Chapter 1: Prologue
Notes:
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Tony sat up from his chair no sooner than he sat down.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, leaning forward and spinning the 3D image with a flick of his hand. “Where were the bastards even hiding this?”
The building wasn’t large, maybe a quarter size of the Raft, if that. But it was extensive. It didn’t seem like something that could be so easily hidden from the public's eyes.
Tony pinched the image with his fingers and zoomed in, the enlargement allowing him to better study the blueprints.
Strange never looked away from the hologram as he answered, “The Bermuda Triangle."
“The Bermuda...” Bruce stuttered, looking with rapid pace to the others. “The Bermuda Triangle?”
“It gets better,” Natasha dryly said. “This entire base is underwater. At least thirteen-hundred feet in the ocean, built on some sort of rock structure. Using the same technology as the Raft for life support, and only accessed only by divers and submarines.”
Rhodey scrolled through his data screens. “I did some research. Turns out this is the facility OsCorp was using for their enhanced experimentation's. Klum must have told Dmitri about it, and they decided to use it as a base of operations.”
Steve shook his head with a deepening furrow on his brow. “I thought you said the government shut them down."
“They did," Rhodey answered, concisely. "That doesn’t mean they had an obligation to destroy the facility. They were forced to abandon ship, but the ship was never sunk.”
Sam made a humming sound from his throat. “It’s down in the ocean. With the money OsCorp pulls, they probably just left it there to rust.”
And at thirteen-hundred feet down in the ocean, Tony had no doubt it would. The only thing that kept his eyes from growing any wider was the knitting of his eyebrows.
“Why the hell didn’t we know about this?” Tony asked, directing his question towards Natasha.
She simply shrugged his way.
“The government handed it off to SHIELD, who quietly took care of it," her answer didn't seem to appease him. She didn't expect it to. "You know how they work. It's a need to know basis, and they didn’t think we needed to know.”
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“I’m just putting it out there." Tony shrugged. "It wouldn’t be the first thing you’ve kept hidden from us.”
They both came to a stop outside the elevator lobby. Rather than make a move to access one of the many elevators, Fury instead crossed his arms, inclining his head as he stared Tony down.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
Tony pursed his lips.
“OsCorp? Their ‘research’ studies? The highly illegal, under wraps experimentations they’ve been performing that you knew about? If SHIELD had handled this correctly the first time around, psychos like Mysterio, the rock android, the Chitauri heads — they would have never been a problem in the first place.”
“Despite what you may think, the Avengers don’t receive every single issue SHIELD comes across,” Fury harshly asserted, his words containing such bite that anyone else would have flinched at the mere sound. “We have other, better-qualified people working on those matters."
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“Scientific research." Rhodey pessimistically said. "That’s what they’re calling it. Nothing they’re doing right now can be deemed illegal.”
“But risky,” Peter spoke up.
Everyone turned to look at him, all seemingly at once.
Peter had stepped forward, Wanda not far behind. Her expression fell guilty, silently speaking an apology to Tony for not being able to hold him back.
Even if he wanted to, Tony didn’t have time to berate her. Steve was already crossing the path to the kitchen, failing stupendously at acting nonchalant.
“Hey, champ, why don’t you —”
“My class went on a field trip there. To OsCorp.” Peter came closer to the threshold, fingers fidgeting together. “They uh, they are actually...pretty educational. Showed us a whole bunch of stuff. Regenerative cloning of animal limbs, unlimited solar energy, bio-cable mechanisms…radioactive spiders.”
Tony shot his head over fast enough to give himself whiplash.
Steve froze in his steps. “That’s how you got your abilities.”
Peter nodded, the small movement timid and jerky. “One of them got loose. Bit me.”
Tony’s jaw clenched painfully tight, the words giving him pause. “OsCorp gave you these powers?”
The unwelcome bitter edge that coated his question had Peter suddenly feeling uncomfortable. Even from the distance they stood, Tony’s barely contained anger emitted a heat only matched by his sharp glare.
Peter knew he wasn’t directly mad at him, yet he couldn’t help but feel guilty nonetheless.
“The spider they were experimenting on did, anyway,” he explained. “It’s uh...it’s dead now.”
The conversation died out briefly, tense silence piercing through the room.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Identity Within
⌜ October, 2016
Coordinates 25.0000° N, 71.0000° W
Somewhere in the North Atlantic Ocean ⌝
“The goddamn Bermuda Triangle.”
The commanding voice was almost lost amid the frenzied clamor of feet scurrying across the floor, but the urgency of the situation failed to quicken his lackadaisical pace. Despite men and women scurrying away in the opposite direction, their panic had no effect on him.
Nick Fury didn’t bother giving the people so much as a passing glance.
“Belfast, Belgrade, Budapest…” Each word bounced against the surrounding steel walls, traveling with them as they marched forward. “Almost thirty-five years doing this job and somehow, they all still find a way to surprise me.”
In perfect unison, two pairs of feet pounded against the cement floor with each step taken. They rounded the corner side by side, walking down the long corridor together.
“I wouldn’t be too surprised, sir,” Maria mentioned, just as bold in tone, though barely audible over the tightly contained chaos they approached. Rooms they walked by were in disarray, with equipment being hastily hauled out as the people around them showed no signs of slowing down. “After all, this entire infrastructure was built as a prototype for something much bigger. The architect who designed it struck a deal —”
They both split apart to make way for a panicked man running up ahead, his white lab coat swinging wildly behind him as he squeezed between them with force; leaving a trail of dropped documents in his wake.
“The architect struck a deal,” Maria continued to say, even as she looked behind her to spare those forgotten papers a quick look. “He wanted to engineer a prison entirely submerged underwater, but needed someone to play guinea pig with the concept first. The Navy made it clear they would only make the purchase as long as the bunker could remain unscathed in the ocean for a minimum of five years. It wasn’t as if —”
“Coming through!”
Maria froze in place just in time for a horde of people to empty out of the nearest entrance, almost causing a head-on collision had she not reacted quickly enough.
“Move it! Move it! Move —!” The person leading the way barely managed to push past her without making direct contact, a feat considering his arms were chock-full of supplies. The hallways were narrow by design, and the frantic evacuation only made things more cramped. “Excuse us, coming through — Jenkins, let’s go! Only what you can carry! We’re down to the wire, leave the rest!”
A large group of what Maria assumed were scientists bolted out of one of the dozens of laboratories they walked past. Despite their undertone of panic, she and Nick kept slow pace down the hallway, a sharp contrast to the rushed speed of those darting around them.
“It wasn’t as if the Federal Bureau of Prisons were gunna invest all that money without concrete proof it would survive the elements long-term,” Maria kept on as if she’d never been interrupted. She craned her head slightly to the side, catching a glimpse of the commotion inside one of the many rooms. “So the architect created this bunker and offered it up to OsCorp as a way to trial run the original concept, eventually going to sell it off entirely to the BOP.”
The harsh lights that lit the way did no favors to the staff running around. The stress was evident in their fast steps, highlighted by the sharp and unflattering fluorescent wall fixtures. Some barked orders while others kept their lips sealed tight — especially when they laid eyes on the two figures walking towards them.
The ones who dared to give dirty looks only felt the heat of Fury’s scowl in return.
“The clock had barely struck midnight on the five year mark when General Ross signed for the construction of the Raft.” Maria turned her head slightly to glance at Fury, even as he kept looking straight ahead. The eye-patch that covered his one eye only intensified the hostility in the other. “Pretty sure the Times Square’s ball was still dropping when they broke dirt.”
They turned another corner together, this one just as crowded as the others. The harsh overhead lights, however, were immediately washed out by the soft teal glow shining from the wall windows. The steel that lined their way was quickly colored with the iridescence of the sea.
“Or...broke water.” Maria significantly slowed her pace as they both took in the sight that greeted them.
With the outer bunker reinforced in glass curtains, the depth of their location underwater was more visible than ever; showcasing every bit of of the aquatic life that occupied the ocean, reflecting against their face no different than a visit to any local aquarium.
Fury cocked an eyebrow as a school of fish swam by.
And then kept walking.
“Some achievement for them,” he scoffed, hands deep in his leather jacket as they moved ahead. The mixture of green and blue rays that reflected from the outside gave a bit more color to his black attire, and shined a ray of light against his otherwise bald head. “The Raft — a joke is what that was. A maximum-security prison that couldn’t even hold a few unruly, troublesome members of a long-since maverick motley crew.”
Maria mimicked his expression; one eyebrow reaching high into her hairline, hid behind the tuft of bangs that covered her forehead.
“You started that maverick motley crew, sir,” she reminded him, sparing no ounce of pertness in her tone. When Fury gave her a side-eye, she smirked. “I also believe it was somebody that looked an awful lot like you who erased evidence of Tony Stark’s technology causing blackouts across Ryker’s Island at the very same time that motley crew escaped the Raft.” Maria's gaze wandered towards the glass windows, deftly avoiding Fury’s ever-growing glower. “It's been three months and General Ross still can’t fathom how the rouges just...got out.”
Even though Maria had her head turned away from his visible peripheral vision, she knew Fury could hear in her tone what he couldn’t see in her face. Both could have their sights set straight ahead and still discern every detail about the other without a single glance. It was simply second nature after so many years working together.
Fury noticeably pulled his shoulders back taut as they kept walking. “Just because we’re thirteen-hundred-feet under the ocean doesn’t give you permission to speak freely, Hill.”
Maria’s smirk only grew wider, and she folded both arms over her chest — right as a few shadows covered her face, larger fishes swimming by and darkening the turquoise that illuminated the hallway.
“I am technically the director now, sir,” she said, more casual than anything else, speaking miles to their ongoing partnership. “But nonetheless, understood.”
The unwelcoming, cold, and borderline sterile feeling they had experienced from the other sections of the bunker were drowned out by the almost serene aquatic atmosphere lining the walls, depicting a seascape that the average person would likely never see.
What few rays of sunlight that managed to penetrate deep into the ocean cut through the blue water like a knife. The colors were caught by the glass, painting the steel hallways with gentle ripples caused by marine life and the water current from high above.
And yet, Fury took the next corner without giving it any further attention.
“We find out how they were dispersing the dampener mist?” he asked, his focus set straight ahead.
“Released through the oxygen concentrator and spread up through the recirculating air units within the walls.” Despite the crowds, Maria stayed in step with Fury as they continued through the bunker. The SHIELD logo on her jacket brushed up against more than a handful of lab coats along the way. “It basically created a barrier against the exterior without finding its way through the inside, preventing them from experiencing the effects of the nanite technological dampeners while causing any overhead technology — like our tracking devices — to fail. Explains why every time we got a lead on OsCorp, all our data kept coming back corrupted.”
The hallways darkened as they departed from the glass windows. They had only just turned corners again when they both came to an abrupt halt, making way for a group of scientists carrying a large piece of equipment that filled the width of the corridor.
Every person they walked by showed visible frustration and resentment at their presence.
Fury, once again, met their dirty looks with a scowl.
“It was only a matter of time before some maniac with a God complex copied the likes of Strucker,” Fury remarked, going so far as to make eye contact with every single scientist who had to pass them by on their way out. The smallest tug on his lips indicated a hint of a smile. “But everyone’s luck runs out eventually, doesn’t it?”
“Let me GO, please!”
The only thing louder than the cry from up ahead were the sounds of struggle that interlaced with each hoarse scream, tearing from a man’s throat in a moment of sheer desperation.
Maria craned her head around to the source of commotion, her frown deepening as the noise started to dwindle away.
“Please, I am begging you — just let me go, let me leave with them — I’ll sign anything you want, I won’t tell a soul, just let me GO!”
A loud BANG silenced the shouts, and echoed all the way down the hallway. While Fury kept walking, Maria paused — just long enough for the noise of a door slamming shut to slowly fade out of earshot.
“Would’ve been nice to crack down on them sooner,” she mumbled, noticeably squeezing the fold of her arms tighter across her chest.
Evacuation, total shutdown —but that was it. When it came to anything else, their hands were tied. That included seizing property, and with a churn of disgust in her stomach, she knew that included people turned into property.
Bureaucratic politics. It was the worst part about her job. And the frightful, helpless cries of those being hauled off into evacuation submarines only reminded her of that much.
Maria’s jaw tightened as she spun back around, catching sight of Fury already halfway down the hallway.
Sometimes she wondered how the man managed to sleep at night having done this job for so long.
“You know, sir,” Maria started, picking up pace once again to rejoin his side. “It was only with...quite a few pairs of extra hands that we managed to rid the remaining Hydra allegiance. Strucker included.”
They turned another corner, this one far less occupied. The evacuation process was nearing completion, and the empty corridors caused a reverberation of their voices against the metal walls.
“With their slates wiped clean,” Maria dipped her voice low to keep it from echoing, “perhaps it’d be easier if we passed this onto —”
“The Avengers — whatever the hell remains of them — are on a need to know basis,” Fury retorted, and sharply at that. “They don’t need to know this. They don’t get involved.”
Maria frowned. “Nick —”
Fury spun quick on his heels, fast enough that his leather coat swung with the artificial air filling the bunker.
“People need to rebuild trust, Hill,” he began to say, his one eye locked on Maria’s in a heartbeat. She met that gaze, even with the furrow that dipped her eyebrows low. “The last three months have been the biggest shitstorm we’ve gone up against since Hydra’s decades long infiltration, all thanks to Stark and Rogers childish misbehavior’s. If our world is ever threatened with war again, as much of a pain in the ass they are...we’ll need them. And people aren’t going to trust them. Not after the mess those two caused.”
Though a rebuttal was right on the tip of her tongue, Maria failed to respond — at least right away. Her mouth worked to the side as she considered her words, only to find herself distracted when the walls beside to her started grate and screech.
The creaking stretched on for nearly a minute, almost strong enough to vibrate the floors they stood on.
She waited until the noise dissipated before speaking.
“People trust in them enough to support the dismantling of the Accords.”
The pause that followed showed Fury needed to consider his words no different than Maria had before.
“Perhaps,” he finally answered, though his head shook after the fact. “But they sure as hell won’t believe in them. And people need to believe in heroes, in a universe bigger than all of us. All that...it all starts with them.”
Fury brought his arm into the air, gesturing aimlessly to their dimly lit surroundings.
“This, this right here?” His finger wagged and pointed at nothing, and yet it said everything as another faint and anguished scream was heard from far away. “This is just the tip of the iceberg. What’s to come...we’ll need those maverick’s more than ever.”
Another door slammed shut from a distance, and it combined with the talking walls; metal groaning in protest to the activity in the bunker.
Without delay, Fury resumed his stride.
Maria held back a sigh as she continued on with him.
“So that’s your plan?” she asked, barely restraining the bite in her tone. “We’re going to get the Avengers back under SHIELD command only to put them in time-out? You really think they’re just going to sit quietly until we say speak?”
Fury noticeably scoffed, hard enough to lift his back.
“I started that maverick motley crew, Hill. I wouldn’t trust them to keep their hands idle for more than two minutes. Especially not with Rogers back onboard — he sniffs out trouble like a damn hound dog.” Fury’s eyes remained fixated on the halls ahead of them, intently focused as they approached a fork in the corridor. “We’ll give them busy work. They’ll have their own problems to sort through between assignments—”
“Stark’s been saying something’s fishy with OsCorp for years now.” Maria paused, letting her head tilt slightly to the side with a noticeable beat changing her expression. “And it looks like he’s been right on the money. Literally, in this case. You really think you’ll be able to keep him out of this?”
“Not a chance in hell.” Fury shot his head over to her, his face the most expressive she’d seen it since they entered the bunker. “The moment he finds out OsCorp’s been doing —”
“Contain him! Contain him!”
“Quick, get the Ativan—!”
“Let me GO! Oh God, please, no, no, let me — oh GOD!”
They both came to a grinding stop at the juncture up ahead, right as a large group of scientists went chasing after a figure they could barely get a glimpse of — only the sand that flung off his body could be distinguished.
“…that,” Fury finished, staring at the zig-zag lines of sand that now covered the floors. He stepped over them with ease. “And Stark will go after them with everything he’s got.”
Maria side-stepped the sand just the same, though she noticeably looked down one of the two hallways they approached, watching as the scientists ran after the mutated individual in a haste. Like most of the activity they’d encountered, the sounds dwindled the further they walked away.
“Why don’t we let him?” she asked the question at the same time her hand brushed away some sand from her jacket, resisting a cough as it still rained to the ground like a kicked-up dust storm.
Fury let out a deep hum from the back of his throat, nodding wordlessly ahead to the right hallway as opposed to the left. It led them down a single entryway, the door already propped open with bustling activity inside. They entered simultaneously, neither stepping in before the other.
“Because Stark will only hit everything on the surface,” he explained. “The courts go by the books — he’ll be lucky to get one, maybe two of these research facilities shut down. If he tries hard enough.”
They both came to a stop as they entered the largest laboratory so far — occupying the center of the bunker, with a flight of steps leading down into the trenches.
“But what lies beneath the surface…” Fury swiveled his gaze as what few scientists still occupied the bunker started to lower a large glass chamber down from the ceiling, the chains that held it in place fighting gravity as it began to swing upon its descent. “That’s our job.”
Maria slowly approached the railing that guarded the upper floor from below. The lines on her face were accentuated by the harsh light filling the lab, emitted from the tank dangling in its slow drop.
It made an impact on the floor gently, and yet with a resounding effect. The substance inside almost seemed to bubble and boil as it touched onto the ground.
Before either of them could consider its purpose, a slow clapping caught them off guard.
“The great Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division everybody!”
As slowly as he clapped, Norman made his way up the steps, one foot stomping loudly before the next took its place. It was only once he reached halfway up the staircase that he pocketed both hands into his trousers, the green glow behind him casting a shadow on his figure.
“Doing the very thing they know best how to do.” Norman stopped on the last grated metal step at the top, leaving just enough space between him and both SHIELD directives that only an arms length separated them. “Meddling where their ungoverned hands don’t belong.”
“Sir, sir — sir!” A man came running up the stairs right behind Norman, frantically skipping two at a time to reach the top level. “As your lawyer, I advise you to —”
“Please, Sanford,” Norman gave an exasperated huff, but never turned to look at the man quickly approaching from behind. His head craned to the side, staring Maria down with an eyebrow cocked so high up it could’ve reached the same ceiling that dangled the chains once holding the tank; the latter now on the floor, and the chains swinging freely without purpose. “As if there’s any legality behind this acquisition. It’s a scare tactic. One that I have no intentions of falling for.”
Maria kept her gaze on the glass chamber, even with Norman’s stare trying to pierce daggers through her hard-shelled exterior.
“Strange,” she drawled out, watching as the scientists began to unplug large pipes from the glass chamber — leaving the green substance inside, where its glow persisted even without the aid of electricity. “Most scare tactics usually don’t involve boarding up the windows. Do they?”
Maria turned her gaze to Fury for a response, only to receive a cold and muted “Mhm,” in return.
Norman flitted his eyes in that same direction, the lines around his lips tightening with the noticeable clench of his jaw.
“Director Hill, humor me if you’d be so kind,” he abruptly began, breaching the empty space between them as he made quick, hard strides towards Maria. One hand left his pocket to gesture her way. “Are you aware of the hypocrisy behind your actions? Did it ever occur to you that you’ve sought out to silence the replication of the very thing your agency created all those years ago?”
Maria finally met his gaze, turning her body inward to face him — and not sparing an ounce of gall in the process.
“Norman, consider yourself lucky that you’re leaving here escorted by your men in an evacuation ship,” she leaned her hip casually against the railing as she spoke, “and not with your hands cuffed behind your back on your way to Ryker’s Island.”
Norman let out a huff, strong enough that it rattled his chest and the ‘OsCorp’ logo plastered across the collarbone of his full-zip jacket. But it wasn’t the sleek design of his company’s name that grabbed Maria’s attention. It was the conspiratorial smirk that followed, wide enough to show the whites of his bottom teeth.
“You’d have no grounds to arrest me,” he simply said.
Fury shot his head around, his one eye holding more expression than all three of them combined.
“Is the pressure getting to me?” He stuck his finger in his ear and wiggled it around to make a point, all while looking straight at Maria. “Am I hearing him right?”
Maria barely acknowledged Fury, using the moment to take a step forward — officially decimating the breathing room between herself and Norman. If the smell of steel and clinical sterility weren’t so abundant, she’d have been close enough to catch a heavy whiff of his cologne.
“Kid yourself all you want, but what you’ve done down here isn’t remotely comparable to the creation of Erskine’s super-soldier serum,” Maria’s voice dipped low while increasing in volume, aided by the steel walls that intensified the sound. “You’ve illegally experimented on human participants —”
Norman balked. “Willingly paid volunteers—!”
“Sir, not another word!” His lawyer jumped forward, reaching for Norman’s bicep and latching on with a tight grip.
Norman didn’t shake off that grip, but when he gave Sanford a piercing look, the man immediately released his grasp without saying another word.
Though the lawyer stepped away, Fury had no problems stepping forward in his place.
“Let’s get one thing straight, Osborn.” Fury dipped his head low, staring Norman head-on with such intensity, it was hard to remember only one eye was dong the work. “If we weren’t on international waters right now, you’d be taking over Cap’s cell on the Raft.”
Norman dropped his head with a low, throaty chuckle. Each expel of laughter shook his back and his head swung left to right, shaking just the same.
"Ah, yes, your great Captain America," he drawled out his words in a slow, deliberate manner. “The prodigal son is released from his chains, returned to his founder’s arms as the mighty Avengers heal the breach, the world celebrates their reunification — and least of all, SHIELD returns to hoarding the abundance of power all for themselves.” At the drop of a hat, Norman’s grin fell flat, along with every other muscle on his face. “Ensuring no one but themselves has the rights to push the limits of human evolution, and punishing anyone who dares to try.”
It was Maria’s turn to scoff, and she didn’t try to hide the noise, either. Her gaze flicked downwards to watch the remaining scientists depart, abandoning the surrounding equipment covered haphazardly with a few white sheets — a far fetched hope that they could return one day and retrieve what they couldn’t take with them now.
“You know...I’ve met some delusional people in my line of work. But you’re truly mad, Norman, if you think anything you’ve done down here has an inkling to do with evolution.” Maria tossed back, with thick disgust lacing into her every word — reflecting in her eyes with a cold anger.
And she let Norman see that anger as she swiveled her head back towards him. Unafraid to hold his gaze, even when his stare was unrelenting.
Norman brought both his hands into the air, twisting his wrists back and forth, all with a grin etched deeply in the emerald glow shining from down below.
“And yet,” he said, cocksure and cavalier, “my hands remain uncuffed.”
Though Maria looked away with a frustrated shake of her head, Fury’s eyes stayed locked on Norman’s — hardening with each passing second.
Norman raised an eyebrow at him, and left it at that.
“Mr. Osborn, we need to go.” Sanford gestured down the hallway as opposed to touching his client, his exhaustion clear as day in his voice. “Preferably before you say something that will get you arrested.”
Though Norman looked displeased to turn his back on both SHIELD directives, he did just that, ensuring his gaze was the last thing to depart. The ill-lit laboratory was unkind to the frown on his face, aging him far older than the forty-four year old man he was.
Fury relished in that as both men began to make their exit out the same entrance they’d come from.
“Better listen to him,” Fury called out, twisting at his hips to watch them leave. “I keep a pair of handcuffs in my back pocket. Just in case.”
Norman’s steps ground to a halt as if the earth itself had decided to hold him in place. His lawyer had already passed through the doorway leading out into the hallways, but he stood alone — Norman failed to make the exit alongside him.
“By all means, take this facility.” Norman’s tone was deadly calm as he turned on his heels, facing both agents head-on. His eyes flashed with a dangerous intensity as his voice dropped to a low, ominous cadence. “Take the five that come after it. The ten before it. SHIELD can seize everything OsCorp births to life and you still won’t deter my determination.”
With a thunderous gait, Norman strode forward, his steps ringing out like a drumbeat. He didn’t stop until there was barely an arms length between himself and Fury, leaving just enough space for him to point a stiff hand right at the directive.
“The government may have handed you back your toys, but I assure you, the world will turn on you and your lawless Avengers before you know it. The driving force you hold to your advantage won’t stay there for long. And when my studies produce soldiers far more superior than super, you’ll wish you hadn’t forced the cessation of my work — regardless of where and how it takes place.”
Fury met Norman’s stare with his own, neither man speaking for a long moment.
“Is that a threat?” Fury finally broke the silence, his tone as steely as the bunkers foundation.
For the beat that followed, the air grew thick with tension — to the point where even Maria stepped forward, pushing off the metal railing as if she needed to ensure her ears heard whatever came next.
“It’s nothing more than an observation,” Norman answered with a blasé shrug. He turned to Maria, watching as she crossed her arms over her chest, making sure to throw her a grin along the way. “You see, every participate in these trials, every single person who agreed to these studies — they all did so with the same mutual desire. Restoring the balance of power back to mankind.”
As he turned to face Fury, the grin that had moments ago lit up his face disappeared, replaced by a cold, hard expression. Even in the lab’s dim lighting, the contempt in his eyes was impossible to conceal.
“Your Almighty Captain, your Gods of Thunder — witches who blow up hundreds of innocent civilians across foreign land, undisclosed beings that fly in the sky with the light of the sun beaming from their head, exceeding any mass weapons of destruction the United States could ever obtain...no one organization, not even your wayward SHIELD, should hold so much power. The Avengers are a walking nuclear bomb waiting to explode and the dissolvement of the Accords will be the prelude to what could possibly be total world destruction.” Norman’s jaw set in determination, and his gaze shifted from one agent to the other, almost daring them to interrupt him. When they didn’t, he arched an eyebrow high up his forehead — wordlessly challenging them both. “Unless, of course, someone intervenes.”
Fury’s one eye narrowed until it was just a thin slit. “And who do you propose that be? You?”
For a brief moment, Norman said nothing. He used the pause to look over his shoulder, intently watching the few men who remained disperse into groups, taking with them only what they could carry in their hands.
“Your vindication is riddled with hypocrisy,” he sneered, languidly but sharply turning his gaze back ahead. With a hard sniff, Norman squared his shoulders, raising his chin slightly with an air of unwavering conviction. “But I promise you, it’s short lived. SHIELD has reigned supereminent long enough. It’s time that the inclusion of mans evolution with superhuman advancement be disseminated, and I assure you both, I have no plans to stop until that power is equal to us all.”
Maria opened her mouth to speak.
Fury barked out a laugh before she could utter a single syllable.
“You don’t really want the world to have collective power, Osborn!” he belittled the spiel with ease, taunting Norman as each laugh grew louder and more derisive. The sounds echoed in the large room. “You want it all for yourself! You’re after a dictatorship.”
Fury's laughter gradually tapered into a series of chuckles before eventually dying down completely, leaving behind his usual hardened expression in its place.
“And if that means manipulating some mutated puppets until you reach your goal, then that's exactly what you’ll do.” Fury met his gaze head-on, and didn’t so much as blink in the process. “You’ll sell them any promise of power you can throw together in a laboratory, without ever telling them that they’re just tools for you to use — bodies that you’ll trample over to get higher up the hill.”
Calmly and stoically, Norman clasped both hands behind his back, leaning forward on the balls of his feet until he reached an uncomfortably close proximity to Fury.
“And tell me, Nicholas…” The corner of his lip twitched into a smile. “How are you any different?”
The lights from down below shut off, one at a time, signaling the end to an abrupt and forced evacuation that was finally reaching completion. It only brightened the glow from the chamber left behind, the green substance inside sickeningly intense in the departure of fluorescent bulbs.
It struck the side of Norman’s face, staying there in the absence of movement.
If Fury had any response, it didn’t escape the scowl that pressed his lips thin and tight. The stillness in the room was deafening, carrying with it an overpowering aura of simmering animosity.
It was a sigh that cut through the silence, heavy and tired, and downright exasperated.
“Well…” Still standing in the doorway, Sanford gestured apathetically ahead of him. “It’s a good thing we’re under international waters. Because all of that was very condemning.” He didn’t wait for anyone to respond, already down the hallway as he called out, “Mr. Osborn — leave, now.”
The three words echoed in the corridor as the lawyer took off. Norman remained still for a moment, his hands passively entwined behind his back and a wry smile playing at the corners of his lips.
Finally, he took a few steps back and gave a tight nod before pivoting on his heels and walking away, leaving only the sound of his footsteps to mark his departure.
Maria didn’t waste a second once she was sure Norman was gone before speaking.
“He’s up to something.”
Fury gave a sardonic huff as he pushed himself forward, heading for the same exit up ahead.
“No shit,” he said, departing the lab in the opposite way of Norman and his remaining OsCorp staff. Their heavy footsteps, from both sides of the corridors, could’ve been bombs echoing down the halls. “It’s all a matter of what.”
The hallways took them back to the glass curtains, the exterior of the bunker showing the ocean life right alongside the submarine stationed outside, parked in a bed of seaweed that swayed under the current.
Fury reached inside his jacket and retrieved a small button, pressing the center and bringing that same submarine to life.
“Let’s move,” he instructed, pocketing the device back inside his jacket as the lights from the submarine cut through the dark blue water, highlighting every bit of seaweed surrounding it. “I wouldn’t put it past them to shut off life support systems while we’re still down here.”
Maria kept up with his pace as they quickly made for the exits.
“You sure we can’t go through with demolition, sir? Could always just say it was an accident.” Her words were laced with subtle innuendo as she tried to convey the unspoken through her tone. When Fury failed to indicate any response — saying more without words than if he’d spoken at all — Maria relented on a small sigh. “I get that it’s property, but it also feels like a big liability leaving it behind.”
The lights behind them shut off one at a time, almost falling in sync to the beat of their footsteps. If they lost speed even momentarily, they would’ve been left in total darkness.
“Osborn may get to keep this piece of shit Raft predecessor, but even he knows coming back down here will be career suicide,” Fury said, right as they came to a dead end in the hallway. Without a second thought, he reached above him for the ladder leading up to the hatch. It dropped down with ease. “It may just be a scare static, but it’s a damn good one — and he goddamn knows it, too.”
Using both hands to grasp the ladder’s rungs, Fury pulled himself up, not once looking behind him at Maria when he spoke. “At thirteen-hundred-feet under the ocean, these walls will rot away before anyone steps foot down here again.”
While Fury entered the vestibule of the submarine first, Maria followed closely behind him, pulling herself up the ladder and taking his hand for help once he got himself settled inside.
“I’m feeling sushi,” she joked, pushing herself off the last step of the ladder and brushing the dust off her knees afterwards. “What about you?”
The hatch shut behind her with a resounding thud, the sound echoing throughout the bunker’s empty halls without a soul left behind to hear its closure.
⌜ Meanwhile
Upstate, New York
Avengers Compound ⌝
Flashes of lights punctuated the press room in staccato rhythm as journalists and photographers worked desperately to capture the moment in front of them.
“Well, with a crowd like this…” Pepper’s smile was highlighted by the camera’s flickering bulbs as she gave a soft laugh, “how can I say no?”
Down on one knee with a ring between his thumb and forefinger, Tony whipped his head towards the abundance of media personnel with breakneck speed.
“Is that a yes?” he asked the room, filled to the rim with bodies — far too crowded to turn his attention to one individual person. “Someone tell me that’s a yes.”
From the thick of the crowd, a reporter shouted loudly over the wild camera shutters, “That’s a yes, Mr. Stark!”
The entire room erupted into a slew of different sounds, “Congratulations!” shouting from left and right, accompanied by the blunt clapping of hands in different unison.
Tony’s gaze remained steadfast on Pepper as he rose from his knee, standing up straight while effortlessly slipping the ring onto her finger. He pulled her closer to him with the same fluid grace, the lines around his eyes wrinkling as Pepper’s smile brought out the freckles on her face.
“Can’t believe you’ve had that thing for eight years,” Pepper said, her voice soft and barely audible over the excitement of the crowd, but her body close enough to his that she didn’t need to raise her voice.
“Eight years too many.” Tony’s grin stretched to both his ears as he clasped Pepper’s hand in his, holding it close to his chest and bridging any distance that may have separated them.
The crowd erupted with even more fervor as Tony leaned in for a kiss, their excitement igniting the room into more cheers and claps. Even after their lips parted, he lingered close to her, savoring the gentle touch of her nose against his and the mingling of her perfume in the air.
“I love you, Pep,” he whispered, too softly for anyone but them to hear.
Pepper’s nose crinkled as she smiled in return. “I love too—”
“What about the Accords!”
A reporter boisterously interrupted the moment, his shout breaking through the storm of camera shutters that filled the press room.
“What’s the arrangement now, with the Avengers, with the Accords being dismantled?” Another reporter chimed in with a hurried tone.
“Will we be seeing Cap back at the compound anytime soon?” A third voice added to the mix.
“Any response to reports of Natasha Romanoff being spotted here last week, Mr. Stark?” Another reporter asked, leaning forward in the crowd of people to get Tony's attention.
“What about Spider-Man!”
Tony’s ears perked up as he honed in on the voice, effortlessly cutting through the noise of questions spewing from the crowd.
“Who said that?” In a split second, Tony released his hold on Pepper’s hand and directed an accusatory finger towards the press, his eyes sweeping back and forth to find the source. The finger paused, hovering over the middle of the crowd. “You. What did you say — you say Spider-Man?”
The room fell silent, and the cameras’ clicks and flashes ceased, with fewer shutters sounding and fewer bulbs flashing.
Heads slowly began to swivel in the direction of Tony’s finger, where a middle-aged man stood center of them all, his press badge prominently displayed on his crisp white button-up shirt. His photo ID was different than his face — in his picture, he wasn’t wearing glasses. In front of Tony, he wore thick black frames that caught the reflection of the lights filling the room.
“An inside source of mine leaked information revealing that this press conference was called in regards to a new member of the Avengers,” the man began to say, undaunted by the finger that continued to point in his direction. “Queens Spider-Man, no?”
The cacophony of voices, shuffling feet, and clicking cameras abruptly stopped. An anticipatory silence fell over the room, charged with a strong electricity.
“When will we get to know more about your latest creation?” the reporter went on to ask.
It was a good thing Tony had years of experience living in the public eye. Always under constant scrutiny of the media, his poker-face remained neutral even as the question burned his ears red hot.
“Latest crea —?” Tony noticeably frowned, unable to finish the sentence without a sour taste coating his tongue. He took a step forward, narrowing his eyes to better see the reporters name badge. “Swing that by me again, Mr...Urich?”
The room’s attention swiftly shifted towards the middle-aged man, his unruly locks swept back from his forehead, revealing a single eyebrow raised so high it nearly reached into his hairline.
“Ben. Ben Urich,” he announced, his Brooklyn accent seemingly thicker as he went on to talk. “And there’s been no shortage of rumors that the Spider-Man we done seen working vigilantism in Queens is a product of yours. My inside source, while only an wacked rumor, makes sense if you’re trying to bring him onboard. Work him a bit in the lower class towns first, breed a symbol of hope and support for the average Joe. Then inaugurate his membership when your image is at its worst — and no offense but it currently is, what with the United Nations reluctantly handing control back to SHIELD despite the numerous protests the Avengers remain under government jurisdiction.” Ben wagged his pen in the air, swinging it along with his words. “It’s the perfect marketing strategy, combined with the obvious indication that Tony Stark created him. It’s been caught multiple times on camera that Spider-Man is clearly wearing Stark tech. Not for nuttin’ but you have to pardon my belief in the speculation.”
Tony’s expression slipped, if only for a moment, with a deep furrow creasing his brow along the way. It wasn’t until Pepper discreetly laid an open palm against the small of his back that he recovered.
“Speculation is correct,” Tony damped the flare in his voice, letting his poise take over instead. “You pay good money for that gossip?”
A few camera shutters sounded in the pause that followed, with some hushed voices whispering near the back of the room — most of which Tony noticed belonged to SHIELD security and his own Stark Industries personnel.
“If it were a commodity, sure, but it ain’t nothing the whole world don’t already know,” Ben responded, his notepad and pen held at the ready, as if prepared to take notes on every word that spilled from Tony’s lips. For what he wouldn’t write down in time, the small digital recorder dangling from his lanyard would certainly handle. “It’s been almost four months now Spider-Man’s been seen wearing Stark tech. That facts indicate that Spider-Man is the brainchild of Tony Stark’s, the association between the two —”
“Ah-ah, let’s get something straight, Benny-Boy,” Tony quickly, and firmly, interrupted. “The association between between those two starts, and ends, with the supply of tech. Your ‘wacked rumors’ —” Tony suddenly turned to face Pepper. “Is that what he called it? Wacked rumors?”
Pepper closed her eyes with a restrained sigh and an even more restrained, “Oh, good lord.”
With a sharp pivot, Tony refocused his attention on the crowd. “Whatever you call them — they’re rumors. And they can stay rumors, capiche?”
Ben used his index finger to push the bridge of his glasses up his nose.
“The proof is in the print, Mr. Stark. Not to mention it’s been widely circulated among the media outlets, and the social media buzz it’s generated has been practically nonstop,” he pointed out, meeting Tony’s cocky expression with his own. “The public’s eating it up. Tony Stark creates the next generation of superheroes, Queens Spider-Man seen working with creator Iron Man — everyone’s been talking about your latest creation —”
“Clickbait and sensationalism, Mr. Urich,” Tony coolly dismissed, nonchalantly throwing his hand out in Ben’s general direction. “Judging by your smokers lines, I’d say you’ve been doing this gig for a while now, hm? Shouldn’t you know better? Or do you need a reminder of what reputable journalism looks like?”
Ben’s lack of verbal response was compensated with a disbelieving look, one that spoke volumes. And he wasn’t the only one with doubts; the skepticism was contagious.
One by one, reporters turned to look at Tony with avid interest.
Tony considered it a feat he didn’t roll his eyes on camera, and even more of a feat that he met their looks of curiosity with a charming smile and a slight shrug of his shoulders — throwing on an act like it was second nature.
“Hate to break it to you, but there’s no story here. There’s no brainchild, there’s no creation. Spider-Man — he’s his own guy, doing his own thing.” A moment hung in the air like a suspended note as Tony clamped and unclamped his jaw, his mind churning as he formed the words that came next. “The Stark tech he’s been given — that doesn’t make him who he is. If that tech was gone tomorrow, he’d still find a way to do what he does. Honest to God truth, I had nothing to do with the existence of Spider-Man — and you can quote me on that, Mr. Urich.”
Ben cocked an eyebrow with incredulity, his pen frozen mid-scratch on his notepad. “Then I gotta ask, why provide him with the Stark tech in the first place?”
Tony gave the crowd a comical look.
“Have you seen how high he swings through New York city? Monkeys in a barrel have nothing on him!”
There was a bit of laughter that followed Tony’s response. He used the moment of levity to his advantage, literally waving off the mounting curiosity with a flick of his hand.
“Anyone like Spider-Man, they deserve to do what they do safely,” he said with a shrug, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’d be criminal not to share my cool toys with him, don’t you think?”
As Ben jolted something down on his notepad, a voice from behind him perked up, “So you support vigilantism then, Mr. Stark?”
That time, Tony couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. And the cameras ate it up.
“Vigilantism — what a stupid word.” He gave an exasperated huff, his gaze quickly growing annoyed at the flashing camera bulbs. “Come on! What happened to Good Samaritans, to helping your neighbor?” Tony pointed a finger to the crowd, though it didn’t aim at anyone in particular. “You know, this is exactly why the Accords fell apart — the moment you restrict people from being a decent human being without facing criminal charges and suddenly no one will rise to the occasion.”
Tony shook his head with indignation, even as he turned and caught sight of Pepper — her scorching gaze hot enough to melt through every one of his Iron Man suits. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the fiery spirit that had earned her the name Pepper in the first place.
Still, he kept talking — because that’s what he had a tendency to do at these press conferences. Cue-cards or not.
“You wanna make a difference in this world? You wanna make change, have impact? I’ll be the first to tell you, it’s not doing what I do. That vigilante you wanna talk about — Spider-Man? People like Spider-Man…” Tony’s gaze wandered away from the crowd, his growing frustration threatening to shatter his facade.
