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Searching for Home

"So, it was really just a coincidence?"

A short and aggravated sigh escaped Dr. Banner, despite his obvious effort to remain composed. Peter knew that he should stop asking such needling questions. A politer and more considerate version of himself, one that didn't know the harrowing reality of genocide, would have dropped the issue long ago. At this point, his questions had become redundant, but he asked them anyway. He asked because he needed to know. This knowledge would benefit no one. Peter knew that. Nothing could be changed, but still he needed to understand all of it. Start to finish. He wouldn't know peace or be able to experience that acceptance that Mr. Stark was so keen on until he did.

"I doubt it," Dr. Banner muttered while he stirred some milk in to his coffee. The spoon clanked against the ceramic loudly. The sound was jarring in the otherwise silent room. Peter wondered, with a small measure of alarm, if the mug might smash from the force. "Thanos must've known that the Tesseract was on the ship, but I don't know how he found out."

Dr. Banner's curt tone became harsher the longer he had to endure Peter's impromptu interrogation. His clipped words had formed a barricade against the onslaught of questions and speculations. It was a barricade that became more strongly fortified with each passing minute. It didn't matter. Nothing could dissuade Peter now. He was expecting Mr. Stark to show up any minute, so this was his last chance to speak with the one of the only survivors of Thanos' first attack. Maybe Dr. Banner realized that their time together was short, and that was why he was humouring Peter rather than fleeing from the kitchenette. For whatever reason, he stayed and Peter was glad to have this moment to pick the doctor's brain.

"Well, the Tesseract contained the space stone," Peter drawled, hoping to prompt Dr. Banner in to a discussion. He remained silent and sipped at his coffee. His eyes stared fixatedly at the counter top. "Maybe he was drawn to the Asgardian's ship? Like, maybe he was drawn to its power or something?"

Dr. Banner closed his eyes firmly, as though trying to shut out Peter's presence. The crows feet around his eyes deepened as his expression grew tight. In that moment, Peter was certain that Dr. Banner was no longer present in the kitchenette. He was far away, remembering something long since passed. Peter felt a familiar sense of guilt and shame twist in his throat. He had caused this with his relentless nagging. During the attack, Dr. Banner had been the Hulk. He didn't think that Dr. Banner could remember much of what he saw through the Other Guy's eyes. But maybe he could see it all. Remember it all. For a moment, Peter was struck with paralyzing horror by the notion of being such a powerless observer.

"Drawn to it? What, like wraiths to the ring of power?" Dr. Banner's biting sarcasm cut through the air and silenced the reflexive correction in Peter's mind before he had a chance to say it; they were called Ringwraiths, or sometimes Nazgûl. Peter was almost glad that Dr. Banner had managed to stun him into awkward silence before he had accidentally blurted that out. Dr. Banner's hard gaze became softer after a few seconds, and he rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. "I don't know, Peter. My doctorates are in biochemistry and nuclear physics, not space magic."

Magic.

The thing that had no business existing outside of fantasy, but somehow did. At first, Peter had enthusiastically rolled with the punches. Magic was real and wizards existed. Sure. Why not? It had been fun, working with Dr. Strange's sparkly magic to enhance his own fighting. Now that they had lost, and the dust had settled, the concept of magic had lost its allure. It unnerved Peter that something that was capable of instantaneous destruction was so poorly understood by most people. Magic had the power to take abstract concepts like reality and time and manifest them in to physical form. How was it possible? Furthermore, how could something as grand and ostentatious as neon-bright, sparkly, glowing magic escape Earth's attention until now? The rest of the universe seemed to be in the know about the existence of magic, so why had Earth been left out?

