Just the typical sad marvel thing /Peter

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Tony's pov:
Bruce is about to finish the stitching when Peter's heartbeat starts to slow. "If I finish this really quick and then take the tourniquet off he should be okay. But I have to finish and take the risk." Bruce has to concentrate to not make mistakes but also he has to hurry and it's a whole lot of stress. We're watching him speechless, doing the work and focusing as much as he can. His hands are slightly shaking from the anxiety but he's trying to overcome that and be precise. Pete's heart slowly but gets slower and slower each second. "Okay, It's done. It was very at the last moment but it should be okay now," he sews the thread and frees Peter's arm. We wait a few seconds but the heartbeat doesn't return to normal. "Bruce it's... it's not," I can't even say it out loud. He's dying! "Yeah, I noticed... I- I don't know, it shouldn't be like this." Everyone is panicking at this point. I feel pressure on my chest, I can't breathe normally. I should get out of there and handle this panic alone, where no one can see me but I have to stay there until I know Peter's okay. Bruce gives more blood to the kid. "He lost a lot of blood so I had to set this more up but I don't want his body to react as a shock. Let's just hope he's going to be okay..." Bruce says and Peter's heart rate is starting to fasten up to standard. While Bruce bandages his arm, I say, "I have to get some air."

I go to my room and lock my door. I don't want anyone to see me when I'm having a panic attack. I feel the sharp pain in my chest and I'm gasping for air. I'm shaking badly and I start crying. I should've been there. I should've noticed. I should've talked more with him. I fucked this up too. He wanted to kill himself. He jumped and was ready to die. I didn't take care of him. I am the worst person. I hate myself. These thoughts don't make anything easier, I want them to be gone and now. I hear a knock on my door and I know it's someone from the team, checking on me, but I'm not able to answer. "Tony, it's Steve. Are you okay?" I don't answer. I can't and I wouldn't either, I want him to go away. It's too much on top of the whole situation and the panic. I drag myself to my bathroom and take the thing I promised not to use, the lighter. I don't think about it. I hold it under my arm for long seconds. I deserve it. I make a lot of burns and blood. I grab a tissue to soak up the blood from my arm. It's much worse than I usually do but, I don't care at that moment. It helps a little but I'm still crying and breathing quite fast. But of course, it got better than in the beginning. I look at the red, bleeding burns I just made. I haven't done it this badly in such a long time. Why? Why? I hate regret. I hate the guilt after it. I hate myself. I open the window and just look out to the city, getting the air I originally planned. I begin to calm down as I take deep breaths from the fresh air.

By the time another knock interrupts me, just my hands are shaking. I still don't answer, I don't want to talk to anyone. "Hey, it's Bucky, can I come in?" He knocks more, he knows I'm here and I'm pretty sure he won't go away cause he knows I had a panic attack. I sigh, I have to talk to him. I unlock the door but I don't open it. I wait for him to come inside. The doorknob moves but no one comes in, instead, he asks, "Can I come in?" "Yes," I say distressed, still sitting at my window when he comes in. He doesn't say anything at first. He just stands there and waits if I say anything. But I don't. I stare out the window, breathing deeply into the air. "What did you do?" he asks. I'm not sure how to answer at first so after a small pause I say, "What do you mean? I'm okay, I just needed air." "Tony... No one's okay after seeing Peter like this, especially not you. Your hands are shaking, I hear that you cried in your voice, you've had a panic attack. And I see the corner of that bloody tissue in your trash can." Is it that visible or he just knows me this well? I don't know what to say, or how to say it. He saw everything. "So I'll ask again. What did you do?" Bucky says stepping next to me. I feel nothing at that moment. I feel calmed by the self-harm, I'm not thinking of anything. I'm just enjoying the silence after the overthinking. I feel numb. "You saw it, you said it. That's what I did," I say emptily. "But what-how? With what?" My eyes widen as I realize I took the lighter from his room, but I never told him about it and he never noticed. He's going to be so mad. I sigh, "I think you know exactly how..." I try to lead him on the answer, avoiding saying it myself. He's confused a little but asks eventually, "Did you buy a new lighter, Tony?" I shake my head. He goes to my bathroom and opens the drawer. "God damn, Tony," he says coming out of the bathroom with the lighter in his hand. He slams it down on my table and looks at me silently. "Sorry..." I mutter something finally. He leans down to take the tissue out of my thrash and takes a look at that. "This... this is more than what I usually see," he says as he flips the tissue covered in brown, dried blood.