Working for a distraction, he found the windows lining the press room, where the sun from outside the building hit the glass just right.
He kept his eyes there, even as he spoke.
“There’s no job too small for Spider-Man,” Tony went on to say, his tone softening with each word spoken. “He’ll get to a robbery long before NYPD even get the call, saving the life of your local bodega owner before some lowlife with a pistol makes a quick five hundred bucks. And then, guess what — he’ll go walk your daughter home at night when her friends leave her behind, making sure she gets there safely. Spider-Man helps old ladies cross the street, he stops runaway cars, even retrieves lost balloons for crying children. You name it, he’s done it. What the Avengers do — sure, we’ll stop a crisis when it rears its ugly head, but people like Spider-Man? He keeps your neighborhood safe, he keeps the people safe. What we do pales in comparison to that.”
Tony’s eyes narrowed slightly as the sun swelled through the clouds, catching onto the car that began to pull away from the entrance of the compound.
“Everything about him, everything he does — the good, the great, for every person that’s out there who needs help…” As he spoke, Tony’s eyes glinted with a steely resolve, his words ringing with a sense of purpose.
The pause that followed allowed enough time for the press to snap a few unwanted and most certainty unflattering photos. There was no telling what nonsense the tabloids would throw together from that moment alone, but Tony didn’t care.
Lost in his thoughts, he barely noticed the crowd as he watched the Audi drive away on the long stretch of road outside the compound, shrinking in size as it picked up speed.
Finally, when the car had vanished completely from sight, Tony cleared his throat, his expression shifting to a halfhearted smile as he turned back to face the reporters — poised as ever.
“He’s a hero, not a vigilante,” Tony firmly finished, punctuating it with a pointed finger aimed at the crowd for emphasis. “And the world needs more heroes like him. Not like me, not like Cap. At the end of the day, even if I had created him, Spider-Man’s simply too good for the Avengers.”
As Ben went to scribble something else on his notepad, Tony quickly and loudly snapped his fingers, getting the reporters attention — along with a few other heads that shot up at the sound.
“But put it on the record, Mr. Urich, I did not create Spider-Man,” Tony’s voice was steady and confident as he looked Ben straight in the eye — who slowly started to pocket away his pen and notepad, opting instead to give Tony his undivided attention. “Greatness like Spider-Man...you can’t manufacture that.”
“He’s a menace!”
Any follow-up Ben may have wanted to say was drowned out by the boisterous shout that erupted from the back of the room.
“Did you see what he did to the Washington monument, not to mention that ferry bus!” There was no mistaking the source of the yelling as Jonah Jameson cut through the crowd, the only thing higher than his raised arm being his voice — practically screeching with each word. “He’s a criminal, a terror to society, no different than you and your gang of super-powered freaks —!”
“Who let the Bugle in?” Tony spun on his heels, looking to the security surrounding them with furrowed eyebrows. “Seriously, I thought we had real reporters here, not bloggers. Don’t we have standards?”
Pepper’s, “Oh, good lord!” was definitely heard that time around as she snapped her fingers for her publicist, the two of them already mouth-to-ear as they rushed to contain the situation.
It did nothing to stop Jonah, who would’ve needed someone to tackle him to the ground if there was any chance at stopping him.
“Spider-Man’s caused nothing but havoc to the good people of New York —!”
“He saves cats from trees!” Tony’s shout easily overlapped his.
Jonah brandished a finger to the front of the room. “He nearly killed over three hundred passengers on that ferry —!”
“That’s absolutely ridiculous!” Tony kept going over him, loudly. “The FBI declassified the crime report almost immediately and it shows, clear as day, Adrian Toomes being the sole transgressor for the Staten Island incident —”
“Well all know Spider-Man was in cahoots with that crazy bird maniac!” Jonah shouted back.
It wasn’t physically possible for Tony’s face to contort any harder. “Tell me, Jameson, how is the Daily Bugle still printing and selling lies after all these years?”
Even from deep in the crowd, Tony could make out the large vein that began to swell across Jonah’s forehead, nearly as big as the finger he shook in the air.
“I resent that!”
Tony met that finger with his own. “It’s libel, no?”
“It is not!” Jonah bit back. His hand suddenly dropped, smacking against his side. “In print, it’s libel. Slander is spoken.”
Tony didn’t have a chance to toss a rebuttal — a reporter roughly stepped in front of Jonah, their microphone far ahead of them to try and reach the front.
“Are the Accords truly dismantled, Mr. Stark?”
The question stirred the cameras into a frenzy, desperate to capture the moment if an answer came from Tony’s lips — flashes of light suddenly lit the room ablaze, causing Pepper and her publicist to turn back to the crowd, thrown by a loop at the sudden change of topic.
“Is it true Cap will be moving back in!” A woman near the back had to shout over the commotion.
“Are the Avengers still a team!” Another voice tried to break through. “Is that what Spider-Man is about, are you training for your replacements?”
“People! People! People!” Tony roughly reached over their clamor, raising his voice to do so. Even as he kept speaking, they kept asking questions over him. “That is not what this moment is about! This lovely lady was just proposed to and you’re out here to ruin the mood —” Tony spun on his heels, shooing Pepper out the door with both his hands. “Pepper, honey, hurry now, before the cameras catch you tears —”
Pepper smacked one of those hands away.
“Thank you, everyone, for coming out,” Pepper said in lieu of acknowledging Tony, turning to the crowd with a smile too tight to be genuine. “Your curiosity regarding the Avengers is understandable, it’s been an exciting few months for them. Unfortunately, SHIELD does enact NDA’s. We’ll speak about it when we can, and you all will be the first to hear from us.”
When the questions kept coming, Pepper used the next best thing she could to silence them — she raised her hand in the air, showing off the diamond now glistening from her finger.
“Until that day comes, it looks like I have a wedding to plan.”
There wasn’t a single camera in the room that didn’t go off, and Tony used Pepper’s quick thinking for a moment of distraction to whip out his glasses, shielding his eyes from the lights with his yellow tinted frames.
Yet even as Pepper worked to entertain the photographers with a photo op of her shining Harry Winston, reporters kept tossing out their questions — clearly desperate to use the press event as a way to get answers that could be sold for thousands.
“Is there anything you can tell us about the arrangements with SHIELD—”
“What will living situations be? Ms. Potts, do you plan to permanently reside at the Avenger’s compound, or is Malibu calling your name again?”
“Mr. Stark! Was Natasha Romanoff seen at the compound last week —”
“You’re all hearing it first,” Pepper raised her voice to cut through their multitude of questions, not resisting her bodyguard when he started guiding her in the direction of the exit. “And we’re so excited to have shared this once-in-a-lifetime moment with you. So glad this is how it went. Truly, fantastic. Thank you, everyone.”
Tony resisted the urge to laugh at Pepper’s sarcasm and instead made a mental note to have her favorite wine delivered tonight — it was the least she deserved after all this, and certainly the least he could do.
He whipped out his phone to do just that when he caught sight of her security detail already escorting her to the door.
“Give it a month, people!” Tony pocketed his phone away as he shot the crowd a wink, quickly making large strides towards the exit — more than happy to depart alongside her. “No more than two, three if she can’t settle on a dress!”
As Tony reached the doorway, he spun on his heels, wagging his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of where Pepper awalked away.
“And you all know this one, she cannot decide on what to wear, am I right?”
The laughter was less plentiful from the crowd that time around, the photographers and reporters too busy packing up equipment to pay much attention.
Still, Tony kept talking.
Because that’s what he had a tendency to do at these press conferences.
The cue-cards never worked.
“Wedding invitations will go out tomorrow, RSVP quickly!” Tony walked through the threshold of the doorway only to pop back in, giving a lazy twizzle of his index finger across the crowd. “You’re all invited — except you, J.J. Go fly a kite.”
Pepper’s voice could be heard all the way out in the hallway. “Tony, for the love of —!”
“Don’t blink! You’ll miss it!” Tony’s voice carried out with him as the door to the press room slowly closed shut with their departure. “We’ll be hitched before you know it!”
⌜ One Year Later
October, 2017
Present Day ⌝
“FRIDAY!” Tony clapped his hands twice as he all but leaped across the workshop, sparing no ounce of energy along the way. “Let’s go, sweetheart, it’s hardware time!”
It was nothing short of a miracle that FRIDAY heard him, what with the way music thundered from every corner of the room. Which was appropriate for the song currently blasting through the surround sound, AC/DC’s Thunder Struck echoing against the walls with enough volume to rip the compound in half.
“Alright, neural network installed and running at full capacity,” Tony rattled off, speaking aloud for his own benefit — though if he could even hear his own voice was up for debate. “Multimodal augmentations at slight field variance. Nanometers passed every algorithmic calculation — because of course they did, my math is never wrong.”
Tony eagerly hopped onto the circular platform stationed center of his workshop, plating both feet firmly in place once there.
“I’d say you’re long overdue for a test trial, my dear.” With both hands interlaced, Tony pushed his arms outward and crackled his knuckles — the music, once again, stealing the noise away.
Disentangling those same hands, he pulled his elbows back in, tapping his fingers against the housing unit sealed onto his chest.
It was hard to tell what caused the tingling vibrations running through his toes, into his calves, and across his kneecaps. It could’ve very well been the blasting bass from the music overhead, casting into the walls and rumbling onto the floors of his workshop. Or for all he knew it was his giddy schoolboy excitement, building into a crescendo that had him jittery with anticipation.
Whatever the cause, Tony didn’t let it lessen his smile.
“Come on, baby, you got this!” Tony watched enthusiastically as the arc reactor lit to light, filling the workshop with a blue glow that grew brighter with time. “Come on, come on…come on!”
It took a beat, and what Tony swore was a few missed beats of his heart along with it, but there was no mistaking when the housing unit released the nanites. Within seconds they poured out, all at once, tiny particulars working in tandem to form over the structure of his body.
The spark from each microscopic piece of red and gold shimmered underneath the workshop lights, coalescing around him with an animation only outmatched by Tony’s exhilaration.
“Yes!” The nanites hadn’t even reach past Tony’s hips when he cheered — and he didn’t stop with just one shout. He kept going. “Yes, YES, that’s what I’m talking about!”
The air crackled with energy as the nanobots worked at lightning speed, and Tony’s body was surrounded by a glowing aura of light as the suit began to take shape; sleek and streamlined, with glowing repulsor beams in the palms of his gauntlets.
His laugh easily reached over the music.
“Tony!”
And so did that.
Tony shot his head up, his grin so large his back molars caught the ceiling lights. It didn’t fade, not even as Pepper came storming into the workshop, bursting through the automatic doors before they’d fully parted for her.
“Oh my god!” Pepper practically screamed against the blaring music, immediately smothering both palms against her ears to protect her hearing. “Tony, what are you doing!?”
Tony threw Pepper a bewildered look.
“What does it look like I’m doing!” he shouted right back, the nanites still building around the length of his legs as he gestured enthusiastically to himself. “I’m re-building the nanosuit!”
For once, not even the usual sound of Pepper’s high-heels clicking against the floor could be heard. She stormed forward with enough frustration in her step that it should’ve rattled the whole earth, but each stomp was muted underneath the bass of the music.
“You’re what!?”
Tony gestured even more enthusiastically to himself.
“The nanosuit!” He paused. “Bleeding Edge?” Another pause, and Tony made a face. “I told you about this, we talked about this! It’s nanotech! Each piece works on a molecular surface-bound level — check this out!”
Tony turned at the hips, and then again on the other side, motioning to the nanites that covered his body with a polished shine. His grin blew wide open as he admired his work.
“It’s taken some time to reconstruct all the nanites from scratch, but since I made sure to copy the blueprints after dismantling Mark 37 for complete magnetic use when Ivan the Terrible forced us to —”
“What!?” Pepper interrupted him with a shout that was more of a scream than anything else.
Tony shot his head up, frowning.
“What part of that didn’t you understand?” Tony guessed the answer based off Pepper’s expression. “The nanosuit? The one I took apart to get Parker back from — did you hear anything I said?”
“I can’t hear you!” Pepper shook her head so vigorously that her ponytail came loose. “I can’t — Tony, turn down the —!”
“FRIDAY, turn down volume.”
Dutiful as ever, his AI complied at the request immediately, lowering the soundtrack of rock music to a near-muted volume.
It became so quiet, so suddenly, that the sound of Pepper’s frustration was audible with each huff of air that blew right through her flared nostrils.
Tony hopped off the platform, pointing a lax finger towards her.
“You looked stressed.” Even as Tony walked towards her, the nanites kept building around his body, already creeping up along the edges of his neck. “You stressed?”
Pepper gaped, staring him down with a look that he tried often not to be on the receiving end of.
“Am I — yes, Tony, I’m stressed!” Despite the lack of blaring music, Pepper still yelled. “The wedding is in two weeks! And you’re down here being...being…” As Tony closed in on Pepper, she brushed right past him, physically jostling his shoulder and sparking a light against the nanites still forming against his arm. “Well...you!”
It was only when Pepper met the center of the workshop that she stopped. Her heels suddenly dug into the ground as she pointed straight ahead to one of the many glass cases that held his multitude of suits.
“Since when did Iron Man start wearing purple?”
Tony jogged up to her, almost leaping forward to intercept her view.
“Ah-ah!” Spreading both arms out in front of him, Tony tried to block the case from being seen as he teased, “That’s a wedding present, you can’t see that.”
If Pepper rolled her eyes any harder, Tony worried they may not return.
“Tony, what have you been doing?”
It was Tony’s turn to gape, and like all things, he went above and beyond in doing it.
“Working!” he defended, gesturing an open arm at his surroundings as if that further cleared things up.
Pepper shot him a scorching glare, and there was no doubt about it — Tony was officially on the receiving end of that look. The one so hot, it earned the woman her namesake.
“This is good, I had time for this!” Tony’s hands gestured wildly up and down the length of his body. “We needed this, after something like Venom —”
“Two weeks!” Pepper spun on her heels, pacing across the opposite end of the workshop as she threw her hands up into the air. “Do you know how tempted I am to retract the invitations that you abruptly sent out while you were in Wakanda?”
“Uh-uh, no —” Tony spun around to face her, and then spun again when he turned the wrong direction the first time. “We are not post-poning this again, it’s already been over a year —”
“We still have to select the catering menu, find an officiant, I haven’t even had a second to consider writing vows —” If Pepper heard him, she chose to ignore him, her heels clacking against the floor as she paced purposelessly across the workshop. “Oh, and how could I forget, half the guests are going to need transportation to the church since its in the middle of New York city —”
Tony’s face twisted in a bunch. “What’s wrong with the city?”
Pepper suddenly stopped pacing, turning to look him head-on with look of utter bafflement.
“My family is from Virginia, Tony!” The pause that followed did nothing but sound crickets. Pepper’s expression grew even more baffled. “You booked a church in Midtown Manhattan!”
Tony gestured his arm towards her. “I thought you’d like that!”
For being the only one of them who had heart problems, Tony was almost positive Pepper’s was about to give out from the stress alone. In fact, the more he looked at her and he wondered if she’d ever appeared this stress before — post Vanko included.
“It’s not just about me though!” Pepper exclaimed, already at the furthest end of the workshop before she’d finished speaking. “There’s dietary restric—”
“Nonsense,” Tony seamlessly interrupted, casually but cautiously making his way back to the center platform, ensuring his eyes stayed on Pepper the entire time. “You’re the bride, it’s all about you.”
“There’s dietary restrictions to consider,” Pepper firmly continued, “safety concerns, keeping people away from,” she gestured broadly at the workshop, “this!”
With a dismissive hand, Tony waved off the concerns.
“Private event. I already told you that, I already assured you that.” He hoped back onto the platform, his feet rooting into place no sooner than the nanites began to retract back into the housing unit. “No photographers, no press, no paparazzi. Friends, family —that’s it. Everything’s gunna go off without a hitch, I solemnly swear — see, I’m multitasking! Working on the nanosuit and practicing vows — two birds, one stone, what more can you ask for?”
The faint mechanical whirring of nanobots withdrawing back into their containment device momentarily filled the room. As the sleek and polished armor slowly began to disperse off Tony’s skin, Pepper let the pause that followed hold the entirety of her bewilderment.
And then it blew right out of her mouth.
“Midtown Manhattan, Tony!” she all but shouted, briefly reaching out to him with clenched fists before reluctantly dropping them back down at her sides. Every second after was a second she willed her patience to come into play. “How the hell are you going to keep this a private event in Midtown Manhattan—!”
“Pep, Pep—”
“My parents can’t even drive upstate, how are they going to make it to the city—!”
“Pepper.”
As the nanites finished retreating back into the housing unit on his chest, Tony leaped off the platform, sauntering towards her as suave as ever.
She didn’t seem impressed by his charisma. But yet again, she hardly ever was.
“It’ll happen, it’ll all get done,” he promised her, reaching out for both her hands with his bare palms, his calloused skin the only barrier between them. The housing unit on his chest still glowed bright, but the suit was gone — swallowed up by the nabla shaped device. “You need to let the wedding planner focus on this stuff and just…”
Tony took a deep breath in, squeezed her hands, and smiled.
“Relax,” he said, the word spoken in a single exhale.
Though Pepper didn’t pull away from Tony's grasp, she also didn’t reciprocate his grin. If anything, her face quickly became a mess of worry lines, the telltale marks of stress and tension creating creases where there were none before.
“Relax?” she repeated, incredulously.
Tony gave a firm nod. “Relax.”
Pepper opened her mouth to speak, her neck swelling with a shout that didn’t make it past her throat — Tony swiftly interjected.
“Relax,” he said again, giving both her hands another squeeze. There was no denying that the second time around, a bit of tension bled off her shoulders. When he noticed, his grin stretched further across his lips, radiating warmth and encouragement. “Take a deep breath…”
Tony’s chest expanded as he drew in a deep, cleansing breath. He held her gaze steadily, his eyes unwavering even as the seconds passed.
“And relax,” he finished in a soothe, gentle tone.
Pepper maintained eye contact with Tony for a moment longer. The incredulity on her face remained — no surprise, she was a stubborn woman — but it didn’t intensify, either.
For Tony, that was a win.
“Take my lead, c’mon,” his voice dropped to a near-whisper as he used the hold on both her hands to bring her closer. Her heels stuttered against the floor as bridged she distance between them, so close that the silk of her blouse pressed up against the housing unit on his chest.
“Deep breath in…” Tony encouraged, the inhale that followed louder than his voice. He purposefully waited until Pepper mimicked his movements before saying, “deep breath out.”
Pepper did just that.
Sensing the release of tension from her body, Tony leaned in closer, his forehead coming to rest gently against hers.
The weight of the world fell away as both they found themselves lost in the moment, their exhales tangling together with the scent of alloy metals and palladium. The tranquility washed over them in a soothing, undulating rhythm, like the ebb and flow of the tides.
“Relax.” Tony gave her a kiss on the lips with a smile that followed suit, and this time, Pepper reciprocated — the knots in her muscles finally loosening their clenched hold.
“Have you even been preparing for your hearing on Wednesday?” Pepper went on to ask him, ignoring the way Tony nuzzled her earlobe in every way he knew was her weakness. “Or have you been down here neck deep in...lavender scented Iron Man armor?”
Tony’s words were muffled as he kept his mouth close to her skin. “It’s not lavender scented — but that’s a good idea.”
Abruptly, Pepper pulled away.
“Tony.”
“What!” Tony didn’t try to reach for Pepper’s hands again after she yanked them away. Her namesake, after all, existed for a reason.
“Your litigation against OsCorp?” Pepper looked at him, dumbfounded. “Did you forget about that?”
Tony titled his head with a smirk. “You’re not my assistant anymore, Pepper, you don’t need to follow my calendar to the tee.”
Pepper met that smirk with her own.
“As your soon to be wife, I’ll always be your assistant.”
Tony couldn’t help the soft chuckle that followed — a fight with Pepper was never a fight he’d win; he found that out a long time ago. She was good, she was always good. Trying to change things now would be idiotic — and if there was one thing Tony Stark didn’t do, it was idiotic.
“I didn’t forget. About any of it.” Tony reached into his back pocket, whipping out his cell phone and making quick swipes of his finger against the touch screen. “Pick one of everything for the catering menu, better to have and not need and et cetera, et cetera. FRIDAY’s already reaching out to transportation services, she’ll have something — ah, done. Perfect.” He pocketed the phone away with a flash of a grin. “And worse case scenario, Rhodey’s ordained — long story, spring break ‘87, he swore he’d never let me live it down. If it comes down to the wire and we can’t find someone to officiant, there’s always him.”
Pepper threw him a look.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice how you avoided mentioning the case disposition in all that.”
Tony returned that look with his own.
“It’s handled, it’s my primary point of concern,” he insisted. When Pepper’s expression didn’t change, he flung his arm out towards her in a gesture. “Who else better to lead this case than the top guy at the Weapons Procurement Liaison Department? Rhodey’s got this in the bag, now that we’ve lingered on their computer servers long enough, we have enough evidence that the courts will have no other choice but to finally go after OsCorp. Everything’s going to go off without a hitch. The trial, the wedding, the honeymoon—” Tony’s waggling eyebrows was met with Pepper’s eye-roll. “All of it. I promise.”
The sigh that blew through Pepper’s lips could’ve been a wild gust of wind, one strong enough to knock Tony over from where he stood.
“Everything’s been hitching besides us,” she half-muttered, half groaned. Her index finger rubbed at her temple hard enough to leave a red mark. “I swear, if we have to put this off one more time — that’s it, we’re done. No wedding. We’ll go to city hall —”
“Pepper,” Tony barely held back his laugh, managing to hide it in his voice where Pepper absolutely heard it — and followed through with a glare.
“I’m serious, Tony,” her voice grew stern and sharp. “This is the third time now we’ve set a date—”
“Third times a charm,” Tony tried to reason.
“I can’t keep doing this,” Pepper easily steamrolled over him. “I won’t keep doing this — it’s too much, my body physically cannot handle the stress—”
“If you just let the wedding planner take care of it —” Tony, again, tried to reason.
“There’s been some kind of crisis every time we try and do this,” Pepper kept at it, “and I truly don’t think I can —”
“— not this time.” Tony quickly stepped forward, so suddenly Pepper didn’t expect the arm that wrapped around her waist.
She interrupted her own gasp with a heated look, quickly melted by the grin Tony threw her way — all teeth, all Stark charm.
“It’s happening, done deal, no more stalling.” Tony pulled her closer, even as she gave an exasperated huff. “Like it or not, you’ll be stuck with me. Til death do us part.”
Pepper’s reluctance could be seen all the way from where Stark Industries satellites floated in space, but with time, she let herself relax in his grasp.
It was impossible to deny that Tony’s smile did the trick — the kind of grin he kept close to his sleeve, never for the press or public to see. Only for those closest to him — those who got to see the real Tony, the one that only existed outside of money and fancy toys.
With a hesitant smile, Pepper pointed a firm finger against his chest — her long nails clacking against the housing unit embedded there.
“Stuck with you and your mad fits of mania where you spend days at a time working on new nanotech armor...just great.” Pepper rolled her eyes in a playful manner. “Who knows, maybe this one will actually get to see some use.”
Tony noticeably frowned with exaggerated offense.
“Hey, be nice. That last suit served its purpose, the magnetic reconstruction got my ass in and out of that bunker —”
“Yeah?” Pepper nodded ahead, motioning over his shoulder hard enough that bits of her hair fell into her face, her pony tail too loose to hold back the ginger locks. “And what about that one?”
Tony furrowed his brows deeply, craning his head over her shoulder to where she gestured.
The glass cabinets lined the walls of his workshop, no different than any other day — it was where he stored most of his Iron Man armor, after all. Each lined the walls in presentation, the different red and gold color schemes bringing a vibrant sense of life to the otherwise modern room, filled with gray steels and light blue holograms.
But there was no mistaking that the furthest case was different than the others.
Stationed against the furthest end of the workshop, the frosted glass obscured the contents inside from view. The only hint that something of significance resided within the cabinet was the unassuming A-17 label, positioned precisely at the center.
“He’ll use it. One day,” Tony finally said, the words hanging in the air with a heavy beat that nearly swallowed the conversation whole. “When he’s ready.”
Tony didn’t even need to be looking at Pepper to see her lift a doubtful eyebrow.
“When he’s ready?” she asked, the same heavy beat separating her words no differently than his. “Or when you’re ready?”
Tony wasn’t sure how long he stared at the glass cabinet, his gaze unwavering with such intensity that time seemed to warp and stretch around him. Seconds felt like minutes, and minutes like hours, as he fixated on the A-17 label imprinted on the glass.
Eventually he blinked, and Tony swore for a moment he could still see the label superimposed on his vision, burned into his retinas like a beacon.
“Let me take a break,” he finally cut through the silence, his voice hitting like an anvil dropping on them both. He whipped his head back towards Pepper with a million dollar smile. “Catch some fresh air, maybe get some sunshine. I haven’t been to our quarters in a while, might take advantage of it while you’re here.”
Tony's smirk drowned with the unspoken and Pepper rolled her eyes for the umpteenth time since entering the workshop.
“Oh, yeah?” Pepper gave a lighthearted scoff. “Cause all you’ll be doing is picking out center pieces with me.”
Tony tightened his grip on her waist, using his other hand to reach around her back and slide through the loose ponytail that was barely holding on by its band.
“You’re tense,” he pointed out, his fingers working through her hair to reach her neck. The ponytail fell apart completely, but neither moved to put it back into its hold. “You need a massage.”
“I need you to be serious.” Not even Pepper could keep her look of indignance as Tony worked the muscles loose in her neck.
“I am,” Tony’s insistence was countered by grin plastered on his face. “I’m seriously going to de-stress you.”
Pepper managed a laugh that was far more tension ladened than humorous. As if she were a puppet with her strings cut, her head fell forward against Tony’s chest — only to whip back, her brows knitted with exasperation at the glass housing unit that left an imprint on her forehead.
“I just want this wedding over with,” Pepper grumbled, rubbing at the irritated skin of her forehead with a sigh.
Tony stopped her, clasping that same hand tightly into his.
“Don’t.” Bringing their hands to his mouth, Tony gave hers a kiss, lingering his lips against her knuckles for a long moment. “It’s going to be worth experiencing every second.”
Pepper opened her mouth to speak, right at the time the glass doors whooshed open behind her. Instead of her words sounding, the noise of tennis shoes screeching to a halt quickly filled the workshop.
“Oh — hey, you’re busy.” Peter threw his thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the doors he’d just came running through. “Never mind. I’ll come back later.”
While Pepper only turned at the hips to better see the entryway, Tony’s head completely whipped over to the doors, his neck at a very real risk of breaking from the sheer force of whiplash. The sight of Peter tripping over a monkey wrench on his way out had his eyebrows working on their own accord, lifting and scrunching in every which direction.
“I can find someone else, it’s cool, there’s no problem,” Peter rambled, rapidly looking left and right as he back peddled to the doors. “I got this, no big deal, just gotta find a fire extinguisher real quick —”
It was Pepper who admonished, “Peter…”
Though the doors whooshed open again, Peter froze at the threshold once hearing Pepper speak his name; stopping so suddenly that his one foot was still lifted into the air to take the next step.
Instead of walking out, he spun around — more literally than anything else, balancing on a single foot until he regained balance and started taking quick strides into the workshop.
“You’re looking really great, Miss. Potts.” Peter came to a sudden stop halfway into the room. “Ms. Potts. Misses Potts?” He frowned as his head craned to the side. “Soon-to-be-Mrs. Stark?”
With both their hands still clasped, Tony swung his arm out towards Peter, bringing Pepper’s along with it.
“Flattery will get you absolutely nowhere with her,” he said, straight-faced and composed.
Pepper’s jaw hit the floor as she turned inward to face him.
“Are you kidding me?” she gaped, shaking off his hand with little resistance. “Do you hear yourself sometimes?”
“Jury’s out,” Tony quickly responded, snapping both his fingers Peter’s way. “Parker, speak now or forever hold your peace.” Just as quickly, Tony turned back to Pepper with a smirk. “See? Still multitasking.”
Pepper immediately returned to rubbing at her temple. “Tony, I swear...”
“You look stressed, Miss. Potts,” Peter spoke up, pointing a finger her way as he not-so-subtly back-traced his steps to the entrance, his back facing the doors but his head still looking around the workshop. “You know, May takes these candle lit baths whenever she’s stressed. Whole bathroom smells like a bakery afterwards. Maybe —”
“Peter.” Pepper wasn’t messing around that time. Her tone managed to speak five million different things while only uttering a single word.
Peter heard it all. And once again, he came to a sudden stop, his sneakers all but fusing into the workshop floors.
“Let me just say that, in all technicality, this isn’t my fault as much as it is FRIDAY’s —”
“Didn’t I tell you not to break anything?” Tony butted in, flabbergasted incredulity lining his every word. “Did you not hear me when I said that? I remember saying it — I was there.”
Peter threw his arm out in a gesture. “To be fair, I’m not entirely sure DUM-E is broken,” he tried to argue. The beat that followed stole away any defense he had. What came next, more-so. “But I definitely need a fire extinguisher.”
The sheepish smile that followed practically stole Peter’s lips away, pulling them so thin they became nonexistent.
With half of her smile obscured by the loose strands of ginger hair that fell in front of her face, Pepper craned her head towards Tony.
“See? Always a crisis,” Pepper’s voice held the laugh she was too tired to make. With a gentle push against Tony’s chest, she insisted, “Go, I can handle the center pieces.”
Tony laughed for her, leaning forward until his lips pressed against hers. Though the kiss was short lived, his close presence to her wasn’t — Tony couldn’t find it in him to pull away, staying against her long enough that she eventually wrapped a hand around the small of his back.
“I think we both need massages,” Pepper said, chuckling at the loud murmur of assent Tony made afterward.
He gave her one last peck on the lips before turning towards the doors and facing Peter head-on.
“Did I hear that right?” Tony didn’t wait for Peter to answer before making long, fast strides towards the entrance — he was practically there in six steps.
Peter spun around to watch him leave.
“Depends,” he said, his legs springing forward to catch up with Tony but stumbling as he tripped over the discarded monkey wrench for a second time. “What’d you hear?”
Tony threw Peter a look as he hop-skipped-hopped-skipped to regain his balance, narrowly succeeding in time to catch up with Tony right at the entryway.
“You’re telling me that you broke a thirty-year-old advance hydraulic piece of machinery that managed to survive the entire demolition of my Malibu Mansion, falling thousands of feet into the ocean after being shot apart by militarily grade missiles?” The glass doors parted for them both, and Tony momentarily paused in the threshold. “You broke that DUM-E?”
Peter paused with him, hesitating just long enough that Tony’s glare started to burn.
“Okay, first off all, in my defense — which is a good defense, if I say so myself —”
“Uh-uh. Zip it.” Tony was already gone, his voice carrying out with him into the hallways. “Everything you say from this point forward is just incriminating evidence to use against your wrong doings.”
As Tony took off, Peter bounded forward on the balls of his feet, taking an extra leap to propel himself up ahead.
“Okay, but hold on, Mr. Stark, I can explain!”
As they both took off, their voices dwindled with them out into the corridors, growing more faint with the passing time.
Pepper watched them leave with a shake of her head, her chuckles hidden beneath the mechanical whirring of the glass doors as they slid shut.
Notes:
uses watering can to hydrate her bed of soil
Oh boy, look at all these seeds I’m planting. What a wonderful garden of plots this is going to be. So many plots, blooming just in time for spring. The plots will grow in wonderful this season, won't they?
It’s not a KitCat fanfic without some fun nerdy facts!
Ben Urich made a fun little cameo in this chapter – one of the many cameo’s this story will have the pleasure of seeing. While I know the MCU technnicallllyyy used him, and killed him off, in the Daredevil show – I went with the comic version of Ben Urich for this moment, staying more true to his hardened, Brooklyn chain-smoking personality. Perhaps, in this universe, two Ben Urich’s exist and both happen to be into journalism? The possibilities are endless.
Speaking of endless possibilities...*wink wink*
Oh! Didn't get a chance to mention it in the beginning note but this story is going to have SO many references from SO many superhero properties, not just the MCU. If Jonah's libel/slander banter didn't already clue you in on that —I am a nerd, and like the two stories before this, I will be throwing in the fun comic tibits as we go. This series, and this story in particular, is my love letter to my life long obsession with Spider-Man and Marvel comics. I have no shame in all that is to come. Strap in tight! It's gunna be a WILD ride :)
Chapter 2: Save The Date
Summary:
The folder plopped back onto the surface of the round table, dumped from his grasp without a second thought.
“I thought we’d have more on them by now,” Tony quietly admitted.
“We’re already on top of the situation,” Rhodey gave the words time to settle. “Remember…it’s only been a few months. Hydra wasn’t taken down over a summer, and OsCorp won’t be either. We just gotta keep pushing, gather every bit we can. Eventually, we’ll have enough to at least get that subpoena going.”
Tony heard Rhodey, each word he said made crystal clear sense. But somehow it all still meant nothing.
“It’s not good enough, Rhodey,” his voice fell hollow, tired. “I’m telling you...they’re up to something bad. I can feel it. Without a shadow of a doubt, I know it.”
Rhodey pulled the discarded folder back towards him, shuffling the handful of papers back inside. All while giving Tony that look. The one he absolutely hated, refused to acknowledge or even look at as it was staring him down. The one full of pity.
“I believe you, man. Whatever you saw down there, I believe it. But the court doesn’t, the committee needs proof. Until we can get that, we gotta go about this the right way.”
Notes:
▰Identity Crisis — Chapter 10: Something Wicked This Way Comes▰
Tony flipped through multiple files with precise haste, his hands erratic as he sorted them — organized them — before anyone could set eyes on a single word that was laid out.
“What is it?” Steve asked, leaning forward with interest.
Rhodey folded his arms across his chest. “A few months back — after the courts tossed out the subpoena that the Air Force Weapons Procurement Liaison Department submitted against OsCorp industries — Natasha and myself created an algorithm. It took a while to perfect, but we eventually snuck it into their systems.”
“We wanted to latch onto any words, codes, cryptography — anything that may possibly lead us to where they’ve been hiding their experiments since SHIELD shut down the clandestine bunker in the Bermuda Triangle,” Natasha added, wrapping an arm tightly around the leg pulled high to her chest.
“What did it find?” Bruce looked around the room, as if asking anyone nearby. “The program, what – what did it find?”
Steve squeezed the fold on his hands, watching with intent interest as Tony’s technology lit up the kitchen with an artificial glow. The once marble stone of the table was now a display case for translucent screens.
“Not much.” Natasha shrugged. “Rhodey and I were starting to wonder if they’ve given up the game, gone straight after a good scare from Director Hill and her team.”
“You don’t think Fury was involved in all that in any way?” Sam brushed cookie crumbles away from his shirt, swallowing hard as his demeanor fell serious. “Shutting them down and all?”
Natasha shook her head, barely glancing his way. “I don’t know what Fury is up to these days, aside from lurking in the shadows where he sees fit.”
“It’s the man’s favorite past time,” Tony muttered, not once looking away from the multiple screens that he waved and flicked around in the air, a conductor of intangible images only made touchable by his technology. “And you’re spewing fairy-tales and folklore, Romanoff. There’s no way they’d stop cold turkey, not this far into their game. They’ve gone too deep.”
“Pun intended?” Rhodey dryly joked, a tight smile creeping across his face.
Tony gave him the side-eye and nothing more.
“You’re right,” Natasha remarked, nodding towards the holograms ahead. “Something else has taken precedence.”
Tony tapped twice on the table, the glowing imagery beaming as it lifted upwards. His fingers pinched tightly together until the tips of his nails made contact. With one smooth move, he spread his arms wide apart, enlarging the document with ease.
It rotated, spinning around to show those facing the other way. Tony walked the length of the kitchen island to keep up with it, eyeing it with a line deepening between his brow.
“What the hell is this?” Sam asked.
The images littering the document weren’t hard to distinguish — scans of the human brain, detailing the different matter and components, looking like pictures straight out of an antonym book. With it were diagrams of DNA strands and cell structure, each moving in animation, trial and error to a hypothesis that detailed alongside the report.
“A formula,” Tony stated, finding conclusion faster than anyone else. The look in his eyes said one thing; he was studying it, absorbing the information in ways no one else could even consider doing.
Rhodey’s eyes drifted over his friend, watching as he kept up with the spinning hologram.
“The Oz Formula, to be exact," Rhodey said.
Tony came to a screeching halt. He snapped his head over to Rhodey, his eyes wide, the whites shining blue from the image gleaming in the air.
“Well, stone the crows and strike me pink…I’ll be damned.” He pointed to the document, his finger shaking multiple times. “Rhodey —”
“I know,” Rhodey immediately cut in, calm and cool, collected despite Tony’s heightening emotion threatening to overtake the room. “I told you...I believed you.”
To all the others, it looked as if Tony’s mind had short-circuited. As if the information was too heavy to handle, too much to process.
For Tony, it was his brain running a mile a millisecond, only having stopped wagging his finger to tap it endlessly against his chin. The thoughts came too fast to keep up with, a head-rush of realization opening a gate of closed-off questions that he hadn’t let himself ask until now.
Months of searching, months of digging — finally, they had something.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Lunch on Wednesdays absolutely sucked.
“Dude, I’ve eaten alleyway dirt better than this pizza.” Peter tossed the slice of pizza onto his cafeteria tray, nearly knocking over a cartoon of chocolate milk in the process.
Without even looking, he caught the paper cartoon before it tipped over — his eyes never once wavering from the phone in front of him. The device was nestled right between his cafeteria tray and Ned’s, the screen lit to life for them both to see.
Taking a large bite of his sandwich, Ned watched as his friend scrolled somewhat aimlessly through his cell phone.
“You want some of my potato chips?” Ned reached over for his lunch bag, digging around inside and moving the ice pack onto the cafeteria table to locate the spare snacks. “Mom accidentally packed me double this morning. I think those extra shifts at work are starting to get to her.”
Peter turned his head to the side, his eyes barely reaching over the hair that fell in front of his forehead. He momentarily considered the offer before eagerly reaching his hand out.
“Yeah, lemme see those.”
Ned handed the snacks over and Peter didn’t waste a second in ripping the bag open, dumping half of the contents on-top of his absolutely-not-worth-this-tuition pizza before taking another bite.
The crunching that followed could’ve easily reached over the commotion that filled the cafeteria, including Carl Kimmel’s saxophone playing from across the room. Peter managed a couple more bites in that time, too distracted by the screen of Ned’s cell phone to fully taste — or properly digest — his slice of pizza.
Ned noticed.
“You know,” he started to say, reaching for the bag of potato chips and grabbing a handful for himself, “staring at my phone isn’t gunna make Harry magically text back.”
Peter didn’t seem affected by the obvious. Instead, his gaze grew more focused and intent, with his eyebrows knitting tightly together into one long piece.
“Maybe we need to say something else.” Though Peter stopped scrolling on the screen, he never looked away from it as he reached for his slice of pizza. A few potato chips fell off when he lifted it up from the tray. “Or like, rephrase what we’re saying. Instead of ‘Hey Harry, checking in, text back if you want’ we need to say something like…”
Peter took a large bite of pizza before letting it flop back onto the tray, immediately picking up Ned’s phone and running his thumbs across the touch screen.
“I dunno, like, ‘What’s up Harry, nobody's heard from you in two weeks and I know Peter said you guys can’t be friends but he’s super worried abut you and wants you to know that so text me back please.’ And maybe capitalize every letter in the word please?” Peter quickly began to type up the message. “Make it known we're really worried —”
Ned ripped the phone right out of his hands.
“Peter,” he stressed, immediately putting the phone aside and out of reach. “Just admit it. Harry ghosted us. Again.”
Peter made a face, causing the crumbs around his lips to stand out. “Ned, I’m the one that told him we can’t be friends.”