Peter's musings were cut short as his sensitive hearing caught the sound of familiar footsteps approached from behind. Peter knew without having to turn around that it was Mr. Stark. The relief found on Dr. Banner's face, as he caught sight of something behind Peter, further proved that it was him. The inevitable was here, and sparks of panic started to catch hold in Peter's chest. He couldn't leave now. He still had so many unanswered questions. He still didn't understand. A hand gripped Peter's shoulder, but still he didn't turn to look at Mr. Stark. He didn't want to face the reality that Mr. Stark brought with him. Didn't want to face the long road that led back to the city.

Back to Queens.

A tremble of nervous energy wracked Peter's body. He was certain that Mr. Stark had felt it under his palm, as his grip squeezed Peter's shoulder.

"C'mon, Pete. Time to go."

Peter's feet felt as though they had grown roots in to the tiled floor. His panic and desperation kept him pinned to the spot.

"But-"

"Pep's waiting in the car," He added gently while turning Peter's shoulder, prompting him to turn around. Mr. Stark's gaze met his. For just a moment Peter could see concern ceasing his face and knitting his brows together. In an instant, it was masked by his usual carefree air. "If we don't get a move on, she gonna leave without us."

"Pepper's not gonna ditch a kid." Dr. Banner said. "I mean, if it was just you, then maybe."

Mr. Stark shot Dr. Banner an unamused look, and despite Peter's earlier panic, he couldn't help the small laugh that escaped him.

"I missed you so much, Brucie."

"I bet you did," he drawled. "So, am I still invited to your wedding?"

The question was delivered lightly. A poor attempt to mask a much more loaded question. Peter could practically hear the unspoken question resonating through the air; 'Are we still friends?'. A palpable tension settled heavily and Peter saw Mr. Stark's sarcastic expression drop in to something more somber. Peter craned his neck to look over his shoulder. Behind him, Dr. Banner's gaze grew wary, as though he were regretting having asked that question. Peter cringed as a long second dragged on. Sometimes Peter's curiosity got him in to trouble, but he was a firm believer in not asking questions if he wasn't prepared to hear the answer. Good or bad.

"As long as it's just you. No plus one."

A look of relief washed over Dr. Banner's face. Peter felt his own shoulder's sag as tension he hadn't realized he was holding fell.

"I wouldn't miss it." Dr. Banner promised. Mr. Stark's hand wrapped around Peter's upper arm and gave a light tug. Peter followed suit, leaving the doctor, and soon the Avengers' Compound, in his wake.

It took two hours to drive to the city, thirty minutes to check in to the hotel penthouse that Mr. Stark had booked, and five seconds for Peter to convince Mr. Stark that that was enough excitement for one day. Queens would be waiting for them in the morning. Mr. Stark had given him an indecipherable look when Peter had offered up his last possible excuse for not going to Queens that day. Ms. Potts had immediately busied herself with putting away her luggage, and Peter suspected that she was trying to keep out of this as much as possible. Finally, Mr. Stark had agreed to go in the morning.

The morning came too quickly.

Peter's insistence that he could go back to his apartment alone was met with a resounding 'no'. Two of them in fact. To Peter's surprise, Ms. Potts was just as firmly against the idea of him going back home alone. It didn't make sense. Peter could take care of himself, they both knew that. Did they not have any faith in him? Did they really think that he needed so much coddling? He fought criminals on the daily, and he had thought that he had proved himself capable of such a simple task by now. Peter didn't dare to voice any of these thoughts aloud because it would've been rude and he would've regretted it. He determinedly ignored the voice in his head, which chimed in that May and Ben would be ashamed if he acted that way. They had raised him better than that.

With no more excuses to prevent him from going home, Peter found himself sitting in the passenger seat of Mr. Stark's car with an empty backpack at his feet. Mr. Stark cruised slowly through the streets of New York, from Manhattan to Queens.

To his neighbourhood.

To his home.

