A/N: Wow, it's been awhile. Sorry for not updating. I kind of lost motivation to write, and life has picked up a lot recently as well. I'm a senior in college now! That being said, I still am working on this piece - I haven't left! It will just be awhile between updates. Thank you to everyone who has stuck by me so far, I am blown away by all of you! Without further ado, here is chapter 5!

This chapter contains references and descriptions of physical and mental violence, hospitals/medical procedures, and sexual assault. Please use your discretion before reading.

Captivity Day 1

Peter didn't remember waking up. He didn't remember passing out either. He could only somewhat acknowledge that time had passed, but couldn't tell you how much or if he was even awake to experience it.

All he knew was that he ached. It felt like he'd been run over by several freight trains. His leg hurt the worst - he had known immediately from the sound it made as he fell that it was broken.

And it was scary. Peter had been injured before, multiple times. But the worst injury he'd ever had was in Germany, when he'd snapped 3 ribs after losing that battle with Ant-Man. That had hurt pretty bad, but thankfully it had been mostly healed by the time he got home to May. This was so much worse. His leg throbbed uncontrollably, the unmistakable sensation of bone tearing through muscle a vice Peter couldn't escape from. He could feel his healing factor trying to repair the damage, but he knew from accidentally looking at the mangled limb that it wouldn't be able to heal like normal. The ivory bone had torn through the skin of his upper thigh, blood lazily pulsing through the opening as the muscles desperately contracted, trying unsuccessfully to bring the bone fragments back together.

It was agony.

And more than that, it diminished any hopes Peter had about escaping.

There was no way Peter could walk on that leg. He couldn't even try. He couldn't even think about it. The idea of moving it at all almost brought him to tears. No, he was stuck there until something or someone came along to help him, or at least help his leg heal.

And he was terrified.

He couldn't get what had happened - or rather, what had almost happened - out of his head. The voice, vacant of any emotion. The commanding and threatening touch of his captor. The way he had tried to violate him in the worst way -

I guess it was no secret anymore why I've been kidnapped.

And yet, it only brought more questions. Why him? Were they going to let him go when they were...finished? Or would they keep him there forever, or until they had no use for him?

Was he ever getting out of here?

This time, the tears did stream down Peter's face. Not only because of the indescribable pain flooding through him, but at the hopelessness he was enduring. He had no idea how long they planned on keeping him there, and now he was completely defenseless against their advances. And he had no idea how much time had passed, or if anyone even knew he was missing. He was completely at the mercy of these criminals.

Peter didn't know how long he'd cried, silenced sobs wracking his thin frame as he allowed himself this display of emotion, before he heard the door open again. He went completely silent, the only noise filling the chamber becoming the harsh footsteps of his captor walking towards him.

Despite already being propped up against the wall, Peter tried to pull himself back farther away from his offender as he approached. The dark-haired man said nothing as he crouched in front of the terrified teenager, silently ogling his prey as the teenager hyperventilated with fear.

Because although the man was silent, the light glinting off of the knife in his hand spoke volumes.

Present

When Peter awoke, he was sure he was still there in that room. The pain was still overwhelming, only now there were new stimuli that were completely destroying his senses. Something was inside of his chest, sucking out whatever fluid was nearby. Something was being forced into one of the veins in his arm. And worst of all was the contraption in his throat, keeping him from breathing.

Oh my God, I'm dying.

There were voices, and for a pregnant moment he heard him. Peter's heart broke with fear and he felt his chest dilate at the panic, because he couldn't breathe and he swore he was right there -

- but the voice spoke again, and this time it felt familiar.

"...-ter, it's okay, look at me-"

His blurry eyes searched for the source, hesitant to believe it -

"Please! Help me!"

He gasped, his throat constricting around the contraption inside of it, as his body ached for freedom, his brain and his body sending separate messages.

He blindly reached for his throat until he felt plastic, a ridged contraption which was choking him, making him suffer in such a cruel way -

"Are you not having fun, Peter?"

He felt hands on him, trying to calm him, and the familiar voice he heard earlier wasn't there anymore. All he heard were screams, his captor's stroking hands, the metallic swish of a knife slicing through him over and over -

Until his vision cleared.

Tony and May were outside the door, tears staining May's face as Tony wrapped his arm around her, nurses around him trying to fix the damage he'd caused himself.

The voices were quieter, and suddenly he could hear the insistent beeps of hospital machinery; he could smell the antiseptic, the saline, could feel the scratchy linens beneath him.

