right now, he knew he was going to have a few days of hell rather than just a morning.
Tony didn't particularly want to open his eyes, but it was cold and hard, wherever he was, and fear was stronger than laziness. He peeled them open, expecting a blinding light and perhaps a worried teammate or Pepper. Instead, it was dark, and he was alone. He stayed still, sprawled on the cement floor, letting his eyes adjust to the low light - the only source was from under the crack of the door - and trying to calm the pounding of his head and roiling of his stomach. He didn't think there was anything in him to actually throw up, but he found he couldn't remember, which was perhaps more terrifying than anything else, since it left the options of what had happened open. Was he alone? Were the Avengers with him, or were they looking for him? Was he at home and gotten lost, or had he been kidnapped? He seemed to remember watching a movie with the others, something dumb that hadn't held his attention well, playing on his phone during the less riveting scenes, and...
The Avengers Assemble alarm went off. But JARVIS was on his phone, telling him frantically that there had been no calls. It was the second time JARVIS had been tampered with since the accident, and it didn't sit well with Tony. The firewalls clearly needed an upgrade. In the turmoil, the others hadn't listened to him, which wasn't unusual. He'd snuck onto the quinjet, only emerging after it had taken off lest they make him get off, and, trained and experienced in the subject, he'd seen the streak left by a high-speed missile heading their way. He remembered screaming, and that was about it.
So, kidnapped. He hoped they were already over the Atlantic when the missile hit and the city hadn't suffered any damage. The Avengers were supposedly with him, but since they hadn't come for him yet, he could assume they were all incapacitated. That feat in itself would've taken someone clever and careful planning.
He opted to move his head the smallest possible amount; his entire body felt like one big bruise, but explosions tended to do that. He hoped he was at least intact enough to move when the time came. Now that he knew what he had to do, his fear was lesser: he needed to find one of the others, get them out, and then take it from there. Simple. Probably. Maybe. It was at least possible, though he couldn't focus enough through the jackhammer in his skull to calculate the exact probabilities. He rolled his eyes around the room, taking in the small amount he could see.
It seemed to be a hastily modified closet. There were scrape marks from quickly moved shelves, a layer of dust and grime that he was now disgustingly coated in, and a bare lightbulb that he couldn't reach the pull for. The combination of these observations led him to several conclusions. The first was that they had no idea he was Tony Stark. They thought he was a normal boy, and clearly didn't have an adequate place to put him, so they had stuck him in a closet. They did have the sense to remove anything that could be useful to him, but the move was clearly hurried, and it was likely they had missed something in one of the dark corners that he could use. Then, since they didn't know he was Iron Man, they would most likely be on high alert, expecting him, the missing Avenger, to come for his teammates.
Well, he would, but not in the way they were thinking.
Now, the task of standing. First, he supposed, he should check that he was actually able to do that. His cast was still intact, thank God, but the sharp pain told him he had probably rebroken the arm. It would have to be recasted at some point, but it was good enough for now. His other wrist felt like it had been dislocated, but someone had been kind enough to pop it back into place while he was out. It hurt like a bitch, but it was mobile, and would have to do. His chest was aching, but he was used to that by now. It didn't even really bother him, except this was much sharper. He was having trouble breathing. His ribs were either bruised or cracked, but a quick palpation showed they weren't broken at least, which was a blessing. In a child's body, the explosion should've done more major damage. He suspected his friends had protected him from it somewhat. His ankle was clearly twisted, and damn that would hurt, but he could deal with it. He was going to have to deal with it. He didn't seem to be bleeding profusely from anywhere, just a multitude of cuts and bruises, although he could feel stickiness on his face and neck which was probably from the wound that caused his concussion.
Alright, check done. Now actually moving. That would probably be harder.
Check that, it was definitely, one hundred percent harder. He couldn't stop the small moan of pain as he rolled onto his chest and pushed himself up. His wrists protested and the cast complicated things. Damn, that really did hurt. His arms shook and for a second he was deathly afraid his elbows would give out. Okay, halfway there.