New York was nearly unrecognizable to Peter. It was disturbing to see his city in such a state. Not quite in ruins, but definitely looking much rougher than it had been when he had left it. Landmark buildings and street signs assure him that this is his neighbourhood, but everywhere he looked evidence of irreversible change was present. Nearly every shop had broken windows and looted items littered the street. Fresh graffiti tags crept up the sides of buildings. That wasn't unusual for New York. If anything, the tags should be comfortingly familiar to Peter. It was the messages, written in dripping spray paint, that caused his stomach to lurch.

'Avengers' with the A written like the anarchy symbol. An A in a circle. Peter realized the Avengers' 'A' and the anarchy 'A' were virtually identical if the arrow was removed from the middle of the Avengers' insignia. Peter's cheeks flush with shame for having entertained such an arbitrary similarity, even for a second.

Anarchy was lawless insanity. Right now, that was the state of New York. The state of the world, and the universe beyond it. The Avengers had tried to protect everyone from that, but…

'We are not saved'

Red letters scrawled over one of the last completely intact shop windows. They threw accusations at Peter, and he tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

Some messages didn't need words. The spray-painted silhouettes were the ones that Peter couldn't bear to look at. The empty shapes of adults and children were imprinted on buildings. Shapes printed by living people to represent the dead. Shapes that would never be filled again.

Peter dropped his gaze to his feet to avoid the sight outside his window. The scenery moved slowly past him as Mr. Stark eased the car through the streets of Queens. Most of the abandoned cars had been removed from the street. They had likely been towed away and were now taking up space in a junk yard. Or they had been stolen. With keys left in the ignition and no owners to claim them, who was there to stop theft? Those owners would never return. Some smashed-up cars remained on the streets, causing road blocks in the streets and slowing the flow of traffic.

God, Peter had never seen so few cars on the streets before. Nor had he seen the touristy and upper-class areas look so shabby. The snap… it was the one great equalizer in life. It tore down everyone's lives, rich and poor. No one was unaffected.

All too soon, Peter's apartment building came in to view. It grew taller and more imposing as Mr. Stark drove the car up to the curb and shifted the gear in to park. A heavy breath clung to the inside of Peter's lungs and held him captive in his seat.

"Ready?"

No. Of course not. Peter's heart was beating against his ribs. He wasn't ready to face the empty apartment. He never would be ready. He couldn't pack up his life as easily as he could the first time around because he understood so much more now. The shroud of childhood ignorance couldn't protect him like it could when he was five. He wouldn't be able to move on like he could before. Not from this.

A hand placed itself solidly on Peter's back, between his shoulder blades. Its weight was grounding and Peter felt like he could breathe again.

"You don't have to come with me," Peter muttered even though it was pointless to say at this point. He turned to look at Mr. Stark, who was looking at him with poorly hidden concern.

"Sure I do. Who else is gonna help you carry everything?" He joked and patted Peter's back once before pulling his hand back. Peter's eyebrows raised in disbelief. So, that was the excuse that Mr. Stark was going with? They both knew damn well that Mr. Stark's atrophied muscles were in no condition for any sort of heavy lifting. No, the real reason Mr. Stark was there was obvious. He was there because he felt the need to protect Peter. Because Mr. Stark was Iron Man, and a philanthropist, and he felt obligated to take in a kid that he barely knew. A soft glow shone through the fabric of Mr. Stark's jacket, and Peter knew that an arc reactor was attached to his shirt. Peter had considered pointing out the arc reactor's presence before, to call Mr. Stark out on his lie, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He just wished that Mr. Stark would admit the truth, rather than going through with this charade.

"Okay, let's go." Peter said as he picked up the backpack and pulled open the car door. He kept his eyes forward and didn't turn to see if Mr. Stark was following him. He could hear him keeping pace a couple of steps behind.

