Home, Sad Home

Harry swallowed hard as he got off the plane, hands shaking as he retrieved his suitcase. It had been seven years since he had been in New York. He walked out front and saw the familiar car waiting in the front of the building. He hoped his Father would be happy to see him; from what he had seen on the news, his Father needed a break from Oscorp. He handed his suitcase to the driver and slipped in the back, leaning back and letting himself slip off as they drove. The driver woke him when they arrived and Harry got out, heading inside the mansion, being told his Father was at work. He headed up to his Father's study; he had never been told he wasn't allowed in here; and sat back in one of the leather bound armchairs, pouring a scotch and putting his feet up on one of the tables, starting to wait.

---------------------------------------

Harry was starting to have second thoughts about this. His Father had shipped him off when he was 11; had stolen his childhood and his only friend from him. He wouldn't want to see him again. He stood up and then stopped when he heard rushed footsteps on the stairs. The blood drained from his face as he sunk back into the chair, sipping at the scotch, trying not to down it. When he heard the door open, he let out a cough to let his father know where he was.

"Oh boy... What - what am I going to do with you for the next few weeks, I will never know."

Harry stayed quiet, sipping the drink before putting the empty glass down, slowly standing up before turning to his Father, licking his lips.

"Father son coffee out of the equation?"

His voice cracked a little as he took a step towards his father.

"There was a time when I told you this specific area was off-limits. Apparently that hasn't left your curious little mind-set."

"Six years can be a long time to remember. And I could have sworn it was your office... Dad.. And really. That's one of the first things you say to me?
Maybe I shouldn't have come back..."

Harry scratched the side of his neck, standing there awkwardly. He watched Norman fussing with the end of his tie and swallowed.

"You're right Harry, we shouldn't start this way...but for my own sake would you please join me in the living room? Please?"

Harry gave a glance around the room before nodding, heading out into the hallway and making his way downstairs.

"Nothing much has changed, has it? Other than the dust piles…"

He looked back with a weak grin on his face.

"Yes... Well nothing much has been going on. Until now. You were missed."

Harry chuckled, almost darkly at the statement, but chose to say nothing on the matter; for now.

"I missed you too, Dad. Damn it feels weird saying that after so long. Did you ever tell my friend I left? Is my room still here? What have you been doing for six years?"

"You ask so many questions, aren't you simply content to be back, Harold?"

"Harry-- Its Harry."

The sentence shot out from between clenched teeth before the name had even fully been said. He rubbed the back of his neck and shrugged.

"Six years, Dad. I've lived in France so long I nearly forgot English. I'm curious."

"Europe has really changed you hasn't it..."

Norman chuckled as he sat down on the leather couch.

"Well if you really want to know about your room, I made a few little adjustments..nothing to fancy."

Little, his ass. The room itself was torn to shreds. The furniture was sold. Norman still didn't know yet what to do with it.

"I always hated Harold. Much too formal."

Harry shrugged, curling in his chair, purposely putting his feet on the leather.

"I've grown up. No thanks to you. What did you tell Peter? I know he knocked for me once or twice."

"Peter....Peter... Ah yes. Not much I suppose though I do bump into his aunt at times. Her cooking is simplicity."

"Aunt May can do more than cook. She's more than an Aunt to him and she was more of a parent to me than you ever were. Now, you're not
answering my question which generally means your hiding something from me. Again."

He looked at the walls and trinkets, not surprised that there was not one thing of his on the walls or cabinets. Norman gave in to a heavy sigh, the slight change of subject could not even affect him.

"No. He hasn't come over since, I wouldn't lie to you on that, even the maids would inform me on this if it were ever to occur."

Harry's shoulders slumping were the only sign of his small sorrow before he leant against one of the wooden display tables.

"You missed me, eh? Not one photo of me anywhere I've seen."

"Adjustments Harry, merely adjustments as you can see, a lot of things needed to be remodeled."

Norman pointed to a few cardboard boxes sitting in the corner. It was simple nonsense to think that he didn't give a damn about his son. He loved him, that was true. Harry snorted and crossed his arms and hooked an ankle around the other.

"Right. Sure you did. When's my birthday?"

"Harry... This is-"

He knew his son was expecting an answer.

"October 18."

"February 6th Dad. Have you seriously even thought of me over the years? Was there any point in me coming back?"

"February, yes of course...February."

Norman took off his spectacles and rubbed his temples. His arm was starting to hurt again.

"Ahhh... Listen why don't you make yourself comfortable in the... Guest room... I'm remodeling your room right now."

"Thought you'd only moved a few things around..? Whatever. I'll probably head out later. Tie up some loose ends."

-----------------

Harry stalked out the room, murmuring in French as he did so. He basically allowed all the doors he passed through to slam before collapsing on the bed and staring at the ceiling. He wasn't sure why he'd come back. Too many painful memories surrounded the mansion and New York. Childhood memories of him and Peter playing around the mansion. Childhood memories, much fainter, of his Mother tucking him at night and sometimes singing him to sleep. He rubbed his face, deciding sleeping his jet lag off would be the best thing; make him less snappy and aggravating. He didn't want to start a fight with his Father. Harry just lay on the bed, fists clenched in the sheets as he tried to sleep. His old baby room. If you looked close enough, you could see the old wallpaper underneath the pale paint. He let the tears roll down his face before curling up under the duvet with his earphones in, putting on some old classical music to help lull him off.