Tate didn't like being on his own. He had been on his own a lot during his life and he had gotten used to it but he never really liked it. He was a social spirit at heart and always found it brighter when with a friend. Yet he stopped complaining to his mother when she was too busy with her work to take him to the park after school, or to play with him on weekends. She loved him, was a great mother even with her workaholic tendencies and the fact that she sometimes forgot his parent-teacher days. They had only had each other and he was used to being a lonely child. Though it had hurt when his friends in school had begun to drift away. It had hurt when she began to spend long hours in her lab, occasionally forgetting to make his lunches so he went to school with nothing but whatever snack he had remembered to grab himself.  His mother was smart, beautiful and she loved him even when she forgot lunches. He had loved her so much. It was just them against the world some days. 

Then she had died and he had spent a few months completely alone in foster care. The children there were wary of newcomers and they didn't say much to him. It was an unfamiliar environment with children completely different from him. He hadn't known how to talk to them and the adults are loud and scary. Then his scars from the explosion that had killed his mother and destroyed his house were fresh and the burns itched. He had been both glad and scared to leave. On the one hand, the foster house was scary but he was ignored a lot there. He knew how to entertain himself. 

Then he was placed with Tony and Pepper and he grew to love them too. Tony tried his best but it was obvious that he didn't know how to deal with a child, and Pepper was sweet but not around as much as Tony. They took him as their own. But that didn't change the fact that both were busy people and he found days by himself with only FRIDAY for company. (Not that the A.I was bad company, he just preferred someone physical. He also might have been touched starved as a kid, which explained why his friendship group was so comfortable with skinship). Now he had his friends and Peter, so he didn't need to be alone if he didn't want to. It was nice and he loved it.

But this cell was silent and cold and he was by himself. Here, in the chill and the silence, the reality of the situation began to seep into his chest. He had been kidnapped and he was alone. The emptiness allowed for fear to swell up. He could be in the middle of nowhere and not have a clue. The guard's lack of presence made the panic well in his chest and clog in his throat. No matte how many times this happened, it never really got easier. There was nothing he could think of that would explain why he was here. Tony hadn't gotten any bad threats recently. There wasn't any warning, which somehow made this worse than before. Also, how had they found him? How did they know who he was? 

He pulled his cuffed ankles up and grimaced at the chain. At least the chair was comfortable, that calmed him a bit. They wouldn't give him a expensive looking leather chair if they were planning on hurting him. Well, hurting him too much. The men who attacked him weren't terribly gentle. He was sore from fingerprint bruises that he could feel blooming. They would paint his arms and shoulders, some probably appearing on his waist and ribs. (There was also a bruise he could feel forming on his cheek but he couldn't remember where that came from).

The door creaked and his head moved so fast that his hair flopped in his eyes. He ran a hand through it as he tucked his knees to his chest. A man stepped inside the room. He was smaller than the guard Tate had woken up too, that man followed the first one inside like a shadow and stood just behind him in the corner of the room. This new man was slimmer and lean but older too. He had long dark hair tied back in a bun and was dressed simply. Black slacks and a navy blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Despite his smaller size his exposed arms were visibly muscular. Tate guessed the man to be about late thirties or early forties. He seems to be someone you'd find on a fashion magazine or in a tv show aimed at housewives. One defining feature was the thin white scar cutting through his left eyebrow, narrowly missing his eye and standing out on his golden tanned skin. Dark eyes looked Tate up and down with interest. Tate watched him back. This man seemed familiar somehow.

"You're awake", the man stated. His voice was husky and reminded Tate of a long term smoker's.

"Clearly". Tate rolled his eyes. His voice was rough and he coughed slightly, throat dry.

The man chuckled in amusement. "Got quite the mouth on you too. Nice to see that the drug hasn't had any lasting effects. You hungry? Thirsty? We had to inject a iv into your arm after the first ten hours to make sure you got some fluid but you seem to be fine". Tate felt his stomach drop. First ten hours? Iv?

"What time is it?" He asked, leaning forwards slightly in the leather armchair.

The man glanced at the watch in his wrist, a simple but expensive looking silver thing. "Five fifteen".

Tate swallowed and licked his lips. "And the date?"