Living in a rougher neighbourhood, Peter and May's apartment building had always looked kinda shabby. Just like every other building that they had passed, the apartment building looked even worse than it had before the snap. Peter's stomach sank as he saw that the outer door, which required a tenant's key, was broken and hanging off of its hinges. If the outer door was broken open, then the apartments inside…

Peter quickened his pace to a near run, and he could hear Mr. Stark doing the same. He awkwardly pushed the door so that there was a large enough gap for him to squeeze through. The hinges gave a shrill groan, which echoed in the empty lobby. Standing still in a slow-moving elevator was an impossible task for his jittery nerves. He took the stairs, running up them two at a time. Behind him, Mr. Stark called his name but Peter barely heard him. All he could focus on was the stairs. He was on the second floor. Then the third. Finally, the fourth, and his apartment came in to view.

The door had been kicked in.

A second passed. Then two or three. Peter couldn't move his legs. His body felt oddly disconnected, as though he existed only in his mind and nowhere else.

"FRIDAY says there are three heat signatures in there."

Mr. Stark's voice sounded slightly breathless. Peter hadn't even realized that he had caught up to him. A hand clasped his shoulder, and suddenly whatever trance that had kept him bound in place was broken.

His family had been lost.

His home had been lost.

He was alone with all of his ties forcibly cut loose. The cruelty of one determined and psychotic individual had left him no longer bound to anyone. And yet, somebody, three somebodies, dared to steal what little he had left. Peter felt as though a switch had been flipped. Heat flared up inside of him, turning his blood to molten lava. He reached his hand up and pushed Mr. Stark's grip off of his shoulder.

"I can take care of myself," Peter seethed through clenched teeth, to both Mr. Stark and to himself.

"Peter-"

He was already moving, leaving Mr. Stark and his wary protests behind him. Long, swift strides brought Peter to his front door. It sat off kilter in the door frame, it's broken lock and warped hinges being as close to closed as it could be. Without sparing a thought to what awaited him inside, Peter threw open the door. Unbridled rage fueled his strength, and with a deafening bang, the door swung farther than it was ever intended to go and smashed in to the inside wall. The living room came in to view directly in front of Peter. On his couch in his living room a shaggy haired man sat bolt upright. His wide eyes darted between Peter and wrecked front door.

"What the hell..." Wide-eyes' voice wavered. Peter glanced at the door to see it suspended unnaturally in the wall. Its handle punctured a hole in the drywall and held it in position. Two sets of feet made quick stomping sounds and soon two other people, another man and a woman, joined Wide-eyes in the living room. They stood in stunned silence as Peter stepped in to his home.

"Get outta my apartment!" The words ripped from Peter throat with an intense fury unlike any that he had ever felt before. It was blinding and crackling all at once. It emanated from the core of his being and wracked his body with tremors. Behind him, Peter heard the unmistakable sounds of nanotech dispersing, interlocking, and building.

"Hey, man, we already called this place-" The man's words cut off abruptly as heavy armored footsteps approached the door. They stopped behind Peter, and a heavy gauntlet rested on Peter's shoulder. The fingers curled tightly in to Peter's shoulder, and he wondered if Mr. Stark thought it was necessary to hold him back. The man and woman adopted expressions of equal horror to accompany Wide-eyes'.

"He said 'get out'." The cold metallic order rang with a commanding presence that demanded no other option than immediate obedience. Peter knew that even if he lived for a hundred years, he could never command so much authority. The effect was immediate and the trio of squatters brushed past Peter in their haste to leave. Subtly, Mr. Stark's fingers curled tighter in to Peter's shoulder. Peter wasn't sure if that was meant as a warning or a precaution. It was unnecessary, since Peter didn't have it in him to withstand anger for any duration of time. Already, he could feel himself being drained, the rage sapping him of his strength. From the hallway, running footsteps echoed down the stairwell. They grew fainter and fainter until finally, he and Mr. Stark were left alone in the ransacked apartment.

"Thanks," Peter mumbled, glancing over his shoulder in time to see the nanotech retract Mr. Stark's helmet. He looked nearly as devastated as Peter felt. It was surprising to see, considering how in control he had been moments ago. But then again, he had been wearing a mask. Peter understood the confidence and strength that masks lent better than anyone. Mr. Stark's eyes searched Peter's expression for a moment. His mouth opened, as if he were about to say something, but then he hesitated.

