Tony wasn't sure how Peter was still standing. For an hour or two that felt like a lifetime, Tony had watched the boy he loved as a son beaten, bruised, broken, torn… He was sure each blow, each ragged breath, each injury, would mean the end.

But it didn't stop.

So Tony screamed while Peter refused to, yelling, begging, pleading, bargaining, threatening – and even when Peter did scream, Tony didn't let himself stop. He was determined to get Jorah's attention completely on him, to buy Peter a respite if nothing else while he worked on a plan of escape.

It had worked, eventually. Jorah had stopped, Tony had had a minute or two to talk to Peter, to try and reassure him (though fuck knows they were both beyond words at this point; the sheer terror leeched any calm from their voices), and then Peter was put under while he was patched up. True to their word, their captors cleaned, stitched, and bandaged the limp teen – though Tony could've snapped their necks as he watched them none too gently pull Peter's battered body this way and that – and everything was quiet.

But not for long.

Peter's metabolism burned through the drugs quickly, and all too soon the silence was broken by his stifled, panicked sobs.

'It's alright kiddo, I'm here, I'm here. Pete. Hey, pal, you with me?'

'Mr Stark? Yeah. Here. Are you hurt?'

'I'm going to pretend you didn't just ask me that, okay?'

'But they said –'

'Don't think about it. It's not for you to worry about, now or ever. Just try and rest.' The words were flat, even in Tony's ears. Get some rest. Being chained up is actually super-ergonomic, kid, trust me. He wasn't even sure what he was trying to say, except that he didn't want Peter to freak out, and it would be really helpful if the kid could pass out and miss… Tony's turn, whenever that was.

Tony tried to believe their captors would allow that.

But of course they didn't.

Within minutes of Peter coming to, Jorah was back, wearing a placid smile that told Tony nothing about their arrangement had been forgotten. Refusing to pander to their captor, Tony looked not at him, not at the array of… instruments he'd brought with him, but at Peter. The kid, if possible, was even paler, shuddering violently. Tony managed a small smile, and blinked once, slowly, deliberately. Close your eyes, Pete. It took a moment, but Peter nodded, and his eyes closed. The relief was tangible; as long as he knew Peter would be oblivious, Tony could stomach anything Jorah could throw at him.

In theory.

It lasted five minutes. Five minutes of snapped digits, burns, and cuts – a warm up, Tony was sure – before Jorah got pissed, really pissed, at the lack of reaction from Tony or Peter. Tony had learnt the hard way a bored psychopath was a dangerous one, and he was painfully aware he wouldn't be the one punished if he didn't put on a show.

It would be Peter.

But he wasn't about to put Peter through any more than he'd already been through, so as much as he wanted to Tony knew he couldn't scream or give any indication he was actually in pain…

What he could do was be a complete and utter irritating prick.

'So, Jorah?' he started, wincing as a blade was dragged across his lower ribcage. 'Where do I know the name?'

'You don't know me Stark, but don't worry; I'll make sure you don't forget.' Of course. Ugh. One thing no one ever mentioned about this 'superhero' gig was how predictable the bad guys were. Tony almost rolled his eyes in spite of himself, before remembering he had more important things to worry about.

He glanced up to see that, although he was now frowning in confusion, Peter was keeping his word and hadn't opened his eyes yet.

'I'm sure… Jonah. But, no, I do… Wait a sec, you're the one on TV right? Yeah, with the dragons, and ice zombies – you're in love with that stunning blonde, whatshername, Elsa! Though, buddy, I gotta say, I think you're righting cheques your 5'8" ass can't cash, she's got dragons, you know?'

'You watch too much TV, Anthony - and how your perverted mind is confusing a children's movie with Game of Thrones is, quite frankly, beyond me –' Anyone would think they were old friends.

'See, now, you can't tell me I watch too much TV if you're gonna understand my references, because I'll get confused.'

'An unusual concept for you, I'm sure, Stark.' Jorah quipped drily, and Tony bit back a grin as a vice was clamped around his shin. Verbal sparring, every psycho's weakness. This was where predictability worked in his favour. Tony may be buying himself a whole lot more pain, but every second Jorah wasn't acknowledging Peter was worth it.

Tony was winning.

He was winning, so it didn't matter how much he bled, how many bones were broken; all that mattered was that Peter was alive. His kid was, for now, as safe as he could be, and that meant Tony was winning.