Maybe save actually standing for later. Yeah, he would do that.
He crawled toward the far corners of the room, his hands sweeping over the dirty floor, looking for small tidbits of something that would help him. Success! Kind of. It was a tiny paperclip, but it was enough. There was so much he could do with it. A thumb tack. Okay, he could probably do something with that. A screw. In the other corner, a small piece of broken glass. A weapon. It wasn't much, but it was what he had.
Standing was now pertinent, as he had to unlock the door with the freshly acquired paperclip, but that didn't mean he had to enjoy it. And he definitely didn't.
His ankle screamed at him as he stumbled over to the door, leaning his ear against it and listening for a moment as he unbent the paperclip. Unlocking it would be simple really; he had been bored on a drunken night a couple years ago and taught himself. He hoped he still had the muscle memory to do it, being a child now and also drunk at the time he learned. It took him a few tries, bracing his shoulder against the door to keep from falling over, but he heard the lock click after a few frustrating minutes and quickly stashed the clip in his pocket with the rest of his 'tools'. He listened at the door again before gently turning the knob and cracking it open, just enough for him to peek out.
He expected a hallway, maybe with a couple cameras or a guard. Instead it was a cluttered room, a lab of some sort. The junk that had apparently been previously in his closet was pushed in one corner. Two doors on opposite walls stared him down. It was empty for now, thank God, and his first thought was chemicals. Even if he wasn't a chemist, his time as the Merchant of Death had given him experience in the area, at least with the volatile substances. He needed to get access to those compounds; he could definitely come up with ways to use them.
His trained eyes quickly swept the room for the small signs of cameras or recording devices, something he was unfortunately used to doing and very good at, considering he made and installed the top-of-the-line products in his own homes. There was one in the far corner across from his closet, and he shrank back into the shadows a bit, trying to remain hidden, praying the door wasn't open enough for them to notice. It was highly likely that, with the Avengers in the compound and Iron Man supposedly on his way, the CCTVs were being watched closely now even if they weren't normally, which complicated things. He would have to find a way to either disable or avoid the cameras.
But first he would have to find a way to get out of the closet.
An opportunity presented itself quickly as one of the doors began to open. Quickly he shut his own door, praying whoever it was hadn't seen the movement and leaning in to listen. Whoever had entered was in the middle of a rant.
"What do you mean, 'defend us from Iron Man'? He's the most brilliant mind of this age, probably of any age, you can't 'defend' against him, you can only hope he doesn't kill us!" He guessed that was some sort of scientist who had been tasked with defenses. "How did you not capture him anyway?"
"He wasn't in the jet with the others. His CEO says he's sick and taking a break on the news. He probably wasn't in New York." A soldier, probably. He didn't sound happy with the scientist figure.
"And what about the child?"
There wasn't a response - a shrug, Tony guessed.
There was no way for him to sneak out anymore, but perhaps there was another way. Silently he lowered himself to the floor and scooted back to his original place, pulling his uninjured leg up and hugging it tightly like a frightened child would. The tears came easily, his body responding to the pain and stress even if his mind found it humiliating, and soon his nose was running too. After a few minutes, he started to let out some sobs, and heard the voices behind the door stop.
He always had been a good actor.
"Hello?" he called in a shaky voice. "I-Is there anyone there? I'm scared." There wasn't any noise, but he could guess the people belonging to the voices were having some kind of conversation. "Do you know where my parents are?" God, that brought up bad memories. He shoved them away, focused on the task at hand.
"He's just a child!" there suddenly came in a burst of sound before it was quickly muffled again. So his plan was working.
"I-I know you're there. Please, may I go to the restroom? I'll be good." He prayed when they opened the door they didn't notice it was already unlocked.
There was a soft conversation and some scuffling before he heard the key slide into the lock outside and the door was flung open. He blinked, blinded by the sudden brightness, and looked up, remembering once again how small he was now.