"You're alright," Mr. Stark reassured and gave Peter a determined nod, as if that settled things. As if by saying that confidently enough, it made it real. Peter didn't know what to say in response to such a banal platitude so he headed towards the hallway leading towards his bedroom.

"Be right back," he called over his shoulder, and immediately felt stupid for saying it. Where else was he gonna go?

"Take your time. Let me know if you need help carrying anything," Mr. Stark called back, and Peter could hear the rest of his suit retract itself in to the arc reactor.

Peter strode down the hallway and gripped the empty backpack in his hands. He stood at the crossroads; the door to the left, May's room. Ahead of him, his own. His breathing hitched painfully in his lungs and he forced a deep breath to regulate it again. He needed to separate emotion from logic, or else he would never get through this. What did he need to do first? Pack up his clothes. There was no way that they would all fit in his backpack. An idea occurred to him, and without hesitation Peter pulled open May's bedroom door.

Peter kept his head down, and forced himself to look at nothing but the wood flooring and his feet. He kept one destination in mind and followed his feet to it. Reaching out with his hand, Peter clasped the closet door handle and pulled it open. Inside, on the floor, in the same spot as always, a navy-blue suitcase lay undisturbed. Leather lined the zipper and the initials 'B.F.P' were embossed in dull gold letters.

Ben's suitcase.

The sight of it gave Peter pause. A layer of dust coated it and it was one of the few things that remained untouched in the closet. He knew what he had to do. He didn't want to have to come back here again. He needed to know if there was any part of Ben or May left that Peter could take with him. Something besides a ratty, old suitcase. Peter turned to face the room, and his heart sunk.

Everything was ruined, or in some varying degree of a chaotic state. Peter didn't allow himself to linger on it. Didn't allow his mind the time to dwell on it. Instead he started searching. He found Ben's glasses with a small cracked in them from being handled too roughly. It was a small miracle that anything was still left, so with that Peter gripped the handle of the suitcase, turned and bolted out of the room. He pulled the door shut firmly behind him and released a breath that he hadn't been aware that he was holding. Leaning against the door, Peter slipped the glasses into his pocket before curled his arms around the suitcase and pressing it to his chest. His heart pounded and his hands left sweaty prints on the hard surface of the case.

"You okay?"

Mr. Stark's voice floated from the living room, giving him space but not really. Peter released a shaky breath and a flush crept up his cheeks. He wished more than anything that the man would have allowed him to come here alone. He felt uncomfortably exposed and embarrassed to be sharing his lowest moments with his mentor.

"M'fine," he ground out and leaned his head back against the closed door. Mustering his remaining strength and resolve, Peter turned to enter his bedroom.

Just like May and Ben's room, his was an absolute disaster. May would've complained that it 'looked like a tornado had been through here'. At least this mess hadn't been Peter's doing.

The room had clearly been searched for valuables, not that Peter had much of those. All of his possessions were strewn about the floor. His closet was standing open and drawers were half opened. Peter noticed that his laptop was missing from his desk and he wondered how desperate the person who stole it must have been. It was held together with duct tape, for God's sake. It was ancient. No way was that thing worth any amount of money. With a sickening jolt, he remembered that his Chemistry research paper was on his computer. Now he would have to start over…

But there was no school to go back to.

Peter's stomach dropped as reality set in again. No school. No decathlon team. No Ned or MJ. That was a fact, Peter had already checked the census. All at once, his throat became much too tight.