'Not as unusual as a grown man admitting to watching Disney movies.' Tony smirked.

And the vice was tightened.

A lot.

But that was alright. Better him than Peter. Tony relished each injury, each throb or stab of pain, the agony rising and falling around him as he continued to goad Jorah (when he wasn't stifling screams, of course). Every second brought his kid relative safety, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

Unfortunately, Tony didn't always get his way.

'I must say, Stark, your boy seems rather indifferent to your suffering. After your touching display, I expected more. Maybe we should approach these lessons differently?

'Come on, Jorah… open your eyes,' Tony tried to sound exasperated, like he wasn't throwing those last words at Peter. Luckily, the kid caught on, and by the time Jorah had turned his head, Peter's eyes were wide open; Tony had to hand it to him, he had the tear-stained puppy-dog thing down. 'the kid's… basically an intern. Sure, I'm getting soft in my old age, I watch out for him. I watch out for everyone. But you can't expect him to actually care about me too?' Tony wished he wasn't lying, wished he could honestly say the horror on Peter's face was feigned. They'd been through too much not to care about each other. They were too alike not to feel each other's pain.

'Is that so?'

Peter shrugged, playing along. Jorah simply smiled, turning to glower at Tony.

'You're lying to me, Anthony.'

'What, you read minds? We could use that on our team, if you ever wanted to drop the… trafficking and the torturing. Not as lucrative maybe –' Tony kept rambling, even as their captor turned and walked away, leaving them alone in the dark once more.

Okay, so he hadn't predicted that.

Now Jorah was gone, Tony desperately wanted to give in to the pain; once he let himself feel each shattered bone, his broken skin, it was all he could do not to cry out – but he wasn't alone.

'Mr Stark, you okay? You look… what did he do?'

'Enough I guess.' Tony laughed, wincing both at the pain and his shoddy attempt to lighten the mood, keep Peter calm.

'I think that's an understatement –'

'Not my style, kid, I'm fine. Now, we both know if you freak out, you're going to spas me out, and I'm going to freak you out some more, it's a whole thing, so… let's keep our shit together, capiche? Besides, the others will be back to put me under and patch me up, right? Ready for the next round.'

'My turn.' Peter said, and the tremor in his voice hit Tony like a missile – at least, the shrapnel from one (and yeah, he should know).

'Not going to happen, Pete, don't sweat it. By the time they fix me up I'll… come up with something, I promise.'

And he meant it.

But minutes passed, and no one came.

Then an hour.

And another.

And another.

Tony couldn't figure it out, and he was struggling not to spiral. Was this their punishment? He didn't have Peter's healing abilities, and he was worse than useless in this state. If nothing changed soon, any attempt at escape was dangerous at best. It was getting hard to stay conscious, for both of them, and Tony wasn't even sure if it was best to snatch whatever shut-eye they could or stay awake, alert (in theory).

Another hour passed.

They tried to pass the time. Took stock of their injuries. Went over everything they'd learned about their captors and surroundings, searching for a plan. They learnt the hard way that, unlike in the movies, dislocating your fingers didn't actually enable you to escape all potential shackle situations, that super-human strength usually up to stopping a bus required you to keep up with your super-human appetite (though admittedly that last was only applicable if you happened to be a super-human teenager). One thing Tony did know was that they couldn't afford to just wait.

They didn't have much longer.

And God, he couldn't think straight.

Another hour passed.

Tony began to wish Jorah would come back. It had been at least two days since the bridge, since either of them had had anything to eat or drink, got any real sleep. More, judging by how quickly they were deteriorating.

Peter especially.

At least three days now, surely.

Four.

Still no one came.

Tony didn't panic. He didn't let himself consider that he may be forced to watch his kid rot, that they may have been completely abandoned. He didn't shred his vocal chords begging someone, anyone, to find them, to help Peter, and he absolutely did not acknowledge the one concrete thought circling his brain, the one he could see behind Peter's blank face, too.

I wish I was dead.

No. He didn't acknowledge that at all.

First off, I'm so sorry for the wait, my hell-brain has been playing up, but I've figured out how I'm going to wrap this story up, so stay tuned just a bit longer! As always, let me know what you think.

Also, if anyone wants to stop by and say hi, you can find me on tumblr and insta ceaselesslyborne :)