They found me.

A doctor was speaking to him, but all he could do was sob. Because if he was in a hospital, it meant everything that had happened, everything he'd seen, was real.

I don't think I can live with it, Peter thought as a chill ran through his veins, dulling his senses into nothing.

Captivity Day 1

Peter didn't dare breathe when the captor squatted in front of him. With wide eyes he scanned the figure of his kidnapper, the smart side of him trying to memorize every detail so that he wouldn't get away with what he'd done. That was assuming that Peter ever left alive.

With the minimal amount of light available through a small window near the ceiling, Peter noticed the man's features; sharp cheekbones, coiffed dark hair, a mark of some sort underneath the man's left eye. He was maybe 5 foot 10 with a muscular build.

And there was a knife in his hand. That was the most prominent feature to Peter at that moment.

There was a pregnant silence as the man stared at Peter, sizing up the smaller boy's posture. Peter didn't bother trying to make himself look tough - he was the weakest and most vulnerable he had ever been, completely at the mercy of his captor.

Please don't touch me again.

Please.

It felt like eons before the man spoke. "You removed the tape."

Peter felt his breath catch, the kidnapper's thickly accented voice betraying no anger, or any emotion for that matter, yet it caused Peter's blood to run cold.

"You should not have done that," the man continued, slowly running the blade through nimble fingers. "You see, if you had cooperated, you could have been like the others...you could be home right now, pretending this never happened."

There were others? Boys like him? How many? Peter shivered at the thought of how many victims this man had claimed already, either sworn to silence through fear or through...

The well-dressed man grew closer, close enough for Peter to be able to smell the whiskey and tobacco on his breath, to feel the whiskers on his cheeks from a few days of neglecting to shave.

"You will have to pay for that."

The knife came down on Peter's good leg.

Peter screamed.

He didn't want to. He didn't want this man to know how scared he was, how much the whole situation terrified him, how he could feel every millimeter of damage as the knife sliced through his muscles like butter, avoiding major arteries but still hurting like hell. He didn't want the man to know just how powerless Peter was to his advances, just how much his life was in the hands of this criminal.

Just as quickly as the knife went in, it came out with a squelch that made Peter's stomach turn, and the sensation was too much for him. He barely had time to turn away from the man before his stomach's meager contents were brought once again before his eyes, splattering against the cement floor unceremoniously. Tears poured down his face from the retching, the fear, and the agony that was pulsing through his injured legs.

"What..." Peter whispered, spitting acrid saliva from his mouth, trying to eliminate the sting in his nose from the stench. "What are you going to do to me?"

The man smirked, his features still mostly hidden in the darkness of the cell. "We are going to have lots of fun with you...and our new friend."

Peter didn't like the sound of that. He was pretty well set in the friends department. He had Ned, MJ, and the TV show, which was more than enough. He trembled at the thought of more company joining them, not wanting to meet this guys' friends.

Peter heard the door open, as if on cue, and he looked up to see the person he could only assume his captor had just been referring to, his mouth opening in a silent plea.

Please, no.

Present

Tony stared through the window at Peter's motionless form, watching as a herd of nurses straightened out the wires and machines holding Peter together as he fought for his life.

He felt helpless. And if there was any feeling that Tony absolutely loathed, it was helplessness.

Peter had always seemed small to Tony because of their power dynamic. Tony was the mentor, Peter was the mentee: that was the way things worked with them. It wasn't that Peter was physically or intellectually incapable of anything - in many ways, he was more qualified than Tony was - but to Tony, there was always that contrast. He was big, Peter was small.

Today, Peter looked truly, horrificly tiny. Despite the multiple staff members surrounding his bed, attempting to reverse the damage he had done to his healing body, he appeared swallowed by his environment - tubes in his arms, chest, and throat; pillows supporting injured limbs; casts and bandages forming unnatural bulges in odd places. And worst of all was the pathetic, frantic look in Peter's eyes as he fought the medical team, his traumatized brain unaware that there was no one left to fight anymore.

It was too much.

Tony abruptly turned, unable to watch anymore. He stalked to nearby wall, allowing himself to slide down slowly as he buried his head in his hands. He trembled with tears he could barely feel as he felt the familiar burning in his throat and chest, tell-tale symptoms of a panic attack creeping through his nervous (ha) system.

