Bruised But Not Broken - Irondad/spiderson

Stark Finds Out

Stark POV

This damn suit refuses to cooperate.

The arm will not budge. I run another diagnostic, reroute a wire, and swear under my breath. I built this thing. I know every line of code, every bolt, every override. And yet it feels like it is mocking me.

I grab the arm and pull.

Nothing.

I brace my foot against the suit, lean back, and yank again.

The arm comes free.

It does not simply detach. It launches across the lab, smashing straight through the glass wall behind me. Shards rain down onto the floor.

"Oops," I mutter.

"Sir," FRIDAY says calmly, "it appears we have a problem."

"Yeah, FRI, I noticed the broken win—"

"Sir," she interrupts, "there is a child from the tour group unconscious in the cafeteria bathroom. He has sustained critical injuries."

Everything in me goes cold.

I am moving before she finishes the sentence.

I push through the crowd gathering outside the bathroom, voices overlapping, confusion thick in the air. Stark Industries employees do not panic easily, but this has shaken them.

I see blood first.

It pools on the white tile, spreading beneath a woman kneeling on the floor. She has her back to me. Her hands are shaking.

Then I see the kid in her lap.

He is terrifyingly small.

Pale. Fragile. His face is split open, blood matted in his hair, his lips swollen and cracked. His chest rises shallowly, uneven. His eyes do not open.

The woman looks up at me.

"Mr. Stark," she chokes. "Please. He's just a boy."

I tear fabric from my shirt without thinking and press it against the worst wound on his head, tying it tight to slow the bleeding.

He weighs almost nothing when I lift him.

That is worse than the blood.

"FRIDAY, get the medical team ready," I say, already moving. "Now."

I push through the crowd, holding the boy close. The tour guide follows, stumbling as she keeps pace.

In the elevator, I look down at him again.

"Okay, kid," I murmur. "I've got you."

The doors close.

"What happened to him?" I ask sharply.

The guide's badge reads Emma. She is shaking.

"One of the students told me he had been missing for hours," she says. "His teacher would not look for him. I asked FRIDAY to locate his badge. It led me to the bathroom. He was already like that when I found him. No one helped. I just... I held him."

Her voice breaks.

"You did the right thing," I say. "You did exactly the right thing."

The elevator opens, white light marking the fastest route to the medical bay. I sprint.

Doctors and nurses are already waiting. They take him from my arms and rush him through the doors.

I do not follow.

I stop.

And I breathe.

The waiting area is too quiet.

I sit, staring at the floor, blood still drying on my hands. This is my building. My technology. My responsibility.

I was fixing a suit while a child was beaten unconscious in my bathroom.

The thought makes my stomach churn.

Emma crouches beside me. Her clothes are soaked with blood. She looks exhausted and wrecked.

"Mr. Stark," she asks quietly, "do you think he'll be okay?"

I meet her eyes.

"The doctors are doing everything they can," I say. "He's in good hands."

It feels inadequate.

I place a hand on her shoulder.

"Go get cleaned up," I add gently. "You've done enough. Take care of yourself."

She nods and lets another staff member guide her away.

I activate my bracelet.

"FRIDAY," I say quietly. "I want everything."

"Understood," she replies.

The information scrolls onto my screen.

Peter Parker. Fifteen. Lives with his aunt, May Parker. No parents. No legal guardian beyond her.

Injuries sustained: fractured ribs, internal intestinal bleeding, two skull fractures, brain bleed, dislocated shoulder, extensive bruising.

Additional notes flag malnutrition. Old injuries. Repeated trauma.

I feel something hot and furious twist in my chest.

Video footage confirms it.

Peter enters the bathroom alone, visibly distressed. Another student, Eugene Thompson, follows him in. Five minutes later, Thompson exits with blood on his hands and shirt.

The teacher is notified that Peter is missing.

He does nothing.

Two hours pass.

Two hours.

I close my eyes.

"FRIDAY," I say, voice low, "contact his aunt. Bring her here. I want to speak with her myself."

"Already done, sir," she replies.

The elevator dings.

The school group sits huddled near the exit, their teacher standing stiffly in front of them.

I spot Happy immediately.

"I want Eugene Thompson and that teacher placed in holding," I say. "Call the police. And I want lawyers on standby."

Happy nods without question.

"I'm suing them," I add. "And I am not stopping."

This kid walked into my building for a field trip.

He almost died.

And I am not letting that end quietly.