When Peter leaned over to grab the phone, Ned purposefully slid it further away — causing it to nearly slide off the table all together, where Ned immediately leaned over and reached for it before it suffered yet another crack in the screen.
“Yeah, and then he up and leaves school and doesn’t respond to literally anyone? Including Betty — he promised Betty they’d go to homecoming together and he totally bailed on her.” Ned plopped back down on the bench, stuffing the phone into his jacket pocket along the way. “It’s not just you, he did it to everyone this time.”
Peter arched a humorous eyebrow, reaching for the bag of chips until his hand was all the way inside.
“Don’t act like homecoming didn’t totally work in your favor,” he said through a smirk.
Ned lifted his chin high and haughtily.
“That was fate, Peter. The stars aligned. Me and Betty, we’re destiny.”
Peter wasn’t sure what direction his eyebrows went that time. All he knew was they danced around his forehead with an astounding amount of incredulity.
“You had one dance together at homecoming and I’m pretty sure she went and told MJ you smelt like Doritos,” Peter dryly said.
Ned had just split his lips apart for a snappy comeback when suddenly,
“She did.” MJ appeared from seemingly nowhere. “And you do.”
Ned barely held back his startled screech as MJ took a seat across from them both, and Peter did knock over his milk cartoon that time, its contents splashing across the surface of the cafeteria table.
“Crap!” Peter jumped up, swinging his leg over the bench as he quickly kicked his backpack away from the table, desperate not to ruin another bag within the same week Mr. Stark had already bought him a new one.
In his defense, he hadn’t expected to lose his last one while stopping a mugging in Central Park. One scared skunk later, and both Peter and the girl he saved fled far away from the stench that permanently ruined his JanSport book-bag.
“What are you losers talking about?” MJ began to peel away at her banana without sparing either of them a glance.
As Ned scooched further down the bench to avoid the dripping milk, Peter hastily grabbed a handful of paper-towels to clean up the mess. It only seemed to make things worse.
“Peter’s freaking out because Harry’s been MIA since he left school,” Ned answered, grabbing his lunch bag and placing it onto the floor to avoid the chocolate milk that was quickly spreading across the table. “He hasn’t answered any of my texts and no one's heard from him either.”
Ned offered Peter his spare napkins, who took them with a mumbled thanks.
“He posted on social media a few days before homecoming,” MJ mentioned, taking a bite of her banana that practically consumed it whole.
The comment earned looks from both boys. Peter even stopped cleaning for a moment, and his lips tightened into a comically tiny circle.
“I’m not obsessed with him, I’m just observant.” MJ’s jaw worked in motion as she chewed her food, completely uncaring to the expressions thrown her way.
Peter gave a tiny smile at that — MJ’s attitude always did impress him. It was her ability to care about all the right things while not giving a crap about the stuff that didn’t matter. She made life seem so easy.
He liked that about her.
With that smile still in place, he piled up his milk soaked napkins, tossing them into the trash can not far away along with the now empty bag of chips both he and Ned consumed.
MJ was talking again by the time he returned. “Besides, why wouldn’t he be MIA? He only attended our classes for like, two months.” She threw her banana peel into the trash behind Peter, literally tossing it like a basketball where it fell perfectly into the can. “What’s the big deal?”
Peter pushed his tray aside as he sat back down at the table, the pizza crust discarded and the crumbs of remaining potato chips too tiny to bother eating.
“Yeah, but why would he stand up Betty for homecoming?” Ned was the one to ask, reaching for the pizza crust and grabbing it off Peter’s tray. He wagged it at MJ as if that better solidified his point.
Instead, MJ stared at him with an expression both dull and befuddled all at the same time.
“Because by the time homecoming rolled around, he wasn’t a student here anymore?” she said, as if that were the most obvious thing in the world.
“He still could’ve come!” Ned argued, just the same — as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Why would he want to?” MJ’s eyebrow arched high. “His dad pulled him out. He was done here — done with us.”
“I dunno, he still could’ve said goodbye to us or…something,” Peter suddenly spoke up, pulling at his long sleeved shirt and using the fabric bunched in his fist to dry off the remaining milk on the table. He kept his head low, his brows scrunched so tightly together he was pretty sure he’d have permanent stress lines in his forehead before he even turned the legal drinking age.
He wasn’t alone. MJ threw him a look that narrowed her eyes until they were just tiny little slits.
“Didn’t you already say goodbye to him?”
The question lingered in the air far longer than Peter felt comfortable with.
MJ didn’t need him to say anything in return. She had a knack for just… knowing.
“I know neither of you wanna consider it,” she began, eyeing them both from the opposite side of the table, “but maybe that’s why he’s ignoring you guys.”
Peter didn't seem to want to consider that. He kept his head low and kept rubbing at the table, even though the milk was long since cleaned up.
Ned was mid-bite on the overly-burnt and still somehow chewy pizza crust when he exclaimed, “I didn’t do anything to him!”
MJ’s scoff could’ve easily reached over Carl Kimmel’s saxophone playing — if someone hadn’t already yelled for him to, in their words, ‘shut the fuck up, Kimmel!’, which was followed with a prompt response by Mr. Harrison lecturing both teenagers on lunch period behavior.
“You’re basically an extension of Peter,” MJ had to raise her voice a bit to be heard over the commotion happening from across the cafeteria. “You might as well have told him you didn’t wanna be friends, either.”
Peter briefly looked behind him as the rowdy activity continued. He was pretty sure it was Timothy Parsons yelling at Carl about his divorced parents, shouting something about his mom not loving him enough to teach him how to play saxophone.
“And you kinda had a crappy attitude around him, Ned,” Peter mentioned, shaking off the drama from behind them in favor of returning to his own problems.
Sometimes high-school felt so ridiculously... high-school.
“Look at what he’s done!” Ned objected, further proving Peter’s sentiment. “He ghosted you after Ben died and he’s ghosting you now — call him Casper, he’s a ghost!”
MJ nearly choked on her own snort. “Such a lame reference, Leeds.”
Ned shot his head towards her with complete, total offense taken.
“It was my favorite movie as a kid!” Just as quickly, Ned whipped over to Peter with a loud, exaggerated gasp. “We should totally watch that tonight!”
“No way!” Peter couldn’t have shook his head any harder if he tried. “We haven’t done a Star Wars marathon all year. We’re sticking with episodes three, four, and five — we line it up just right and we can get the credits of Return of the Jedi to play at exactly midnight.”
The ruckus that was once across the cafeteria suddenly migrated towards them, and both Peter and Ned craned their heads around to watch Mr. Harrison escort both Timothy Parsons and Carl Kimmel up the stairs; the latter dragging his saxophone behind him without much care to the damage it was taking.
Peter noticeably cringed as the instrument took a beating, each step Carl took also causing the saxophone to clank and clang against the steps. Even MJ made a face at the noise.
“What are you two dweebs doing tonight?” MJ eventually broke through the lull, her interest in the drama quickly dissipating. “Besides being dweebs.”
The genial insult had no effect on Ned, who spun back around on the cafeteria bench to face MJ with enough enthusiasm that he nearly pushed Peter right off the edge — his sticky hands were the only thing that kept him in place.
“We’re having a sleepover,” Ned eagerly answered, one centimeter short of bouncing up and down in his fit of excitement. “No school tomorrow since it’s parent-teacher conference day — and in the morning, Peter’s taking me for tux fittings with Tony Stark and the Avengers.”
“Dude!” Peter whipped towards him at high-speed.
“I’m sorry, Peter, I can’t contain my excitement,” Ned frantically shook his head, “this is literally the coolest thing to ever happen to me!”
Peter barely held back his exasperated huff as he quickly scanned the cafeteria for anyone who may have overheard Ned’s outburst. Thankfully for them, their conversation was the last thing any of their fellow classmates were interested in. Peter was pretty sure the kids one table over from them were talking about some rumor that Timothy Parsons was selling drugs.
Shaking it off, he turned his attention back to the table — specifically landing on MJ.
“You wanna come with?” Peter asked her, the question coming out smaller than he intended. He cleared his throat to add some volume to his voice, his nerves suddenly making themselves known at the worst possible moment — Parker Luck, never failed. “I’m sure Mr. Stark wouldn’t mind.” Peter swallowed, hard. “And it’d be really nice to have you there.”
“Can’t,” MJ didn’t miss a beat, the shrug that followed far too casual in comparison to Peter’s bout of nerves. “Picked up a double at the coffee shop. Trying to make up for losing hours over the weekend, what with homecoming and all.”
Peter raced to nod his head.
“Oh. Okay, yeah, right, of course. Yeah, of course.”
If Peter was aiming to look casual and not-at-all-disappointed, he missed the mark completely. If MJ noticed, well, that was up for debate — her expression remained neutral, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary for her.
The way she dropped her head low, though — that was out of the ordinary, gaining Peter’s attention almost immediately. Her index finger pushed away some of Ned’s potato chip crumbs that somehow managed to find their way onto her side of the table.
“You can come by after I close up, though. If you want,” MJ eventually said, her voice softer than before, and far more reserved. A heavy shrug rustled her jacket. “I can try and save some jelly doughnuts for you, or whatever.”
A smile began to play at the edges of Peter’s lips, growing wider by the second. In the beat that followed, he watched MJ’s finger zig-zag on the table, the red nail polish only slightly chipped — still holding a fresh coat of paint from the weekends homecoming activities.
“Yeah, yeah.” Peter cleared his throat. Not once, but twice. “Yeah, that’d be cool.”
Though MJ kept her chin close to her chest, with her face hidden behind long strands of hair, Peter could still make out the small grin that tugged at her lips.
“Cool,” MJ succinctly said.
Looking to Peter, and then looking back towards MJ, Ned followed up with a wide grin and a lengthy, drawn out,
“Cool.”
The shrill ring of the school bell stole away any awkward silence that could’ve come next.
“You’re still coming to Decathlon practice, right?” MJ stood from the cafeteria table, swinging her leg over the bench as she reached for her discarded backpack on the ground. Easily, she swung the one strap over her shoulder, right at the same time Peter gave a few nervous nods.
“Yeah, totally. Yeah, I’ll be there,” he said — stammered, swallowing hard between every two words he managed to get out.
Unlike Peter, MJ simply gave one concise nod. “Good. See you then.”
Though she already had her back turned on both boys, Peter managed to let out a somewhat squeaky, “See ya then,” as she made her way out of the cafeteria.
He was still watching her leave long after she was already gone.
“You two are totally getting married next,” Ned broke through his haze like a freshly sharpened knife, his voice somehow managing to reach over their classmates congregating to leave the cafeteria while also being nothing more than a breathy sigh of words.
If Peter whipped towards him any faster, his neck would’ve needed to be in a brace for weeks.
“Ned...we’re just kids.”
Ned, once again, lifted his chin high and haughtily.
“Anakin Skywalker was only nineteen when he married Padme."
Peter wasn’t sure his expression could grow any more wild. He decided not to find out — grabbing his cafeteria tray and making his way off the bench.
“C’mon,” he said, reaching down for his backpack as he took off for the stairs. “Let’s go.”
Though Ned stayed close behind him, it wasn’t long after they reached the tray drop-off that he began to fall behind — lessening his steps to a single stride forward every few seconds.
“Here comes the bride…” Ned marched to the sound of his own singing, long after Peter took off into the crowds.
Natasha heard the sound of Louis Vuitton dress shoes marching through the courthouse before she ever saw the source of who they belonged to.
Without looking up from her phone, she asked, “A little late to the party, don’t you think?”
Her voice bounced off the walls of the empty corridor, the echo of her words melding together with each footstep beating against the polished floor.
Strutting towards her at a purposeful speed, Tony threw both his hands into the air with an obvious exasperation.
“It’s lunch hour in New York City, what do you expect?” Tony’s voice didn’t fare much different than Natasha’s, echoing just the same. The courthouse hallways were empty; sans for Natasha, sitting by herself on a sleek wooden bench towards the back. Not far away from them were large double doors that had been closed shut. Tony looked towards them as he went on to mention, “Traffic was atrocious, my ears are still ringing from him blowing the horn.”
As Tony gestured his thumb over his shoulder, Happy appeared from around the corner, a look of annoyance covering every inch of his face — plus some.
“Hey, that Honda Civic had plenty of time to get through that yellow light, it’s not my fault—”
“Find a vending machine.” Tony gave Happy a friendly pat on the arm with the back of his hand. “Make it quick, I’m starving.”
If Happy rolled his eyes any harder, they would’ve fallen right onto the ground, possibly making their way through the gaps that sealed both courtroom doors shut — the same ones Tony had yet to look away from.
Nonetheless, Happy obliged with the request. As reluctant as he may have seemed.
It left a silence that almost had Tony’s ears ringing, with his breathing suddenly five times louder than before, and each hypnotic feedback from Natasha’s phone sounding closer to fireworks taking off in the sky. The doors to the courtroom were far too thick and heavy to leak any sounds happening inside, but that didn’t stop Tony from trying to listen in.
“Surprised you didn’t take a suit,” Natasha suddenly said, standing up from the wooden bench as she pocketed her phone away inside her blazer jacket. The pencil skirt she wore was far too unaccommodating for storing any of her belongings, and the briefcase she carried was abandoned as she stepped away from the bench.
Tony gave that briefcase a quick glance before looking back towards the courtroom doors.
“Trust me, I was tempted,” he aggravatingly admitted, seamlessly slipping off his high-tech glasses and placing them in the front pocket of his own blazer; a different color than Natasha’s, but still his best-dressed for the occasion. “Pepper doesn’t want any unnecessary drama before the wedding and honestly, I can’t blame her.”
Tony noticeably worked his jaw to the side — still looking at the doors, now with bare eyes. “The less people who know I showed up for this, the better.”
“He’s not here,” Natasha didn’t miss a beat. “If that’s what you’re getting at.”
Tony jerked his head away from the large wooden doors at a speed that should’ve done permanent damage to his neck — more damage than he already sustained in his lifetime, anyhow.
“What the hell do you mean he’s not here?” Tony’s eyebrows didn’t just furrow together, they fused together. The confusion could’ve been seen all the way from upstate. “This is his trial.”
Natasha easily folded both arms across her chest.
“Technically it’s OsCorp’s trial,” she said, bluntly. Her heels made a crisp clicking echo as she shifted weight from one foot to the other. “Technically it’s the Weapons Procurement Liaison committee’s trial against OsCorp.”
The answer did absolutely nothing to appease Tony. If anything, his face grew even more bewildered.
“He was subpoenaed —”
“And he’s being represented.”
For what it was worth, Natasha didn’t sound any happier than Tony looked. And Tony looked about one second away from turning redder in the face than all his Iron Man suits combined.
“By who?” Tony twisted to face the courtroom entrance, then swiveled back to face Natasha. After a moment, he glanced once more at the entrance, his forehead deeply creased. He watched as two men in business attire swung the doors open in unison, allowing the noise from inside to spill out into the hallway.
When he turned back to Natasha — hoping for an answer — she merely lifted a single eyebrow. It should’ve told Tony everything he needed to know.
Unfortunately, it didn’t click for him. Not until he heard a single, distinct voice cut through the stampede of people leaving the courtroom.
“Why, Tony.” His own name carried above the chorus of chattering voices, attorneys and court staff pouring out of the judicature chamber in the handfuls. “It’s been some time.”
Tony muttered under his breath — the colorful plethora of swear words muted underneath the cacophony of a noisy crowd departing the chamber. As they all began to scatter and thin out, one remained standing.
Tony swore he could feel a burn at the back of his head, their eyes staring a hole straight through him with a power only his arc reactors could have.
“There’s no hell quite like a Hogarth.” Tony spun on his heels and flashed a grin larger than the courthouse. “How’s life on the homestead, Jeri? Figured those Rand trials would’ve earned you enough to put your firm into an early retirement.”
The attorney matched his grin, and then some. The sleek style of her short black hair did nothing to hide the smirk that cocked an eyebrow high up, and tugged harshly at the crowsfeet near her temples.
“You know, sometimes it’s just not all about the money,” Jeri effortlessly responded, only briefly looking to Natasha before returning a hard gaze back on Tony. “I’d say you of all people understand that well, don’t you?”
If Tony had anything he wanted to say in turn, Jeri Hogarth gave him no opportunities to do as much.
History truly did love to repeat itself.
She avoided his shoulder in passing, and Tony didn't bother watching her leave — immediately turning to face the courtroom doors the moment she walked away.
Amidst the sea of faces and almost lost amongst the crowd of bodies, he could scarcely make out a familiar face as they emerged from deep within the courtroom.
They locked eyes. Right as Rhodey gave a minuscule shake of his head. Just enough for Tony to see from afar.
It felt like shrapnel lodging in his chest all over again.
Through the collection of windows spanning the courthouse, the New York City skyline could be seen in high definition. There wasn’t a cloud in sight, and the sun beamed through the glass with enough intensity to almost break Tony’s vacant gaze.
Despite it, he looked out at seascape of skyscrapers flooding the vast urban expanse, clenching the banister of the balcony with a white-knuckled grip that took the feeling right out of his fingers.
“Unbelievable,” Tony scoffed, shaking his head along the way. “All that evidence, all those documents off their servers — the Adamantium files, the damn rock android —”
Standing not far behind him, Rhodey nodded empathetically. “I know —”
“The Chitauri weapons,” Tony kept on, “their cloning studies —”
“I know, Tony,” Rhodey took a step forward, and another after that, “I know —”
“None of it’s good enough?” Tony spun around, leaving only one hand to grip the railing. They were both sure without that grip, he would’ve stormed right into the judicature chamber and demand retrial — a mistrial, anything to get a second verdict declared.
Unfortunately, the look on Rhodey’s face told him no amount of swindling or money in the world would change the outcome. Defeat wasn’t often an expression his friend wore, but there was no denying its appearance now.
Tony wanted to make a comment about how it clashed with his Air Force dress blues. Yet he couldn’t seem to get the words past the constriction of his windpipe, his new reality lodging painfully into his throat.
“It all dates back prior to 2016,” Rhodey explained, pocketing one hand inside his pants while the other gestured in front of him, right at Tony. “When SHIELD shut down that clandestine bunker in the North Atlantic Ocean, they made an agreement with OsCorp that as long as they ceased all experiments, no legal action could be taken.”
Tony spun around so fast, he saw two Rhodey’s standing in front of him.
Both gestured an open palm his way. “And unless you want to bring Peter into this, we can’t incite the symbiote documents as evidence. It's recent, yes. But it's entirely based on Peter's DNA, the spider-bite — everything would have to be laid out on the table. You and I both know there's no amount of hate you have for Norman that would make you do that.”
A harsh sigh got trapped in Tony’s chest. He turned back around in hopes to allow its escape, only to find the pressure of the balcony railing against his sternum too forceful for any inhale or exhale of air.
It was for the best; the courthouse had a smell to it that left the acid in his stomach boiling and churning like a cauldron. Or perhaps that was the rage that started to eat away his core, causing every nerve in his body to burn with fury.
Tony gripped the railing again, somehow harder than before. Ahead of him and through the courthouse windows, and deep in the cityscape of Manhattan, he could see what used to be his building. It was hard not to, even at a distance; it was the second tallest building in New York City, after all. Once considered his baby — well, his and Pepper’s, anyway.
He barely held back a scoff at the idea of two floors of glorious R&D being used for office space. The Baxter building — that’s what it sold for. Still a beauty in the sky, but no longer what it once was.
Tony didn’t regret the sell, even if it left an empty feeling in his chest. All too similar to the gaping hole that was once there and once filled with an arc reactor.
The compound was great, he wouldn’t deny that. But it still never quite felt like home.
And home was a far away concept with troubles like OsCorp and Osborn polluting the city, edging closer to becoming a danger and a very real threat to the entire world.
They just couldn’t get the courts to see it the same way.
“So what,” Natasha, who’d been leaning quietly against the wall not far away from them, uncrossed her arms as she looked up at both men. “They’re just going to walk away with a fine and that’s it?”
Rhodey turned at the hips to look at her.
“Jeri’s good,” he said, his frown tugging roughly at his face. “Real good. She got Rand Enterprises out of more legal trouble in the last decade than all of Tony’s attorney's put together. The committee did their best, but without any adducing evidence since 2016, a fine was the most we could manage.”
Natasha didn’t seem to accept that as an answer.
“They can’t be immune from litigation just because SHIELD agreed to stay quiet —”
“In 1994, a truck full of Rand chemicals spilt on the road and doused a kid, Nat. Completely blinding him.” Rhodey turned fully to face her. “A child. Jeri took on that case and they barely paid a cent to the family.”
Tony no longer had a problem with cutting off his air supply as he leaned over the balcony, the banister pressing painfully into his ribs.
“Rhodey’s not lying. She’s good,” he muttered, looking off to the side with no interest of what he saw. “Damn good.”
It’d been a while since Tony had to encounter the Prada-Wearing Python of the legal sphere —Jeri Hogarth, the most sought after attorney across the east coast. In the past, she’d been known to take on most of the lawsuits Stark Industries dealt with — her talents were heavily in demand, and her name was well versed as an attorney.
And she was a pain in the ass.
Dropping the weapons manufacturing portion of Stark Industries turned out to be a blessing in more ways than one. It meant less law suits for the company, and no further encounters with a woman who sought out to make his life a living hell. Not that she wouldn’t be the first, and Tony was sure she wouldn’t be the last.
But for Jeri, it was always about the money. Sometimes the case absolutely meant nothing to her, so long as she could win.
A thought suddenly struck Tony. Right as he spun back around, forging his grip on the railing entirely.
“Why Hogarth?” he asked, waving his head down the hallway that led off the balcony. “Why represent Osborn, where is he?”
Rhodey met Tony’s look of frustration with his own.
“Vacation,” he answered tersely.
Tony shot both eyebrows up his forehead. “Vacation?”
Rhodey nodded — just once. “His motion for an absence was granted. According to Jeri, he and his son are currently soaking up the sun on the beaches of Hawaii.”
Tony decided rage just didn’t properly do his sentiments justice. No, this was far worse, far more evoking. No different than creating a new element, he’d seemed to create a new emotion as well. An investors curse, one might figure.
“The bastard literally gets Parker killed and he’s off sipping Piña Coladas with the sand between his toes.” Tony shook his head, turning his back on his friend and at a distance, Natasha, if only to gain a moment of privacy. He leaned over the balcony with a hard, exasperated sigh. “This couldn’t get anymore perfect.”
Briefly closing his eyes, Tony scrubbed at the side of his temple with two fingers — trying to will away the headache that had been approaching since...well, all year. Ever since he saw those documents hidden under the sea, ever since he started to peel away the layers of the onion that was OsCorp — the dangers that came with an unhinged scientist like Norman Osborn.
Tony wasn’t sure he’d gotten a good nights rest since. He wasn’t sure he would sleep well again until Norman was put behind prison bars.
Or better yet, worse.
“Rhodey?” Natasha’s voice sliced right through the moment of silence. As Tony craned his neck to face her, he noticed her brows pulled tightly together with a caution that didn’t suit her well. “What is it?”
Rhodey paused to throw her a look, his contemplation obvious in the suspension that followed.
Hesitantly, he turned to Tony. “Why don’t we take this discussion elsewhere —”
Tony twisted at the hips to face him.
“Uh-uh, I know what that means,” he interrupted, a rigid finger pointing right at Rhodey. “That’s code for bad news.” That same finger went to snap twice. “Spill it, now.”
Rhodey sighed. “Tones —”
“You can’t keep me waiting,” Tony argued, pushing himself off the railing as he stepped forward and closer to Rhodey. “Waiting stresses me out — I have a bad heart, I can’t take that.”
Natasha stepped closer herself, approaching the two with her eyebrow lifted high.
“I’m pretty sure after everything that’s happened this year, you can handle more stress than you think,” she said, her smirk only growing at the look of annoyance Tony shot her.
When silence came in the form of a long response, Natasha’s smirk slowly faded, and her face quickly fell flat.
“Rhodey?” Her voice grew dry and hoarse at the edges, a crack splintering Rhodey’s name in the middle.
Rhodey ran his tongue over his teeth, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he looked over the balcony and through the same windows that had once taken Tony’s attention.
When he looked back, he looked right at Tony. “Turns out a few weeks ago, OsCorp signed a contract with the Department of Defense for a joint venture of their weapons division.”
Tony changed his mind. Now he created a new emotion. And if he could bottle this rage into an arc reactor, it’d power all of New York City by itself.
“They what?” he barked, the words easily echoing the courthouse. “Why didn’t you know about this?”
On any other average day, Rhodey may have expressed his frustration at Tony’s, for lack of better terms, passionate outburst while in a quite prestigious New York City courthouse. Instead, though, he seemed to mirror his friend’s aggravation — all the way down to the scowl that plastered across his face.
“Trust me, I asked the same question.” Rhodey grounded his teeth, forcing the words out through a fixed jaw. “Higher authorities kept it out of my hands.”
The realization hit Tony like a sledgehammer. Or Thor’s hammer, more accurately.
“Let me take a wild guess,” he drawled out. “Ross.”
The name rolled off his tongue with nauseating ease. Surprising, considering the taste it left in his mouth afterward.
Rhodey merely nodded.
“He slipped out right before you got here,” Rhodey went on to say, pocketing both hands inside his dress blue pants — his posture noticeably slumping. “He’s been in charge of the whole project, and seems to have gone all-in with his cards since the Accords were repealed. He even testified against OsCorp’s wrong doings from 2016, citing the SHIELD agreement as the basis for rendering the documents inadmissible as evidence.”
Tony wasn’t sure the last time he’d been this confused — downright baffled was more like it. His brows formed a tight V as the multitude of questions ran circles in his head, struggling to find the answer to an equation that made no sense.
“What the hell does he want with OsCorp and their weapons?” he spoke that confusion aloud.
“You ask me? Power,” Rhodey answered, sparing no ounce of gravity from his tone. “From everything they said in there, it sounds to me like they’re about to start a campaign against us. Against you. Against all the Avengers, Tony, against anyone working outside of government authority.”
Natasha firmly shook her head. “We don’t work outside of government authority, we’re under SHIELD command —”
“Yeah, and their justification is no one individual should have more power combined than all of the US Army,” Rhodey tossed back, twisting sharply to face her. “We just happen to have a whole team of that living under one roof.”
Once again, Natasha didn’t seem to accept that as an answer.
“Are you saying they’re going to try and reinstate the Accords?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest until the sleek blazer she wore bunched tightly at the seams.
Rhodey shook his head.
“Worse,” he answered, turning to look at Tony. The stress in his eyes stood out more than the mechanical leg braces that kept him walking. “OsCorp’s plan is to level the playing field. Load up the D.O.D with anything and everything that could take down anyone who crosses their path. Rogers, Wanda — Vision. You name it, they want to be able to stop it.”
“They want to create super-soldiers,” Natasha quickly concluded.
“They didn’t outright say it,” Rhodey began, pausing for a second that felt like two lifetimes lived over. “But I don’t think they’d be here defending OsCorp’s experiments if they weren’t planning to start participating in them.”
Despite Rhodey’s piercing stare on him, Tony found his gaze looking elsewhere; locked onto the polished floors of the courthouse. His fingers tapped against the side of his thigh as the thoughts came rushing in like a tidal wave, so fast they threatened to drown him worse than the waters of the North Atlantic Ocean.
“They mention anything about Oz?” Tony abruptly asked, looking up at Rhodey just the same.
“Not directly,” Rhodey answered, going on to cock an eyebrow high up his forehead. “I’m thinking the same thing, though.”
Tony tried to curse. Yet he couldn’t get the swear words out of his mouth, not as he felt like someone was trying to bury him alive under the weight of his own crushing thoughts. They came fast, and six at a time. And absolutely none of them were good.
“Ross would piss his pants giddy as a schoolgirl if he got his hands on the next super-soldier serum,” Tony let one of those thoughts loose, turning around and walking the few steps back to the balcony railing.
“That’s pleasant imagery,” Natasha dryly muttered, both her and Rhodey watching as Tony turned his back on them, his hands noticeably gripping the banister once more.
He leaned over, just far enough to keep his face out of view. The way he ground his teeth added years onto his already exhausted features.
This was bad. As if Osborn going full on Strucker with his very illegal and very dangerous experiments wasn’t enough of a threat — now they had Ross and the US military seeking out OsCorp’s technology. Weapons. Things that could very well rival Tony’s heyday with Stark Industries.
Scratch that, things were bad. This was things going from bad to worse.
And to think, he woke up this morning feeling optimistic — excited for what was to come from today’s trial. Only to find out Fury and Friends had screwed them from the start, keeping secrets from the team they had created — just like the good old days.
Another thought struck Tony. One of the many, but this one sticking in place.
“What about those declassified documents from the KGB?” he turned around to ask Natasha, going on to snap his fingers a few times as he spoke. “The ones that were released after SHIELD’s initial collapse — the ones that detailed the Soviet super-serum trials?” A pause followed what came next. “You think that would be enough to caution the D.O.D not to start messing around with Captain America knock-offs?”
Natasha threw him a look.
“Being reminded that other countries have tried, and succeeded, in replicating Erskine’s formula?” She cocked her head to the side, staring Tony down along the way. “If anything, I think it would encourage them to push forward with it. And it’s not like we can use Dmitri as evidence to prove why it’s a bad idea.”
The sound of revulsion that emitted from Tony’s throat was audible in the hush of the courthouse.
That name was scar tissue he didn’t think would ever dissolve.
“Mhm,” he mumbled, the noise like gravel against stone. “And may he rot with the fishes.”
Dmitri by himself was a dangerous enough threat, but there was no denying that Klum made things all the worse. Somebody who was that psychotic given mutated abilities — and he was just one of the many OsCorp bred to life. Tony had no doubt that between their experiments on humans, to their experiments so unhinged they would up creating monsters like Venom…the last thing they needed was Ross using the Oz Formula to create his own army of super-soldiers.
The man just couldn’t leave the damn concept alone, could he?
“You’d think Ross would’ve learned a lesson already with Emil Blonsky,” Tony spoke aloud more than anything else, a sigh finally exhausting from his lungs in one loud heave.
Still, Rhodey responded, “I think Blonsky was just the start. And if Oz winds up being what Norman wants it to be —”
“But it can’t,” Natasha interrupted, turning inward to face him. “We know that formula is ineffective without a...certain spider’s blood.”
At hearing that, Tony noticeably twisted around to face her.
She gave him a grim look in response. Saying more wordlessly than anything that could’ve come from her mouth.
“All the more reason to stop this before it gets too far,” Rhodey went on to say. He looked to them both, even as they only stared at each other. “If they start giving this formula to the army as it is, based off what those scientists said in Wakanda...it won’t create the next invincible Captain America. It could be something worse than what the symbiote created. And you guys were the ones to go toe-to-toe with that thing — you tell me. You really wanna deal with a thing like that again?”
There was an opportunity for Tony to say something. Anything, really.
Instead, he fell quiet.
They all did.
Ambient noise from the courthouse filled the space in-between, the shuffle of feet down the hallway combined with the echo of voices talking far away. Doors opened and closed, and at a far distance the hum of central air conditioning flowed through the ceilings. But it was the only noise heard.
That, and Tony could make out each beat of his own pulse, hammering relentlessly in his ears.
It spoke the exhaustion he was too tired to acknowledge himself.
He was tired. Tired of a broken legal system playing games with him, tired of fighting an uphill battle that kept knocking him down — after everything that happened this year, the weight had finally begun to take its toll.
Tony was tired.
“What now?” he sighed the words, the only way the question was ever going to be spoken.
Rhodey noticed that heaviness. He forced a tug of a grin that wasn’t fully natural, but the attempt was genuine nonetheless.
“What now is you need to focus on your wedding, man,” Rhodey said, earnestly. “The committee will stay on the case, I’ve already got a guy working to substantiate a halt of activities between OsCorp and the D.O.D. We’ll handle it.”
Tony tried to nod — his head felt too heavy for anything past a tiny jerk. The small promise of reassurance did little to assuage his stress.
The tension must have been palpable, because not a moment after Tony turned back to the balcony railing, Rhodey took a few steps forward to break the distance — looking him on with an intensity in his gaze that matched the crisp, polished lines of his Air Force dress blues.
“But Tony?” he went on to say, waiting until Tony turned back around before he spoke again — ensuring their eyes were locked with what came next. “If we’re going to keep doing this, if you really think we can get OsCorp to quit the game entirely…you need to get a lawyer. A really good lawyer.”
The sound of footsteps approaching and the crinkling of plastic along with it came in lieu of any response from Tony.
Rhodey was the only one to look down the hallway at the noise — Natasha kept a fixated gaze on Tony, even as he returned to the balcony railing with his back facing them both. His hand moved to rest against the scars on his chest; hidden beneath an expensive button down shirt and covered with a loosely buttoned blazer jacket.
The motion did little to comfort him, but his hand gravitated to the spot regardless. Old habits die hard, he supposed.
With an assortment of vending machine snacks in both his hands, Happy approached the three standing quietly on the balcony — only stopping once sensing something was off.
“What I’d miss?” he asked, looking around for someone to fill him in. Outside of the large huff of air Tony blew through his cheeks, silence was the only answer he got.
Looking down at the bags of candy and chips in his hands, Happy gestured them forward.
“Reese's or Milky Way?” When no one answered, Happy looked down again, mentioning, “I also have M&M’s…”
After a short span of silence, Natasha reached her hand out.
“I’ll take the M&M’s.”
Notes:
▰Identity Crisis — Chapter 31: In a Quiet Lagoon, Devils Dwell ▰
With his other hand, he pressed a finger on the intercom of his phone. It didn’t make a sound; he muted that function a long time ago.
“Cynthia,” he started, the rasp in his throat coating his voice. “Cancel my remaining meetings for the day. And get Doctor Adler on the line — now, please.”
The shuffle of noise on the other end indicated uncertainty. Norman was too busy kneading at his temple to focus on it.
“Uh, sir…” the voice of his assistant was nearly drowned out by the ringing of her phone — multiple calls, each ringing off the hook. Loud enough that he could hear them through the closed door of his office. “You have an appointment with the D.O.D regarding the joint venture of OsCorp’s weapons department —”
“Reschedule it,” Norman firmly interrupted. His eyes shut even tighter as the pain at the base of his neck increased. “The lie doesn’t have to be white. Color it how you want, but I need my books cleared. Immediately.”
Norman treasured the small moment of stillness that followed — the phones were silenced, no doubt a panicked response of his tenured assistant. She knew him well. For a split second, he swore even the Manhattan traffic had fallen quiet. Leaving just the ache behind his eyes; a pressure that spoke its own noise within his head.
If he pressed any harder into his forehead, his skull would’ve cracked in two.
Cynthia noticeably cleared her throat before speaking again. “...the Secretary of State planned to be there, sir.”
Norman made a face as he looked to the intercom system of his phone.
“Ross will have to wait another day for his coveted goodies,” Norman said, flatly. “Connect me to Adler, and tell her its urgent. Thank you, Cynthia.”
—————————————
Ohhhh how deep this rabbit hole goes *wink wink*
If anyone who is studying law, works in law, or even knows about law is reading this...I'd like to personally apologize to you. Because, just like how characters in this story have fictional superpowers, there's definitely the same amount of realism in the legality situation happening at hand. That realism being, absolutely none.😅
Listen, we have fun here. And to have fun, sometimes facts and real life gotta go out the window. So...*yeets all that out the front door*
Gotta have those fun nerdy facts in a nerdy fic like this, amiright?
Jeri Hogarth is a yoink from the Jessica Jones series — totally different character in the comics, but I loved the direction those MCU shows took and had fun with her little cameo in this chapter.
I'm going to have fun with a lot of cameo's in this story 😀
Hehe.
•ᴗ•
Chapter 3: R.S.V.P
Summary:
Norman leaned back even further into his recliner, practically sinking into the leather cushions. “And the pathology reports, how do they show?”
Adler hesitated, yet again. The pause lasted longer this time, and when Norman finally managed to look her head-on, he could have sworn he saw a flicker of emotion in the normally emotionless doctor.
“Terminal. Your cells have seen too much degeneration, too much decay. It’s...beyond remission.”
He looked away, this time at the fireplace. Black soot clouded his vision, burning in his eyes with a stinging pain of irritation.
Months of hard work. Wasted. Time — gone. And they had barely gotten one step forward.
“So what you’re saying is I don’t have much choice in the matter,” he concluded.
The disinclination spoke in the silence that followed, no response from the doctor sitting across from him.
“You were initially against the reintroduction of Oz, no?” Norman went on to say, coercion a thin coat over his tone. “What was it you said about my behavior during the trials...schizophrenia? Dissociative identity disorder?”
Alder nodded. “That is correct, sir.”
Notes:
Very important info if you didn’t catch on with the epilogue of Identity Crisis — this story uses the Ultimate comics version of the Green Goblin. A Wiki page can be found here. If you’re not familiar, do yourself the service of reading up a tad bit because there is a very big difference between the traditional Amazing Spider-Man comic counter part and the Ultimate version. I love them both so so so very much, as I do with all iterations of Spider-Man, and I’m gunna have a blast combining the two in this story. It really feels like I’ve put every version of Norman/Gobby into a blender and created something truly unique in the process, and I think if you’re a Spidey fan like me, you’re gunna love the outcome.
I'll never get tired of throwing down some FUN NERD FACTS!
Spencer Symthe, the geriatric prick he is, plays a big role with his comic counter part's established robotics skill-set. I'm having TONS of fun creating this new background for him, being a part of OsCorp and whatnot. I really feel like I'm writing my own little Spidey comic book here, re-inventing established characters. It's so fun. And Spencer's robotic's are really gunna come into play this story.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It was hard to believe that almost two years ago, Peter found himself the victim of absolute Parker Luck in the form of one nasty, radioactive spider bite. One that completely changed his life in ways he still couldn't fully wrap his head around.
“Oh come on!” Peter rapidly flipped the light switch to the laundry room up and down, and up and down, and up and down — until eventually, and with no restraint of his aggravation, conceded to the darkness.
It shouldn't come as a surprise; the super of the building was a total joke when it came to making repairs.
“Just great,” Peter mumbled, exaggeratedly digging for his cell phone in the back pocket of his jeans — lowkey glad he thought to bring it despite this being just a ‘quick trip down to the basement.’
May should've known by now it was never just a quick trip.
And despite him gaining totally-awesome super powers nearly two years ago, night-vision was not one of his new, nifty abilities that he could store away in his metaphorical utility built. Even if Ned still insisted, to this day, that it could be.
It was times like these that Peter wished Ned was right.
Unfortunately, dark meant dark, even with eyes like his. He may not need glasses anymore, but that didn't mean he could see his way through Mordor without the light of Sauron’s eye guiding the way.
Peter unlocked the cracked touchscreen of his phone and switched on the flashlight app, trudging forward into the laundry room while making sure his sock-clad feet didn't accidentally step in any laundry detergent that Mrs. Hayes was notorious for spilling.
No different than a radioactive spider-bite, that would be just his luck.
Peter sighed as he threw open the door to the fusebox in the far back corner, nearly tucked behind one of the dryers and almost made inaccessible — it actually was made inaccessible, but Peter had nudged the dryer slightly to the side the last time they needed to come down here. He was pretty sure the scuff marks could be seen on the tiled floor. But like most things in New York City, nobody questioned it.
At the same time as he accessed the fusebox, he scrolled through his contact list with just the pad of his thumb, hitting the very first number that came up.
It rang, four times in total. Long enough for Peter to wish he did have night-vision, but not long enough for him to wonder what exactly he'd do with it.
“What's up? You not able to get in?”
May's voice came right through the speaker of his cell, her words almost seeming to bounce off the many industrial washers and dryers that occupied the dark and empty laundry room.
Peter waited until that reverberation passed before answering.
“No, I'm down here,” he said, keeping the call going even as he shined the phone's flashlight against the open fusebox, practically studying the inside of it the best he could with squinted eyes. “But we’re gunna have to play the game again.”
Peter swore he heard May's groan all the way from eight floors up.
