Home isn't just a place

Chapter Fifteen

"Why are you out here?" he asked. Peter's hand curled around the handle tightly before he pulled the door open. He flashed another smile at Wolf.

"The stars are beautiful, don't you think?"

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Bruce cornered him after dinner, an anxious look resting on his face. "Have you told them, yet?" he asked. Peter tilted his head.

"If I did, do you think we would've been talking about sports over dinner?" Peter asked. Bruce blinked before he smiled slightly. It was tense.

"Got me there," he said with a forced chuckle. "When will you? Tell them, I mean."

Peter shrugged. "Dunno." he said honestly. "When I actually get my head around it, I suppose."

Bruce frowned. "Peter, this is serious. This isn't something you should be keeping from them. You need support. Now more than ever."

"I know," Peter said. "I just... I just need time. Please, I just need time."

Bruce's expression softened and he nodded. He stepped forward and Peter leaned into the hug. He was slightly surprised at the show of affection from the man, as they had never been all that close, but Peter accepted it nonetheless.

He was dying after all.

"Okay," Bruce said after a moment, pulling away from the embrace. "I'm here for you, but I still think you should tell someone. Your therapist, maybe?"

Peter nodded, despite knowing he wasn't going to tell Dr. Stacy, he didn't want Bruce to worry about him anymore than he had to. Bruce smiled at him once more before walking away, and Peter pretended (for both their sakes) that he didn't throw a cautious glance over his shoulder as he left.

Peter walked absentmindedly to his bedroom, taking it in like it was the first time. No. Perhaps the 'first time' wasn't the best analogy for this. The first time Peter had been here, he was in denial about who he really was.

In hindsight, Peter really regretted the way he treated Pepper and Tony---his mom and dad---if he had known how much time he really had, maybe it would've been different.

Peter shook his head, clearing the thoughts, and entered his room. For what felt like the first time, he titled his head and took in the room. It was a nice room, beautiful really. The amount of care and effort that his parents had put into the room really shone through. It was nice. It made Peter feel more comfortable. He felt at home.

How funny.

He finally has a home and now he's going to die.

Peter let himself fall against his bed, stifling a giggle when he bounced up and down. When was the last time he'd jumped on the bed? Not since he was a child, surely. But for some reason he was overcome with the urge to do it. To do something childish.

Peter jumped on the bed, humming the tune of the monkey song in his head while he did it. The song was morbid too---if you really thought about it. Kind of like 'It's Raining, It's Pouring'. If Peter really thought about it, almost every single nursery rhyme was about death.

Peter sighed and sank into his cushions, now messed up from his bouncing, and fought back the urge to cry.

Peter didn't want to die.

It was all so unfair. Why was it him? Why was it always him? Sometimes (Read: Always) Peter wished he was just a normal boy. He was never kidnapped, never experimented on, never lost then found. Just him. Just Peter.