Pᴇᴛᴇʀ Pᴀʀᴋᴇʀ Oɴᴇ-Sʜᴏᴛs

Taken Part 8

The road to recovery was long and grueling, but Peter was nothing if not resilient. The physical wounds healed faster than anyone had expected— his enhanced metabolism saw to that—but the scars they left behind were a constant reminder of the nightmare he had endured.

Tony Stark had spared no expense in making sure Peter received the best possible care. A private medical team worked tirelessly on his leg, mending the shattered bones and torn ligaments. The stab wound in his shoulder, though deep, was treated quickly enough to avoid permanent damage. Tony never left his side, as he was bedridden in the hospital. He had food brought up to him, and he would sleep on the chair next to Peter's bed, even if it left him with a knot in his neck. As always, he was there for him.

Despite the meticulous care, Peter carried a slight limp for weeks after, a ghost of the injury that lingered even as his body recovered.

But the real battle wasn't in his body—it was in his mind.

At first, Peter couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he was back in that cold, concrete room. He could feel the chains digging into his wrists, hear Jason's cruel laughter, and see the barrel of the gun pointed at his head. The memories clung to him like a suffocating fog, making it impossible to relax.

It was the weirdest thing that set him off. From the sound of the water dripping in the sink to the smell of cigarette smoke floating in the air. His breathing would quicken, and his heart would beat in his ears, as his body began to shake. And most of the time, Tony would find him curled up in a ball, in the corner of a room, in a full-blown panic attack, unable to register where he was. That he was safe now. The sight broke Tony's heart into a million pieces.

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One evening, Tony had been working in the lab while Peter sprawled out on the couch nearby, his textbooks open but clearly ignored. The kid was trying to act normal—cracking a joke every now and then, pretending the shadows under his eyes weren't there. Tony didn't push. He's learned that Peter needed to open up in his own time.

The lab was quiet except for the occasional hum of machinery and the soft tap of Tony's tools against metal. Then, from somewhere nearby, came the plink,... plink,... plink of water dripping.

Peter froze. His hand, which had been idly flipping a page in his book, went still. Tony barely noticed at first— he was focused on a tricky piece of circuitry— but when the sound of Peter's breathing hitched, sharp and uneven, he looked up.

Peter's wide, glassy eyes were fixed on something far away, something only he could see. His chest rose and fell erratically, his breaths shallow and rapid.

"Kid?" Tony called, his voice cutting through the quiet.

Peter didn't answer. His hands were shaking now, clutching the edges of the book as though it were the only thing keeping him grounded.

"Peter," Tony tried again, softer this time as he stepped closer.

And then it happened. Peter dropped the book, scrambled off the couch, and retreated to the corner of the lab. His back pressed against the wall, and he slid down until he was curled into himself, knees to his chest. His fingers clutched his hair, and he rocked slightly, his breaths coming in shallow gasps.

Tony was there in an instant, crouching in front of him, hands up like he was approaching a scared animal.

"Hay, hey, it's me," Tony said, keeping his voice calm, even though his heart was breaking at the sight. "You're ok, Peter. You're safe. You're here, with me. No one's gonna hurt you."

But Peter didn't respond. His whole body trembled, and his gaze darted around the room like he was still looking for a threat.

It hit Tony then, what must've set him off. The sound of the dripping water—it was faint, barely noticeable, but in Peter's mind, it must've brought him back to that room.