“Ughhhhh, really?” Her sigh was equally as loud, followed by the pitter-patter of footsteps across their apartment. “Okay, hold up, let me get all the light switches turned on.”
The ambient noise of May shuffling room to room filled any silence between them. Peter used the moment to quickly scan the laundry room, swiveling his phone around to make sure he was truly by himself.
It was hard to make out every little detail with just his phones flashlight, but from what he could tell, it was just him and the laundry machines. None of the residents in the building had a habit of using the apartment's washers or dryers, not since half were broken anyhow — and those that remained working left a moldy smell to their clothes, with dryers that failed to dry all the way through.
Both Peter and May had thrown away handful of shirts, pants, and all of Peter's underwear when they first moved in before realizing it was just smarter to utilize the laundromat across the street instead of doing six cycles of the same clothes to get the smell out. To Peter's knowledge, Mrs. Hayes was the only one to still utilize the laundry room. And she always smelt like mold. Which said plenty in and of itself.
It may have been coming up on two years now since Peter got his powers — one year and nine months, if he did the math — but they'd only been living at this apartment since a few months after Ben died. Which wasn't long after he met Mr. Stark, now that Peter started to remember.
Not long after everything in Germany, May found them a new place to live across Queens, opting for something a little cheaper to fit their needs. After all, they could only rely on her salary from the FEAST shelter to pay the bills. The modest but small apartment unit was more than suitable for them both.
It was just…problematic, at times.
Peter didn't mind. It wasn't that he didn't like the new place — it was a little past a full year now that they'd been living there. They adjusted to their laundry needs, got used to the broken stove timer, sealed up the cracked windows — they made it their home, the best they could. It wouldn't ever be what home once was for them, but they'd try.
And as long as they had each other, they had a home.
Peter just wish he could contribute to that home in more ways than making basement trips when the fuse blew.
MJ had gotten a job over the summer. Maybe he should try and do the same.
“Okay,” May cut right through his runaway thoughts, “I'm ready, let's go.”
Snapping back to awareness, Peter turned his attention to the fuse breaker, shining the light of his cell phone against the inside and finding the first breaker switch on the panel board.
“That's number one,” he said, waiting a second before pushing the switch back in place. “What'd it do?”
May waited a moment before answering, “That would be my bedroom.”
A warning message popped up on Peter’s screen. He used the pad of his thumb to swipe it away before reaching for the next breaker switch.
“You know,” Peter started to say, flipping the switch and leaving it in the off position for a few seconds. “None of this would’ve happened if you had just ordered pizza instead of trying to cook something.”
A click came after he flipped the switch to the other side.
“Peter, I have told you a thousand times that you can’t use the microwave with the Crockpot on,” May paused before she went on to announce, “That was the living room.”
Peter made a face, seen only by the glow of his phone's screen, as he flipped the third switch inside the fuse breaker. “But the Crockpot wouldn’t have needed to be on if you agreed that Philomena’s was a better idea than tacos.”
A soft laugh came through first, before, “Kiddo, you said that you had pizza for lunch, what is with your incessant craving for—”
“That was not pizza, May,” Peter very firmly insisted, going so far as to bring the speaker of his phone right to his mouth — ensuring everything that came next was heard, loud and clear. “Not even the rats in Brooklyn would’ve eaten that pizza. And I’ve seen them eat some sketchy things. Also, what light was that — that was number three.”
“Uhhh…bathroom! Looks like that was the bathroom,” May’s pitter-patter of footsteps came right alongside her voice. “Are you sure none of them are tripped? You should just be able to find the one that’s flipped and turn it —”
“None of them are tripped, May,” Peter exasperatedly interrupted, “I’ve looked a dozen times —”
“It’s just so strange that —”
“I’m looking at them right now. All of them.” Peter pointed a rigid finger at each breaker switch inside the fuse panel. “On, on, on, on, on —”
“Okay, okay —”
“On, on, on —”
“Okay, kiddo, okay!”
May's laugh, at the very least, bled right through her own exasperation. As frustrating as the situation was, Peter let himself smile a bit at that.
That smile quickly faded as he looked back to the fuse box, using his thumb and forefinger to flip the fourth switch down.
“You know,” he said, flipping the switch back in place, “this happens almost every time a fuse blows. The super really needs to look into the wiring for this building.” Peter scrunched his brows until they were wrinkly against his forehead. “It’s all…wonky.”
“Wonky, huh? Using our big-brain words today.”
Peter rolled his eyes.
“Shut up, May,” he lackadaisically bit back, once again using his thumb to swipe away a warning message that popped up on his screen. The device got significantly dimmer, even the flashlight growing weaker at the lack of power. “Didn’t we say we were gunna mark all these switches when we first moved in? That way we’d remember what’s-what?”
“Life got crazy,” May easily answered, her soft footfalls coming to a sudden stop. “And hey, I haven’t tripped the breaker in a while now. Not since I last tried making pot roast.”
“Please don’t try and make pot roast ever again,” Peter didn’t miss a beat.
Despite being eight floors above him, Peter swore May’s offense was palpable. “It wasn’t that bad— ”
“They called the fire department,” Peter countered swiftly. The was a brief pause as he tried, and failed, to shake away the taste that seemed arise with the memory, one that must’ve been permanently engraved into his tongue. He stuck it out to try and rid the flavor. “It was bad. So bad.”
Sometimes, no answer was answer enough. And aside from May’s clearly audible grumble, her defense was next to none.
They really should've ordered pizza tonight.
“That was the fourth one, by the way,” Peter changed the subject, reaching back inside the fusebox as he waited for an answer. “What’d that do?”
A noise of disagreement came from May. “Mhm-mhm. Your bedroom.”
The sigh that blew through Peter's lungs held enough force to puff out his cheeks like a Chipmunk. There was no denying that they really needed to get these switches labeled, but May was more than right — life had gotten absolutely crazy. It was no wonder something like this fell on the back burner.
Peter still couldn't believe that around three weeks ago, he’d died. Died died. And now here he was, trying to get the power back on inside their kitchen because May could only use the Crockpot on the outlet that would cause a blown fuse if literally any other appliance in the kitchen ran at the same time.
Crazy just didn't describe his life these days. They needed to invent a whole new word for that.
“Okay,” Peter’s brows began to narrow into a tight V as he looked between the fusebox and the screen of his cell phone. “Four down, six to go. I’ve got like, five percent left on my phone battery, hopefully it holds out—”
“Peter, you have got to get better about keeping that thing charged!”
Peter winced and gave a grimace he knew May couldn't see through the phone. Or maybe she could. It was hard to tell with her — sometimes he swore she knew it all.
“I know, I know,” he insisted.
“What about a wireless charger?” she began to ask, almost desperately. “Can Tony build you something like that, something that charges it while it’s in your backpack? A backpack charger?” May sighed — almost as if suddenly realizing it was foolish to recommend an invention on the very item Peter had a tendency to lose every single day. At the very least, it was Tony’s problem now to deal with. “Seriously, kiddo, your phones gunna die one day and you’ll need it and if I can’t get a hold of you—”
“May, you’re starting to freak out —”
“And if Tony can’t get a hold of you and if you need help —”
“May. Freaking out. Stop.” Peter forcibly flipped the fifth switch on the left side of the fuse breaker, and flipped it back in place with the same amount of force. “What’d that do?”
“Oh, sweet,” May’s stress seemed to switch off no different than the fuse breakers had. “That did it. Come on up, and don’t forget —”
There was no warning message on Peter’s phone that time. It simply shut off, both the flashlight and the device entirely.
Peter looked down at the black screen with a frown. Well, everything was black now — no light in the laundry room once his phone died for good.
“Crap,” he muttered, stuffing the device into his back pocket — completely forgetting this pair of jeans had a growing hole in the butt until his finger nearly got trapped there. “I really do gotta get better about charging this thing.”
Closing the metal door to the fuse breaker, Peter turned on his heels and began to leave the laundry room.
He slipped and fell on laundry detergent on the way out.
“Oh my, my, yes, it’s been…it’s been quite the few months, for sure. A lot of preparation has gone into this, many things occurring behind the scenes — and now that OsCorp has reached the point of publicizing this announcement, well…I won’t lie, it’s a bit of a burden off the back.”
As Peter threw open the front door to the apartment, the first thing he heard was the distant voices coming from the living room television. It was at a volume that told him May wasn’t really paying attention, just using it for background noise. Yet it was loud enough that it reached over her struggle with pots and pans all the way inside the kitchen, and certainly quick to grab his attention.
Anything OsCorp related had a tendency to do that these days.
Peter hadn’t even crossed the threshold of the front door to living room when he looked over at the TV, frowning deeply.
“But of course, things are just beginning. We have a long future to look forward to, one that’ll far exceed my time on this earth.” The voice of the man sounded professional, each word said with a sharp precision and clarity to his statements. “It’s all about legacy, after all. And the Osborn dynasty has yet to untap their full potential in what lays ahead. I’m excited to be apart of these unfolding developments with them.”
Whatever channel was playing, Peter quickly deduced it was a news station. Something where someone was being interviewed — an old man, that much was obvious. He wore a business suit that Peter was sure cost five times May’s rent, and his grayish white hair matched perfectly with the deep wrinkles that dug harsh lines into his skin.
And yet, despite talking about OsCorp, the man was most definitely not Norman Osborn. Peter wasn’t sure he’d actually ever seen him before. Granted, he never paid much attention to these things until recently, but still.
He approached the back of the sofa, watching the TV and moving almost in a trance. So much so that he completely forgot his laundry detergent soaked socks were still gripped in his hand, and his bare feet still sticky with the residue they’d encountered.
“You sound quite optimistic about the longevity in OsCorp’s future, Mr. Symthe,” the interviewer said, his tone as serious and straitlaced as the much older man sitting across from him. “Does this mean you’re not worried about the dissolution of partnership with Bio-Labs? Their upstate, New York facility alone brought in OsCorp over thirty percent of their shares and profits last year.”
The man being interviewed gave a light chuckle — Spencer Symthe, Peter discovered, right as the lower third graphic appeared on the screen, displaying his name in whole.
It also gave him a title. Peter furrowed his brows as he quickly read it. Right next to his full name were the words, Co-chairman.
The man may have not been Norman, but there was no doubt that he was right up there in hierarchy.
“Last year is behind us, OsCorp looks only to the future,” Spencer simply answered, as smoothly as the words that came before him. “Bio-Labs served us well in the past, but OsCorp is moving forward with their endeavors in other ways. We have something quite exciting happening here very soon. I’m not at liberty to discuss the details just yet, but our separation with Bio-Labs has made way for something far better. Both for us and for mankind.”
The interviewer looked down at his lap and the sleek notepad in his hands. “Is it true OsCorp purchased that facility from Bio-Labs?” he read off his notes.
“We did, yes,” Spencer answered so quickly, the camera didn’t cut to him until mid-sentence. “We came to an agreement with Bio-Labs on a price, and OsCorp is hoping to utilize the facility for further expanding their research studies across the east coast.”
Peter suddenly looked left and right, and then down to the sofa — finding the TV remote stuck in-between the armrest of the cushions. Discarding his socks, he grabbed the remote and hit the first button his thumb could get a hold of. It displayed the title of the show over the screen — ‘Executive Insights with Mark Mitchell.’
“There’s been…quite the controversy regarding those research facilities, Mr. Symthe,” Mark Mitchell, Peter correctly assumed, went on to say. “I’m sure you’re more than aware of the legal trial that took place this afternoon — any comment?”
Slowly, Peter dropped the remote down onto the end table next to the couch. All the while, he never looked away from the TV.
“Ridiculous claims made by ridiculous people.” Spencer waved his hand right alongside his answer. “Despite his rank in the air force, I assure you that Colonel Rhodes has no interest in the safety of this country. He sides with his interest and his team alone — that is, the Avengers. The only people we seem to allow to live above the law.” For a man who had kept his tone even and unwavering, there was a slight hitch in words that heated them up, something Peter couldn’t ignore. He suddenly sounded frustrated, angry. To the point where a pause followed, and he noticeably cleared his throat. “These claims made by him and subsequently, the team he participates with, are as foolish as they are deranged.”
Mark simply nodded. “It’s been no secret that Stark Industries very own Tony Stark has been pushing this case, advocating for the entire revocation of OsCorp’s funding and participation with the Institutional Review Board. He states that compliance with regulatory requirements have been, in his words, the biggest disgrace to not only the field of science but to humanity as a whole.”
“And yet Judge Whittaker has made it very clear today that he disagrees with those claims,” Spencer answered the question that had yet to be asked. “Tony Stark’s efforts to shut down OsCorp have been nothing but a blip on our radar. The court system sided with us on that today, making it very clear that there’s no grounds to the absurd accusations put forth by rumors and heresay.”
Mark cocked his eyebrow high, and so did Peter. Both of them for different reasons. “Is that your way of saying OsCorp’s research studies haven ’t been neglecting proper codes and regulations, and remain to demonstrate due diligence in maintaining public safety standards for both their participate and employees? ”
“By all means, yes,” Spencer easily answered. So easily, Peter went to fold both arms over his chest, the look that pulled at his face causing lines he was far too young to be dealt with. “If all goes well, the former Bio-Labs facility will be up and running within a few months, once converted into one of OsCorp’s technological facilities. And it’ll foster not only the community and development of science careers, but also expand the boundaries of research to pave the way for a brighter tomorrow.”
“Oh, gosh!”
May's shout reached over the low volume of the TV, and her frantic footsteps out of the kitchen did just the same. Peter twisted at the hips to see her waving and flapping a dishtowel at the open door of the stove.
“I cannot get that smoke out of here!” May chuckled with a bit of a cough, roughly clearing the smoke out of her throat as she turned around to Peter and asked, “Did you get the mail?”
Peter suddenly frowned. “The mail — huh?”
“The mail,” she repeated, throwing the dishtowel right over her shoulder. When Peter didn’t respond, May let one hand rest firmly on the bone of her hip. “I asked you to get the mail on the way up.”
With a smile so tight that it practically thinned his lips out to nothing, Peter sheepishly admitted, “My phone died.”
The look he got in return was the exact look he expected to receive.
Didn't make it any easier to deal with, of course.
“Forget it,” May grabbed the dishtowel off her shoulder and wagged at in his direction as she turned back into the kitchen. “Just help me with these taco’s. I need a pepper chopper and you’re just the guy for the job.”
Peter went to give the TV one last glance, but even as May started laying out an array of peppers across the kitchen counter to be prepped and sliced, his attention once again gravitated to the interview taking place.
“…thank you, again, Mr. Symthe, for your time this evening,” Mark began to wrap things up, going so far as to place his notepad aside, no longer having any use for it. “Though I won’t lie, I think I speak for all our viewers tonight when I say there’s a bit of disappointment in not having Mr. Osborn here as promised.”
“Of course. Trust me, I understand,” Spencer sympathized with an expression that suddenly fell uncharacteristically grim. Peter unknowingly turned further inward to face the screen. “But I hope yourself and the viewers understand just how devastating it was to the Osborn family to lose their country home in a unexpected, catastrophic gas-leak a few weeks ago. That house belonged to Norman's late wife, after all, which made it all the more difficult for them to come to terms with the loss. I think it's important for everyone to understand just how much of an emotional toll this has taken on the family.”
A tightness suddenly seized at Peter’s throat.
He didn't know about that.
He had no clue about that.
And he'd just been at Harry’s place, like…two weeks ago.
It burned down?
“Tragic, indeed,” Mark seemed to answer for Peter’s thoughts. Only far less emotionally involved. “Can you at least tell us if the Osborn’s are doing well?”
Peter didn't think a simple nod was enough to send palpable waves of relief through his body. But seeing the rich, old man nod his head in turn was enough to make him dizzy on his feet. The last thing he wanted was for Harry to be hurt.
And knowing how dangerous his dad was becoming…
“They are, I spoke to both just a few days ago,” Spencer seemed to negate Peter’s inner turmoil, almost too easily. “They’ve taken some much needed time off, and some time away.”
“Peter!” May’s shout sliced right through his thoughts and the interview taking place. “Come on, before Ned gets here!”
Peter was noticeably torn between the TV and the kitchen. He took a few, slow steps away from the sofa, but his attention stayed on the screen of the television the entire time.
“Time away?” Mark parroted. “Does that mean we should expect a delay in the 2017 annual OsCorp shareholders meeting?”
“Oh no, no,” Spencer dismissed the concept with an easy laugh and a wave of his hand. “No, we have no concerns regarding the AGM this year. Everything will go on as planned.”
“And Norman Osborn?” Mark asked with a quirked eyebrow and a skeptical frown. “He’ll be in attendance?”
“In fact,” Spencer let the pause that follow stretch his lips into a rigid, drawn-out grin, “believe me when I say Norman’s quite eager to share all his excitement in what’s to come.”
There was something disconcerting about the smile that spread across Spencer's face. It turned every aging wrinkle into a cavernous trench that Peter swore held more secrets than he could dare to uncipher.
For being an interview with the press, he had a feeling there was little truth being told.
“Last time, Peter!”
May’s voice rattled him back to the present moment, where Peter quickly spun on his heels and turned away from the TV for good. His bare feet made sticky noises against the kitchen tile with the laundry detergent that had soaked through the socks he’d taken off.
“You know, May,” Peter started to say, digging into the kitchen drawers as he looked for a knife to cut the peppers. “Happy would probably be way happier if you stopped trying to cook.”
Standing over the sink and using quick motions of a knife to scrape off the burnt taco shells, May told him, “For the fifth time, we’re not ordering pizza.”
Peter grabbed a knife from inside the drawer and pointed it at her direction. “I’m just saying — it’s not too late.”
May turned around, wagging her knife right back at him.
“Jalapeños. Chop. Now.”
The kitchen quickly filled itself with the background noise of Peter and May’s casual conversation, her questions about his studies and classes mixing with his chopping of peppers, and the sink occasionally running water. It overlapped with the finishing interview still sounding from the living room television; quiet, but still somewhat audible in the distance.
“Making it out of a house fire puts quite the toll on someone,” Mark went on to mention, dipping his chin low with a sincere curiosity. “I hate to ask, but will Norman be recouped in time for this conference?”
As quickly as the camera had focused on the interviewer, it switched to the man sitting across from him.
Spencer gave a tiny grin, the crows feet around his eyes protesting at the movement.
“I’ve been with Norman since day one of OsCorp,” he confidently said, “since the very afternoon he convinced me, at a bistro table on 54th street, to invest my profits into a far fetched concept he had for a robotics and genetic engineering company. If there’s one thing I know the most about him, it’s that he’s stubborn. Stubborn enough not to accept my no, all four times I said it. And stubborn enough to push onward in the wake of devastation. A setback like this won’t keep him stalled for very long,”
The camera zoomed in a bit on his face, catching the twitch in his forced smile. It stopped short of bringing his features out of focus, and as if noticing the hyper-focus on him, Spencer turned his attention to the lens — speaking directly to the shows audience.
“I assure you, wherever Norman is, he’s absolutely fine.”
Step forward.
Foot forward.
Step forward.
Foot forward.
Μ Ø V Ɇ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖.̺.̮
Step forward…
Foot…
Forward…
…step…
. ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖.̺.̮ ₖᴱₑᴾ ᴹₒⱽᵢᴺᴳ
ƘƎƎρ ʍØѴłᑎĠ
Μ Ø V Ɇ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖.̺.̮
The voices drowned out the sound of his footsteps. His ears rang with the whispers that burrowed deep into his head, jumbled and indistinct — somehow coming from all directions, speaking all at once.
They pushed him forward. Moving the depleted form of his physical vessel long past what little endurance he once had — now as empty as the roads he wandered.
Each trudge forward emitted a searing heat that burnt the asphalt below him, with wisps of smoke rising from his feet and tendrils of fumes twisting around his body. Not even the thick fabric of an over-sized, purple wool coat could contain the ash and soot rising off his pores. It merely burnt right through, leaving holes that exposed him to the night air; the heat of his own body a harsh contrast to the chill, autumn night.
And yet, despite it all, he kept moving.
Foot forward.
Step forward.
Foot forward.
Step forward.
ꟼ͕͚̠̹͍̻ᴼₜꙄ ͖̗͇͔ᵀ̘̩͉'Ͷₒ̮̗̮̯ᗡ̲̜͇̘
n ̙̖̙͈̰̘̬̬̳̼̣͍̦ͅo̮͎̹̞̩̺̻͔t͎̠̼̹̻̫͉D͚͍̼͕' t̮o̮͚͔̣͇̖̯̮̼̠̲̲̣͉p̜͙S̞͖̬
ꟼ͕͚̠̹͍̻ᴼₜꙄ ͖̗͇͔ᵀ̘̩͉'Ͷₒ̮̗̮̯ᗡ̲̜͇̘
n ̙̖̙͈̰̘̬̬̳̼̣͍̦ͅo̮͎̹̞̩̺̻͔t͎̠̼̹̻̫͉D͚͍̼͕' t̮o̮͚͔̣͇̖̯̮̼̠̲̲̣͉p̜͙S̞͖̬
D Ø ͙ ᑎ ͓'̝̖ҭ Sҭ Ø p ̩
The desolate back roads seemed to go on for miles, with the only light coming from the occasional car passing by; casting fleeting shadows that clung to the tattered coat draped over his back, bouncing off the sharp colors of tattered plum. Headlights beamed fiercely against his figure before dissipating far off into the distance, with vehicles traveling the road at a pace he failed to keep up with.
Still, he kept moving. Dragging each leg forward, with the skin of his exposed feet scraping against the narrow shoulder of the two-lane rural roads.
The rough texture of the unforgiving pavement cut into his toes and blistered the soles of his heels, leaving patches of blood that dried up before they could leave a mark. Embers of flickering fire continued to spark with a heat sourced from within, and each step forward left behind a molting impression on the damp and dirty pavement.
The trail of smoke that wafted off his body became the only marking of his journey. Even that was eventually lost, with the haze of gray and black smog getting lost in the dark night sky.
ƘƎƎρ ʍØѴłᑎĠ
ꟼ͕͚̠̹͍̻ᴼₜꙄ ͖̗͇͔ᵀ̘̩͉'Ͷₒ̮̗̮̯ᗡ̲̜͇̘
n ̙̖̙͈̰̘̬̬̳̼̣͍̦ͅo̮͎̹̞̩̺̻͔t͎̠̼̹̻̫͉D͚͍̼͕' t̮o̮͚͔̣͇̖̯̮̼̠̲̲̣͉p̜͙S̞͖̬
ꟼ͕͚̠̹͍̻ᴼₜꙄ ͖̗͇͔ᵀ̘̩͉'Ͷₒ̮̗̮̯ᗡ̲̜͇̘
D Ø ͙ ᑎ ͓'̝̖ҭ Sҭ Ø p ̩
Μ Ø V Ɇ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖.̺.̮
The voices were insistent drone that spurred him on. Whispering, cajoling — commanding. Moving him like a puppet with no control to his strings, a prisoner to the relentless forces that held him in their grasp.
Move.
Keep going.
Keep moving.
That's all he knew.
n ̙̖̙͈̰̘̬̬̳̼̣͍̦ͅo̮͎̹̞̩̺̻͔t͎̠̼̹̻̫͉D͚͍̼͕' t̮o̮͚͔̣͇̖̯̮̼̠̲̲̣͉p̜͙S̞͖̬
ꟼ͕͚̠̹͍̻ᴼₜꙄ ͖̗͇͔ᵀ̘̩͉'Ͷₒ̮̗̮̯ᗡ̲̜͇̘
D Ø ͙ ᑎ ͓'̝̖ҭ Sҭ Ø p ̩
Μ Ø V Ɇ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖.̺.̮
As he trudged forward along the secluded northern country roads, a sudden brightness illuminated his back — casting long, jagged shadows on the pavement before him.
The noise of a blaring horn came not a second later, cutting straight through the weight of stifling silence.
For the first time in days, his feet came to a stop — right as an approaching car sped up from behind. When he craned his neck around, almost as if he were entranced by the sound, the two piercing headlights nearly blinded him with its intensity. The bright LEDs cut into every crevice of his skin, sinking deep into the lines of his face and shrinking his pupils until they were nothing more than a speck of black sitting in a pool of green irises.
That same emerald hue in his glazed eyes seem to intensify as the headlights shined brighter against his figure, his legs unmoving even as the car came speeding towards him — not even the voices occupying his thoughts enough to pry him away.
Norman didn't budge. The horn kept blaring one long, continuous warning sound, drawing closer as he stayed rooted in place, with the hood to an over-sized, heavy coat concealing most of his head from view.
“…off the road, you jackass!”
The car hurtled past him, along with a plastic cup that was thrown out the driver side window — missing its target entirely as it splashed the liquid contents along the grass fields flanking the road. Tires screeched on the pavement as gears were shifted and the wheels spun, leaving behind a cloud of dust and the lingering scent of burnt rubber.
Slowly, mindlessly, Norman turned his head back around towards the road in front of him — watching as the vehicle disappeared into the distance, its taillights receding into the darkness like twin red eyes.
A faint echo of the engine dwindled away with the lights, the road up ahead long and seemingly unending, obscured heavily in the pitch black skies of the night. The absence of sound fading out of earshot left a vacuum for the voices that ran rampant in his head — growing louder, more urgent. Whispers that turned into screams, clawing away at his sanity.
Norman listened to them. Following where ever they wanted him to go, starting with a single step forward.
Step forward.
Foot forward.
n ̙̖̙͈̰̘̬̬̳̼̣͍̦ͅo̮͎̹̞̩̺̻͔t͎̠̼̹̻̫͉D͚͍̼͕' t̮o̮͚͔̣͇̖̯̮̼̠̲̲̣͉p̜͙S̞͖̬
ꟼ͕͚̠̹͍̻ᴼₜꙄ ͖̗͇͔ᵀ̘̩͉'Ͷₒ̮̗̮̯ᗡ̲̜͇̘
D Ø ͙ ᑎ ͓'̝̖ҭ Sҭ Ø p ̩
Μ Ø V Ɇ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖.̺.̮
Peter didn’t want to brag, but he was kind of a genius when it came to certain things.
“There’s still good in him!”
He did, after all, invent his own web fluid that was stronger than steel; a marvel of a creation with both powerful adhesive and a huge tensile strength to boot. Not to mention the web-shooters that came with it — both his original version and the upgrade he managed to put together over the summer, thanks to Mr. Stark lending his remaining nanites after the whole Bermuda Triangle craziness.
“I also thought he could be turned back to the good side. It can’t be done.”
But all that was nothing compared to his success with the living room TV.
It took much trial and error, along with quite a bit of frustration from May, but Peter eventually figured it out. He discovered that if he wanted to achieve the perfect volume to hear the TV while simultaneously eat his food, he needed to use the remote control to set the volume to level eight, and then use the buttons on the television itself to increase it by three. It couldn’t be done with just the remote or just the buttons, and May gave up a long time ago on understanding why, but for Peter, it was perfect.
“He is more machine now than man. Twisted and evil.”
Not that it mattered much — the television could've been on mute and both he and Ned would still be able to quote every line spoken, even as they chewed ferociously like hungry wolves in the wild. Hell, with Peter’s insatiable appetite since The Bite, he could have easily made a starving wolf seem tame in comparison.
“I can’t do it, Ben,” both he and Ned mouthed at the same time, lips covered in grease as they both chomped eagerly on their dinner, watching the screen intently as if it were their first time seeing the movie.
The characters moved on the screen and Peter's eyes moved with them, even as he leaned forward towards the coffee table to grab another slice of pizza from the open box in front of him.
“You cannot escape your destiny,” Obi-Wan stressed, right as Ned fist-pumped his hand into the air — as if silently encouraging the fictional character from where he sat.
The slice of pizza nearly lost half its cheese when Peter picked it up. Even as he slowly and deliberately placed the melted mozzarella back onto the pizza slice, his eyes didn't look anywhere but straight ahead — captivated entirely by the movie that played.
“I tried to stop him once,” Luke cried out. “I couldn't do it!”
Peter’s chewing slowed down a bit, just enough that Obi-Wan’s voice was louder than before as he went on to say, “Vader humbled you when first you met him, Luke…but that experience was part of your training.”
Over both the sound of his chomping and the sound of Star Wars playing from the TV, Peter could make out the faint noise of a key wiggling in the front door. Seeing as he only knew two other people who had access to May's apartment — and seeing as one of them had been preoccupied in court trials all day to bother make a visit to Queens — he knew exactly who it was, and didn't even bother looking when the door finally flung open.
“Hello, hello!”
Happy's voice barely reached over both the movie and their chewing — Ned was practically slurping up the melted cheese dripping off his slice of pizza, nearly losing it all together when it almost plopped down into his lap — and along with the greeting came the jingle of Happy's keys, rattling against one another as he entered their apartment.
Peter noticed that jingle stop abruptly, followed by three large sniffs that could've put a bulldog to shame.
“Why do I smell…Mexican pizza?” Happy suddenly asked.
Over in the kitchen and sitting in the corner nook, May kept her focus on the screen of her laptop no different than Peter to the screen of the TV — even with Happy arriving inside the apartment, settling his keys on the wall mounted key rack with a sense of familiar causality they were all growing accustomed to.
“Over-seasoned the taco meat,” May dryly answered, her fingers clacking away on the keyboard of her laptop and her eyes set straight on the screen as she followed up with, “Also burnt the taco shells. Help yourself to some pizza.”
Glancing from the living room to the kitchen, and briefly noting both boys sitting on the sofa consuming what appeared to be their second box of pizza, Happy set his belongings down the counter ledge behind the nook — gently pushing away a few miscellaneous items to make room.
“Oh, now c’mon!” Leaning forward, he gave May a quick peck on the cheek — one she briefly engaged in, only to return back to her work just as quickly. “I'm sure it's not that bad!”
A noticeable sound came from the living room — it was hard to tell if the boys were laughing, making movie commentary, or inhaling their food so fast one of them finally choked on molten mozzarella.
May seemed unfazed by it, aside from a hefty eye-roll that was obvious underneath the large rims of her glasses.
“This it here?” Happy looked inside the kitchen, pointing a leather-gloved finger straight ahead at the Crockpot that still sat on the stove top, the lid half-on and the very-burnt taco shells sitting next to it.
May's noise of confirmation came alongside the noise of her keyboard, mixing in with the movie still playing from the living room, and yet still not audible over the hushed-but-not-hushed movie quotes from Ned and Peter, both reciting the lines out loud without realizing it — even with half-chewed pizza garbling their words.
Happy, the unwittingly brave soul he was, had already ventured into the kitchen where he took the ladle from the sink and dug into the pot without hesitation. He didn't even give himself time to sniff the spoonful before taking a gander at having a bite.
If the word regret had a picture next to it in the dictionary, his face would've been a perfect fit.
Downright defeated, May looked over the rim of her glasses as Happy struggled with his mouthful, his throat bobbing and spasming relentlessly as he forced himself to swallow.
It took a long time for him to swallow.
All the while, May didn't even try to hide her amusement in the lengthy pause that followed — or give him the grace of looking away as he clearly fought the instincts to upchuck the contents of his stomach. It wasn't until his left eye finally stopped twitching that he regained some sense of composure.
“So…pizza, then?” Happy finally choked out, already making his way to the stack of pizza boxes sitting on the kitchen table not far from May. “This Angelo's?”
Happy didn't even get a chance to open the lid of the cardboard pizza box before Peter whipped around on the couch, so fast it was a feat he didn't tip over the back of the sofa along the way.
“Angelo's? Heck no!” Peter couldn't have shot to attention any faster had he actually been shot, his voice easily reaching over the movie and Ned's obnoxiously loud cheese slurping. “Everyone knows the best pizza place in Queens is —”
As quickly as Peter had started to talk, words suddenly failed him.
He blinked twice to make sure he wasn't seeing things.
And then a third time, just to be sure.
“Hey, Hap...” Peter slowly drawled out, his eyebrow so high up his forehead it might as well have reached the apartment above them. “Since when did you need Nascar gear to drive a Rolls Royce?”
If it had just been the leather jacket, Peter may not have questioned it at all. The gloves, however, were a tip-off, and the helmet on the kitchen ledge — well, that was as odd things could get. The longer Peter stared at it and he began to wonder how Happy's head even fit into that helmet — sleek and stylish, full-faced and definitely not something he could picture the Forehead of Security, as Mr. Stark so elegantly nicknamed him, wearing around town.
Happy had already started to take off his thick and heavy-looking leather gloves when he went to answer.
“Happy's going through a mid-life crisis,” May beat him to it — still paying attention only to the screen of her laptop, even when Happy threw her a look normally reserved for the teenagers sitting across the apartment.
“I am not going through a — ”
“Oh my god!” Ned’s exclamation easily tore through any defense Happy may have conjured up. No different than Peter, he flipped over the couch at a speed that did nearly tip him over the back of the sofa. It was only with Peter's help that he regained balance, all the while excitedly asking, “Did you get a motorcycle, Mr. Hogan?”
Peter quickly shot his head towards Ned, and just as quickly back to Happy. The expression on the man’s face said it all, and if that didn't, the look of exasperation on May's certainly did.
“Not just any motorcycle,” Happy went on to answer regardless, the gleam in his eyes making him seem nearly as giddy as both the kids. “A Harley Cruiser, the best low rider on the market right now. Brand spankin’ new, too — custom-designed paint job, one of a kind.”
Ned squealed, easily out-doing Happy’s excitement.
“Dude, seriously?” Peter wasn't far behind them both — his grin grew large enough to see his back molars, and he was already jumping over the back of the sofa to hustle into the kitchen — literally jumping over the back, yet making sure his feet landed gracefully and without so much a thud to upset the downstairs neighbors. “You got a bike? That’s so cool!”
Taking off her glasses with one hand, May looked away from her laptop and craned her head up at Happy.
“Tell them what you originally wanted.”
A beat of silence fell over the kitchen. The movie kept playing in the background, even as Peter stumbled into the kitchen — the bottoms of his worn out but still very pink Hello Kitty pajama pants nearly tripped him up twice.
He looked at Happy, expectedly, the building curiosity in his eyes somehow louder than all the nonstop ramblings he could have for hours on end.
Happy tried making his shrug as casual as possible. “Technically I was looking for a sports bike, something more like a crotch rocket —”
“No, it was a crotch rocket,” May couldn’t help but interrupt, her words saturated with easy laughter as she leaned back into the kitchen nook. Folding both arms across her chest, and lifting her chin up high, she caught Happy’s gaze with a smirk. “And tell them why you couldn’t get one.”
At this point, even Ned had turned away from the TV, though he stayed put on the sofa as he picked for another slice of pizza to consume — reaching into the box blindly, not daring to tear his focus away from the conversation taking place.
Happy looked to Peter and back to May, and then back at Peter, before finally answering,
“It…it hurt my back.”
May scoffed and went right back to her laptop, already typing away before Happy could even consider gathering his defenses.
“Just a little, nothing major,” he eventually managed, turning away from Peter and right towards May — wagging a finger as if it bettered his case. “And you know, I still think I may have slept wrong the night before, I could’ve probably just gotten that Suzuki 650 —”
“So anyway,” May shot her head up and looked right at Peter, “Happy’s going through a mid-life crisis.”
Peter was already halfway across the apartment before she'd even finished talking.
“Is it out there? Right now?” Yanking up the blinds, Peter practically stuffed his face against the window, pressing his nose so hard against the glass it left puff marks with each breath he took. “The bike? Is it here?”
Happy rolled his eyes so dramatically, it was remarkable they didn't get stuck at the back of his skull. “No, I walked here — what do you think, kid?”
Completely unfazed by the sarcasm, Peter whipped around and pushed off the window — already five leaps across the apartment in the time it took to take a single breath.
“Can you show me how to ride it?”
It was hard to say if it was Peter's animated enthusiasm that caught May’s attention, or his rapid reappearance into the living room — both did the trick well, and May shot her head up at a speed that should've given her whiplash.
“What?” She tugged forcefully at her ear. “Say that again?”
Peter threw both his arms out wide.
“I’m a quick learner!” he insisted, realizing that his justification was a bit on the weak side as he went to yank up the waistband of his Hello Kitty pajama pants. Scrambling for a better defense, he practically jogged to the kitchen table to break the distance between them. “And what's the harm? I have my license now and everything!”
May brought down the screen of her laptop with a hearty chuckle. “You need a whole different license for that, bug boy.”
Though Peter's face noticeably dropped, he kept pushing on.
“Okay, but like, really, what's the harm?” Peter looked to Happy, as if hoping the man would join his side — only to find him busy with the different boxes of pizza laid out on the kitchen table. As he decided between pepperoni or supreme for his choice of dinner, Peter turned back to his aunt. “What if I need to know how to ride a bike? What if, one day, I need that information, May?”
May looked completely unpersuaded. “You can YouTube it.”
Peter's face dropped even more, and he pointed a finger at the man decked out in leather. “Happy can teach me now!”
“Tony Stark himself could barely teach you how to drive a car,” May reminded him, her head tilting so far to the side that her earlobe pressed up against her shoulder. “You just barely passed that driving test.”
Peter swung his finger from Happy right over to May. “But I passed.”
May met his smugness with her own. “Seven shopping carts, Peter.”
“Six and a half!” Peter argued, immediately. The small smirk that bled through his bite put a brief pause between them before he eventually clarified, “The small ones don’t count as a full cart.”
Happy gave a small chuckle as he plopped a slice of pizza down onto a paper plate.
“May, I can take him around the block, it’s no big deal,” he said, closing the lid to the pizza box as he went for the one below it — grabbing a slice of each to put onto his plate. “He’s not entirely wrong, it doesn’t hurt to know these things.”
Peter knew he liked Happy for a reason.
And yet, still, May didn’t look convinced.
He could fix that.
“Please,” Peter practically begged — no, he did beg, sliding seamlessly into the kitchen nook and pushing May into the corner with each nudge of his body. “Please. Please. Please. Please —”
“Oh good god, fine!” May caved, giving one hard shove against Peter’s shoulder to push him out of the nook. “Fine, go, get out of here.”
“Yes!” Peter was already rushing to the front door before she’d even finished talking, once again nearly tripping on his pajama pants along the way.
May didn’t even look his way as she called out, “Put on some clothes, Peter!”
As fast as he ran towards the door, Peter backpedaled across the apartment until eventually making a sharp u-turn and running straight for his bedroom.
“Yes! Right, yes!”
The only thing louder than Peter's excitement was the sound of his bedroom door being thrown open, bouncing off the wall without a single effort given to stop it. If May had looked behind her, she would’ve been able to see clothes tossed throughout the room as Pete rummaged through his dresser drawers for something to wear.
Instead of looking that way, she kept her eyes locked firmly on Happy — the expression on her face saying it all.
Happy, either oblivious or hoping to quell any frustrations, took a large bite of his pizza while pointing his free hand towards the front door.
“You gunna come check it out?” he asked between bites. “She’s a real beaut in the city lights.”
May gave a firm shake of her head.
“Oh, no, no...” she half-said, half-laughed, going to re-open the screen of her laptop and immediately resume her typing. “I find this whole thing to be very pathetic.”
Before Happy could even take another bite of pizza, Ned emerged from the living room with bare-feet that shuffled quietly against the kitchen tile, muted mostly by his own pajama pants dragging on the ground — decked out with light-sabers and other Star Wars elements. The movie was still playing, but long since abandoned by both teenagers.
Gently sliding into the kitchen nook, he took a seat on the bench right next to May.
“It’s okay, Mrs. Parker,” Ned began to say, placing both hands politely in his lap. “I’ll stay behind and keep you company.”
May looked away from her laptop and over at Ned, smiling softly as she laid a hand against his shoulder.
“That’s very sweet of you, Ned,” she said, before gesturing her head in the direction of Peter’s bedroom. “But you’re more than free to go with Peter.”
The hesitation that stemmed from Ned, though well intended in its performance, was as cheesy as the pizza laid out on the table — Happy was already down his first slice and reaching for his second, being extra cautious not to let any loose toppings fall onto his leather jacket.
Ned nodded his head solemnly, closing both his eyes and thinning his lips as if some grave, important decision was being made.