'Clothes,' Peter reminded himself, chasing his last train of thought from his mind. Determinedly, he kicked a clear space on the floor and dropped the unzipped suitcase on to it. His clothes, for the most part, remained as he had left them hanging in the closet. It would seem that even desperate thieves of crappy laptops had no interest in his nerdy graphic t-shirts. He grabbed them by the fist full, not bothering to fold them, and began stuffing the suitcase. With that done, he allowed his mind to move on analytically to the next necessity that he needed; his school books. His school books, which were in his backpack, which he had webbed to the side of a building in the city. In his haste to get to the alien invasion, he couldn't even remember which building he had webbed it to. Not that it mattered at this point. That webbing would have long since dissolved, and his stuff was gone.

Peter's breathing hitched again, and he tried to breathe deeply to stave off his escalating nerves. In the kitchen, the analog clock above the stove ticked. Peter focused on it and its rhythm.

'You're alright.'

Peter repeated Mr. Stark's reassurance to himself over and over again like a mantra. It didn't feel true, but it papered the cracks well enough. It held him together long enough to clear his mind.

What's next?

Peter's eyes roamed over his trashed room, and he realized with a sinking heart that his question should have been 'what's left?'.

Someone had destroyed his Lego sets. Tiny Millennium Falcon and Death Star bricks littered the floor. They were smashed in to pieces and scattered everywhere. Peter doubted that he would ever be able to find all the pieces to repair them, and if he was honest with himself, he didn't know that he wanted to. Nevertheless, Peter inspected the floor and under his bed, looking for any surviving keepsakes that he wanted to take with him. He didn't find much. In the end, all he came back with was a Lego car that he and Ned had built from imagination. Neither one of them had the patience to follow instructions back in those days. Elementary school aged Peter had the attention span of a gnat, and Ned hadn't been much better. The result was a small, multi-colour car that fit in the palm of his hand.

On the floor near his desk, Peter had found the only other thing worth keeping; his English notebook from the previous semester. He had no interest in keeping the notes that he had written in it. The part that was worth saving was the doodles drawn along the sides of the paper and in the margins.

MJ's drawings. Little treasures drawn in pen. The kind of pen that had four coloured inks in it. Black, blue, green, and red. She would lean over and doodle on Peter's page and he would avoid looking at it until it was done. It was a little surprise saved for the end of class that gave Peter more joy than it probably should have. It was nice to have something just between the two of them. Like an in-joke or a secret.

Peter took a moment to flip open the note book and look at one of the doodles. It was a picture of himself, drawn all bulky in green ink, holding Flash in one huge, green fist and flinging him around. A speech bubble came out of Hulk-Peter's mouth that said 'SMASH!'. At the time, Peter remembered suppressing his laughter when he saw the near finished product. It was truly an impressive piece, with a rough New York City skyline drawn across the bottom half of the page as a back drop for Hulk-Peter's bully revenge rampage. His notes on 'Lord of the Flies' fizzled out on the top of the page, as his own attention had waned.

'Aren't you going to take some notes?' he had asked quietly. MJ hadn't even looked up. She just kept working on her masterpiece.

'Yeah, yeah. Some kids get trapped on an island without any authority figures to keep them in line, so they turn in to lawless, murdering animals. It's a stupid book. People have more control than that. None of that would've gone down like that in real life.'

Glancing around his trashed room, in his equally trashed apartment, Peter could feel the knot tightening in his throat again. It wasn't often that MJ was wrong. Usually, her cynical realism kept her judgments on point. Peter really wished she could've been right that time.

Everything about this place felt wrong. It wasn't his home anymore and it never would be again. The room was too small. Too cramped. The air was stifling and it was hard to breathe. With the notebook, Lego car, and glasses placed in Uncle Ben's suitcase, every surviving thing that Peter valued was packed up. He had no more reason to stay.

A sense of urgency caused Peter to pick up the suitcase and hurry out of the room. He couldn't stay here anymore. He needed to get out. The urge to cry was welling up in him, and Peter knew it was only a matter of time before he started. He wanted to be alone for that. He had already cried more times this week than he typically did in a year. He wanted to be out of Mr. Stark's presence when it happened again. It wasn't like Mr. Stark hadn't seen him cry before, but Peter was sure that there were only so many that his mentor could care. Soon, it would get irritating. Then it would become too aggravating, and maybe it would prompt Mr. Stark in to realizing that he didn't really want a kid. If Peter couldn't control himself, he might soon find himself without a place to live.