The scientist and both soldiers all looked hesitant and unsure. He made a conscious effort to look as small and scared as possible, ramping up his sobs again as if he was frightened. In truth, he really was frightened, but he didn't let himself acknowledge that. The soldier standing in front, the one who had apparently unlocked the door, seemed to melt - he definitely had a family - and knelt down, shuffling towards him.
"Hey kid. What's your name?"
Tony's brain ran through a viciously quick cycle of all the names he knew, trying to find something inconspicuous that couldn't possibly be linked back to himself. "James," he answered in a small voice after a moment that could be considered hesitation instead of thought.
"Why were you with the Avengers?" the scientist asked, crossing his arms. Tony forced himself to shrink down, giving him time to think.
"I made a wish."
It was a plausible explanation. Tony had been trying to convince the others to participate in the Make A Wish foundation for a couple months now. The three men looked confused and he spoke back up quickly.
"I have a heart problem. Mommy says it doesn't beat right. These nice people came to the hospital and gave me a list of wishes I could make. They said I could meet the Avengers. The alarm started ringing while we were talking and I didn't know what to do so I followed them. It was scary." It wasn't completely untrue; he did have a heart problem, and he had followed them onto the quinjet.
"Oh," one of them said lamely.
He had the sudden terrifying thought that if he lowered his leg, they would be able to see his arc reactor, and the jig would be up. But they had clearly moved him here and hadn't noticed it before. He subtly glanced down and remembered he was wearing two shirts, a t-shirt over a long sleeved undershirt, and realized they couldn't see the glow or the outline of the casing. He almost sagged in relief.
"So, you need to go to the bathroom?" the soldier with kids asked finally, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. He nodded and made a face that he hoped looked like relief, standing up quickly.
"Can I see the Avengers? They're supposed to take be back to the hospital."
"Uh, in a bit. C'mon." A strong hand was on his shoulder, steering him, and he felt small and weak and scared, but he knew what he had to do.
He was led out of the closet, out of the lab (dammit! the chemicals!) and down the hallway to a small restroom with one toilet and a grimy sink. The door closed and he could hear it lock behind him, one of the men calling "You've got five minutes, James!"
Five minutes was enough.
He thanked God once more for his luck. The vents weren't standard but industrial: they were probably underground or in a bunker. And thanks to his lucky stars the vent in the bathroom was on the wall above the toilet.
Quietly he put the seat down and climbed on top, sticking his arms out to find his balance. His head just reached the bottom of the vent cover. If he could pull this off, he should get an award. He dug the glass out of his pocket and reached up, working hard and frantically at the screws. He got three undone and the cover fell open. No time for the last screw, this was good enough. He shoved the three screws and glass shard back in his pocket and started hefting himself into the hole. His injured wrist was screaming at him and his cast was really only good as an anchor; his chest ached as he dragged it, and subsequently the arc reactor, over the lip of the opening.
"James?"
He should've flushed and been washing his hands by now. He could feel himself sweating, kicking his legs to give himself momentum. He heard the door burst open behind him and his heart ratcheted up a notch, beating painfully against his ribs as he squirmed quickly into the dark hole, away from potentially grabbing hands. It was too small for him to crawl and he had never mastered the army crawl, so he was reduced to a sort of shimmying shuffle that resembled something like a caterpillar.
There was loud shouting behind him and a distinct cry of "You lost the child?!" He took pathways at random, trying to make the least amount of noise possible, carefully skirting past vents. He could hear shouting and running around; it was only a matter of time before they tried to smoke him out like some sort of pest.
Finally there was a vent to an empty room. It took him several frustrating and pain filled tries (movies made it look far easier than it was) to kick the grate off and drop down into the room, landing in a heap and groaning at the impact. He stood quickly, looking for supplies.
The room was tiny, hardly bigger than his previous closet, and the door was locked, which was fine as long as it stayed that way.