[hero, the hard way]↣ p. parker | t.s daughter

|three| - edited

I was diagnosed with cancer about three months ago. In that time, I lost 30 pounds, all of my hair, most of the strength in my cancer leg, and a heafty portion of my will to live.

My dad has started to take more time off of work to come sit at the hospital with me. It means a lot to me, honestly. I know how important his work is to him. And if his work is that important to him, and he's missing it, it must mean that something really important is happening. It must mean that I'm dying.

I was weak, I was always cold and tired, sometimes Peter didn't come to the hospital because I was too weak and I didn't want him to see me.

One night, though, I wheeled myself onto the roof. It took me an amazing amount of time to get from my room to the elevator. By the time I got to the roof I was exhausted. Too tired to attempt to stand, or push myself around, anything. I looked up at the stars and wished so hard, so so hard, that I would keep my leg. I mean, I have to keep my leg. If I don't have my leg, I can't be an Avenger. I don't want to live a life where I can't do the one thing that I was born to do.

I let out a groan of frustration and rolled my head back and forth. A thud off to my right caught my attention. I stood up on instinct. Standing there in the light of the hospital roof lights, was Spiderman. As in, my father's mentee Spiderman. I got dizzy.

"Hey, hey, you need to sit back down, okay?" His voice sounded familiar, his stance looked familiar, but I just couldn't put my finger on it. I stood on shakey legs for a moment.

"Aurora. you. need. to. sit." His voice was getting more urgent, I was shaking worse.

"I can't sit, I can't. If I move at all I'm going to fall," My voice was shaking as bad as the rest of me. The character came over and helped me back into my wheelchair. The hand on my arm had been there before.

"Thanks," I said glumly. I can't stand, I can't do anything on my own. I was so tired of not being able to do anything. The only think I could do was die.

"Hey, you're alright. Everyone needs a little bit of help sometimes," The spider spoke with a calm voice, the voice of someone who knew what was happening with me.

"Peter?" I asked, half sarcastically. I mean, there was no way that the Spider-Man could be Peter. He would have told me by now.

"Yeah?" He responded, looking at me for a moment before realising that he just blew his cover. "Oh fuck, wait, shit, no, I'm not Peter. Peter is my, uh, my grandmas... cousions... neighbors... dog?"

"You're Spiderman and you didn't tell me!?" I was, you could say, a little bit upset.

Peter tore his mask off. "I didn't want to stress you out. I mean, you're already.." He trailed off.

"Already what?" I challenged, eyebrows raised.

"You're not exactly the healthiest person ever right now! You don't need to be sitting up at night wondering if I'm dying, you know?.
I didn't want to make your load any heavier," Peter casted his eyes down.

"Peter, you have to be kidding, right? If shit happens, you have to tell me! I thought I was your best friend!" My words were slow and spaced out. I was losing more oxygen then I was taking in.

"Oh, don't pull that shit! If you were me, you would do the same thing. I know you don't want to acknowledge it, Ari, but you're getting sicker!"

"Don't put words, in my mouth. And the chemo is, is helping. I'm getting, better." I was gasping between words now. I tried to slow my breathing, and Peter seemed to notice. He got onto his knees in front of my wheelchair and held both of my hands.