“Only if you insist, Mrs. Parker,” he said, his tone somehow more serious than his exaggerated chivalry. It took a few scoots to get out of the kitchen nook, where he had to grab the counter ledge to help him stand up. And yet still, Ned managed to start running across the apartment before his feet had even landed on the floor. “Oh my god this is the coolest thing ever! We’re gunna ride a motorcycle!”
May shook her head with a gentle chuckle as she returned back to her laptop, the sound of both boys frantically stumbling through Peter's bedroom a distant but present backdrop to her typing.
“Dude! You’re standing on top of my pants, move!” Peter’s voice could just barely be heard over the movie still playing in the living room. “C’mon, hurry up!”
Happy noticeably cleared his throat as he slid into the nook next to May. When that didn't break her focus from her work, he went on to nudge his shoulder slightly against hers, and pointed with his thumb to the motorcycle helmet on the ledge behind them both.
“Harley Davidson,” he said, smiling.
May craned her head over to him, giving the same smile with a completely different, “Mid-life crisis.”
“I can’t find my shirt!” Ned’s voice was far more muffled from across the apartment, almost sounding as if he was looking under the bed or somewhere in the closet. “Where’d I put my shirt? I coulda sworn I put it —”
“Just wear what you’re wearing, let’s go!”
“You changed! Why can’t I? This isn’t cool, I need to wear something cool!”
“Admit it…you like the biker look on me.” Happy waggled his eyebrows, earning an honest laugh from May as the background noise of both teenagers frantically rushing to get dressed overlapped their conversation. “It’s the leather, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, sure,” May laughed, brushing off non-existent lint from his shoulder before giving it a few pats. “It’s the leather. Just wins a girl right over.”
“No, Ned, it’s not — it’s not under the bed, don’t go under — dude, don’t, you’ll get stuck!” Peter’s voice drew closer only to dwindle away with a whispered-hush. “What you got is fine, now let’s go before Happy changes his mind.”
“Okay, okay, okay!” Ned’s gasp easily broke the laws of physics as May swore she heard it over the television — and she wasn’t alone, by the look on Happy’s face. Regret, once again, could’ve used a photo of him in the dictionary. “You should wear your suit!”
“What!?” Peter’s exclamation managed to be both a whisper and a shout. “No, dude — are you crazy?”
“Okay, but how cool would it look —”
“— so cool!’
“So cool!”
Smacking an open hand against her eye, May rubbed at her temple until she saw stars that New York City didn’t have to offer. And when a loud crash came from Peter’s bedroom, she elected to ignore it entirely.
“Boys,” she said into her smile, closing her laptop and giving up on her work for the night — reaching forward for a slice of pizza that Happy happily got for her.
Notes:
I am truly so very very very excited for the things that are about to come. As I begin to paint the canvas of this story, and give this outline a life and write the things that've been in my head for literally years now, I see this final installment a lot like jambalaya. Acts 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5 are all their own ingredient, each one is their own unique thing with its own flavor, but once completed as a whole and eaten in one bite, each component just enhances the other elements that support it. And I think there's such a special feature to both this final installment and the series as a whole...for those who have read/are reading this as a work-in-progress, you get to experience the exhilaration and thrill of putting the pieces together and read the unfolding events as they take you by surprise, but each story has such a re-read factor that I love so dearly. You get to go back and see "Wow, that was there all along!"
Anyway, *waves hand*that has nothing to do with this chapter....now does it?
😉
Chapter 4: Something Old
Summary:
“Oh, before I forget,” May started to say, her voice dwindling as Peter dug into the bottom shelf of his dresser drawer. His face grimaced tightly as his hand blindly sorted through the belongings there — computer parts and old internet modems covered the item he’d stashed away. “I’ve gotta work overnight at the shelter. Dylan called out again and no one else could cover the shift.”
Peter paused, making a face slightly different from his previous grimace as he looked up from the drawer — old cables in one hand, and the other pushing past a stack of blank CD’s.
“You should really fire this guy, May!” Peter raised his voice as he somewhat-shouted from his bedroom to the kitchen. “Didn’t he, like, nearly poison everyone last month when he used bleach in the dishwashers?”
A clatter echoed the kitchen as May fumbled inside the cabinets — the ones high up that required her to use a stool. But she never did use a stool, and it always resulted in a racket of noise as she tried to reach high up where her fingers barely grazed the top shelf.
“He’s not my best employee, no!” she also somewhat-shouted back to offset the distance. “But good help is hard to come by and we’re taking who we can get!”
Notes:
▰Identity Crisis — Chapter 31: In a Quiet Lagoon, Devils Dwell ▰
“Doctor Adler strictly told me that the Oz formula was my last chance,” he reiterated, each line engraved in his face deepening with the same aggression that coated his tone.
For every step he took forward, Doctor Frye took one back.
“She insists…” Doctor Frye stumbled on his own tongue, and tripped over his own feet. “She insists it’s not suitable for trial.”
Norman came to a halt — and just in time. If Doctor Frye had taken any more steps back, he’d have collided with the wall behind him.
For a second that stretched on into many, the only sound between them was the blast of the air conditioning from above. The vents were high up in the ceiling, but low enough that the blast of cold air ruffled the frazzled hair on-top of Doctor Frye’s head.
“This isn’t a trial, Doctor Frye…” Norman started to say. His chin tilted low and his eyes narrowed, staring intently at the man in front of him. “This is my life.”
Doctor Frye’s only response was a swallow that shook his throat. Hard enough to quiver the nodule in the middle.
Norman tilted his head to the side. “You agree with her?”
It wasn’t so much a question as it was a statement. A realization.
Doctor Frye didn’t let himself blink, barely taking in a breath of air when it was needed. The tension in the lab only grew without a direct answer to the question.
“The initial trials weren’t...the most promising, sir,” Doctor Frye sounded hesitant to explain, slow to talk, with each word being carefully chosen. “Without using the birth host of Arachnid Number 00, you were beginning to show onset signs of schizophrenia, of – of dissociative identity disorder. Split personalities.”
Norman kept his gaze; his shoulders pulling back tautly and his chest puffing out slightly. Underneath the harsh laboratory lights, the impression of aging skin looked all the more crude.
And a face that normally held little to no emotion suddenly grew thick with building, simmering animus.
Doctor Frye took the moment of silence as permission to continue speaking.
“The formula…” he cleared his throat, multiple times, until coming to terms with the fact that the words would need to be forced out. “The formula, as it stands...could very well come at the cost of your sanity.”
If Norman was the least bit bothered by the disclosure, he didn’t let it show.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Even though The Bite didn’t grant Peter the ability of night vision — and after slipping in Mrs. Hayes laundry detergent last night, he lowkey wished it had — there was still no denying that the dial had been cranked up to eleven with his other senses.
Which, while normally a good thing, meant New York City had a certain… smell to it on some days. And the FEAST shelter downtown was no exception to that.
“Holy cow, it reeks in here!” Peter’s words were nothing but muffled as he yanked the collar of his jacket over his nose, already half-way up the staircase and leaping two steps at a time. “C’mon, let’s make this quick, I’m starting to taste my breakfa—Ned!”
When Peter craned his head around to catch sight of his friend, he saw nothing but empty stairs. Taking the final step and leaning over the balcony railing to better see down below, he could barely make out Ned's figure moving through the crowd. If it had been anyone else but Peter looking, Ned would’ve easily gotten lost in the rows and rows of cots lining the walls, with makeshift blankets stacked on top, along with a cluster of people scattered throughout the shelter.
But Peter saw exactly where Ned was heading. And he gave a hefty eye-roll no sooner than Ned departed into the kitchen, practically skipping there with excitement.
“Dude! We don’t have time for—!”
“Hey, Peter!”
A voice hollered from down below, and Peter had to do a double take to find the source; only locating them once he saw the waving hand amidst the congregation of people. Some of the crowd were staff members, but most — like the older black man trying to catch Peter’s attention — were the unfortunate folks benefiting from the shelter’s purpose.
“Hey, Mr. Lewis!” Peter hollered back, leaning over the balcony railing with both arms crossed over his chest. “Whacha doing here, I thought you had a voucher for a motel over at Franklin Square?”
The much older man, Mr. Lewis, threw his arms out wide with an exasperation that didn’t match his upbeat attitude.
“They sold out! When they wanna sell rooms, a fella like me gets kicked right to the curb,” he practically yelled to be heard over the handful of different conversations taking place around them. Luckily, Peter had no trouble hearing the man — or smelling him. Without much hesitation, he leaned forward and stuffed his nose into the fold of his arms where he was far less at risk for body odor assault, listening as Mr. Lewis went on to holler, “At least I can always count on Mrs. Parker to take me back!”
Peter smiled, even though it couldn’t be seen in the space between his arms. May could go on and on about her undying pride in him, but he swore it was nothing compared to how much he admired her and all she did to help people. He insisted, to this day, that both her and Ben played a big part in all he did — vigilantism, as the city loved to call it.
Helping people, that’s what it was. And no different than all the work Spider-Man did for New York City, people like May stayed on the ground themselves — helping others in their own way.
Ben would always say that’s what life was about. And May kept that Parker Purpose going, long after he was gone.
“Stay out of trouble. Mr. Lewis!” Peter gave a casual wave down to the man below as he hopped-skipped his way across the balcony, taking a sharp turn that led him further away before a response could even be given.
“No guarantees!” Mr. Lewis’ voice dwindled as Peter ran off, turning his own back as he yelled, “Hey, Lauren! Where’s those turkey sandwiches, I’m starvin’ over here!”
The voice of the kitchen staff mixing with Mr. Lewis’ tangent about ‘toilet water tasting soup’ became nothing but distant chit-chat as Peter turned another corner down the hallway. He quickly passed by the large glass pane windows overlooking the downstairs, practically jogging to get where he needed to be.
It was there Peter caught sight of a familiar head of hair, with a long ponytail wrapped into a messy bun — the persons back was facing him, but their voice was audible from down the hall.
“…and the donation truck just arrived so I really need you and Jimmy to go unload that before they get mad at us again — last time the driver chewed me out for taking too long. You know how the Salvation Army gets, they’re on a tight schedule — we gotta accommodate that. We’re lucky they’re even helping us out with this shipment of clothes.”
As May continued to talk to the two employees in front of her, Peter tried to stealthily sneak by without being noticed; squeezing behind her as he made his way through the open doorway the three practically barricaded.
“And don’t forget to put all the coats over in the — hang on. Peter?”
So much for that.
“Hey!” Peter spun on his heels, throwing her two finger guns with a smile that stretched his lips to both ends of the room. All the while, he didn’t let up his pace, walking backwards and further into her office with no intention of stopping. “Won’t be here long. Pretend you don’t even see me.”
“Too late,” May didn’t miss a beat. “You’re seen.” As quickly as she’d spoken, she stepped into her office alongside Peter — her brows knitted tightly as she watched him begin to rummage through the various items scattered across her desk. “What are you doing here, I thought Happy was picking you guys up at the apartment?”
Peter didn’t even look her way as he moved papers and trinkets aside, lifting some up over his head while he pushed others far out of the way. “Told him to meet us here instead — oh, gum!”
The pack of peach mango flavored chewing gum didn’t last long unattended. Peter snatched it up as quickly as he spoke, already going to unwrap a piece when suddenly, a head poked in through the doorway.
“Mrs. Parker,” one of the employees stayed put in the threshold of the entryway as he asked, “where are keys to the docking station?”
May twisted around to face him. “Downstairs, in the kitchen, janitors closet, left wall, upper right corner.” No sooner than she finished, she turned right back around. “Peter.”
Peter was already six-chews into his gum, and now rummaging through her desk drawers, when he realized she was talking to him.
“What?” he asked, only looking up when she failed to answer. Turns out the look on her face was the answer. Peter immediately threw his arm out in defense. “Oh, c’mon, it’s been years since I got gum stuck in my hair, it’s fine —”
“No, Peter, not the gum — what are you doing here?” she clarified, and with no ounce of frustration missing from her tone.
Peter noticed. But he also noticed the employee who was just now leaving after asking her about the loading dock keys. If he moved any slower, a snail would’ve passed him by — twice over.
“Doesn’t Dylan usually unload the truck?” Peter pointed a finger at the departing employee, going so far as to pause his chewing as if the gum would hinder his ability to hear May’s answer.
Once again, her expression was the answer. But still, she went on to say,
“Dylan’s late.” Though May didn’t sigh, she sure as hell looked like she wanted to. “Again.”
Peter tried not to smile. He tried, but May, seer of all things, could make out the twitch in his upper lip from a mile away.
“Still not gunna fire him?” Peter asked, growing all too accustomed to May’s tangents and rants about her more problematic staff — the kind that had her constantly pulling double shifts and filling in for coverage last minute.
It wasn’t so much as her staff as it was one particular person, but nevertheless.
“Help is still hard to come by,” May seamlessly answered, all the while folding both her arms across her chest — shifting her weight from one foot to the other and dipping her chin low in a way that spoke sternness. “Now you gunna answer my question?”
A different look crossed May’s face. Peter knew better than to mess with that look — serious-business-May, as he called it. There was no need to spill the truth when it came to serious-business-May; she’d pull it right out of him before he’d even realize it.
It was times like these he was really glad she discovered his secret when she did. There was simply no way he’d have gotten away with hiding it for much longer.
“Okay, so — I figured since we'll already be in the city tonight, I’ll just go patrolling right after the tux fittings, you know?” Peter was still looking around her office as he spoke, pulling open drawers and leaving them open long after he rummaged inside. “But I looked in my room, and then I looked in my backpack, and I coulda sworn I stocked up on web cartridges but I only have what’s on my suit and that’s already low — I guess I used way more than I thought the other night with those muggers on 54th street. And then I remembered, hey, I’m pretty sure I left some here as a backup a while ago, but I can’t remember where exactly I put them —”
“Peter!” May’s hands couldn’t have hit her hips any harder if they had lead weights attached to them. “I asked you not to leave those around after one exploded in the drawer and ruined my Kindle!”
Peter dropped to his knees to look under her desk. “That was before I switched out the layer of shelling with aluminum! The temperature was causing that, anytime the cartridges got too hot they exploded — but I totally fixed that.”
To demonstrate his sincerity, Peter lifted a hand into the air and waved it casually as if to say ‘it’s all okay now!’ It was the only part of him May could see, the rest — tennis shoes aside — climbed underneath her desk and began rummaging through the boxes she kept down there.
“Doesn’t make this any better,” May exasperatedly objected.
When Peter stood back up, still void of success in finding any web cartridges, he saw May had yet to remove her hands from her hips. If anything, her hands managed to sink deeper in the curvature of her waist — making her look even more stern than before.
“What?” he asked, a little too innocently.
May’s next look was hot enough to melt right through that extra layer of shelling he added to his web cartridges.
“You can’t keep…that stuff here!” May half-hissed, half-yelled. The flappy motion of her wrist, finally disconnected from her hip-side, said every word she didn’t speak.
Peter heard it, loud and clear.
“Nobody’s gunna know what they are!” he insisted, both arms out wide in defense. “And besides, this way I have some no matter where I go. Like your chapstick.” Peter dropped one arm but used the other to point a finger up ahead. “You keep chapstick everywhere, May.”
May’s brows slid up her forehead. “This is nothing like my chapstick.”
Peter gave a hefty shrug. “It kinda is.”
For a brief moment, Peter stood frozen like a statue — arm outstretched, with his smile wide enough to give him crowsfeet he was too young to have. All the while his defense, and subsequent puppy-dog eyes that followed, easily chipped away at serious-business-May.
Finally, she met Peter’s finger with her own. “If any of those cartridges explode over the new Starkpad that I just got —”
“You didn’t just get that Starkpad,” Peter interrupted, immediately resuming his search — this time across the office and through the file cabinet against the wall. “You got it like, seven months ago—”
“—I will ground you until you graduate high-school,” May easily steamrolled him, and for a blip of a second, she was more serious than serious-business-May — if that were even at all possible.
Peter was too busy being elbow deep into the third file cabinet drawer to notice. “It’ll be fine! Seriously, the new aluminum shell cases can withstand a lot of heat. Like, six hundred degrees Fahrenheit . That's like, fire, May. I promise you, wherever they are—”
May groaned. “Good God Peter, you don’t even know where they are—!”
“They’re around!” Peter squatted down low to look inside the very last file cabinet. “Somewhere. I’m sure of it. I just gotta remember where—”
“Is he losing things again?”
The voice came at a distance to Peter, but that was mostly because he’d stuck his head behind the file cabinet to see if anything happened to wind up back there.
When he looked back around, Happy was already inside the office, both hands stuffed casually inside his pant pockets.
“Of course he is,” May answered easily, watching with a straight face as Peter began looking through the bookcase pressed up against the wall. When he started pulling out books, going so far to open them up to see if anything were between the pages, she simply rolled her eyes.
“Not very responsible sounding,” Happy’s answer was just as simple, earning a honest chuckle from May — and a clap of her hands that followed suit.
“Alright Peter,” she said, clapping two times in total, “you’ve torn apart my office enough as it is. Happy’s here — go, get out, you don’t have time for this.”
“Give me a minute!” Peter shoved a handful of books back into the bookcase, standing on his tippy-toes to see the shelf that hung above it. “Just a minute — I’ll find it, I just need to…”
No sooner than Peter trailed off did he twist around, grabbing the cup of pens and pencils from May’s desk and dumping the contents out completely. When that gave him nothing, he went looking inside her box of tissues next.
Happy noticeably arched an eyebrow at the scene up ahead. Though he kept his comment to himself, he had to shake his head to look away — more than once, at that — but eventually, he turned to face May, all the while pointing a thumb over his shoulder.
“You know you’ve got a truck driver outside yelling something about limes…?” he drifted off, sounding confused at what he said.
May finally let out the sigh she’d been working so hard to hold back.
“Time,” she corrected him, rubbing forcibly at her temple. “He’s not yelling about limes, he’s yelling about time — he has an accent, and I told the guys they needed to bust their butt unloading that truck!” May marched forward towards her desk only to change her mind last minute, spinning around and already making it halfway out of her office. “I don’t have time for this — I really gotta get going to this parent-teacher conference before I’m late.” May threw her one arm in Peter’s direction while the other reached for her purse sitting on a nearby chair. “Peter! You also don’t have time for this —”
“I know, I know, I’m going!” Peter dropped the tissue box with a large sigh, going to scratch at his scalp with his eyes tightly clenched shut — racking his brain a mile a minute as he mused out loud, “I swear I left them around here somewhere…”
Happy just barely resisted a snort.
“Well, that sounds familiar,” he dryly mumbled instead — not quiet enough that May didn’t hear, but not loud enough that Peter could start a defense on how he was totally responsible with his belongings and definitely didn’t lose his backpack once a week.
Even if Peter had started that defense, it would’ve been negligible — there was no way of making himself appear responsible as he hurriedly made his way to the fake fig tree in the corner of the office, bending low so he could start digging through pebbles and rocks that filled the pot.
May shook her head as she swung her purse over her shoulder, giving Peter that look all the way out of the office — stopping short of the entryway where Happy stood.
“I gotta go,” she told Happy, suddenly grinning ear-to-ear with a positivity as fake as the plant that Peter was now tearing apart. “Hey, maybe I can find some reliable help on my way to the school since Dylan never wants to show up for his shifts on time.”
Happy met May’s false enthusiasm with his own genuine seriousness. “You should really fire that guy, you know.”
May looked like she wanted to say something witty, only to stop a second short of a snappy retort.
“Later,” she decided to say in lieu of anything else, laying a relaxed hand against Happy’s arm. “Right now I gotta make sure the school isn’t going to nail me for truancy with how many absences this kid’s ranked up this year.” May patted that same arm before lifting herself slightly high on her tippy-toes to reach him. “Be safe. Don’t have too much fun.”
The peck on the lips they both shared happened to come at the exact same time Peter stopped digging through the pebbles and rocks — and the expression that followed as he turned to look at them contorted his face into something he wasn’t sure his muscles were capable of.
“That’s…never not gunna be weird,” he flatly mumbled — a handful of pebbles still clutched in his fist, and the fake tree offering no success to his search.
Though she wasn’t looking at him, Peter could see May roll her eyes.
“Lock the door on your way out, Peter,” May said as she took her exit — Happy elected to turn away entirely, finding the situation as weird as Peter had. He cleared his throat multiple times as she left the office, with her holler heard down the hallway. “And I meant what I said about grounding you! Until graduation, mister!”
While Happy waited a good amount of time before turning back around to face Peter — right about the time that the heat left his cheeks and the pink blush across his skin became far less noticeable — Peter used that moment of painful, awkward silence to replenish the pebbles and rocks he’d taken from the fake plant.
He basically tossed the handful back into the pot, sighing hard enough to blow out both his cheeks as he did, but they were returned.
And he was still without any web cartridges.
“Whatever you’re looking for,” Happy snapped his fingers, throwing on a stern face that was more of an act than anything else, “make it fast. Tony rents out these places by the hour for privacy.”
Peter made a face as he turned around to look at Happy.
“I’m sure Mr. Stark’s bank account will be fine if we’re a little late,” he said, stopping halfway into his eye-roll when a thought suddenly struck him. Somehow, Peter managed to look as excited and giddy as the day he first took a private jet to Germany. “Wait, are we riding your bike there?”
Happy’s look of sheer exasperation did nothing to negate Peter’s enthusiasm — as if all his frustration about his misplaced belongings was as lost as the item themselves.
“Really?” Happy derisively drawled out, cocking his head to the side with an annoyance he was all too familiar with, and yet never quite acclimated to.
It may have been one full year that Peter had known Happy, and vice-versa, but Peter still went on to ask — all too innocently,
“Are we?”
For a long moment, Happy just stared at Peter.
Peter didn’t seem to get the hint.
“Yeah, kid, great idea,” Happy couldn’t have been anymore sarcastic had he actually invented sarcasm. “You, me, and the big marshmallow of a guy are gunna ride a one seater cruiser all the way into the city —”
“We’re gunna ride your bike again!?”
Ned’s ecstatic shout came from behind Happy, so loud that Happy nearly fell over when he spun around — clutching his chest dramatically with an open palm and fingers spread out wide, each pressing deep against his button-down shirt.
“-esus Christ!” Happy cursed, his eyes wide enough to bulge out their sockets as he looked Ned up and down, clearly startled at his sudden appearance.
The shock wasn’t shared. Ned simply stood idly in the doorway, continuing to eat his turkey and cheese sandwich; the chewing working his jaw in a frantic circular motion. A bit of mustard dropped to the ground, but aside from using the toe of his shoes to smear it away, Ned didn’t break eye contact with Happy.
Like Peter, Happy proceeded to stare at Ned for some time.
And like Peter, the hint wasn’t received.
“Car. Two minutes,” Happy’s voice was dry as dust as he passed by Ned, already making his way out the door and down the hallway. “Or else I’m leaving without you.”
Having known Happy for a year now, Peter had no doubts he meant that.
“Crap,” Peter hissed, quickly looking around May’s office — left and right and a complete circle around — all while rubbing harshly at the back of his neck. “I know I left some here! I just can’t remember —”
“Did you check the plant?” Ned asked from the doorway, his words practically indiscernible between garbled bites of his sandwich.
Peter didn’t even look his way as he pulled another drawer open in vain. “Yeah, I checked—”
“The file cabinet?” Ned swallowed, hard, and then again to clear his throat. “Maybe there’s some in the —”
“Yeah, dude, I checked —”
“Behind the curtains?”
Ned was already making his way to the windows before Peter could mention how ridiculous it would be to keep his web cartridges there.
Still, he let Ned to check behind the curtains. If only because he didn’t know where else the darn things could’ve gone off to.
“Nah, they aren’t here,” Ned gave the answer Peter expected to hear. Not a second later and he reached into his jacket, pulling out a small bag of snacks from inside. “Want some Cheeto’s? The kitchen lady snuck me a bag.”
The crinkling of plastic accompanied Peter’s sigh as Ned ripped open the bag of cheese puff’s. He pulled out a single cheese curl to offer to Peter, only to stuff it into his mouth when Peter declined.
Admitting defeat, Peter slammed the desk drawer shut, the items inside rattling around as he did so.
“Come on,” Peter said, apathetically slamming the desk drawer shut. “Forget it, I’ll just have to keep patrol to a minimum tonight. Let’s go before Happy leaves without us.”
As Peter quickly made his way out of May’s office, Ned followed close behind.
"Hey, you think if Captain America is gunna be there, he'll let you ride his motorcycle?" Ned asked, taking large, hasty leaps forward to catch up with Peter.
"Dude. Come on," Peter's voice became distant from afar, blending in easily with the trivial chit-chat taking place all around the shelter. He didn't let up his pace as he left the office, hurriedly making his way down the hallway. "That's crazy, I'm not riding Captain America's motorcycle— "
"Okay, but it'd be so cool— "
"So cool!"
As Ned hurried out of the office, stuffing the bag of snacks back into his jacket along the way, he left the door wide open in their departure.
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͜͠_̤ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͝v͆éɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌o̅̐̾͘ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͢ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖.̺.̮
ɿɒHar
Go...
Go...
Go...
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͜͠_̤ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͝v͆éɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌o̅̐̾͘ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͢ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖.̺.̮
ɿɒHar
₥͟Ø͟V͟Ɇ͟
Ήλяя𝘢̸𝗿⃥
o͎̣͆n̶̴̨̟͎̹̯̪̻̭̊ͤ̉͛̕͝iɿɿɒH͎̺̆̾͠a
Ή͟λ͟я͟𝘢̸𝗿⃥
Go...
His feet burned.
They ached and throbbed with muscles that spasmed and toes that curled inward with agony. And they burned, skin blistering away in the steam that poured out of his pores, wisps of vapor that drifted up his legs and circled around his calves. His toenails chipped away into ash, black and crisped like coal. The veins under his skin, throbbing to the beat of his exhausted heart, pulsated with the after glow of sage beneath the tint of blue.
Norman kept walking, the voices guiding the way — his legs moving far beyond his conscious control.
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͜͠_̤ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͝v͆éɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌o̅̐̾͘ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͢ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖.̺.̮
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͟͟͟͟͟͟͜͟͟͟͟͠_̤͟͟ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͝v͆͟͟é͟͟ɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟o̅̐̾͘͟͟͟͟͟͟ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͢͟͟͟͟ .͟ ̭̠͈͍͟͟͟͟.̳̤͈̠͟͟͟͟͟.̝̱̠͟͟͟͟.̦͖͟͟͟.̩͖͟͟͟.̺͟͟.̮͟͟
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͜͠_̤ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͝v͆éɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌o̅̐̾͘ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͢ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖
ɿɒHar
𝙵𝕺Ʀ𝕸𝚅Լƛ
Fix
Go.....
The morning sun shined brightly on the graffiti walls he walked past, and yet he kept his head low and to the ground — not looking up, not even looking at his surroundings. His body functioned on an autopilot; the hands on the wheel not his, and the behavior not anything he could resist.
His movements weren’t his own. But he allowed them, nonetheless.
He knew to move.
Don’t stop, keep moving.
There was nothing else of importance besides that.
The city traffic screamed all around him; cars honking every second, people chattering in groups of three or four — some using cross walks, others passing by random directions in the street. In the distance, the roar of a train speeding by on the tracks could be heard, sending vibrations through the ground, and shaking away the brunt ash of nail across his toes.
Norman’s eyes, blood-shot and exhausted, barely flickered in the direction of the sound. The train passed by, and he kept walking, with the hood of a purple coat concealing his features from those around him.
One foot after another, and the residue of his own skin trailing behind him — his feet wearing thin to the muscle.
He kept walking.
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͟͟͟͟͟͟͜͟͟͟͟͠_̤͟͟ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͝v͆͟͟é͟͟ɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟o̅̐̾͘͟͟͟͟͟͟ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͢͟͟͟͟ .͟ ̭̠͈͍͟͟͟͟.̳̤͈̠͟͟͟͟͟.̝̱̠͟͟͟͟.̦͖͟͟͟.̩͖͟͟͟.̺͟͟.̮͟͟
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͜͠_̤ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͝v͆éɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌o̅̐̾͘ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͢ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
Ήλ𝘢̸𝗿⃥𝘢̸𝗿⃥𝘢̸𝗿⃥
ɐ̶ʅ̶n̶ɯ̶ɹ̶o̶GOFOƦＭ𝚅Լƛɐ̶ʅ̶n̶ɯ̶ɹ̶o̶F
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͜͠_̤ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͝v͆éɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌o̅̐̾͘ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͢ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖
The chill of a crisp, autumn day blew the steam off his skin. But the heat lingered, burning holes through the wool of his coat and blistering his skin raw.
The train dwindled in his right ear, exactly at the same time Norman took a left corner and —
“Whoa, man!”
Two hands pressed firmly against his chest, only to recede just as quickly.
For the first time in days — weeks? — Norman looked up. His feet found balance as he came to a stumbled stop, his neck audibly cracking, sounding like twigs breaking in two. If the bones actually broke, he would’ve known no different.
Move.
Keep Moving.
“Move.” The word split from his dry and cracked lips without his intent, his tongue so parched it split in sections as his voice muscled past his hoarse throat.
It hurt to speak, like the fire that once engulfed his body had found a home in his larynx.
It also didn’t matter.
Move. Keep Moving.
That’s all that mattered.
“Bro….you okay?”
The voice could’ve been pure, raw oil compared to Norman’s. Each word was smooth as butter, rolling off the young man’s tongue with simple ease.
“No offense but you, uh…you look fried.” The same two hands that had briefly touched him began to wave at a brisk pace, frantically motioning up and down to create a draft of wind. “Like…literally, my dude.”
A tight frown narrowed his eyes. Norman could feel the crease in his forehead, watching intently — puzzled — as the figure in front of him waved and wagged his hands in an floppy, frenzied motion.
The weak breeze created barely had an effect on the steam that coiled his body.
“Where…am I?” Norman’s head titled to the side, cocking with an odd expression of weary confusion. Each word emerged from his throat as if they were laboriously dragged from a well of gravel, holding the raw edge of friction.
The person who stood in front of him — the source of the draft of air, the man with a voice as smooth as silicone compared to his — suddenly stopped all movements. His hands abruptly froze, right around the same time his head looked down, his eyes suddenly growing wide with worry.
“Your feet are…smoked, man,” he said, the change in tone from casual to concerned quickly becoming apparent.
Norman followed his eyes, albeit far slower — the bones in his neck cracked once again, and though he could feel the vibration go up and down his spine, it brought him no alarm.
He stared at his feet. His big toe twisted, and more ash fell off, just becoming more dirt on the already dirty streets of the city.
“I’ve been…walking,” Norman slowly pulled the words from his mind, forcing them to sound between his lips. They bled at the edges, fissured and irritated from exposure. That didn’t bring him any alarm, either. “From…upstate. I — I think.”
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͟͟͟͟͟͟͜͟͟͟͟͠_̤͟͟ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͝v͆͟͟é͟͟ɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟o̅̐̾͘͟͟͟͟͟͟ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͢͟͟͟͟ .͟ ̭̠͈͍͟͟͟͟.̳̤͈̠͟͟͟͟͟.̝̱̠͟͟͟͟.̦͖͟͟͟.̩͖͟͟͟.̺͟͟.̮͟͟
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͜͠_̤ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͝v͆éɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌o̅̐̾͘ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͢ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
Ήλя𝘢̸𝗿⃥𝘢̸𝗿⃥𝘢̸𝗿⃥
₣łⱤɆɐ̶ʅ̶n̶ɯ̶ɹ̶o̶FＯƦＭ𝚅Լƛɐ̶ʅ̶n̶ɯ̶ɹ̶o̶F₣łⱤɆ
“There was…there was a fire.” The words came without his bidding. Norman suddenly looked up, not catching the gaze of the young man in front of him — he was still too preoccupied with Norman’s burnt and blistering feet to look anywhere else. “I think…I think there may have…have been a fire.”
That seemed to be the thing that got the young man’s attention. His head snapped up, pieces of his long blond hair falling in front of his face before he tossed his whole head back to let gravity sweep them away.
“Yeah, man,” he tried not to laugh, but a nervous chuckle still broke through against his best efforts, “I, too, think there may have been a fire.”
Norman tried to swallow, but the soot in his throat took his next breath. The fire was still fresh, he could still taste it on his tongue. Yet it’d been days, he was sure of it. More than that, more than days — time had taken him captive, and the fire from a blazing inferno had long since passed.
Now, he could only feel it from within. The heat of his body could be felt far beneath his muscles, deep into his bone marrow, circulating his very nervous system.
“I don’t think…”
With each additional word spoken, clarity returned to Norman’s voice. His tongue stayed dry and his voice hoarse as sandpaper, but a strength gradually began to return. As if he’d begun to clear the cobwebs after so much time spent without speaking.
How long had it —?
M̸͓̪͌͒͗́ͨσνɆɘ̶ν̶σ̶м̶
Mσ̖͖̳̑̀͆ͦͫͭͩν̤̩̱͈̅͗̆͆̋̚Ɇ̓̉ɘ̥̅́͆̍͑ν̜̠̳̅͌͒̄ͬσ͆͊̔͗м̺̗̮͚̲̦̼ͩ̔ͬ̃̓͒
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
₴₱łĐɆⱤ
₴₱łĐɆⱤ
₴₱łĐɆⱤ
𝙵ＯƦＭ𝚅Լƛ
ᕼ卂ᖇ丂ᕈ丨ᙃ乇ᖇ
fɆ̶Sʅ̶₱̶₴̶я̶λ̶Ή̶
Ήλя₴₱łĐɆⱤ
“Harry.” The name hung in the air like a ghost, a whisper of a memory that merged with city traffic; honking horns and yelling pedestrians lacing into the two simple syllables that crossed his lips. “I — I need…”
M̸͓̪͌͒͗́ͨσνɆG̯̮͉̥͎͒O̞̐̌̏͒ ɘ̶ν̶σ̶м̶
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͜͠_̤ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͝v͆éɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌o̅̐̾͘ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͢ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͜͠ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͝v͆é
𝙵ＯƦGOＭ𝚅Լƛ
ᕼ卂ᖇ丂GOᕈ丨ᙃ乇ᖇ
SɆ̶ʅ̶₱̶₴̶я̶λ̶Ή̶
ΉλvoMя₴₱łĐɆⱤ
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͜͠_̤ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͝v͆éɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌₴₱łĐɆⱤo̅̐̾͘ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͢ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖.̺.̮
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͟͟͟͟͟͟͜͟͟͟͟͠_̤͟͟ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͝v͆͟͟ F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡é͟͟ɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟o̅̐̾͘͟͟͟͟͟͟ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͢͟͟͟͟ .͟ ̭̠͈͍͟͟͟͟.̳̤͈̠͟͟͟͟͟.̝̱̠͟͟͟͟.̦͖͟͟͟.̩͖͟͟͟.̺͟͟.̮͟͟
M͕̮̋ͩ̊̄̾͜͠_̤ǫ̪͕̱̐̅͌̎͌ͧͧ͝ F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡v͆éɘ̸̥̘̰̞͊̇ͮ͑͆ͦ͋͞v̴̡͕͐̋̀͌o̅̐̾͘ͅM̷̨̯̣̈́̌͊̓͒͢ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖
Frustration felt as hot as the fire that burned inside of him. Norman clenched his head, grasping onto the scratchy, dirty wool of the hood that hid him from view.
He couldn’t get his thoughts straight.
He couldn’t make his thoughts his own.
“Whacha need, my man?” The voice asked him with the same easy smoothness as before — set up against Norman’s and it could’ve been the sound of silk.
MoveɘvoM
Ήλя₴₱łĐɆⱤ
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
𝙵ＯƦＭ𝚅Լƛ
Go.....
Norman caught his gaze, head-on.
“Spider.”
He wasn’t sure it was him speaking. He was sure the words weren’t said by the young man in front of him, not with the way his throat swelled and spasmed as the sound hit his ears. And yet, he didn’t feel like it was him saying what he heard.
He didn’t feel in control.
“You…need a spider?” Once again, the young man tried — and failed — at keeping his nervous laughter at bay.
Norman remained unaffected. He shook his head, hard enough that the hood nearly slipped down.
“Harry,” he croaked out.
The young man lifted an eyebrow high up his forehead. “You…need a harry spider?”
Somebody yelled down the street, followed by the sound of two other voices joining the argument. Only the young man directed his attention to the scene — Norman remained fixated on his gaze straight ahead, an empty and hollow stare that drifted further away with the passing seconds.
“I need…” Norman swallowed, hard. His face grimaced, tightly, at the discomfort. “I need to fix it.”
Sǝʎ
Ｙ𝐄ѕ
Ήλя₴₱łĐɆⱤ
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
𝙵ＯƦＭ𝚅Լƛ
His lips split apart with the moisture of fresh blood, oozing from cracks of dry skin.
“It’s missing something.”
Ｙ𝐄ѕ
The young man noticeably took a long pause, and even more noticeably took a large step back.
“Okay…” he drawled out, raising both hands in the air, open-palmed. “Hey. I got an idea for you, my dude.”
Norman nodded, so frantically his hood began to slip. “Fix it.”
The young man cocked an eyebrow even higher up his forehead, but ultimately nodded along with Norman — at a far slower pace.
“Yeah, yeah…we’ll fix it. We’ll totally fix it,” he said, all the while gesturing his thumb over his shoulder. “You come with me and I promise to get you a big harry spider, okay?”
MoveɘvoM
MoveɘvoM
M̸͓̪͌͒͗́ͨσνɆG̯̮͉̥͎͒O̞̐̌̏͒ ɘ̶ν̶σ̶м̶
Go.....
Norman blinked — more than once, plenty of times that the moisture in his eyes should’ve replenished. They remained as dry as his voice, and as hollow as his tone.
“Move.”
It was all that mattered.
“Come on, man, you need help,” the young man sounded both exasperated and sincere, and even hastily reached forward for Norman — kindly taking his arm and leading him away. Norman stumbled sluggishly with each step taken. “I know a place. It’s a good place, they’ll help you. I’m heading there right now. I’m actually —”
Another nervous laugh shook his back as he guided Norman down the sidewalk, passing by more graffiti walls along the way.
“I’m actually late, my boss is gunna kill me.” The young man turned around when he saw Norman was a few feet behind him. He grabbed onto his forearm again and held it there, keeping him walking forward, giving him a firm pat on the back along the way. “But when you see two-for-one hot dogs for sale, you don’t say no, am I right?”
Each step forward scrapped against the raw and exposed tissue of his feet, his heels dragging against cement and leaving thin lines of his blood along the way.
Norman let himself be led, giving himself the means of direction when before he had none.
“Follow me,” the young man gestured for him to keep up, “we’re not far.”
MoveɘvoM
MoveɘvoM
MoveɘvoM
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
𝙵ＯƦＭ𝚅Լƛ
₣ØⱠⱠØ₩....
Step forward.
Foot forward.
Move.
Keep moving.
It’s all that mattered.
Norman kept his eyes locked straight ahead, following the young man in front of him — the head of blond hair whipped around, and he pushed a few loose strands away from his eyes so his whole face could be seen, smiling compassionately along the way.
“My name’s Dylan, by the way.”
Notes:
Oh, boy! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ Here I go plottin', again!
Chapter 5: Something Borrowed
Summary:
Finally, May met Peter’s finger with her own. “If any of those cartridges explode over the new Starkpad that I just got —”
“You didn’t just get that Starkpad,” Peter interrupted, immediately resuming his search — this time across the office and through the file cabinet against the wall. “You got it like, seven months ago—”
“—I will ground you until you graduate high-school,” May easily steamrolled him, and for a blip of a second, she was more serious than serious-business-May — if that were even at all possible.
Peter was too busy being elbow deep into the third file cabinet drawer to notice. “It’ll be fine! Seriously, the new aluminum shell cases can withstand a lot of heat. Like, six hundred degrees Fahrenheit . That's like, fire, May. I promise you, wherever they are—”
May groaned. “Good God Peter, you don’t even know where they are—!”
“They’re around!” Peter squatted down low to look inside the very last file cabinet.