He felt May's presence beside him more than he saw it, as his breath came out in arrhythmic gasps that he struggled to control. He felt numb yet overcome with sensation. He couldn't get Peter's petrified expression out of his head, and it was killing him.

He slowly regained control over his breathing, May inhaling and exhaling loudly in a gesture for him to imitate on his own, and eventually Tony was able to recognize the ground beneath him, May's unsteady arm around his shoulder, and the absence of noise coming from Peter's room.

Tony scrambled to his feet when Dr. Sawyer's large presence entered the hallway from Peter's room, gently shutting the door behind him. Through the glass window, Tony could see Peter asleep once more, the breathing tube once again in place.

Tony fidgeted uncomfortably before demanding, "Is he okay?"

"He's okay," Byron promised, hands clasped in front of him in a soothing gesture. "Peter's behavior just now is very typical of patient's who have just endured severe trauma. It seems that he was unaware of where he was and may have thought that he was still in the presence of his captors. As a result, Peter suffered what is typically referred to as a panic attack."

We're more alike than I thought, Tony thought grimly to himself.

"Is there going to be any lasting damage?" May asked, arms cross in insecurity.

"It's hard to say at this point, but I don't consider it likely." Tony searched Dr. Sawyer's body language for any indication that he was lying, but he found none. "If anything, the fact that he has woken up this early in the healing process tells me that he is progressing rather fast. In a patient as critical as Peter I would caution families that it could be several weeks before we see signs of consciousness again. But, as we know, Peter is no normal patient.

"You are welcome to go back in if you would like," Dr. Sawyer offered. "Everything has been readjusted, and we gave him a small sedative to help him to sleep. We only had to reintubate and adjust one of his IVs. I know it's scary, and if you have any more questions, please don't hesitate to ask one of the nurses; they know how to get ahold of me."

Dr. Sawyer shook hands with each of them again before stalking away to the nurse's desk, where he picked up a separate clipboard and began to scour it. A part of Tony felt a stab of anger at how quickly the man was able to move on as if Peter's situation had no effect on him. The other part of Tony wished for that quality in himself.

Tony and May placed themselves back at Peter's bedside, police officers long gone. If they had any sense, they wouldn't try contacting them again.

The room was quiet, save for the incremental beeps of medical machinery, yet Peter's moans and sobs were loud in Tony's ears. It was a constant reminder of how he had failed Peter, how he should have looked out for him and prevented all this from occurring. He put business above his family, which he promised himself - and Peter - would never happen again.

A tear strolled down his cheek again when he thought of Peter alone in that place, scared and hurt, believing with youthful innocence that Tony and May would find him and save him. Even though, while Peter had been tortured and left for dead, Tony had been sipping margaritas.

He thought that rescuing Peter would be bring an end to the suffering, but the end of this seemed exceedingly far away.

Present - elsewhere...

Officers Scheele and Torres arrived at the alley at South Kings Street, fully enveloped in a morbid sense of deja vu. It had only been days since they had found Peter Parker half-dead at the same location, whose family they had been forced to interview only hours before.

The call was for a "suspicious substance appearing to be blood" being present at the scene. Both officers were filled with a sense of dread at being in that spot again, but were hopeful that perhaps it was just leftover from the crime scene the previous week. Or maybe it wasn't blood at all, just rusty water or hot sauce or some other harmless liquid.

When their flashlights hit the gravel, though, it was clear that this was not the case. Blood, and a lot of it, was smeared across the asphalt, as thought someone had been dragged across the ground.

Officer Scheele stopped and began to take photos of the crime scene, noticing how the clouds above were closing in on them, and not wanting to lose any evidence. As Scheele collected photo evidence, Torres followed the trail.

The blood smear extended almost the full length of the alleyway before cutting off abruptly right before the green dumpsters at the end of the narrow passage. Black trash bags that seemed to be full of shredded paper laid at the very top of the trash bin, creating a barrier to whatever lay beneath.

Torres took a cleansing breath before moving the top layer with a gloved hand, and what he saw made him cringe, his worst fears confirmed.

A boy dressed in a button up shirt and jeans laid on his side at the bottom of the dirty dumpster. Like Peter, he was covered in blood, but it was not a result of multiple injuries - rather, it clearly stemmed from a bullet wound in the middle of his forehead, which had obviously stopped bleeding long ago.

He couldn't have been more than 10 or 11 years old.

As Torres called in the dead body, the rain softly began to fall.