Son
The roof. How the hell did Tony manage to not even consider the fucking roof?! Peter could climb walls and liked being in high places. Tony always checked the roof when he was looking for Peter.
But Harry? God, Tony didn't even know anything about him. But Harry survived. He survived living with those god-awful Dursleys, and he survived living on the streets of Queens for a little under ten fucking days.
Tony didn’t even know about Harry when he was with the Dursleys. He didn’t know about his own fucking son. And when Tony found out, Harry was on the streets. For ten fucking days.
Tony had searched that goddamn alleyway and all the connecting ones for three hours with Peter before his son started down the fire escape with a backpack and a dazed expression. And fell. Harry fell off the fucking fire escape and if it hadn’t have been for Peter, Tony doesn’t know what he would have done.
And now Harry was laying in a hospital bed, in the med bay of Stark Tower. Because of Tony. Because Tony couldn't find him soon enough.
Harry was suffering from mild hypothermia, starvation, dehydration, a fractured ankle, a moderate concussion, severe bruising, and welts on his back.
Tony couldn’t look away. If he had just found Harry sooner, if he had known about his son-
God, what was he supposed to do now?
Harry looked troubled, even in his sleep. His head would shift every few minutes, but he stayed silent. His eyes scratched together, like he was worried and scared, and Tony didn’t know how to make it better.
All he could do was watch. Because he didn’t before. He didn’t see his son. The hair, the nose, the ears. The dark circles under his eyes, the way he was restless even in sleep. Harry looked just like him.
Tony wished he could take the pain away.
Harry, his sixteen-year-old son that he had never seen before. Never talked to before. Harry, who has lived with the Dursley’s for the last sixteen years. Harry, who Tony failed to protect.
Never again.