Notes:
▰Identity Theft— Chapter 3: Message in a Portal ▰
Tony rubbed at his temples, both of his index fingers pressing harshly into his skin. He sat across from Bruce in the conference room of the compound, leaning over in a chair and gingerly massaging away the headache that formed behind his eyes.
“Okay, let me get this straight.” Tony sat up straighter in his seat. “You were in space?”
Bruce nodded. “Yes.”
“And Thor was with you?”
“Yes.”
“And now you’re not in space.”
“Correct.”
“But Thor still is.”
Bruce paused, double checking his answer before saying. “...yes.”
“And when you returned…from space—”
“Yes, Tony, I was in space!” Bruce snapped, his arms thrown high in the air before smacking down on his thighs. “I was in space, on a planet called Sakaar, with Thor. A group of people rescued us — well, one person. Two? Definitely one, the other was a green woman, and there was a talking raccoon…and tree…and bug lady…”
“FRIDAY," Tony held his wrist to his lips, speaking directly into his smartwatch. "Send in a med team, pronto.”
“No!” Bruce jumped up from his seat. “No, listen to me. I’m not mental, I —”
Tony didn’t need to respond; the disbelief on Bruce's face was enough. As if to make matters worse, Pepper — who was silently leaning with her back against the wall — had a similar expression.
“Okay, I’m still mental in…that way. Personally though, I wouldn’t call it that." Bruce sighed, slowly sitting back down in his chair. "Just hear me out. Please.”
With every fiber of his being, Tony wished things could be relatively normal in his life. Between aliens, space, kids with radioactive spider bites, men transforming into giant green creatures, a sentient Android living in his house — what even was normal any more?
Sighing, he spoke back into his smartwatch. “FRIDAY, cancel med team.”
Tony looked up at Bruce, leaning back in his chair and crossing both his legs. “Okay? So you were rescued by a group of people…and things, and then…?”
“And then this portal opened," Bruce continued. "A bright, orange portal. A man came out of it and he told me to give you a message.”
▰Identity Crisis — Chapter 30: All In The Family ▰
“Osborn’s not coming near you, Peter,” Tony said — swore. His voice firm throughout. “Not so long as we’re around.”
As shaky as Peter’s nod was, there was no hesitation to give it. There was no doubt, no question about it — he nodded, firmly believing in Tony’s words, along with the unspoken of those around him.
They had proven themselves way too many times to Peter for him to have anything but full confidence and trust in them. In all of them.
“Okay, but…” Sam shifted on his feet, one finger rubbing at his temple. “For the rest of us participating — exactly how much do you think Norman knows about Peter?”
Tony shot his head away from Peter and to the group. “If Norman knew, he would’ve done something by now.”
Bruce noticeably winced, baring his teeth and all.“Look at where we are,” he reminded him, not shy in gesturing around the Quinjet. “Peter hasn’t exactly been stateside to give him any opportunities.”
Still, Tony shook his head.
“He doesn’t know,” he insisted, before turning back to Peter — squeezing the hold on his bicep to get Peter’s gaze back. “And if he thinks he knows, he doesn’t have any proof.”
That much, Peter could at least say was true. Of all the screw-ups he’d managed to make recently, there was no doubt Mr. Osborn didn’t have any proof of his secret identity.
He was unlucky, sure, but not that unlucky.
The man’s speculation, of course, remained undeterred. That part was concerning.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Cross over, turn back, tuck underneath —
Wait, no.
Turn back, turn over, wrap the narrow end —
Wait, shit, no.
Pull the wide end —
“And then, then Black Widow would be all like ‘oh my god, Peter, you saved me, you saved the day! Marry me!’ or something, I dunno, something really cool, and then Captain America would be all —”
Ned’s voice, as hushed as he may have tried to make it, echoed through the tuxedo shop with an excitement he was very vocal about not being able to contain. He barely gave himself pause for air, and Peter had a feeling if he didn’t need to breathe, he wouldn’t have stopped at all.
“Captain America would be all ‘Great job taking down those aliens, Peter! You really knocked them out of the park!' And then you could say something like — like a pun. A cool pun, or something something badass. Yeah, something badass! Something like —”
Peter made a face as he kept trying to dress the tie around his neck. Another knot formed and he worked it loose with building frustration, all the while listening to his friend babble on and on about nonsensical scenarios with the Avengers — one of which included vampires.
It was that scenario specifically that was mentioned right around the time Peter remembered that he never actually remembered how to tie a tie.
If it counted for anything, he did remember watching the YouTube video. Just not…well, the video itself.
In his defense, it wasn’t like he often had to tie a tie. And there was a lot of other stuff for him to remember, especially these days, all of which was way more important than —
Wait, crap. Cross the wide end, tuck underneath —
“You could be all like, ‘All in a days work, Cap!’ or — wait, no, you could be all like, ‘In a days work, Cap!’ Wait, no, I just said that — anyway, and then Hulk would be all ‘roar!’ and you’d be all ‘best friends forever, Hulk!’ and then —”
Peter furrowed his brows tightly together as he adjusted the fabric around his neck, eyeing the body-length mirror in front of him as he leveled out both ends; pulling the left side a little higher than the right, and then moving the right side higher, and then the left side — eventually settling and crossing the fabric over itself.
He was pretty sure his face held less concentration than when he’d be working in the lab — his lips pursed tightly and a harsh V creased his forehead, making an otherwise simple task look like defusing a bomb.
All the while, Ned kept rambling on. Peter was pretty sure he hadn’t stopped talking about the Avengers since they got here, where he promptly sat down exactly where Happy told him to sit down — on one of the many plush, cushy sofa’s the shop was furnished with.
The very rich and very expensive shop, that was. Peter felt uncomfortable just walking inside, let alone standing in front of the mirror trying to wrap a tie belonging to some expensive brand name he’d never seen before in his young life, made of material he couldn’t pronounce even if he tried.
It was a far cry from the Men’s Warehouse where he rented his homecoming suits.
Peter frowned as he tucked the end piece of the tie inside the loop hole. Mr. Stark really did go all out on some things. And glancing around the tuxedo shop, with Bruce in the far corner having his pants tailored, and Happy on the opposite end having his jacket fitted, Peter could tell this wedding would be no different.
“…and then Hulk would throw you a Frisbee — wait, no, I got it! Hulk would throw you Cap’s shield, and you’d be all —”
“Has Harry texted you back yet?”
Peter’s abrupt question came with the turn of his head, where he craned his neck around to catch a glimpse of Ned — still parked comfortably on the sofa, with one leg tucked under him and his jacket placed half-neatly in his lap.
For a brief moment, he seemed startled by the question. A beat later and Ned dug into the pocket of his jacket, reaching for his phone and swiping up on the screen to unlock it.
He shook his head before answering.
“Ghosted.” Ned placed his cell phone to the side as he dug deeper into his pocket. “Still.”
With hefty a sigh, Peter turned back ahead to the mirror. The sloppily done tie hung loosely around his neck, and without sparing an ounce of his frustration — and nerves — he ripped it loose to start over again.
“Maybe we should send another message?” Peter asked, frantically looking behind him at Ned while also trying to keep one eye on the mirror. “When did we send the last one — the last text, when did we send it?”
This time, Ned didn’t bother picking up his phone. It laid screen-down on the couch, and he kept his attention strictly on rummaging through his jacket.
“Last night, seven thirtyish,” he answered, sitting up a little higher on the sofa as he shook his jacket in front of him, his tongue partially sticking out as he struggled to locate something inside. “It was when I got to May’s and when you told me about the fire and when you promised me the top bunk if I sent him another text —”
“The old dude said they were on vacation. The OsCorp guy, the one they interviewed,” Peter easily interrupted, his hands criss-crossing one another as he tried, for the umpteenth time, to dress his tie. “Maybe Harry’s just got bad cell reception, wherever he is? We should try again, shouldn’t we?”
Peter could see Ned reflected on the full-length mirror in front of him, and it was hard not to notice when his shoulders slumped so dramatically they practically fell off the couch.
“Peter —”
“His place burned down, Ned!” Peter didn’t miss a beat, as if expecting the response all along. Though he didn’t turn around, he made sure to look at the upper-right corner of the mirror where Ned could be seen. “Their whole house caught on fire — that’s crazy, man!”
Ned met that gaze head-on, looking at Peter’s reflection through the mirror — all the while still rummaging through the pockets of his jacket.
“Yeah, and he obviously doesn’t wanna talk about it,” Ned countered, the noise of crinkling plastic mixing in with his words. He tossed his jacket aside the moment he retrieved his belongings. “Just let the guy be, if he decides to come around maybe he’ll come around, maybe he won’t, I dunno. Either way…totally ghosted. Again.”
It wasn’t what Ned said that got Peter’s attention.
It was the obnoxiously loud crunch that followed.
“Dude!” Peter spun around before he even saw Ned. If his eyes had gone any wider, they’d have fallen right out of his skull and rolled all the way to where Bruce Banner was getting the hem of his pants tailored. “You gotta put those away!”
Ned had already stuffed his palm against his mouth, shoving way more cheese curls inside than what could possibly fit.
“What? I’m hungry!” he garbled between bites, using his other hand to gesture the bag Peter’s way. “You sure you don’t want some?”
If the bright orange powder covering Ned’s fingers didn’t do the trick for Peter, the unintentional tangerine lipstick that stained his lips sure did.
“Everything in here costs more than what May’s made in her entire life!” Peter hissed so quietly, it actually echoed the tuxedo shop. He did a quick, very panicked glance around him — the mannequins lining the walls, all decked out in expensive attire, only made him more nervous. “And you have Cheeto dust on your fingers!”
Ned responded by shoving another handful of Cheeto’s into his mouth.
“It can’t be that expensive,” he said, even more garbled than before. Crumbs fell out of his mouth and down onto his jacket, where he carelessly brushed them aside.
Peter threw him a look — so hard pressed it could’ve made a rock feel like a pillow.
Without much hesitation, he reached for the end of his tie, finding the price tag and flipping it around for Ned to see. Ned had to lean off the sofa a bit, but there was no doubt when he saw the numbers.
“Holy macrool!” Ned was frantically wiping the palms of his hands against his jeans before Peter could say another word. “Oh my god, oh my god — wet wipes. Do you have any wet wipes?”
Peter shook an already shaking finger down the hall. “Go use the bathroom!”
Ned practically fell off the sofa in his haste to get up, landing on one knee as he tried his best to push off the floor without letting his hands touch the floor. They stayed far out in front of him as he frantically skipped down the hall, passing by Tony on the way.
The arch of his eyebrow was nearly hidden behind a sleek pair of purple tinted frames, and Tony gave Ned nothing more than a glance as the kid scampered away — both hands outward as he muttered something about, ‘Tony Stark! So cool!’ and ‘I’m screwed, I’m screwed, I’m screwed, I’m so, so screwed!’
Tony didn’t give it a second thought.
“Here we are, Underoo’s,” he said, jacket in hand as he approached Peter from behind — who had just discarded his tie on the nearby ottoman. “Should fit as snug as your other suit. Less practical, of course — unless you call style practical in which case, you, Mr. Parker, will be passing every test with flying colors.”
Peter looked over his shoulder before he turned around completely, giving the jacket a once over with a smile that only grew at the edges. It may have just been a tuxedo jacket, but he swore there were five different colors of black blended into the fabric, with a shine he wasn’t sure could exist on clothes.
It was something he’d expect to see in Mr. Stark’s closet, and definitely not on him.
And yet Tony spread out both ends of the jacket, nodding as a signal for Peter to turn around — he did, catching onto the implication quickly. Reaching both arms behind him at the same time, Peter shrugged the jacket on easily thanks to Tony’s help.
A few pats to smooth it down, tugging it at the ends and buttoning it in the middle — Peter had to admit; looking ahead of him at the body length mirror, decked out in a very expensive and very fancy black and white tux that was tailored to his every measurement…
He looked good.
Standing behind him, Tony reached over and smoothed out the collar behind his neck, crisping it evenly before giving his back a quick swipe.
“Quite the look on you,” he said, precise and straightforward in each spoken word — and yet, if only for a second, a flicker on his face broke his composure.
In the far background, Tony could make out Bruce finishing with his tailor, using his own mirror to eye his suit, going so far as to twist and turn so he could see it from different angles. A few feet away from him was Happy, and somewhere further away he knew Rhodey was having his final adjustments made — but none of that caught Tony’s eye.
For a moment so frozen in time that it would’ve put the good ‘ol Cap to shame, Tony saw something different in the mirror. It didn’t last long — after all, he was called many things, but nostalgic certainly wasn’t one of them.
Still. For a brief moment, standing in front of him and dressed to impress, Tony swore it may have been the first time he ever saw Peter as something other than just a kid.
Peter fiddled nervously with the button of his jacket, occasionally pulling his shoulders back tautly, lifting his chin a little higher than before — looking at himself so intently he didn’t even realize Tony was doing the same.
It was definitely the first time he saw Peter growing up.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s…” Peter trailed off, turning slightly inward, and then back out again. “It’s something else.”
Tony looked away from the mirror, craning his head to the side to catch Peter with his own two eyes. A smirk tugged at his mouth, soft enough that it didn’t crease any of the lines on his face, and he was millimeters away from saying something in turn when —
“Where’s your tie?” he asked, as abruptly as his expression changed. If his brows knitted any closer together, they’d have fused into one.
Peter immediately dropped both his hands down to his sides. The nodule in his throat noticeably bulged as he swallowed, and swallowed hard.
“Oh, I-I couldn’t —” Peter looked over to the ottoman where the expensive piece of fabric lay forgotten and heavily wrinkled from his many failed attempts at tying it. “It’s right over —”
“Hold that thought,” Tony easily interrupted, whipping out his phone from the back pocket of his dress pants — his own suit tailored and fit, as per the usual for his attire, but definitely not the tux he’d be wearing on the big day. No, his had been taken care long before the first time Pepper postponed the wedding. “I promised Aunt Hottie I’d send her a Kodak moment. Chin up, pull those shoulders back — come on, strike a pose.”
For a split second, Peter’s brain didn’t register what Tony was saying — fast-paced and sharp as a tact, as always, with words flowing together so smoothly Peter found himself still staring at the tie laying on the ottoman when he heard them.
When it suddenly hit him what Tony meant, and by the time he snapped his head around to face the man, Tony had his phone in the air and positioned for a picture.
Peter gave a large smile.
Or at least he thought he gave a large smile.
The hypnotic feedback from Tony’s phone once he took the photo sounded right at he same time he lowered the device; his chin tilted down low enough that the purple-tinted frames covering his eyes slipped to the bridge of his nose, slightly exposing his eyes along the way.
“Are you physically incapable of taking a decent picture? Does it actually cause you harm?” he derisively asked, quickly moving the phone away from Peter when he leaned in for a look — with a tap of his thumb the picture was sent and the phone was pocketed away, earning a genuine look of aggravation from Peter that Tony took great pleasure in.
“Only pictures Pete’s good with are the ones with that mask on,” Rhodey’s voice drew closer as he entered from the far end of the tailor shop, joining the main lounge with the others. While Happy was finishing up the adjustments on his suit jacket, Rhodey’s was all ready to go, and he used the mirror Peter stood in front of to view the final outcome.
Peter stepped aside to give him room, all while reaching frantically for his own phone.
“My homecoming photos were good!” Peter’s argument would’ve landed a lot harder if his voice hadn’t squeaked along the way. Reaching for his backpack that laid on the floor, he quickly snatched the device from the front pocket and stood back up — swiping the screen to unlock it and then hastily swiping to the side as he sorted through his gallery. “I think they came out really —….oh.”
The silence that followed, as short as it was, could’ve been heard all across New York.
Tony quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing.
Rhodey threw him a quick glance as he adjusted his tie, positioning it more center on his chest while being mindful of keeping it deep inside his gold vest. Then he looked over at Tony, the amusement in his expression clear as day.
Once again, Peter gave a large smile. This time he knew it looked more like a grimace than anything else.
“Yeah, actually, never mind.” Peter casually waved them off as he squatted low to reach for his backpack, unzipping the front pocket to stuff his phone back inside. “Ned took blurry pictures and its all dark and—”
“Lemme see those.” Rhodey snatched his phone from behind so swiftly that not even Peter’s spider-sense had time to react.
Peter spun around, his eyes growing as big as Captain America’s shield. “Mr. Rhodes, come on!”
As Peter practically chased Rhodey across the lounge of the tailor shop, Rhodey was quick to stay three steps ahead of him — and even quicker to throw a stern, rigid finger in his direction.
“Rhodey,” he sternly corrected him. “I told you that, I’m tired of telling you that — knock that off.”
Rhodey used that same, no-nonsense finger to swipe across the broken screen of Peter’s cell phone. The cracks along the device did nothing to hide the damage of the homecoming photos taken from last week. No different than Peter’s smiling grimace, his jaw clenched and his mouth twisted into something fierce.
“Ohhhhhh, Pete…” Rhodey swiped and swiped, but the results didn’t get any better. “These are not good.”
Peter knew that.
It was kinda hard not too.
Still, he defended, “They aren’t that bad —”
Without missing a beat, Rhodey flipped the phone around for Peter to see, displaying the professional photo taken by the school with the colorful backdrop of a 90’s theme standing out against the kid’s otherwise plain dress attire.
As Peter gave the camera a smile that was fully a jaw-clenching grimace, MJ held no expression on her face and held a single, simple finger in the air.
Peter didn’t need to look at it for long. He knew exactly how bad he looked in the picture, and had endured enough of May’s good-hearted jesting all week long because of it.
“You two make a cute couple,” Rhodey tried not to laugh as he handed Peter back his phone — who eagerly took it, with every expression of teenage annoyance he could possibly give. “She gunna be your plus one?”
Peter opened his mouth to answer.
“I was going to be his plus one!” Ned beat him to it, returning to the main lounge with hands that were still slightly damp and partially sudsy. His jeans and shirt took the brunt of his impromptu bathroom visit as he plopped back down on the sofa, crossing both arms against his chest in a full fledged pout. “I still don’t understand why my mom’s making me go to this stupid family reunion—”
“Ned, your Lola’s like, ninety-six,” Peter reminded him, pushing his backpack against the bottom of the sofa so it wasn’t a tripping hazard. “This could be the last time—”
“It’s an Avenger wedding, Peter!” Ned argued, still pouting — somehow managing to pout harder, at that. “And I was invited! Do you know how cool that would’ve made me at school?”
“You wouldn’t be able to tell anyone,” Happy dryly cut in, crossing the length of the tailor shop and taking a seat on the same couch Ned occupied — making sure to take the furthest end, and undoing the button of his jacket once he sat down. “It’s a completely private event, everyone signs an NDA before they even enter the church.”
Ned dramatically tossed both arms into the air. “It’s the idea of it all! Knowing that I, the last son of the Leeds bloodline—”
Peter threw him a look that contorted every muscle on his face.
Ned kept going, “Could’ve been in the same building, breathing the same air as the Mighty Avengers. It would’ve been…” With a sigh hard enough to blow every tuxedo right off the racks, Ned sunk further into the couch cushions, his pout becoming something more akin to a sad self-hug that Peter, once again, threw him a look for. “It would’ve been perfect.”
“Kid, count your blessings that you got an invite to this,” Tony started to say, not even sparing either teenager a glance as he brushed nonexistent lint off Rhodey’s shoulders. Rhodey knocked his hand away in turn, and Tony gave a hearty, cheeky wink in response. Only then did he turn around and face Ned. “All inclusive, as cool as it gets.”
Tony twizzled a lackadaisical finger around the room, as if the point needed to be made.
It didn’t. Ned’s starry-eyed response, especially when Tony’s finger landed on Bruce — who just finished with the tailor, and now made his way to join the center lounge where he promptly took the nearest wingback chair to sit in — proved as much.
“So cool,” Ned didn’t hesitate to drawl out, struggling to sit up on the couch once the plush cushions nearly ate him whole. Once there, he reached for his side pocket and brought his own phone out, though it stayed in his lap. “I just want to thank you, again, Mr. Tony Stark, for letting me be part of your journey into this amazing—”
“I see you taking those photos,” Happy irritably interrupted, reaching across the sofa with a hand that wagged fingers in a gimme motion. “Stop that. Give me that, delete all those—”
“I wasn’t gunna post them anywhere!” Ned scooted further away from Happy, nearly falling off the side of the couch in an attempt to lean as far away as possible.
“Phone, now.” Happy didn’t wait the second time around. He snatched Ned’s phone before the kid had a chance to try and get away. “We had an agreement. I had you sign papers, you know better than this —”
“Okay, but seriously!” Ned’s whine was loud enough to break the sound barrier. “I wasn’t gunna—”
“Keep the theatrics to a minimum, okay, Teddy?” Tony held an open palm out in Ned’s direction as he walked by the couch, seamlessly making his way to where Bruce sat. “Let me at least buy stock in Ibuprofen first if those ragging hormones of yours are going to make you this dramatic.”
Bruce, having dug into his briefcase for an electronic StarkPad that he quickly began to preoccupy himself with, gave a dry huff of a chuckle.
“Surprised you don’t already have stock in those pharmaceuticals, Tony,” he all but mumbled, his attention so focused on the screen of the tablet it was hard to say if he even knew he spoke out loud.
Acting as nonchalant as possible — which wasn’t very nonchalant at all — Tony casually approached the chair where Bruce sat, leaning his hip against the armrest as he tried to make it seem like he wasn’t looking at Bruce’s tablet — while not doing a very good job at making himself seem discreet.
Proving as much, Tony clucked his tongue and said, “Speaking of pharmaceuticals —”
“You were talking about your date, Peter?” Bruce immediately flipped the tablet over so the screen was face-down in his lap, prompting a look from Tony that he easily ignored.
Lost in the moment, Peter twisted around to face Bruce, once again finding himself fiddling nervously with the single button on his suit jacket.
“I — I don’t…have one, actually,” he admitted, giving a tight-lipped smile and a shrug that followed. “I asked MJ. But she’s working that day, so…”
Tony frowned and pulled another face, almost as if he were offended. “Tell her to call out like every other ripe new employee to the workforce.”
Peter forced himself to drop both hands from fiddling with his jacket when he could feel the button begin to loosen against the fabric.
“She likes her job, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, the small smile that came after seeming more apologetic than anything else. “She…doesn’t really like you.”
Tony crossed the length of the lounge, passing by racks of tuxedos that lined the walls before he took his own seat across from Bruce — who purposefully waited until Tony began to walk away before he returned to his tablet, flipping it back over where the glow of the screen reflected brightly against his glasses.
“I concede to that. Can’t win them all,” Tony smoothly relented, taking a seat in a plush tub chair not far from Peter. He craned his head around to look at the kid standing behind him, while absentmindedly unbuttoning his blazer. “The invite stands if she changes her mind. Even if she gives me the cold shoulder all night.” Tony smirked as he crossed his legs, casually letting his ankle rest against his knee. “Tell her I’m more than accustomed to the…fiery type of women.”
Peter rolled his eyes, deciding it was better not to respond to that comment — lest he open the door of all it would bring. After all, Mr. Stark had shown time and time again that he had no problems embarrassing him.
Hell, sometimes Peter swore he found enjoyment in it.
“You know, I’ve actually been thinking,” Peter elected to change the subject instead, turning back to the mirror and smoothing down his sleek, black tux jacket with hands that couldn’t seem to stay still. “With MJ getting a job and all —”
“Watch it, now. Only put on your plate what you can eat,” Tony butted in, not even bothering to look over his shoulder this time when he spoke.
“Nothing major!” Peter stayed looking straight ahead as well, occupying himself with the mirror and the very expensive suit he wore. His fingers once again found the middle button and didn’t let go. “Just like a…side gig. Or something. There’s this junior photographer internship position open at the Daily Bugle —”
“I’m sorry, what?” Tony whipped his head over his shoulder fast enough to dislocate the first three columns in his spin. “Did you just utter the words Daily Bugle while wearing a three piece, Tom Ford—”
“Mr. Stark,” Peter chuckled, only looking at Tony from the mirror — the purple tinted frames covering Tony’s eyes did absolutely nothing to hide the sheer indignance that covered his expression.
When they slipped down the bridge of his nose, Tony was quick to push them back up.
“Your other internship’s got you tied up, Pete,” he said, turning back around and bringing his phone out from the interior pocket of his blazer. He was already typing up a quick message — far faster than Happy, who was still deleting the photo’s from Ned’s phone at the pace of a snail. “You want an allowance, maybe we can strike a compromise on something—”
“I don’t want an allowance!” Peter laughed more than he did speak, the words easily falling into a fit of amusement.
“I’ll take his allowance,” Happy chided from the side, still painstakingly going through Ned’s phone — much to Ned’s discontent.
“No, I don’t — I don’t want an allowance,” Peter kept laughing, gesturing a shaking hand at Tony — who sat in the chair in front of him, head facing forward and down low as he typed away on his phone. Peter walked closer until he rounded the tub chair to face Tony head-on. “I don’t want an allowance. C’mon, Mr. Stark, what’s the big deal?”
Just like that, Tony looked up, using one hand to whisk off his glasses so smoothly, it was like spreading butter.
He looked Peter straight in the eye. “You wanna go work for the same borderline tabloid that’s spread more lies about you than the entirety of Enquirer’s run?”
Confusion wasn’t an expression Tony Stark wore well. He understood things — he understood a lot of things. So when Tony was confused, there was a problem to be had.
Peter swallowed, hard, finding it difficult to see that confusion in Tony’s face.
He wasn’t wrong; The Daily Bugle didn’t exactly take…kindly to all things Spider-Man related. ‘Spider-Man thwarted by local street magician’ still rang painfully loud in his ears, and nothing he’d done since then managed to make up for it.
Vigilantism — the word was hand-in-hand with Spider-Man. A good portion of the city certainly wasn’t keen on the new reality of superheroes taking over city law, and some press like the Daily Bugle jumped right to taking advantage of that negative perspective.
Peter knew their opinions ultimately didn’t matter. He did what he did for a reason — he did what he did because it was the right thing to do, it was what people like Uncle Ben taught him to do.
But it didn’t make their articles and newspaper headlines any easier to ignore.
“Maybe I could…I could, you know, take pictures. Of…of, you know…Spider-Man,” Peter began to speak his thoughts out loud before even realizing it. Nervously, he rubbed an open palm at the nape of his neck, pushing away the collar of the jacket as he fought for his words. “And they could be good pictures, of-of me — him — Spider-Man doing…good things, you know, and-and I could get the Bugle to stop saying I’m..I’m a criminal, or a vigilante —”
“Kiddo, I already told you —” Tony sat up from the chair, tucking his glasses into his jacket as he approached Peter from behind, clasping two firm hands against his shoulders — rocking him firmly on his heels as he worked the tension loose in his muscles. “Don’t let some outdated, old fart of a journalist who’s a couple years away from retiring and starting a podcast get under your skin.”
Peter blew a hefty sigh through his cheeks, puffing them out wider than a Chipmunk. “It’d just be nice to be recognized…and not made out to be, you know…terrorizing New York City all the time.”
Bruce gave a dry chuckle as he finally looked up from his tablet.
“It’s a love-hate relationship,” he said, the smile that followed more empathic than anything else. “I’m a little familiar with that myself.”
No sooner than Tony had started massaging Peter’s shoulder’s, he quickly took a few large steps away and over to Bruce’s chair, standing behind him before the physicist could even register what had happened.
“You must also be familiar with,” Tony swooped down and grabbed the tablet out of Bruce’s hands. “Phenol, cresol, xylenol, guaiacol—”
“Tony —” Bruce stressed, reaching behind him for the tablet in vain.
“Meta-cresol, eugenol, oh, look, methylbutanal?” Tony kept walking away, though he stayed facing Bruce the entire time, gesturing the tablet in the air with curiosity. “Two or three? Or both?”
Bruce didn’t look amused. “Tony —”
“I’m sticking to my guess of pharmaceuticals,” Tony held the tablet straight up, looking to it briefly in the sharp pause that lingered. “But only if the subject weighs about…a zillion tons.”
Cocking his head to the side, Bruce heaved a frustrated sigh. “Will you give me that back?”
Tony loudly clucked his tongue.
“No can do, I’m invested now,” he said, looking down at the screen of the tablet and scrolling his index finger through the pages of research. “I have to be included, this is never going to leave my mind, it’ll haunt me for months, years—”
“Tones, didn’t you tell the kids not to be dramatic?” Rhodey leaned his hip against the armrest of the sofa Ned sat on — the metal of his braces whirred and whined and Ned’s enthusiastic mutterings about ‘I’m sitting next to War Machine’ could be heard loud and clear.
Tony ignored it, wagging the tablet right at Bruce.
“What is it?” he asked, the spark of interest undeniable in his eyes — visible for all to see. “If it’s pharmaceuticals than it’s some weird tasting medicine—”
“It’s alcohol,” Bruce yielded, his frustration coating every syllable. “Specifically a…super alcohol. For…super-serum recipients.”
Tony let out the most dramatic gasp Peter had ever heard from the man — hand to the chest included. Theatrics at max level.
“You’re trying to get Rogers drunk.”
It wasn’t a question. And Bruce’s lack of immediate defense only broadened the smile on Tony’s face. A kid in a candy shop for the very first time couldn’t even compare to his excitement.
“I’m-I’m just curious if it can be done. The intent isn’t to — it’s-it’s not that I want to…my goal isn’t —” Bruce started to say, stammering halfway through when the words didn’t seem to do his idea justice. He noticeably clenched his jaw before continuing. ”After creating Peter’s painkiller with Moira MacTaggert, I began to wonder what else we can enhance to suit the metabolism of…of, you know — the enhanced. And this idea has been on my mind for a while, you know, ever since Thor brought that Asgardian Ale to Earth with him — and you know how it goes, sometimes you just gotta…gotta get the idea out on paper and give it a shot —”
Tony lithely handed the tablet back to Bruce. “Not that I don’t fully support this idea, one-hundred-percent, in fact — I’d happily throw down a few mil just to see Captain Handsome three sheets to the wind — but if you’re bored, write a memoir.”
Bruce gladly took his tablet back, his annoyance evident all through-out his face.
“I really loved your last two memoir’s, Doctor Banner,” Ned spoke up, every bit in awe as he was the first time he shook hands with the physicist.
Bruce noticed. He gave a timid wave and an even more awkward smile.
“Uh, yeah, thanks.” Bruce used the hand that waved to scratch nervously behind his ear. “They, uh, those were ghost writers...who wrote them. But thanks.”
“You know, speaking of Thor —” Tony didn’t give Ned so much as a millisecond to express any disappointment. His voice was drowned out as Bruce audibly groaned from where he sat.
“I told you, Tony,” Bruce stressed, rubbing two fingers firmly against the temple of his forehead. “There’s nowhere for me to even start—”
“That mean you haven’t tried?” Tony never did take no for an answer — not easily, anyway. When Bruce didn’t answer, he kicked the toes of his shoe straight ahead at the man’s leg — Bruce shot to attention, jolting straight up in the chair with an exasperated sigh.
“That means there’s nowhere for me to even start—” Bruce tried to say.
Tony pulled a face. “You were the last person to see him—”
“In space!” Bruce argued, loudly at first — and then quickly lowering his voice when he realized he was starting to shout. “Hulk saw him, Hulk last saw him in space, Tony. With — with the green lady, and the talking raccoon—”
“You came back from space, buddy,” Tony interrupted, rounding the chair until he could give a few soft pats against Bruce’s shoulder. “A few hallucinations are expected along the way.”
Bruce apathetically slapped that hand away.
“They were there,” he stressed, meeting Tony’s expression of incredulity with his own genuineness. “I’m not mental, they were there. Doctor Strange came, zapped me back here, and for all Thor knows I died on Sakaar before he made his way back to Asgard. I have no way to get in touch with him. No clue where to even start.”
The string of Bruce’s desperation ebbed away into a still quiescence, the tailor shop falling quite — sans the hypnotic feedback as Happy continued to delete photos in Ned’s phone; earning a genuine look of concern from Peter, who was beginning to wonder just how many pictures he was taking without anyone noticing.
In the midst of the silence, a muttered drawl of, “That’s so cool, ” came from Ned, but for a minute that felt like an hour, that was the only sound.
Finally, Bruce gestured an apologetic arm out towards Tony.
“I’m sorry…” he said, earnestly. “You know if I could do something, I would.”
Logically, Tony knew that. Disappointment aside, he knew full well that after all Bruce had done for him and the team — before everything with Ultron, and then after his return — he’d stick his neck out if he was asked to.
Hell, Tony remembered exactly how long it took Bruce and Moira MacTaggert to create that specialized painkiller of Peter’s. Sleep was nothing but forgotten for days on end, and once the task was completed, Bruce simply moved on — having provided the help they needed, and treating it no different than any other average assignment he’d been handed.
A humanitarian, that man — through and through.
He wasn’t just a reliable member of the team — no, just like the others, Bruce had quickly found his way into being a reliable friend above all else. Tony couldn’t fault him for knowing his limitations.
Looking down at the tablet Bruce placed in his lap, Tony wagged a finger at the screen with one hand while the other pulled his glasses out from his jacket, slipping them back on with ease.
“Make that my wedding present instead,” Tony said, indicating to the data on Bruce’s tablet before walking back the tub chair across the way, plopping down with a hearty and heavy sigh. “Just would’ve been nice to have the whole gang in town for this, you know?”
The disappointment in Tony’s sigh didn’t go unheard. They’d come a long way in the past few years. A long, long way since that odd encounter in the woods; where the realm of possibilities was no longer just pushing the boundaries of science and technology, or bringing a man out of time to the present. It now included Gods from other worlds, marking the foundation created for a team that would far exceed Tony’s greatest expectations.
Yet, Thor had always been the solo team member Tony had initially tried so hard to be. It turned out the role just wasn’t meant for him, as much as he gravitated towards it. No, that mantle belonged to Thor — who held a great deal of responsibility, far beyond what any of them could even fathom to have. He had proved to be quite the loyal member himself, no different than Bruce. Always there when needed, and no hesitation to help.
But on the day-to-day, the God of Thunder had bigger problems to take on.
It was a shame. Roughly two years had passed since Ultron. It was the longest they’d gone without seeing the Asgardian.
“I mean…Doctor Strange did bring me back from space, Tony,” Bruce’s voice brought him out from his own thoughts, and Tony’s head snapped towards the scientist at full attention — purple tinted frames or not, the hope in his eyes caught the reflection of the lights from above. “Maybe he’s who you should be going to if you wanna get in touch with Thor.”
Tony really, really hated it when Bruce was right.
Especially when he was right about certain magical Sorcerer that happened to grate Tony’s every nerve.
“I’ll ask Wanda to what she can do,” Tony muttered, working his jaw left and right — finding a spot in the corner of the ceiling to look at, though nothing was there that gained his attention. “That man still won’t give me his phone number.”
A scoff pulled his eyes away and in the direction of Rhodey, who was close to giving Ned a juvenile stroke with how excited the kid still was at his presence.
“He’s probably doesn’t have one,” Rhodey easily mentioned. “Monk life and all.”
If Tony had any witty or sarcastic quip to throw in return, it was taken away by the sound of the front door bells ringing — the door opening and closing, with sounding footsteps along the way.
“Sorry I’m late fella’s,” the voice came from the front of the tuxedo shop, drawing closer with each word spoken. “Couldn’t seem to make my way through traffic — lunch hour is insane out there.”
Though Peter had been hanging around the Avengers for what he’d say felt like a good while now — and that was still a wildly bizarre thought to have, let alone realize was very much so real, and very much so his life — there had still only been a handful of times he’d seen some members out of basic civilian attire.
Steve, in particular, always seemed to be working around the clock. Always dressed in a pair of khaki’s free of wrinkles, some sort of pressed button down or color only t-shirt. The most casual Peter had probably ever seen him, recovering in Wakanda aside, was likely their training sessions together. Even then, it was just sweats and a sleeveless tank.
“Did you ride your motorcycle here?” Peter asked, walking away from the mirror for the first time — taking a few steps forward as if he needed to verify what he saw.
It was definitely Steve, and Steve was definitely in motorcycle gear. Far less than Happy, of course, who seemed to go a bit gun-ho on his shopping spree once purchasing his first bike.
Though Steve didn’t have the gloves or boots Happy had insisted on buying, he still wore a brown leather jacket that nearly concealed the hard-shelled, half-helmet tucked underneath his arm.
“That’s what the helmet’s for, son,” Steve chuckled lightly, as if noticing Peter staring.
He’d barely entered the lounge, just a few feet in, when Ned clumsily jumped off the couch — falling to his one knee before frantically scampering over towards Peter.
“Ohhhh, dude dude dude dude dude,” Ned chanted, half-hissed, half-loudly.
Peter shook his head back just as frantically. “No way—”
“Dude, dude, dude—”
“No way, no way—!”
Ned shot around to Steve, his finger pointing like a rigid stick across from him, straight against Peter’s chest.
“Peter can ride a motorcycle, Mr. Captain America, sir!” Ned all but shouted.
Peter spun on his heels to face Ned, making a sound that was one-hundred-percent indistinguishable.
Rhodey’s restrained chuckle was met with Steve’s look of growing perplexity.
“That’s…” Steve looked to Ned, over to Peter, and ultimately landed on Tony. “That’s a new development.”
Even had he felt the bore of Steve’s stare, Tony strictly paid attention to only his phone, allowing his scoff to say what his focus didn’t.
“You’re telling me,” Tony chided, nodding his head to the side. “Happy’s going through a mid-life crisis—”
“It’s not a mid-life crisis—” Happy bit back, doing the same thing as Tony and not looking from his phone — Ned's phone — as he spoke.
“— and now Peter’s hung-ho to join the biker gang life,” Tony finished, putting his phone aside with an exasperation that needed no explanation. It could be seen in the streaks of gray that began to highlight the hair against his temples.
Standing at the entryway of the lounge, Steve slowly found his eyes drifting away from Tony and back over towards the two teenagers in front of him — one of whom seemed more excited than Steve was sure he’d ever felt in his entire life, pre and post freezing.
A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he caught hold of Peter’s gaze.
“You liked riding?” Steve asked, curiously.
It had to be a good, solid five seconds that Peter stammered sounds completely unrecognizable to the English dictionary.
“It’s not as cool as web-swinging,” he eventually got out, shrugging his shoulders so heftily they nearly touched his earlobes. “But…yeah, it’s-it’s really cool.”
Just like Tony’s exasperation, Peter’s simmering excitement needed no explanation. And no matter how much he restrained himself on expressing it — Steve could see a mile away the strength he used to stay composed — it twinkled in his eye no different than the star against Steve’s shield.
Which meant it came as no surprise when Ned began to push both his open palms erratically against Peter’s shoulder.
“Ask him, ask him, ask him—” Ned badgered on.
“Dude, no,” Peter hissed, sharply, “I’m not gunna — dude, no—!”
Ned spun on his heels so fast, he stumbled to the side before exclaiming, “Peter wants to ride your bike!”
“I do not!” Peter’s voice squeaked, and he glared a hot stare at Ned before whipping his head over to Steve. “I mean, I do, but —!”
“Ibuprofen,” Tony snapped his fingers, once and then twice, with his other palm spread across half of his face. “Ibuprofen, somebody, now.”
“He knows how!” Ned failed to be quick on the uptake with Tony’s complaints. In fact, his voice only grew louder as he grabbed Peter’s arm and shook him back and forth. “Peter, you totally know how, you did so good last night — I couldn’t even get the bike started and you like, you totally took off in streets —”
Peter could feel his complexion growing whiter. “Ned, I’m not going to ride Captain America’s motorcycle —”
Ned gasped, so loudly — so dramatically — it heaved his entire back outward.
“Oh my god, you need to ride Captain America’s motorcycle —!”
“Guys, guys, guys,” Steve laughed as he gently interrupted them both, his hands outward in a friendly, placating manner. “It’s Steve. Out here I’m just…a kid from Brooklyn.”