"October twenty third". Tate felt himself pale at the words. He had been wrong, it had not been a few hours since the cinema, it had been a few days. Three days to be exact. He had missed his birthday party. It was supposed to be today. How had he been gone three days? These kidnappers were obviously much more powerful than they let on. Another thought occurred to him and he clenched his hands into fists. Three days, if they had gotten him on a flight then he could be anywhere in the world right now. He could be out of the USA and far out of sight. This was so much worse than any kidnapping he had experienced before.

The man with the hair was watching him, hands in pockets and posture relaxed. Tate didn't like that. It meant that this man was in charge. He had seen enough people with power to recognise the body language. "My dad is coming for me", Tate stated. "You do know that this was a bad idea. My dad doesn't like it when I'm harmed". 

The man scoffed. "Iron man? Americans and their obsession with machines. He hasn't found you yet so I doubt he will find you anytime soon. We can keep you hidden well enough. Besides, he's not your father".

"Yes he is", Tate snapped back. "Who are you to say he isn't? What do you even want from me anyway? Why am I here?" His voice rose and it echoed off the walls of this little cell.

The man raised a hand as if calming a scared animal. "Calm down. I will not have you shouting at me", there was a harsh command in the tone and a sharp threat in his eyes. Tate glared but didn't say anything else. He didn't want to test the patience of this man just yet.

The man waited a few seconds to see if Tate would continue, when it was clear that he wouldn't the man began to speak again. "Now that you've stopped shouting, we can begin to answer a few of your questions". He flicked a wrist in some sort of motion and the guard behind him strode to the door. It opened and Tate caught sight of a narrow corridor lit with yellow lights. A flash of dark carpet and white papered walls before the Guard was wheeling in a black leather office chair and the door was falling shut. He wheeled the chair across the room and the manbun guy took a seat. He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back. His dark eyes were watching Tate. 

"Ae, go get a bottle of water for our guest", He flicked a hand at the door and the guard, Ae, nodded and left. When the door clicked shut again, Tate scowled. 

"So", he began, speaking calmly even as his fingers twitched nervously. He kept his legs up to his chest, hands buried in his lap as he leaned forwards. "Why am I here? What has my father done to piss you off enough to kidnap me?" 

"This is not about Tony Stark", the man shook his head. "But let me introduce myself first. My name is Kris". 

"No surname?" Tate asked as he ran his hands through his hair. The zip ties were tight and he winced slightly as they rubbed at the sore skin of his wrists. He glanced over them again and sighed as he noticed that the skin had actually split in some places. 

"No surname. Just Kris", Kris replied. "Those look sore. Let me". Tate glanced up as the chair rolled along the concrete towards him. When he was close enough to the green armchair, Kris leaned closer and held out a hand as his second hand pulled a knife from his belt. It was a small pocket knife with a black handle. Tate didn't move as he eyed it. After a few seconds, he stretched out his bound hands and rested them in Kris' palm. The man had calluses. Natasha had taught him how to recognise the placement of them. Kris knew how to wield both knives and guns, and judging from the calluses, probably did so often. 

The knife flashed up but Tate didn't wince as the blade cut neatly through the plastic. The zip tie snapped apart and fell to the floor as he pulled his arms back to hiss at the red and bleeding skin round his wrists. Kris tucked the blade away and chuckled. There was something familiar about his grin too. Tate didn't like it.

 "You're a strong boy", he commented. "I admire a man who does not  flinch at the sight of a blade". Tate didn't answer, merely eyed him pointedly. Kris leave back in his chair but didn't roll back to where he had been before. Tate curled up more on his chair in order to keep a few feet of distance between them. Kris was still watching him with a unreadable look. "You look just like your mother", he commented after a few seconds. "But you have my nose. My chin. You have her eyes though". 

"You knew my mother?" Tate frowned. His back was pressing into the cushion of the chair. This creepy and the man was making him uncomfortable. He really didn't like where this was leading. "Is this about her? She's dead. Any secrets about any formula she was working on went with her. I was barely eleven when she died. I know nothing". 

"I did know your mother", Kris nodded. "In fact, I think that I am your father. Not just think, I know I am". He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. "While you were unconscious I had a DNA test done. You are my son". He paused to chuckle at him. "And I want you to do something for me". 

"What?" Tate breathed, eyes wide and skin pale. "What do you want me to do?" This man wasn't his father. He couldn't be. 

Kris smiled slowly, it spread across his face with building dread. "I want you to hack into SHEILD and transfer me the information on every storage facility they have, everything from keycodes to what they're holding. I want it all. And you are going to do it". 

unedited