In the living room, Mr. Stark was standing right where Peter had left him. The man eyed him carefully and his gaze dropped to the one suitcase in his hand.

"Is that all?"

Peter nodded quickly, already moving towards the front door. He stopped in his tracks when he remembered something. Could it still be there? Peter whirled around and darted in to the kitchen. On a little shelf near the window, a stack of cookbooks remained untouched. Peter's heart leapt in to his throat as he pulled out the one that he wanted;

'Anyone Can Cook: Italian Dishes Made Simple.'

After May had added her own notes in to every recipe, thus rendering them inedible, Ben had written in sharpie on the cover 'edited by May Parker'. Peter slipped it into the suitcase and zipped it shut. With that he moved quickly to the front door, Mr. Stark trailing after him.

"We can always come back," Mr. Stark told him gently. A knife twisted in Peter's throat and he coughed to speak around it.

"I don't want to."

The rest of the walk down the four flights of stairs was silent, and Peter hoped that that was the end of it. All of his energy was focused on keeping himself together. The second his attention strayed, Peter knew he would crack.

Queens certainly hadn't wasted any time while they were inside. Someone had keyed Mr. Stark's car while they were inside. It was probably the three squatters that Mr. Stark had scared away. An ugly scratched in anarchy 'A', sprawled over the hood of the car. Someone had tried to smash the windows, but they were made of bullet proof glass. They remained intact with nothing more than a few scratches to indicate the attempted vandalism.

"I'm sorry," Peter croaked out. He truly was sorry. This right here was the tipping point. The last screw up that toppled everything. Unbidden tears stung at his eyes. This was another part of the reason why he wanted to come alone. He didn't want to inconvenience Mr. Stark even more than he already was. But here he was, wasting his time and his money.

"It's okay, Pete. It's nothing some buffing and a paint job won't fix."

Peter knew that was true. Compared to Mr. Stark's vast wealth, the cost of fixing the car wasn't even a drop in the bucket. It was almost insignificant. But Peter also knew that the little things added up. How many more little inconveniences would it take for Mr. Stark to tap out of… whatever it was that he and Peter had.

Mr. Stark's hands reached down to take the suitcase out of Peter's. He ignored the tears streaking down Peter's face and carried the case to the trunk of the car. Peter numbly moved forward, and the passenger door unlocked under his touch. Climbing in, Peter waited for Mr. Stark to get in to the driver's side. He stared at his knees, and heard the door open, Mr. Stark get in, and the door shut. A moment passed where neither of them knew what to say. Peter tried to dry his eyes in the collar of his shirt, but more tears came to replace them. It was a futile task. A hand rubbed small, soothing circles in Peter's back. Without meaning to, Peter shrank away from the touch and Mr. Stark's hand retracted immediately.

"You'll be alright," Mr. Stark promised as the keys turned in the ignition and the car came to life. It did nothing to lessen Peter's crying, but the platitude made him feel a bit better this time around. He wasn't alright right now, but there was still time. And maybe, someday, he could be.

So, Peter's kind of a moody brat here, but grief will do that to a person.

Reviews:

Mary: Thank you very much. This is high praise, indeed. I do spend quite a lot of time on each chapter, so it's nice to hear that you appreciate the quality of my work despite the fact that my updates are not very frequent. I'm not skipping over the 5 year gap (got lots of shenanigans planned for those years), and I promise that Peter won't remain so clingy. It's just at this moment, he's going through some crap.

Guest: I agree, the MCU version of Spider-Man is very different from his predecessors. It's not everyone's cup of tea and I kinda get the impression that the Irondad/Spideyson niche is not for you.