A beat passed. Ned increased his grip on Peter’s arm, this time not out of excitement, but rather to keep himself standing on both feet.
“I’m going to pass out,” he faintly, happily, murmured.
Peter rolled his eyes and pushed him off, where he stumbled back to the sofa and plopped down next to Happy — too close for comfort, as the man noticeably edged further away.
With a swallow hard enough to dislodge his vocal cords, Peter turned back to Steve — his smile twitching in an attempt not to look too excited.
“I don’t…not want to ride your bike,” Peter began to say, gesturing a timid hand over to the sofa. “I mean, I did…kinda good on Happy’s, so…”
Happy kept his attention solely on Ned’s phone as he huffed, “If by kinda good you mean didn’t crash it, then sure.”
“Means he’s crashed more cars than he has motorcycles,” Rhodey joked, shooting a friendly wink Peter’s way.
Tony’s bark of laughter made that friendly wink as effective as a chocolate teapot.
“That was once!” Peter hastily defended, gesturing a rigid arm out towards Steve. “And nobody would’ve known about that if it didn’t end up on YouTube!”
Tony shook his head, never once looking at Peter as he said, “Not helping your case, kid.”
Peter barely bit back a sigh, forcing it to stay between a tightly-clenched jaw as he spared Ned an irritated glance — one that Ned failed to notice, too busy staring ahead at Steve with a star-struck wonderment stealing his capability to speak.
He may have been hanging around the Avengers for what he’d say felt like a good while now — still a wildly bizarre thought to have — but the idea of Captain America letting him ride his motorcycle…
That was a absurd as things could get.
“Where’s the throttle?”
So when Steve first asked the question, Peter didn’t initially hear it.
“Huh?” he sounded, all in one breath.
Steve leveled him a look, all while delicately setting his motorcycle helmet off to the side, placing it down on the nearest empty table in his vicinity.
“The throttle,” Steve repeated, “where is it?”
Peter blinked. And then again, letting his brain catch up with his ears.
When it hit him, he couldn’t help the grin that followed.
“Right side,” Peter easily answered.
Steve cocked his head. “How do you shift gears?”
“Clutch the lever with your left hand,” Peter mimicked the movements, “and use your left foot to shift.”
Steve arched an eyebrow. “Then?”
“Release the clutch while applying throttle with your other hand,” Peter answered, quickly and smoothly.
“What’s the purpose of the choke?” Steve wasn’t letting up — firing off questions before Peter’s answer had finished sounding.
Peter didn’t hesitate on that one. “Provide extra fuel to the engine when starting a cold bike. Makes it easier to start.”
And Steve didn’t hesitate to ask the next one. “What’s the best way to brake?”
“Use both the front and rear brakes together,” Peter, once again, mimicked the movements with his hands. “Apply gradual but consistent pressure to avoid locking up the wheels.”
“What would you do if the wheels locked up?” Steve rattled off, his voice staying firm through-and-through.
“Release the brakes,” Peter answered with a resounding duh lifting his tone. “Shift your weight the opposite direction, don’t twist the handlebar too suddenly when re-engaging, and play it cool.”
The groovy, chill, no-stress accent that finished out Peter’s string of answers, easily highlighting the best of his Academic Decathlon abilities, was enough to get Rhodey laughing. It was hard to say if Tony would’ve done the same, had his exasperation not reach headache levels.
And Happy was still occupied with Ned’s phone.
With his index finger pressing heavily against his temple, Tony saw his Head of Security through the corner of his eye, and he leaned forward to whip the phone out of his hands.
Happy looked aggravated, but otherwise relented.
Ned barely noticed when Tony tossed his phone back into his possession.
“Peter stayed up like, all last night learning about motorcycles,” Ned dreamily drawled out, the phone plopping into his lap and remaining untouched — his attention was far too focused on Steve Rogers to notice anything else happening around him.
Off to the side, Rhodey gave a dry, humorous huff. “Hyper-fixation, now why does that sound familiar.”
Tony tried to throw Rhodey a look of offense, but it was clear that would have to wait until his headache receded.
“Not all last night,” Peter quickly defended, waving a frantic and dismissive hand over in Ned’s direction. “I slept. I’m well-rested, I could totally and very safely ride your bike…if, you know, you’d let me. Of course. I wouldn’t just take it. I’d never just take it—”
“Still waiting for that Ibuprofen,” Tony said out loud to no one in particular, and everyone all at the same time.
Bruce noticeably rolled his eyes and returned to his tablet.
The silence, as brief as it was, lasted long enough to touch every corner of the tuxedo shop. It gave Steve the time to look Peter head-on, catching his gaze and holding onto it, just long enough that he could get the answers from questions that couldn’t be spoken.
With an arch of his eyebrow and twitch of his lip, Steve turned inwards towards the lounge, facing Tony from a distance.
“Tony?” he asked, gesturing his head wordlessly over at Peter. “You okay with this?”
The way Tony actively rubbed at his temple with two fingers pressed so hard into his skin they left dent marks, Peter was sure the answer had already been made.
“Happy’s got his helmet in the back of his car, I can wear that. It’s full-faced, no one will know it’s me,” Peter hastily jumped to a counter argument that had yet to even begin. “And like Steve said, no one recognizes him outside of his uniform. He’s just Steve here, a nobody!”
Steve frowned, turning to Peter with an expression laced in confusion and insult.
Peter’s eyes widened immediately.
“I mean, not that I mean — you’re not a nobody, you’re Captain America—” Peter’s arms moved around in frantic gestures, creating a draft of wind inside the tuxedo shop. “I just mean that you’re not like Mr. Stark, who, you know, can’t go—”
Peter came to a grinding halt when a gentle hand laid across his shoulder.
“Learn when to stop,” Steve simply said, giving Peter’s shoulder three firm taps before letting go.
Peter nodded, bowed his head, and nodded some more with a sigh that blew the laces across his shoes. “I’m trying.”
The next lull that followed was enough to eat away at Peter’s nerves. He swore the button of his jacket wouldn’t make it to the wedding in one piece, not with how much anxiety bled through his fiddling fingers.
He really wished Ned had never mentioned the idea — even if Steve seemed cool with the idea, Mr. Stark would never go for it. Heck, he only let Peter drive a few miles up from a gas station to their hotel when on their road trip this past summer.
Riding Steve’s motorcycle?
Captain America's motorcycle?
Peter may as well ask for the baby monitor to be removed from his suit.
He looked to Tony, waiting for the sharp but simple ‘no’ that would eventually sound.
“I blame you for this,” Tony said instead, twisting in the tub chair to better face Happy — with a stern finger pointed his way.
Happy met that finger with his own, and then pointed his finger at himself. “What? Me?”
Tony nodded. “Yes, you.”
Peter very eagerly realized that no one had yet to say that two letter word he’d been waiting for.
“Is that a yes?” Peter couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out. He steered into the skid, turning towards Tony with bouncing, excited heels. “Is that a yes?”
Happy twisted his face up tight. “Why me!”
Tony wagged his finger. “You know full well why you—”
“Oh my god, oh my god, I’m going to pass out,” Ned’s voice hiked up pitch as he waved both hands frantically in front of him, desperate for a breeze that the tuxedo shop didn’t have to offer. “I’m going to pass out, I’m going to — Peter, you’re going to ride Captain America’s motorcycle!”
Peter whipped his head around towards Ned, back around to Steve — stayed there for a moment, and then finally landed on Mr. Stark.
The breezy, floppy motion of Tony’s hand was all Peter needed to see.
Permission granted.
“Steve, thank you so much,” Peter stressed, both his hands outward towards Steve as if he was about to go in for a hug — hesitating before drawing back, turning on his heels and running to the entrance of the tuxedo shop. “Holy cow, I can’t believe this!”
Tony shot his head around as he called out, “Not in the tux, Parker!”
Footsteps that had dwindled away quickly began to draw closer again as Peter came trampling back into the lounge, quickly jogging to the private dressing rooms down the hall.
“Right! Yes, of course, dumb — yes, right!” Peter hollered over his shoulder, “Give me five! I’ll be there in five!”
Steve laughed, caught sight of Ned’s enamoured stare, and laughed again. Not far away he saw Rhodey, acknowledging his friend with a nod that was returned, all the while Tony returned his wagging finger to Happy’s direction.
“Your mid-life crisis is so stereotypical,” Tony kept on, whipping his glasses out from his blazer and gesturing them Happy’s way. “You could’ve done anything and you went with the motorcycle. Could’ve grown the mullet back, that would’ve been better. More creative, more original—”
Happy loudly groaned. “It is not a mid-life —”
“Might not have suited your goatee, but everyone’s gotta make compromises,” Tony didn’t let up, steamrolling Happy as if he never spoke in the first place. The same glasses that wagged Happy’s way made their way back on his face. “Now you got the kid starting a biker gang with Uncle Sam, how’s that make you feel? You proud about that?”
Bruce loudly chuckled from where he sat. Though all eyes turned to look at him, he never looked away from his tablet.
“Boys and bikes? Probably the most normal thing you’ll get out of him,” Bruce mentioned, once again speaking so quietly it were as if he never meant to speak out loud at all.
The pause that followed brought a glimmer of curiosity to his expression, and Bruce suddenly turned around in his chair, facing Steve head-on with the tablet still in his hand.
“Steve, question,” Bruce started to ask, looking down at the screen as he cleared his throat a few times. “If you could have any cocktail…”
The smell struck him first — and with a fierce force.
“Oeugh-ckouhhh,” Norman coughed harshly into the balled fist of his hand, instinctively pressing the back of his forearm against his nose to cover the stench. It wasn’t enough; he leaned over, bending at the waist to bury his face into the soot-stained fabric of his coat.
It was rancid. Everything all at once; every drop of sweat from every body in the building, every odor that seeped out their glands — body fluids combined with cooking food, mixing with dusty old clothes, melding together with the outside’s breath and the street pavements slick with car oil —
So powerful, so concentrated, that the very hairs inside his nose singed at contact.
“Sorry ‘bout that, my dude — it’s not normally this rank.”
A hand found his back, clapping down on him with casual pats; right at the same time the front door of the shelter slammed behind them. Norman didn’t turn to look at the young man touching him, but he did swing his head around to that door — his brows furrowed tightly as it closed shut.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong, FEAST can get pretty funky some days. Ofph, especially in the summer — eck. New York City is hella dope, but there ain’t any smell like 5th Avenue in August back in Cali.”
The young man — Dylan, he faintly remembered — spoke without any realization that his words were falling on deaf ears.
Norman stood up a little straighter as he kept eyeing the front door of the shelter, closed and blocking his view of the outside. The purple wool of his coat stayed over his face, tugged there with one hand while the other hung limply at his side.
He was supposed to move.
Keep moving.
Don’t stop.
He couldn’t do that here.
Norman twisted back around, the crease on his forehead deepening, creating lines of soot that embedded into the wrinkles of his skin.
The shelter, while no means small, held a great deal of space for a large sum of people. The entire ground floor was open space gymnasium; filled with cots, lockers lining the walls, and a few tables and metal chairs scattered about — keeping some folks entertained with card games and things like Chess.
The second floor was visible from the bottom, a staircase on the far end leading all the way up, where glass windows showcased the offices and other rooms beyond the balcony.
Once his eyes gravitated there, Norman didn’t look away.
Not even as Dylan gave him another friendly pat against his shoulder, encouraging him to walk forward — he did, but only out of instinct.
His movements were long since past his control.
“…so then my girlfriend — well, ex-girlfriend, now — she decided after a few months after working that new hot-shot job we moved for, suddenly she was too good for me. We broke up, but it’s whatever. Life’s a bitch and then you move on. So that’s how I ended up in the city, which is kinda cool, cause New York ain’t nothing like California. Been here for a few years now, making due, all that jazz. This gig has really helped me out a lot. Without Mrs. P, I would’ve never been able to afford rent. Coulda wound up homeless myself. Oh, hey — follow me, let’s get you some fresh clothes.”
Norman let himself be guided away, hearing the words that were spoken but barely making sense of it all. The voice hit one ear and slipped out the other, discernible by nature yet his mind couldn’t make sense of them.
There was too much distraction for coherency. The noise vibrated his skull, enveloping every corner with a painful buzz. Each sound they encountered was eleven times louder than what his eardrums could handle — double that, triple. The casual chit-chat that echoed the shelter could’ve very well been detonating bomb, clangs and bangs from the kitchen staff cooking far away and out of sight causing him to twitch and jolt with aggravation.
The smells only made it worse. His nostrils burned with smells he’d never encountered, tangling his stomach into a tight, aggressive coil. If an ant crawled across the shelter, he swore he could pick up on their scent.
Every nerve, every sense his body was capable of — it was heightened beyond human limitations, surpassing even the most feral of animals.
It was too much. And with each step they took further into the building, Norman’s irritation only grew.
“…anyway, nah, this is ‘cause the city totally botched a water line replacement a few days ago. They shut off our pipes for a while — Mrs. P said it should be back by the weekend. We can get you a shower then. I think we got some of those, like — those wet wipes somewhere, though. Maybe we can get some of that, uh…dirt…off of you.”
While Dylan seemed to know exactly where he was going, weaving in and around cots like it was second nature, Norman stumbled behind his every step — bumping into beds and nearly tripping on strangers feet along the way.
“Fire,” he managed to croak, each forward step an ordeal for his weak and buckling knees. The people he passed met him with scowls and muttered curses, their outstretched legs and broad shoulders obstacles he could scarcely avoid, adding to the discordant rhythm of his steps.
And yet, if he had a mirror, Norman would’ve seen that he blended right in with them. Ash and soot darkened his Caucasian skin into a messy canvas of black, and the tattered, oversize clothes that hung off his frame were more fibers of fabric than they were actual attire.
The heat of his own body had done too much damage to even the thickest of wool coats he could find.
“Yeah, yeah, right, man. You said there was a fire,” Dylan recalled, every bit of his tone coated in casualness. He bent down to pick up a discarded blanket that had fallen off a cot, genially tossing it onto the nearest empty bed as they kept walking. “Do you have anyone we could call for you? Friends, maybe family?”
Norman kept looking as they kept walking, never once letting his head rest in one place as he took in his surroundings.
The people were nameless, most of their faces blended together as one. And though he knew he’d been walking for some time, his legs still ached tremendously, as if the distance across the shelter outmatched the hundreds of miles he’d already trekked.
It wasn’t until he saw a young kid sitting off to the side that his eyes finally locked in place. His head no longer swiveled or turned, but rather slightly cocked to the side — looking at the boy straight ahead with glaze of confusion overlapping his green irises.
The longer he stared, and Norman deduced the kid couldn’t be out of his teens — early twenty at the utmost best. A lost child compared to the much older folks that filled the shelter, most holding triple the amount of wrinkles that etched deep into Norman’s face.
This boy was far too young for even a single crowsfeet to dent his skin. The bags underneath his young eyes were only due to the hardships he’d encountered, and with a heavy cotton blanket wrapped around his shoulders, he sat quietly in the corner. Watching wordlessly as the people moved all around him.
For a moment — just a split second that came with the blink of his eyes — Norman saw the flames of blazing fire dance before him. They twisted and twirled like ethereal ballet dancers on an otherworldly stage, swallowing the young boy in front of him. Crimson and orange swirls flickered with each capricious pirouette, hiding the figure from view — burning him whole.
Another blink, and the fire was gone.
“My son.”
The words didn’t sound like they came from him. It wouldn’t be the first time, but the burn in his throat — no different than the burn that throbbed the heels of his feet — spoke his reality long before he registered it.
And still, Dylan spoke with a casualness that fell out of place.
“Ah, cool, so you got family. That’s more than most these people.” Dylan kicked a wad of trash to the side as they approached the far end of the shelter. “Let’s get you out of these smokey duds, then we can make some calls. Sound sick?”
Norman shot his head around, his neck whipping so fast the crack was audible against the meaningless chit-chat occurring around them. Dylan had walked a few feet ahead, but not far enough that they couldn’t regard each others gaze.
“Yes.” Norman nodded, firmly. “Sick. Fix it.”
That’s what he was supposed to do.
Right?
Yes. Right, because something wasn’t right.
He needed…
ᶠᴵᴺᴰ...
ᶠⁱⁿᵈ...
ᶠᴵᴺᴰ...
He couldn’t hear his thoughts — not his thoughts, never his thoughts — not over the noise, the abundance of talking and doors slamming, furniture moving, footsteps pounding, too loud, too noisy, too overwhelming —
“Nah man, I meant, like — sound cool?” Dylan clarified, gesturing a nonchalant hand forward without any attempt at actually reaching Norman.
A lingering pause followed. Long enough that Norman’s gaze fell empty, and Dylan’s quickly fell confused.
“Yeah, okay, cool,” Dylan ultimately decided to say, using that same hand to gesture in a motion over his shoulder. “C’mon, follow me.”
The ground floor gymnasium had come to an end, but an open threshold brought them both into a long corridor with a few doors paving their path, and the sound of kitchen staff growing louder as they trudged onward.
“Hey!”
A gruff voice yelled from straight ahead and down the hallway, sourced from the much older black man who came walking towards them; bowl of soup in his one hand with the other holding a bunch of crackers.
“You’re late again, Angeleno!” he yelled, despite the distance between them being minimal.
Norman visibly clenched his jaw at the loud shout, both his hands unknowingly tightening into fists as the noise penetrated his ears. His bones felt the aftershocks, vibrating through his ear canals, running down his spine.
The enhancement of his senses was too much.
The discomfort fueled his aggravation.
Dylan, however, wasn’t so much as perturbed.
“Aw, come on, Mr. Lewis!” he shouted right back, grinning ear-to-ear. “Why you gotta always give me a hard time like that?”
As Mr. Lewis made his way down the hall, and Dylan kept on his path walking forward, they stopped somewhere in the middle — Dylan smiling as Mr. Lewis took a large bite out of his saltine cracker.
“Cause you’re a screw up!” Mr. Lewis all but spit cracker dust in Dylan’s face, using the spoon that had been inside his bowl to wag it at the young man. “Your shift started at ten—”
Dylan harmlessly pushed that spoon aside. “Didn’t Mrs. P tell you to stop being so noisy with the staff schedule?”
Mr. Lewis met his charismatic expression with one of pure, adulterated, no-nonsense attitude.
“Didn’t she tell you not to be late anymore?” he fired back, every age of his elderly life showing on his face.
And still, Dylan kept his grin.
“I’m working off the clock!” he defended, tossing back words like it was playful banter they’d had before.
Their conversation continued on, but Norman had long since diverted his attention elsewhere — his head looked up, looked over, looked behind — something caught his attention that not even he was aware of.
Whatever it was, it was nearby.
ᶠᴵᴺᴰ...
ᶠⁱⁿᵈ...
ᶠᴵᴺᴰ
And it was far too loud in the shelter for his mind to guide him the way.
“Listen, hang tight, Mr. Lewis.” A hand clapped down on his shoulder, rattling Norman back to the present moment — frustration only building as the unknown tried to fight through the fog that brandished his brain. “Lemme help this guy out and then we can play a game of Crazy Eights. Promise.”
Dylan pushed Norman forward, just slightly, enough of a nudge that they started walking forward again.
As they did, Mr. Lewis spun on his heels, dropping a cracker and spilling some soup along the way — all just so he could to watch them depart.
“Your promises don’t mean shit, Angeleno!”
Dylan kept one hand against Norman’s back, pushing him forward down the hallway, even as he swung his head over his shoulder so he could holler out,
“I’m from San Diego, bro!”
Side-by-side they both entered the kitchen — Norman flattered in his steps as the swinging doors bounced back against him, and Dylan kept the swing door open in place until he eventually made his way through.
The clanking of pots and pans only got worse as Norman entered the kitchen of the shelter. A tight grimace pulled at his face as he shot his head left and right — taking in his surroundings with a rapidly growing frustration.
It was too loud. The smells were too pungent.
Too overwhelming.
He couldn’t concentrate.
He couldn’t remember what he was supposed to do.
He couldn’t —
“Soup’s ready. Need volunteers on serving!”
“Got it! I’ll start ladling.”
“I’ll take the bread to the tables.”
“Where are the apples for dessert?”
He couldn’t hear the voices guiding his way.
“In the walk-in fridge, bottom shelf!”
“We're running low on plastic forks. Do we have more?”
“Hey, Lauren, did the donation truck already come in today?” Dylan asked.
It was nothing short of a miracle that Norman plucked out the voice among the many. His eyes, crazed and frantic, bloodshot and fatigued, rolled the room until they landed on the young man up ahead. The back of his head bounced with waves of blond hair matching the waves of his voice.
“Yep,” the girl, Lauren, simply replied. She worked quickly as she divided out bowls of soup, careful not to spill any at the cost of waste. “And you pissed off Ray and Tyler by making them unload it.”
Dylan didn’t seem even remotely fazed by the news.
“Did we get any clothes in?” he asked instead, gesturing his thumb over his shoulder. “I got a new friend here who pissed off Smokey the Bear.”
For the first time since they’d entered the kitchen, Lauren came to a slow but sudden stop. The ladle in her hand made a gradual descent back into the pot of soup as she stared straight ahead, catching sight of Norman far behind Dylan, with her eyebrow quickly climbing up her forehead.
“I see that,” she eventually said, shaking off the stupor in favor of filling all the dishes in front of her. “No idea, go talk to Ray.”
Inching a little closer, and cusping both hands in front of him, Dylan innocently asked, “Could you ask Ray for me?”
Lauren threw him a look before returning right back to the bowls of soup. “Reap what you sow, Dylan.”
The kitchen exhaust fan nearly ate up their conversation, melding together with astronomical noise that screamed a sirens song against his ear drums.
The clasp of a hand against his shoulder sounded like a nuclear explosion.
“Alright, hang tight, my dude,” Dylan’s voice began to treat, falling out of earshot along with the footsteps that guided him away. “I’m gunna find you some new threads — make yourself at home, have yourself some soup, take a load off! Your feet look hella burnt out, bro.”
Norman turned around, unsteady on his heels as he tried to watch the tall figure with long blond hair leave the kitchen. The bustling staff blocked his view; each employee moving at a rapid pace, criss-crossing one another.
By the time the young man was gone, the soup had long since been divvied out and Norman still stood standing, lost amiss the productivity of the shelter’s staff.
They moved at a pace he couldn’t keep up with — fast, precise, a ballet of efficiency. Eventually someone led him out into the main gymnasium — Norman didn’t remember how they got there, and he quickly lost track of time as he wandered.
The folks stared at him as he meandered on by, no destination in mind as he roamed the shelter. No one seemed to want to stop him, and Norman wasn’t keen to associate. The cool floors provided him no relief to his blistering feet, but he kept walking regardless.
Distance brought a softness to his ears.
The further he found distance, the less noise that probed through his skull — it provided clarity.
Something was here.
Something important.
Something…vital.
He could smell it.
ɎɆ₴
Sǝʎʸᵉˢ
ᖻ༙྇ᘿ༙྇S༙྇
ᶠᴼₗᴸₒᵂ
fₒₗₗₒw
ᖻ༙྇ᘿ༙྇S༙྇
ᶠᴼₗᴸₒᵂ
ᶠⁱⁿᵈ
₣ØŁŁØŴ
Norman relinquished his controls to the feral instincts that lead his way, taking him up the staircase that passed by glass panels overlooking the gymnasium. He wasn’t sure if the smells were getting stronger, or if he was growing more rabid for answers.
All he knew was that he couldn’t shake it.
He couldn’t ignore it.
ᖻ༙྇єϛ
ᶠᴼₗᴸₒᵂ
ᶠⁱⁿᵈ
ᶠⁱⁿᵈ
F͓̞̤́̔̚o̳̥̪̫͓l͔̳͇̇͂͋lͩ͋̓̓ow̼̬͇
He made it down the hall without encountering a single person; employee or housing victim. The boisterous noise from a staggering amount of activity became muffled the further he got away. His growing appetite, ravished by the scent that guided his path, coated his eardrums almost protectively.
Move.
Keep moving.
Fix it.
Follow.
It was a single door down the hall, cracked open half-way, that caught his attention. It wasn’t his mind that took him there. His legs moved without his control, the primal senses urging him to take deep whiffs — indulging in the satisfying smell.
Norman grabbed the doorknob, pausing only to look down. He could see the skin on his hand trembling against the silver hardware, but adrenaline burned his blood hot.
The aroma was overwhelming, different from before.
Not what he first smelt when entering the shelter.
Not foul, not putrid.
No, it was…
Without letting another pause break his stride, Norman entered the room, careful to close the door behind him without letting it shut completely.
A sliver of light seeped through that crack in the door, lending a faint highlight to the otherwise dark office.
His eyes rapidly scanned every corner, every inch — his nose flared like a hungry beast, his chest heaving with rapid puffs of air.
ꓕʜ͆ͅE ̻̮̯ͮͧ̎Ƚ̈́ͭɪ̈́ͫX͓̙̮
ｔＨ𝐄 xᴉɟ
T͕̘͐̆h̬̩̗̓ͪ͗e ͔͆Fix͕
ƒ̞̑ι̱̖̤ͩ̔͛χ͕̞ͫ̃ ιт
ƒιχ ιт
ᴙɘᵇ
ⁱᑫꙄd͍̭ẽ̆ͦrˢᵖ ⁱᵈᵉʳ
ˣ͜ⁱᶠ ᵉʰ͝ᵗ ˢ’ᵗ͠ⁱˣⁱᶠ ᵉʰᵗ ˢ’ᵗⁱⁱᵗ’ˢ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠⁱˣ ⁱᵗ’ˢ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠⁱˣ
ᵗʰᵉ ᶠⁱˣ
ᵗʰᵉ ᶠⁱˣ
ƒιχ ιт
“Where is it?” Norman croaked out — no one was around for him to ask the question to. Yet it left his lips painfully, cracking his tongue and splitting the skin of his lips in two.
The room held no occupants. Nothing that stood out among anything else. An ordinary office that looked no different than the one from across the hall — he twisted at the hips, turning to the side, frantic in a hopeless search.
The exhaustion plagued every muscle in his body. Stumbling forward and lunging for the desk up ahead, Norman narrowly avoided a graceless collision with the floor — gripping the corner with both hands and harshly swallowing down a frustrated shout.
“I can smell it,” he all but growled, clenching the cheap desk with fingernails that chipped away into ash. “I can…”
н͠єⲅє
н͠єⲅє
I̵t's
sɐʍ̍̂ͪͪ̉̍ͭ
I̵t's
sɐʍ̍̂ͪͪ̉̍ͭ
Ħēɍē
ᶠᴵᴺᴰ...
ᶠⁱⁿᵈ...
Ӻīꞥđ...
F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡
Norman clenched his eyes shut tightly, gripping the edge of desk until wisps of steam began to seep out from his fingertips and waft up his nose — inhibiting his ability to smell the sweet, fragrant pheromone that lit his nerves alight.
It was everywhere. All around him, every inch of the room, every walking step, with the next inhale somehow bringing a whiff stronger than the last. His skin crawled, his blood boiled, his mouth ran dry —
His next breaths came in uneven, and quiet. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the desk, all the while a low growl rumbled in his chest.
Something was here.
They guided him here, they wanted him here —
He was missing something.
Ӻͫ̐ͥīꞥ̎ͤͩđ Īͪⱦͯ
Ӻī͑̎͑͗ͫ̓ͬ̔̾̿͛ͭꞥ͊ͯ̔ͧ̇đ̆̉ͨ̓ͪ̅͐͒͊̅̊ͥ̑ Ī͒̔ͤ̽̿ͬͮ̿͛͂̉̎͋ⱦ͒̑̾̀̊͋̂̊ͮ̈͂̚̚
F͓̞̤́̔̚o̳̥̪̫͓l͔̳͇̇͂͋lͩ͋̓̓ow̼̬͇
ƒ̞̑ι̱̖̤ͩ̔͛χ͕̞ͫ̃ ιт
Ħēɍē
ꓕʜ͆ͅE ̻̮̯ͮͧ̎Ƚ̈́ͭɪ̈́ͫX͓̙̮
ｔＨ𝐄 xᴉɟ
Ṫ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅḞ̷̞͉͔̋͝ḯ̷͉̜͒͛͜x̴̶̰͔̱͕̘̫̳͗̽̍̀͐̈́T͕̘͐̆h̬̩̗̓ͪ͗e ͔͆Fix͕Ṫ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅḞ̷̞͉͔̋͝ḯ̷͉̜͒͛͜x̴̶̰͔̱͕̘̫̳͗̽̍̀͐̈́
Ṫ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅ₴₱łĐɆⱤ₱̴̢̛̻̳̫͚͍̗͎̱̼̯͌͗̍̆͐̽͑̓͆͜͠ł̶̢̯͎̼̫̥͔͙͉̻̹̆̇̓̃͊̍̀̔͂͊̈́͘͜Đ̴̻̗̪̝͎̲͍̭̞̭͔̂̈͆̎́̌̏̌̓͆͝ͅɆ̸̛̰͉̙͉̳̟̭̩̲̘̮̏̒̎͋̄́͘͜͠͠͠Ɽ̶̨̺̬͚͇̼͎͕̯̩̭̈́̊̈́̓̈́́̍̔̍̽̏͜
ẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅḞ̷̞͉͔̋͝ḯ̷͉̜͒͛͜x̴̶̰͔̱͕̘̫̳͗̽̍̀͐̈́£ïxẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅḞ̷̞͉͔̋͝ḯ̷͉̜͒͛͜x̴̶̰͔̱͕̘̫̳͗̽̍̀͐̈́
Ήλя₱̴̢̛̻̳̫͚͍̗͎̱̼̯͌͗̍̆͐̽͑̓͆͜͠ł̶̢̯͎̼̫̥͔͙͉̻̹̆̇̓̃͊̍̀̔͂͊̈́͘͜Đ̴̻̗̪̝͎̲͍̭̞̭͔̂̈͆̎́̌̏̌̓͆͝ͅɆ̸̛̰͉̙͉̳̟̭̩̲̘̮̏̒̎͋̄́͘͜͠͠͠Ɽ̶̨̺̬͚͇̼͎͕̯̩̭̈́̊̈́̓̈́́̍̔̍̽̏͜₴₱łĐɆⱤṪ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅ
Ṫ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅΉλяⁱᑫꙄd͍̭ẽ̆ͦrˢᵖΉλяⁱᵈᵉʳ
Ӻͫ̐ͥīꞥ̎ͤͩđ Īͪⱦͯh̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅ
ӺīӿṪ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅṪ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅṪ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅ
Ṫ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅ
₣ØⱠⱠØ₩ƚ̋̊̎̅̔ƚ̈́̾̄ᱵ̿̑Ꮗ͌͆̇ͨ͌ͦ͑̐Ƒ͐̆̂̓̓ᱵ₣ØⱠⱠØ₩
H̶̪͕̱͎̟̩̗̟̲̻̮̱̖̲͖̬͕̯̩͚̩̹͎̙͍̱́̌̂̾̓͊͒̔̐̏̑̈́̾̔̆̄̍̍͒͆͘̕̚̚͝͝ͅe̵̢̧̨̨̛̘̳̥̫̲̣̲̙͉̥͕͕͉͇̲̠͎̦͖͉̹̟̫̊̈͐̋̊̔̃͊̽͊̋̑̑̊͛̍̏̔͘͜͝͝͝͠ŗ̷̨̛̘͕̬̞̙͔͓̳͇̩̭͇̩͇͍̠̠̪̘̠̟͌̓̍̈́̈́͑̊͌̈́̆̌̇̅̇̒́̓̋͆̒̃͗͘͜͝͝͠ȩ̷͖͚̖̱̱̝̥̬͍̭̝͔̘̤̯̳̹̞͔͎͈͎͙̟̣̒̌͛̋̊̍̌̄̽̀̈́̆̈̓̋͌͋̊͆̍̆̚Ħ̴̩̱͕͔̗̯̳̻̣̹̱̥͙͛̄̽̏̌ͬͦ͋͛ͫ̉̏̈́͌́ͅē͐ͫ͋͌ͪ̔ͯͯͣ͛͊̔ɍ͗̊ͨͤ̊̋͗ͧͦ̃̚ē̛̫̭̩͎͎̪͚̙̻͍͈̆ͯ͂̅̌̂̑͒̐ͬ̚͞h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅ
H̶̪͕̱͎̟̩̗̟̲̻̮̱̖̲͖̬͕̯̩͚̩̹͎̙͍̱́̌̂̾̓͊͒̔̐̏̑̈́̾̔̆̄̍̍͒͆͘̕̚̚͝͝ͅe̵̢̧̨̨̛̘̳̥̫̲̣̲̙͉̥͕͕͉͇̲̠͎̦͖͉̹̟̫̊̈͐̋̊̔̃͊̽͊̋̑̑̊͛̍̏̔͘͜͝͝͝͠ŗ̷̨̛̘͕̬̞̙͔͓̳͇̩̭͇̩͇͍̠̠̪̘̠̟͌̓̍̈́̈́͑̊͌̈́̆̌̇̅̇̒́̓̋͆̒̃͗͘͜͝͝͠ȩ̷͖͚̖̱̱̝̥̬͍̭̝͔̘̤̯̳̹̞͔͎͈͎͙̟̣̒̌͛̋̊̍̌̄̽̀̈́̆̈̓̋͌͋̊͆̍̆̚
Ħ̴̩̱͕͔̗̯̳̻̣̹̱̥͙͛̄̽̏̌ͬͦ͋͛ͫ̉̏̈́͌́ͅē͐ͫ͋͌ͪ̔ͯͯͣ͛͊̔ɍ͗̊ͨͤ̊̋͗ͧͦ̃̚ē̛̫̭̩͎͎̪͚̙̻͍͈̆ͯ͂̅̌̂̑͒̐ͬ̚͞
H̶̪͕̱͎̟̩̗̟̲̻̮̱̖̲͖̬͕̯̩͚̩̹͎̙͍̱́̌̂̾̓͊͒̔̐̏̑̈́̾̔̆̄̍̍͒͆͘̕̚̚͝͝ͅe̵̢̧̨̨̛̘̳̥̫̲̣̲̙͉̥͕͕͉͇̲̠͎̦͖͉̹̟̫̊̈͐̋̊̔̃͊̽͊̋̑̑̊͛̍̏̔͘͜͝͝͝͠ŗ̷̨̛̘͕̬̞̙͔͓̳͇̩̭͇̩͇͍̠̠̪̘̠̟͌̓̍̈́̈́͑̊͌̈́̆̌̇̅̇̒́̓̋͆̒̃͗͘͜͝͝͠ȩ̷͖͚̖̱̱̝̥̬͍̭̝͔̘̤̯̳̹̞͔͎͈͎͙̟̣̒̌͛̋̊̍̌̄̽̀̈́̆̈̓̋͌͋̊͆̍̆̚
H̶̪͕̱͎̟̩̗̟̲̻̮̱̖̲͖̬͕̯̩͚̩̹͎̙͍̱́̌̂̾̓͊͒̔̐̏̑̈́̾̔̆̄̍̍͒͆͘̕̚̚͝͝ͅe̵̢̧̨̨̛̘̳̥̫̲̣̲̙͉̥͕͕͉͇̲̠͎̦͖͉̹̟̫̊̈͐̋̊̔̃͊̽͊̋̑̑̊͛̍̏̔͘͜͝͝͝͠ŗ̷̨̛̘͕̬̞̙͔͓̳͇̩̭͇̩͇͍̠̠̪̘̠̟͌̓̍̈́̈́͑̊͌̈́̆̌̇̅̇̒́̓̋͆̒̃͗͘͜͝͝͠ȩ̷͖͚̖̱̱̝̥̬͍̭̝͔̘̤̯̳̹̞͔͎͈͎͙̟̣̒̌͛̋̊̍̌̄̽̀̈́̆̈̓̋͌͋̊͆̍̆̚
Ħ̴̩̱͕͔̗̯̳̻̣̹̱̥͙͛̄̽̏̌ͬͦ͋͛ͫ̉̏̈́͌́ͅē͐ͫ͋͌ͪ̔ͯͯͣ͛͊̔ɍ͗̊ͨͤ̊̋͗ͧͦ̃̚ē̛̫̭̩͎͎̪͚̙̻͍͈̆ͯ͂̅̌̂̑͒̐ͬ̚͞
H̶̪͕̱͎̟̩̗̟̲̻̮̱̖̲͖̬͕̯̩͚̩̹͎̙͍̱́̌̂̾̓͊͒̔̐̏̑̈́̾̔̆̄̍̍͒͆͘̕̚̚͝͝ͅe̵̢̧̨̨̛̘̳̥̫̲̣̲̙͉̥͕͕͉͇̲̠͎̦͖͉̹̟̫̊̈͐̋̊̔̃͊̽͊̋̑̑̊͛̍̏̔͘͜͝͝͝͠ŗ̷̨̛̘͕̬̞̙͔͓̳͇̩̭͇̩͇͍̠̠̪̘̠̟͌̓̍̈́̈́͑̊͌̈́̆̌̇̅̇̒́̓̋͆̒̃͗͘͜͝͝͠ȩ̷͖͚̖̱̱̝̥̬͍̭̝͔̘̤̯̳̹̞͔͎͈͎͙̟̣̒̌͛̋̊̍̌̄̽̀̈́̆̈̓̋͌͋̊͆̍̆̚h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ŗ̷̨̛̘͕̬̞̙͔͓̳͇̩̭͇̩͇͍̠̠̪̘̠̟͌̓̍̈́̈́͑̊͌̈́̆̌̇̅̇̒́̓̋͆̒̃͗͘͜͝͝͠ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅh̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅŗ̷̨̛̘͕̬̞̙͔͓̳͇̩̭͇̩͇͍̠̠̪̘̠̟͌̓̍̈́̈́͑̊͌̈́̆̌̇̅̇̒́̓̋͆̒̃͗͘͜͝͝͠h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅh̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅŗ̷̨̛̘͕̬̞̙͔͓̳͇̩̭͇̩͇͍̠̠̪̘̠̟͌̓̍̈́̈́͑̊͌̈́̆̌̇̅̇̒́̓̋͆̒̃͗͘͜͝͝͠h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅ
̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅh̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅŗ̷̨̛̘͕̬̞̙͔͓̳͇̩̭͇̩͇͍̠̠̪̘̠̟͌̓̍̈́̈́͑̊͌̈́̆̌̇̅̇̒́̓̋͆̒̃͗͘͜͝͝͠h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅH̶̪͕̱͎̟̩̗̟̲̻̮̱̖̲͖̬͕̯̩͚̩̹͎̙͍̱́̌̂̾̓͊͒̔̐̏̑̈́̾̔̆̄̍̍͒͆͘̕̚̚͝͝ͅe̵̢̧̨̨̛̘̳̥̫̲̣̲̙͉̥͕͕͉͇̲̠͎̦͖͉̹̟̫̊̈͐̋̊̔̃͊̽͊̋̑̑̊͛̍̏̔͘͜͝͝͝͠ŗ̷̨̛̘͕̬̞̙͔͓̳͇̩̭͇̩͇͍̠̠̪̘̠̟͌̓̍̈́̈́͑̊͌̈́̆̌̇̅̇̒́̓̋͆̒̃͗͘͜͝͝͠ȩ̷͖͚̖̱̱̝̥̬͍̭̝͔̘̤̯̳̹̞͔͎͈͎͙̟̣̒̌͛̋̊̍̌̄̽̀̈́̆̈̓̋͌͋̊͆̍̆̚
“Arrg—gghhhHHHH!”
With one frenzied sweep of his arm, Norman sent stationery, photo frames, and a slew of other items hurtling to the ground. They clattered to the floor in a disarray, some laying in a helpless heap as others bounced far across the office.
All the while, Norman clenched both sides of his head, grabbing onto his temples until his fingers dug deep into the thick of his hair — hands trembling, echoing the tumult within his mind.
“What is it!?” Norman hissed, his tone swirling in the same pattern that his head spun. “What do you want!?”
Ṫ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅh̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅᶠᴵᴺᴰ...
