- Tony POV -

If hell is a real place, Tony had a feeling it was located somewhere on a busy New York street during rush hour. The devil probably viewed traffic as his personal sport, watching it every Sunday afternoon on live TV with a steaming hot platter of spicy chicken wings and a pitcher of beer. It took them a very long 20 minutes to reach the compound, and another 5 agonising minutes to get access to the medbay — ridiculous seeing as Tony owns the damn thing.

Tony stormed in, pushing a nurse out of the way as he tried to reach the stretcher that held the damned teenager who had yet again disobeyed his orders to stay put. Sometimes it was a wonder how the kid even survived as long as he did, with the amount of times he got himself in trouble. Truth be told; Stark felt guilty. He hadn't actually taken Peter seriously, and now the boy was hurt, potentially dying. No. No. Peter was going to be fine. There was no other option. Tony refused to even consider the possibility of anything other than Peter being all right as the outcome of this whole situation.

"Get out of my way if you value your job, I own this place and I'll do what I want now tell me how is my kid!" The billionaire snapped, following closely as they carried the unconscious vigilante to the emergency room. The sight was nothing short of disgusting: air mask, neck brace, bruises, blood— whose blood was that? Better not be his… there was so much, and if it was then it would make Tony's mistake all the more unbearable. The more he looked at the boy, the more he saw proof that it in fact was his blood. Peter had scratches on his cheeks, most probably from the train having blown up near him, as well as— were those nails? Tony's eyes widened in horror as he realised what the little metallic bits poking out of the teen's body were; those disgusting pigs had nailbombs. Tony could throw up. Anger and hatred grew at the pit of his stomach and he let himself be pushed back as the nurses rushed Peter through the doors that limited access from visitors. Ripping his sunglasses off, Tony pinched the bridge of his nose and clenched his jaw, staring at the doors for a good ten minutes before heading towards the waiting room where he already dreaded the beginning of the godawful waiting process.

8 hours.

That's how long it took for the best med team in the country to stabilise a 15 year old kid. Eight whole hours of pulling nails out of his body, cleaning up wounds, fixing internal bleeding and patching him up. The nurse had come to reassure Tony multiple times, during each of which he was a giant asshole and demanded that they work faster. According to them, Peter's injuries were all result of the explosion, and not the fight itself. That was no surprise considering he was a very agile, very capable of taking care of himself, and very reckless, young hero. Though there was no wonder that the kid hadn't been harmed during the interaction he had with the terrorists, it was still terrifying to think that he was nearly killed mere seconds after. In an explosion that could have been prevented. One that Tony Stark had ignored. One that could have killed hundreds of civilians.

"Thank you," was all the man could mumble before heading towards the boy's room, slipping into it with care as he tried not to make too much noise. Peter looked peaceful, his facial features showed no hint of any pain, but the purples and reds that decorated them told otherwise. They told the tale of how idiotic Stark had been for not paying more attention. That stupid kid had far too much sense of justice, which the billionaire hated and loved at the same time. Maybe he would have to sit down with the kid, maybe he needed to have a talk about when to back out… Or maybe he needed to listen to him more.

Peter had been cleaned up, bandaged and hooked to various IV lines as well as a heart monitor. Though he looked better than he did when they wheeled him in, he still didn't look right. A kid his age should never have to go through something like that. Not when there were adults who should have acted upon their claims. The nurses had listed the teen's injuries briefly, but seeing him made it real. The nails from the bombs had pierced the youngling's lungs, empaled various bits of him and severely wounded his chest. The older hero knew of Spiderboy's healing factor, but just how long it takes for him to heal didn't matter. He shouldn't have to be healing.

"Fuck." Tony ran his hands through his hair, staring at the kid for a good few seconds before throwing his sunglasses to the wall with force. He didn't even realise he was holding them until now, but he wanted to throw something. He needed to break something. He could feel himself boiling, threatening to punch a hole into the wall, wanting to hurt those who had ever harmed his kid in any way, shape, or form. Now, Tony was part of that group of people, in a way.
"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" The cursing wouldn't stop, rage building into his chest as he stood in the room that sheltered the broken child. A child he had vowed to protect; a child he hadn't taken seriously.

With a quick pinch at the bridge of his nose, the billionaire sat by the bed, leaned over his knees as his head hung low in shame and regret. He wished the terrorists had survived just so he could kill them himself. Maybe the explosives weren't really meant for Peter specifically, but who cares? Peter was so pure, so kind, so innocent in so many ways. The mere thought of the boy having gone through what he did was enough to make the grown man's eyes water. Peter shouldn't have had to go alone. He shouldn't be here; not like this. The teen's presence should be accompanied by incessant rambling, not the steady beeps of a heart monitor.

"I'm so sorry, kid."