Pietro had been left hanging through the night, and much of the following day before his father seemed to remember that he would have to be let down at some point. The sky was growing dark again when he'd been eased off of the spikes, the sharp metal having worked it's way further and further into his back as the time passed.
His wrists were bruised, his shoulders ached, his nose still hadn't been seen to, but as he made his way back through the streets, walking far behind his father, a familiar face approached him, whispering hurriedly in his ear. Pietro slowed further, glancing after his father's form, then abruptly turning back. His father might claim he'd run off sulk, but that assumption suited Pietro just fine.
It wasn't too long before a weary hand was knocking softly at Wanda's door.