ᶠⁱⁿᵈ...
Ṫ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅ
̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅh̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅŗ̷̨̛̘͕̬̞̙͔͓̳͇̩̭͇̩͇͍̠̠̪̘̠̟͌̓̍̈́̈́͑̊͌̈́̆̌̇̅̇̒́̓̋͆̒̃͗͘͜͝͝͠h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅH̶̪͕̱͎̟̩̗̟̲̻̮̱̖̲͖̬͕̯̩͚̩̹͎̙͍̱́̌̂̾̓͊͒̔̐̏̑̈́̾̔̆̄̍̍͒͆͘̕̚̚͝͝ͅe̵̢̧̨̨̛̘̳̥̫̲̣̲̙͉̥͕͕͉͇̲̠͎̦͖͉̹̟̫̊̈͐̋̊̔̃͊̽͊̋̑̑̊͛̍̏̔͘͜͝͝͝͠ŗ̷̨̛̘͕̬̞̙͔͓̳͇̩̭͇̩͇͍̠̠̪̘̠̟͌̓̍̈́̈́͑̊͌̈́̆̌̇̅̇̒́̓̋͆̒̃͗͘͜͝͝͠ȩ̷͖͚̖̱̱̝̥̬͍̭̝͔̘̤̯̳̹̞͔͎͈͎͙̟̣̒̌͛̋̊̍̌̄̽̀̈́̆̈̓̋͌͋̊͆̍̆̚
̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅh̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅŗ̷̨̛̘͕̬̞̙͔͓̳͇̩̭͇̩͇͍̠̠̪̘̠̟͌̓̍̈́̈́͑̊͌̈́̆̌̇̅̇̒́̓̋͆̒̃͗͘͜͝͝͠h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅH̶̪͕̱͎̟̩̗̟̲̻̮̱̖̲͖̬͕̯̩͚̩̹͎̙͍̱́̌̂̾̓͊͒̔̐̏̑̈́̾̔̆̄̍̍͒͆͘̕̚̚͝͝ͅe̵̢̧̨̨̛̘̳̥̫̲̣̲̙͉̥͕͕͉͇̲̠͎̦͖͉̹̟̫̊̈͐̋̊̔̃͊̽͊̋̑̑̊͛̍̏̔͘͜͝͝͝͠ŗ̷̨̛̘͕̬̞̙͔͓̳͇̩̭͇̩͇͍̠̠̪̘̠̟͌̓̍̈́̈́͑̊͌̈́̆̌̇̅̇̒́̓̋͆̒̃͗͘͜͝͝͠ȩ̷͖͚̖̱̱̝̥̬͍̭̝͔̘̤̯̳̹̞͔͎͈͎͙̟̣̒̌͛̋̊̍̌̄̽̀̈́̆̈̓̋͌͋̊͆̍̆̚
Ħēɍē
Ӻīꞥđ Īⱦ ʇᴉ puᴉɟ
ᶠⁱⁿᵈ...
“What? What!? What!?” Physical exhaustion finally ate away at his core — Norman’s knees buckled and he fell to the ground, nearly toppling over face-first had he not thrown out both hands to catch his balance. “What is it I need? How do I fix this? Tell me!”
The brunt of his words were smothered against the ashy skin of his palms, pressed firmly against his face. With those same trembling hands, he ran his fingers up through his hair, clenching hold until his grip pulled at his scalp and tugged, harshly.
The floor below him held twice the amount of mess than when he’d first walked in. Norman scanned the clutter, at first without forethought — too focused on the chaos in his mind, too busy trying to tame the fervent craving that gnawed at the edges of his consciousness.
It was then, without any intent, that a glimmer of silver caught his eye.
Staplers, calculators, pens and pencils, sticky notes and scissors —
Whatever it was, it didn’t fit in with the rest.
h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅӺͫ̐ͥīꞥ̎ͤͩđ Īͪⱦͯ
Ṫ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅӺīӿṪ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅ
Ħēɍē
Fingers that still trembled fiercely began to unravel from his matted, ashy hair. They reached down to the floor, grazing the carpet carelessly, shaking all the way to their destination. Papers and envelops were weakly pushed to the side in his attempt to retrieve the shard of metal —
Not metal, no.
Too light. To dull.
Too disposable.
Norman furrowed his brows, grazing two fingertips over the item before gently, slowly, holding it in his grasp.
It felt like —
THWWWIPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP —
Norman jolted back as the small casing erupted into a messy explosion of white goop, narrowly avoiding being caught in the crossfire. It spread across the floor with an unanticipated force, covering the large pile of office supplies that once occupied the desk.
Papers, file folders, photo frames, even the stapler were quickly clothed in a thick outpour of melted paste. The bubbly froth that initially spewed out of the small canister quickly hardened up, spreading across the floor with strands of sticky silk; each weaving and intertwining into the next.
The source — the object Norman stared at with wide, blown out eyes — nearly disappeared behind a cloud of smoke. Burnt to a crisp and smoldering in the aftermath of his touch.
Norman quickly looked towards his own hand, startled, only to re-divert attention just as quickly back to the sticky substance.
The confusion that painted his face wore on him with vivid colors.
Norman reached forward, grabbing the nearest item in the large, contaminated pile.
A photo frame laid amongst the mess; covered in white, tacky fluid. Norman grabbed the smallest part of its upper hand corner, barely free of any white goop. With his finger and thumb, he tugged it away from the wreckage.
It drew along a sinuous string of fluid, like bubble gum freshly plucked from a child’s mouth — stretching onward, resistant and unending. Norman couldn’t help but eye it, curiously — the unhinged pit in his stomach too deep to give it his fascination, but the oddity of it all still captivating his attention.
He almost didn’t notice the picture sitting behind the glass; so engrossed staring at the intricate, silky cobwebs pulled from the splatter across the floor. To the point where the image sealed away was the last thing he found focus on; the faces confined inside the frame catching his attention, forever frozen in time.
Behind the thick layers of white, two men posed side-by-side. Norman squinted his eyes and then returned them to size, struggling to make out the details beneath the mess. The white covered nearly all of the glass, but the threads of gummy fiber thinned out with detailed latticework making each strand unique and nearly translucent.
Instinctively, he went to brush the tacky fluid away, stopping short of his fingers grazing the substance.
It was there he could see the picture wasn’t of two men — no, Norman studied the image more intently.
It was a man, and a young boy.
A teenager.
They were familiar, both of them. Both holding a framed document no different than Norman held the framed photo. Both faces etched deep into the tapestry of Norman’s memory.
Though partially obscured by the large splatter of white goop, the man in particular struck a chord of recognition. The trademark goatee, the impish twinkle in the eyes, even the assured tilt of his head —
Standing next to a neatly kept tuft of hair, wide innocent eyes, and a familiar, awkward smile of adolescence —
Norman’s eyes flittered left to right, back and forth, lingering only to pause on the center where he could scarcely make out the Stark Industries logo within the frame — free of any tacky fluid that would keep it indistinguishable.
h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅӺͫ̐ͥīꞥ̎ͤͩđ Īͪⱦͯ
ƒ̵̘̑ι̵̫͆χ̴̞̏ ̴͍̓ῖ̸̺т̷̲͂
Ħēɍē
He went to drop the framed photo back onto the floor — slowly at first, suddenly when the open envelope off to the side caught his gaze. Norman quickly reached for it, picking up the letter in one fell sweep.
The wax imprint that once sealed the parcel had since cracked and dried over, torn off at the top from when the letter was initially opened; but still fresh enough that even in the haze of his madness, he could tell it was fairly recent. The card inside was made of material far heavier than the other scattered papers that fell off the desk, holding a weight of significance that prompted him to pull it out from its resting place.
Norman paid it no care, even as the tacky substance covering the photo frame stuck to his fingers and caked into the callouses on his palms. It didn’t bother him — not as he struggled to get the card out from inside, and not as he struggled to read the contents with eyes dry as the desert and stinging with a prickly heat.
Those same eyes flickered to the framed photo beneath him, the hand holding the letter moving away just sightly so he could see the picture without any obscuration.
He looked back to the letter, all while spreading his fingers wide — creating a spiderweb between the spaces of all four of his fingers.
ӺīꞥđӺ̧̢̼͉͖̪̙̥̝͓͑͛̃̅ͫͮͫ̋́͘ͅī͈̻͔ͫͥ͆ꞥ͂͂̈̾̑̃̃̓̑̋̌đ̨͘͡
p̑̿̾ͯ̑̑ͬ̈ͤ͆̍͒ͭ̑̓u͍͚̤̖̓ͥ͆̉́n̷̨͞o̴̡ͧ̕ɟ̛̕͡ Ғ͕͕̟̈́ͮ͐θμπδ̆̾
Ħēɍē
H̰̞̗̄̔ͭίϻ͖͊̀ͅ
H̰̞̗̄̔ͭίϻ͖͊̀ͅ
ƒ̵̘̑ι̵̫͆χ̴̞̏ ̴͍̓ῖ̸̺т̷̲͂
ꓕʜ͆ͅE ̻̮̯ͮͧ̎Ƚ̈́ͭɪ̈́ͫX͓̙̮ʰ̵̦̈́ᵉ̷̲̈'̷̦̔ˢ̴̯̊ ̴͖͛ᵗ̴̢͗ʰ̵̬̋ᵉ̴͇̚ ̸̭̅ᶠ̵̣͑ᶦ̸̓͜ˣ̸̥̐
ｔＨ𝐄 xᴉɟʰ̵̦̈́ᵉ̷̲̈'̷̦̔ˢ̴̯̊ ̴͖͛ᵗ̴̢͗ʰ̵̬̋ᵉ̴͇̚ ̸̭̅ᶠ̵̣͑ᶦ̸̓͜ˣ̸̥̐
T͕̘͐̆h̬̩̗̓ͪ͗e ͔͆Fix͕ʰ̵̦̈́ᵉ̷̲̈'̷̦̔ˢ̴̯̊ ̴͖͛ᵗ̴̢͗ʰ̵̬̋ᵉ̴͇̚ ̸̭̅ᶠ̵̣͑ᶦ̸̓͜ˣ̸̥̐
ʰᵉ'ˢ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠᶦˣ
xᴉɟ ǝɥʇ s'ǝɥ
нє'ϛ τнє ƒίx̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡ᵉ̴͇̚ ̸̭̅ᶠ̵̣͑ᶦ̸̓͜ˣ̸̥̐
For the first time in weeks, Norman felt a frigid chill — one that ran down the length of his spine, overtaking the scorching heat of an inescapable inferno. Coursing through his body and freezing him in a state of realization.
With that realization, he smiled.
And with a surge of energy that wasn’t his, he climbed off his knees and staggered out of the office. Discarding the letter in the pile left on the floor, with the card slipping out of the envelope for any onlookers to see.
Through the splatters of sticky silk, the printed text against the card caught the final highlight from the cracked door, only to fade away into darkness once that door closed shut.
𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓻𝓭𝓲𝓪𝓵𝓵𝔂 𝓲𝓷𝓿𝓲𝓽𝓮𝓭
𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓮𝓭𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓸𝓯
𝓜𝓼. 𝓥𝓲𝓻𝓰𝓲𝓷𝓲𝓪 𝓟𝓸𝓽𝓽𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓜𝓻. 𝓐𝓷𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓷𝔂 𝓔. 𝓢𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓴.
Notes:
( •_•)
(•_• )
(•_•)
Fight me, I dare you.
Chapter 6: Something New
Summary:
“You can come by after I close up, though. If you want,” MJ eventually said, her voice softer than before, and far more reserved. A heavy shrug rustled her jacket. “I can try and save some jelly doughnuts for you, or whatever.”
A smile began to play at the edges of Peter’s lips, growing wider by the second. In the beat that followed, he watched MJ’s finger zig-zag on the table, the red nail polish only slightly chipped — still holding a fresh coat of paint from the weekends homecoming activities.
“Yeah, yeah.” Peter cleared his throat. Not once, but twice. “Yeah, that’d be cool.”
Though MJ kept her chin close to her chest, with her face hidden behind long strands of hair, Peter could still make out the small grin that tugged at her lips.
“Cool,” MJ succinctly said.
Looking to Peter, and then looking back towards MJ, Ned followed up with a wide grin and a lengthy, drawn out,
“Cool.”
Notes:
▰Identity Theft — Chapter 29: Breaking the Cycle of Shame ▰
“Peter!” Wanda ran forward the moment she caught sight of the boy, who was too busy standing frozen in shock to register her presence. She tackled him into a hug, nearly knocking the two of them onto the sofa he stood in front of.
“Ompfh!” he grunted, startled by the skinny arms that wrapped tightly around him. Before he could consider what to do with his own hands – hug back? Keep them at his sides? Seriously, when it came to girls he was a lost tourist in NYC without their GPS – she had pulled away, grinning ear-to-ear.
“I missed you so much, my rebenok pauk!” Wanda placed both her hands to his cheeks, smushing them in a way that puffed his lips forward. “I am so happy to see how much better you are!”
Peter nodded, eyes still wide as saucers. “Thanks, I —”
“I have spent every day checking with Steve to see how you have been,” she continued, moving her hands down from his face onto his shoulders. “I was so happy to hear you are home again. I'm even happier to be here with you now!”
From nearby on the couches, Sam arched an eyebrow high enough to reach the ceiling and Clint snorted a laugh into his fork covered with cake. The others watched silently, with both confusion and mild interest.
Wanda had never been one to be so open, so talkative. It was the exact opposite of her normal behavior, shy and reserved, almost always off in a corner conversing quietly with Vision.
Still, it was hard not to enjoy how happy she seemed. They could all agree that after everything she’d been through, it was well deserved.
“Uhm, yeah,” Peter stammered, “it’s great to see —”
“I heard it was your birthday!” Her excitement was only matched by his teenage-boy confusion.
“Uh, sorta?” Peter gulped heavily, touching his cheek where she had put her hands. It felt warm, and not just from the contact of her skin. There was a fizzle to it, like static electricity. “It was my birthday a couple weeks ago—”
“Look!” Wanda had already pulled out a slim, white device from her jean pockets, holding it up for him to see. “Doctor Strange has shown me his entire collection of music, so I have been adding songs to the playlist. I believe you will like what you see.”
Peter reached out to grab the iPod, thumb already scrolling across the touchscreen. They began to walk towards the kitchen while he did.
“Whoa, super retro,” he could be heard saying as she gathered him a plate of food. “Awesome!”
From the living room, Stephen looked towards Tony, quirking an eyebrow high.
“Retro?” he repeated.
Tony snorted, patting him on the back. “Hurts to be reminded of your mortal age, don’t it?”
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
New York always had a certain…well, vibe to it during the autumn season.
Every year come November, the trees that lined the streets of the city were consumed in whole by vivid reds and burnt oranges, replacing the once lush, green canopy seemingly overnight. With it, the crisp air that came with each breeze was a pleasant but firm reminder that the unforgiving cold of winter was right around the corner — a subtle sign from mother nature to enjoy the metamorphosis before the cityscape would transform once again.
Peter paced back and forth, repeatedly crossing the length of the rooftop to Grimaldi’s Pizza Parlor — not because the brisk autumn wind had made him chilly. No, his spider-suit — brand new, at that — did a fine job of keeping his body temperature perfectly regulated.
It wasn’t the chill that kept him moving, rather a poor attempt at shaking off his nerves. He might as well have walked several miles just going from one side of the rooftop to the other, all while savoring the aroma of pizza dough wafting up from the restaurant below.
“Alright, you got this — you totally got this.” Peter clapped his hands together, only to shake them right after — desperate to release the bundle of energy that practically ate him alive. “This is no big deal. Nothing to sweat. C’mon Parker, you rode Captain America’s motorcycle today — you’re Spider-Man, you got this!”
His nerves only seemed to get worse every time he looked across the street; this time turning his gaze right as the lights inside Peter Pan’s Donut Shop shut off, one by one.
Despite the strong draft of wind that passed through the surrounding foliage, Peter couldn’t help but notice that he suddenly felt flushed.
Warm?
Definitely warm.
Maybe his new suit still had some kinks they needed to work out. After all, he’d only had it for a few weeks now. It wasn’t uncommon for the motherboard systems to need the occasional update. Maybe that was the issue.
Or maybe, just maybe, he was more nervous than he wanted to admit.
“Alright — just…just don’t over think this. Don’t get stuck in your head.” Peter let out a breath so heavy, most of it couldn't filter out of his mask. The smell struck him at full force, causing the eye lenses of his mask to twitch and spasm in response. “Oh, that’s gross. That’s-that’s bad.”
He really needed to start carrying breath mints around on him.
Peter shook away the thought — literally, shaking his arms for the umpteenth time, the little wiggle-wobble he did in place doing absolutely nothing for his nerves.
Across the street and through the windows of the doughnut shop, Peter could make a middle-aged man working inside, flipping over chairs and stacking them on top of the tables. Not far away from him was a much younger girl, busy wiping down the counters, with half of her face hidden behind long strands of brown hair.
Peter chewed on his lower lip, watching MJ from afar — not once looking away after his eyes gravitated towards her.
Man, was she pretty.
Really pretty.
“Hey MJ, what’s up?” Peter practiced out loud, taking a deep breath in — deep enough to pull his shoulders back and lift his chin high. “It’s me, Peter. Peter Parker.”
Nearing the edge of the rooftop, Peter casually plopped down until his legs hung off the edge, letting them dangle freely as his gaze fixated on the doughnut shop across the street.
“What’s that? I have a new suit?” Both hands grazed across his chest, gloved fingers running down the length of the black and red fabric. “Yeah, fully upgraded, new look, all new colors — why am I doing that voice?” Peter stopped talking the moment he realized his voice had deepened by five octaves, shaking his head like a wet dog to re-set his scattered thoughts. “That voice is so stupid, don’t do that voice.”
For a moment, the only response he received in turn was the occasional sound of Brooklyn traffic from down below.
MJ was talking to the middle-aged man now — with a brown paper bag in one hand, and her book-bag over her other shoulder. Her hair covered half of her face, but Peter could still make out the tiny smile beneath the thick, curly locks.
He didn’t know why, but her smile was his favorite thing about her.
“MJ, hey, it’s me.” Peter swallowed, hard, a tight V forming between his brows and beneath his mask. “Oh, this? You know, just patrolling, saving the city, nothing major — I’m still doing the voice!” A hand smacked across his face — covering the two large white eyes of his mask. “Why am I doing that stupid voice!?”
His frustration was shouted in the form of a whisper, barely heard over the breeze that passed by. And yet Peter was still flushed — there was no shaking off the nerves. The past half and hour made that abundantly clear.
“I believe that is because you are nervous, Peter.”
And for what time didn’t make obvious, there was always his AI.
“I’m not nervous!” Peter’s voice squeaked in his retort. He waved both hands out in front of him, dismissively, as if Karen could even seen his movements to begin with. “I’m not — I’m not nervous, I just…” Another deep sigh reminded Peter that he really needed to start carrying around breath mints. “I just don’t know what to say.”
The middle-aged man approached the front door, flipping the sign that once said ‘Open’ and turning it around until it said ‘Closed.’ Peter watched, a tight frown forming on his lips, as the two remaining employees inside got ready to depart.
The setting sun was making it difficult to see inside through the windows. The glare hit the glass with a bright shine, and Peter knew he wouldn’t be able to procrastinate much longer.
“That could be because your anxiety has made it hard for you to focus,” Karen said. “That is likely in part due to the fact that you are nervous.”
As much as Peter wanted to roll his eyes at Karen’s answer, he also didn’t have much ground to argue with her. She was, after all, usually right about these things.
It was strange. There was a lot Peter had confidence for — a lot of things he gained confidence for. It wasn’t that being nervous was a foreign thing for him. Hell, these days it felt like a perpetual state of his existence.
MJ made him feel…different.
A different nervous.
Almost a… good nervous.
“I really don’t wanna mess this up, Karen,” Peter spoke quietly under his breath, both hands falling into his lap as his dangling legs came to a slow stop.
There was a noticeable pause from Karen before she asked, “With MJ?”
The sunset of the evening caught the golden hues from the trees, shinning bright against orange and burgundy leaves. Peter had to squint past the light to see the front door of the doughnut shop open up, watching silently as the older man let MJ exit before he locked the door behind her.
“Yeah,” Peter, once again, spoke the words in a hushed whisper. The sigh that left his chest was heavier than his own voice.
There had been so much that happened this past year — things that, while not directly his fault, had caused a cascade of problems in their wake. Mysterio getting away in Times Square only to break into the Avengers compound, everything with Dmitri the wannabe Bond villain, all of the symbiote…
Peter could feel his heart skip a beat at the memories — his very alive, and very much beating heart that was once not beating after he literally died.
That was never not gunna be weird.
“I believe, Peter,” Karen spoke up, breaking him away from his thoughts, “if you were to mess anything up…it would be deliberately. And I don’t see any reason you’d sabotage yourself when it comes to MJ.”
Peter made a face beneath his mask — contemplation taking over every muscle in his expression, all as he watched MJ give a tiny wave to the man still inside the doughnut shop. He locked the door from the inside before she began to walk down the streets of the city, and slowly, Peter began to stand up from the edge of the rooftop.
Karen’s voice was the last thing he heard before he shot out a web and took off.
“Just be yourself.”
It took six and a half rooftops before Peter finally caught up with MJ — a lingering moment of hesitation nearly made it seven, but with all the courage he could muster up, he finally made the move to approach her.
A single strand of webbing attached on top the nearest fire escape ladder, allowing him to drop down gracefully into the alleyway, landing with a soft thud on the cement sidewalks.
Right as MJ walked on by.
“Need someone to walk you home?” Peter asked, his voice muffled by his mask and three times deeper than average.
MJ spun on her heels to face him.
And screamed.
“AH!”
“Ah!” Peter startled back, stumbling backwards until his shoulder collided with the dumpster behind him. The two lenses of his mask went from wide white to pitch black as he grabbed his arm and hissed, “AhcckKK!”
“AhhHH!” MJ’s shrill shout easily reached over his, even as she swung her book-bag around and frantically dug inside. “Stay back — I have a taser, I know how to use it!”
“Mother of fudge—!” Peter clenched his shoulder firmly with one hand, squeezing away the pain before both his eyes shot open with realization. “Wait, MJ, it’s me —!”
“Don’t make me use it!” MJ stepped forward while also somehow managing to take a step back. “I’m not afraid to use it!”
“MJ, MJ!” Peter leaped forward, using one hand to wave in front of him while the other ripped off his mask, clenching it tightly in his grip. “It’s me! It’s Peter! Peter Parker!” he hissed low under his breath, making sure to stay tucked away in the alley as he all but squeaked, “Please don’t tase me!”
If MJ had been sporting a mask like Spider-Man’s, complete with twitchy mechanical lenses, they would’ve certainly shattered with how large her eyes got — bigger than the setting sun above them both.
Finally, and completely ignorant to the brown paper bag she still held, MJ smacked her hand against his chest and pushed him further into the alleyway.
“This — this is why you’re terrible at keeping secrets!” MJ broke free of her stunned trance with four hard steps forward, pushing Peter back the entire way; looking around for the both of them to ensure no one was paying any attention. “This is exactly why Susan Yang thinks you’re a male escort!”
Peter’s nervous laugh quickly became one of incredulity.
“Susan Yang thinks I’m a male escort?” Peter only stopped walking backwards once MJ came to a stop herself, though her hand stayed firm against the spider emblem across his chest. “Wait, do you really have a taser?”
At first, MJ’s only response was a rapid nod of her head, and a sound that was most certainly supposed to be something coherent and understandable.
“Yeah!” she eventually managed, her throat bobbing hard with the clear struggle of swallowing the abundance of saliva that came with a near heart attack.
Peter’s eyes narrowed with confusion. “Yeah to which one?”
The every day ambience from the city life briefly filled the lull that fell over them, freezing time in a ridiculously exaggerated second — the kind that felt like an eternity being stretched out for dramatic effect. The honking traffic outside the alley seemed to join in on the playful suspense — Peter swore even the cars were holding their breath for who would say what next.
MJ flittered her eyes up and down — looking up at Peter, sans his mask, before her eyes flickered back down — where her fingertips pressed firmly against the black spider center on his chest.
Not a second later, and Peter looked down at that same hand. As if just now realizing MJ was touching him, and had been all along.
“This…must…be…your new suit,” MJ slowly said, tapping his chest twice before finally removing her hand entirely — making sure to keep her hold on the brown lunch bag along the way. “Very nice. The colors are…very new.”
Peter nodded as he also looked down at his suit. Why, he wasn’t sure. He just did.
“Yeah, uhm — yep. Yep.” Peter followed MJ’s lead and took a step back to give them space, all the while trying to figure out how to stand — one moment he put both hands on his hips, the next he dropped them, then crossed them over his chest, then dropped them again. “New colors. New suit. It’s all — it’s all new.”
MJ looked him up and down, and Peter couldn’t figure out if the way she chewed on her bottom lip was out of confusion, or something else entirely.
So he did what he did best.
“Besides me,” Peter rambled. “Of course. Same me. Just…new suit. Same Peter — uh, Spider-Man. Me. But, you know…new. Ish.” Peter swallowed, hard, giving a slight shake of his head before forcing his brain to start over with a simple, “Hey.”
The do-over seemed to be much needed. MJ snapped her head up, finding his mask-less face before giving a slight smirk and an equally simple, “Sup.”
The distant but audible city life leaked into alleyway with ease, mixing the noise of honking cars and hollering hoopla into a blend of commotion that didn’t seem to bother either teenager.
For a moment, their awkward but genuine smiles were the only form of communication either needed.
When the breather approached awkward terms, Peter pointed casually to the brown paper bag in MJ’s hand.
“Those doughnuts?” Or at least, he tried to point casually. He still wasn’t sure what to do with his hands yet — once again crossing them, only to then sit them on his hips, and then drop then entirely.
MJ quickly looked down at the bag in question, as if forgetting she even had it in the first place.
“Right, yeah,” she quickly said — a little too quickly, her words jumbling together in a nervous fit. “We only had a few jelly left an hour before close, and I knew jelly was your favorite, so anytime a customer came in I just faked a really phlegmy cough around the doughnut wall and it seemed to work because Mr. Walton let me leave with the last five since he was going to throw them out anyway.”
MJ was still looking down at the paper bag when she realized she’d finally ran out of things to say.
“Here you go.” Abruptly, and with no restraint of rigidness, she held it out in front of her for Peter to take.
Peter stared at it far longer than he should’ve.
“MJ, that’s — thanks, that’s really…really nice of you.” Slowly, and with a grin that spread up to his ears, Peter took it from her. The sound of crinkling paper almost overtook his quiet, but not quiet enough, “I love jelly doughnuts.”
While Peter opened the bag and eyed the inside — with a smile that somehow got bigger once seeing the doughnut, a feat considering his grin was already taking up most of his face — MJ awkwardly shifted on her feet, staring down at her converse sneakers that scuffed the dirty cement of the alleyway.
“Least I could do,” MJ kept her head low as she spoke, having to look through long strands of hair covering her eyes to catch Peter’s gaze. “For all you do.”
Though they were both quiet when they spoke, they still heard what the other said.
Peter smiled.
MJ smiled in return.
And without wasting another second, Peter dug his hand into the brown paper bag, bringing out a doughnut that dusted his black and red glove with a cakey, powdery white.
It was halfway to his lips when MJ choked out,
“Please tell me you’re not planning to eat those here.”
No sooner than the words left MJ’s mouth, a rat scuttled into the alleyway — colliding into the dumpster behind Peter before making a daring escape through the rungs of the fire escape ladder.
Wordlessly, Peter watched as the rodent made its getaway, right at the same time a drop of jelly plopped down from his doughnut and landed on the ground below him.
“Uh, no-no, of course not,” Peter stammered as he swiveled his head left and right, scanning their surroundings with an intense focus that was only rivaled by the growling of his stomach.
He really should’ve taken Ned up on his Cheeto offer. Suddenly, the crunchy, orange snack sounded like the most delectable thing in the world with how hungry he’d gotten.
An idea struck him as fast as the second drop of jelly that hit the ground.
“I have a place,” Peter eagerly announced, stuffing the doughnut back into its bag as he gestured his hand out towards MJ. “C’mon, follow me.”
MJ let him grab onto her hand — in fact, they got a whole whooping five steps further into the alley before she came to a screeching halt.
“You have a —” MJ rooted her feet to the ground in a way that would’ve made a potted plant jealous. “Whoa, whoa, whoa — like, a high up place? Like a…like a spider, high up, somewhere up-there and not down-here place?”
Peter kept his smile even as he furrowed his brows, clearly confused.
MJ noted his expression and immediately cleared her voice, pulling her shoulders back tautly as if forcing her posture straight completely erased her moment of panic from ever happening.
“Because, I just think…” It was MJ’s turn to deepen her voice, each octave growing deeper as she repeatedly cleared her throat. “It’s a really great night to…take a stroll. Down the city. With our feet…on the ground.” MJ clasped her hands together and held them that way. “Firmly. On the ground.”
Peter didn’t intend for the beat that followed to widened his grin. It was also nearly impossible not to smile at MJ’s fretful jitters.
“Wait, are you afraid of heights?” The question came without his bidding — Peter swore he didn’t realize he spoke out loud until the words were already said, and MJ’s expression changed at the drop of a hat. Gone were the nerves, in its place a pink blush that highlighted the brown undertones of her skin.
“I don’t think it should be considered a fear if the individual in question was born without wings,” she immediately defended, her lips pursed tightly as she went on to hiss, “Or wasn’t bitten by some…special spider!”
MJ’s hair flopped in front of her face with each word she spit out, and Peter smiled even more. That he regretted, especially when it was clear MJ didn’t find things quite as humorous as he did.
He couldn’t help it. MJ always kept details about herself close where others couldn’t see them — the more he got to know about her, well…
She made him feel a lot of things.
“Would you trust me?” he suddenly asked.
Peter swore, up and own and across the length of Grimaldi’s Pizza Parlor’s rooftop, that a thousand butterflies gave birth to a thousand baby butterflies in his stomach. It was the only logical explanation for why every organ inside his body suddenly leaped into his throat and nearly stole the question away from his vocal chords.
And yet, for as observant as she always was, MJ failed to notice.
“Would I — what?” she huffed out her confusion in a single breath, blowing away her hair only for it to fall right back in front of her face. “What-what do you mean, trust you?”
Peter was happy when she tucked the long strand of hair behind her ear, even if the expression he got to see was nothing but vivid and very wild confusion. And even though that confusion added to the population of newborn insects fluttering inside his stomach, Peter forced himself to swallow them down and not let his confidence waiver.
There was a lot of things he gained confidence for.
He could make this be one of them, too.
“If I took you for a swing?” Maybe. “Would you trust me?”
The stretch of silence that followed his question made Peter positive that his heart was beating fast enough to put him into cardiac arrest — and there was simply no doubt about it, Mr. Stark would kill him if he died again.
“Or, you know…Spider-Man,” Peter stammered to correct himself, shrugging enough times that both arms should’ve fallen right out of his shoulder sockets. “You can trust Spider-Man, or me, whoever. Whichever. It doesn’t matter.”
A taxi cab not far away blared their horn, holding it for a good five seconds — giving MJ enough time to process what Peter had said, and Peter enough time to throw a dirty look down the alley.
“Both are pretty trustworthy,” MJ finally said, with a tug of her lips speaking what she didn’t.
Peter didn’t need the taxi driver to stop blaring his horn to hear MJ. Even the unspoken came through loud and clear.
If his smile got any wider, it would've broken the laws of physics.
He’d barely gotten a grip on her hand again when she pulled away.
“You won’t drop me?” MJ couldn’t have been more serious if she was being sworn in for Presidency — her finger sharp and steady, aimed right at Peter’s face.
And still, Peter laughed.
“MJ!” Peter reached for her hand again, his mask tucked between his shoulder and neck as he used his free hand to secure the bag of donuts around his waist like a fanny pack. Once the web fluid was in place, he easily switched out the cartridge for a fresh one. “Of course I won’t—”
“You have to swear that you won’t drop me.” MJ took a step back and away from him — but also slid both her arms through both straps of her backpack, signaling a readiness to go.
Peter noticed that, reaching his arm out with a single digit extended.
“Pinky promise,” he smiled, even as MJ refused to take his pinky finger. “You know, it’s law binding—”
“Don’t joke with me, be like — one-hundred percent serious, because it’s not funny.” MJ kept on. “Because if you drop me or if you even think about dropping me and if I fall and if you can’t catch me and something happens—”
“—MJ,” Peter had a lot less laugh in his voice the second time around. And though his smile softened, it still stayed wide at the edges. He took one step forward, arm still reached out — this time with open invitation. “Trust me. Take my hand.”
MJ swallowed, hard enough to bounce her throat.
Briefly, and with converse sneakers still rooted to the cement, she looked down to his hand. Her eyes stayed there for a moment that lingered on the threshold of existence, with a flicker of her gaze finding his doughnut-fanny-pack — receiving a quirked eyebrow in turn — before finally latching onto Peter’s face.
By now, he’d gotten half his mask onto his head, covering his hair but leaving the brown pools of his eyes to catch the setting sun from outside the alley.
In that moment, and beyond what either of them could ever possibly explain, she saw something in his eyes. Something the sun caught onto and highlighted with a radiance.
Finally, MJ latched onto his hand, and didn’t let go.
“This is gunna be great,” Peter excitedly gushed, already unable to contain his enthusiasm as he pulled MJ close to his hip-side, lowering his mask until it was completely in place. Both lenses blinked as he looked towards her. “Hold on tight, okay?”
MJ didn’t need to be told twice. Even so, she clung to him as his one arm wrapped tightly around her waist. The other lifted high into the air, releasing a strand of webbing that landed on something with a distinct THWIP.
It was at that exact time MJ puffed out a breath of air to move her hair away from her face, and a second later when she realized —
“Wait, wait, wait! I don’t have a hair tie—!”
MJ screamed as they took off.
While New York would always have a certain vibe to it during the autumn season, not even the changing colors of fall could beat the majestic overlook that came with sitting at the top of the George Washington Bridge.
“I…am never…” MJ took a deep breath in, ending the extra long inhale on a single bite of her doughnut. She chewed three times in total before finishing, with garbled words, “…doing that. Ever. Again.”
The distant sounds of traffic, nearly four hundred feet below them, played as a backdrop to MJ’s voice. Even the wind, brisk and breezy as it was, didn’t dare interrupt the solitude that they both found on the top tower of the historical bridge.
Peter was mid-bite of his own powdery doughnut when he turned to look at her — his mask pulled up halfway over his head, freeing his mouth so he could partake in the sugary goodness.
Once he looked at MJ, he choked out a laugh, unintentionally spitting a few puffs of white sugar her way.
MJ shot him a look, one that couldn’t be seen over the tangled knots of hair that covered her face.
“Shut up.” She turned back ahead and stuffed the doughnut into her mouth, having to blow away a few pieces of straggled hair that she nearly and accidentally consumed alongside the actual food they both ate.
Though Peter didn’t stop laughing, he did go ahead and used his free hand — the one not holding the third doughnut he’d eaten so far — to whisk off his Spider-Man mask.
“Here, here —” Peter ruffled his hair with his hand, making sure it stuck up in every which direction before securing his mask underneath his thigh where it couldn’t blow away. Once done, he gave MJ a smile. “Now we’re the same.”
MJ chuckled at his near-ninety-degree hair style. “I think mine’s still worse.”
Peter kept his smile, even as he ran his hand through his hair again, smoothing it out to the best of his ability.
“You still look good,” he said, with a slight shrug. “You know. To me.”
MJ responded by avoiding his gaze, and stuffing another bite of doughnut into her mouth. This time garbling, “That was terrifying . ”
The traffic down below could’ve been far closer than the nearly four-hundred feet it was, and Peter’s laugh of incredulity still would’ve overtaken each honking horn and reviving engine.
“It was not — it’s fun!” Peter insisted, his hand outstretch to the sky across from them — as if showing his doughnut off to the entire city of New York. “You didn’t think it was a little bit of fun?”
MJ clearly went to answer, only to burp loudly into the closed fist of her hand.
“I think I can taste the jelly making its way back up,” she mumbled into the tight crease between her knuckles.
Peter grimaced, and said no more.
For a moment, the bridge activity from far away overtook their conversation — little nibbles and tiny bites creating a lull that never felt awkward or uncomfortable. The breeze that hit high above from the ground brought along a strong waft of the Hudson River, with a distinct brackish smell only a mix of fresh water and salt water could obtain.
The lights of the traffic and alongside the bridge were brighter than what little remained of the sun, with only a soft amber casting a ray of reflection across the waters surrounding them.
MJ was licking white powder off her fingertips when she abruptly asked, “You do that? Every day?” A beat. “Willingly?”
The lights illuminated along the suspension cables of the bridge gave an extra ounce of exposure to the levity in Peter’s eyes, casting an innocent excitement that never felt forced or unnatural. It just simply was.
“Gets me where I need to be, and fast,” Peter said, smiling the whole time. “Only thing that would come close would be like…a motorcycle, or something.”
MJ gave a tiny nod in response, turning back ahead towards the overlook of the bridge. A small pause followed, one where Peter used the opportunity of silence to lean over and inch closer to MJ — just enough that they weren’t touching, but his voice still hit closer to her ear.
“I rode Captain America’s motorcycle today,” he casually remarked.
MJ turned her head around so fast, the tangled knots of her hair whipped across his face.
“And here I was thinking applying to MIT was a big deal,” MJ gave a ridiculously nervous chuckle as Peter pushed some of her hair away, gently handing it back to her with a lopsided smile. She took it, a little too quickly. “Your life is…something else, Peter.”
Peter went to laugh, only for his brain to come to a stuttering halt.
“Oh, I didn’t mean too —” Peter stuffed the last tiny bit of his doughnut into his mouth, freeing up both his hands so he could hold them open-palmed towards MJ. “I wasn’t trying to brag—”
“You can totally brag,” MJ easily interrupted, and sincerely at that.
Still, Peter went on. “No, no, I’m not looking to — I don’t wanna come across as, like—” Doughnut powder got stuck in his throat, and Peter coughed. Not once, but four times in total before he regained his voice — albeit raspy and choked. “Like, egotistical or anything —”
“You’re Spider-Man,” MJ interrupted him for a second time, and Peter was too busy swallowing every ounce of saliva he could produce to keep on going. “It’s okay to be proud of that.”
The struggle to rid himself of the scratchy sensation that came from inhaled sugar gave Peter a minute to look at MJ — really look at her, and see the honesty that came with her words.
“I am,” MJ said, almost too quiet for even the solitude of them both. “Proud. Of you.”
And still, Peter heard her.
Not even the traffic of the bridge could’ve taken that away from him.
“Thanks,” Peter said, just as quietly in turn. He took MJ’s growing smile as an indication that she heard him, and when she looked back out to the view in front of them, he decided to follow suit.
As the sun descended along the horizon, its final glare of glistening, crisp harvest golds casted a warmth along the bridge. The colors reflected against the black and red of Peter’s suit, almost embedding into the fabric the same way the sun soaked up the chestnut of MJ’s skin.
Peter didn’t realize he had turned his gaze back to stare at her until she spoke again — her eyes still latched firmly onto the cityscape ahead of them.
“You can really see everything up here, huh?” she all but whispered, her tone falling soft with awe. “The whole city is just…here. In front of you.”
A hard swallow cleared Peter’s throat to speak. And yet a pause still took his words from him, briefly, as he fell out of time simply looking at MJ.
“Yeah, it’s…it’s pretty cool,” he eventually managed. Breaking his gaze came naturally as he gave a small gesture outward, turning to the view straight ahead. “This is my favorite spot to go to. Just kinda…helps me think, you know?”
The breathtaking vantage point spoke for itself, a sight not even the average New York could have privilege to witness. MJ bathed in its beauty, the fading light of the sun casting a golden glow across her face as in front of her, the urban tapestry laid out in all its wonder.
It wasn’t until a ferry glided across one side of the bridge to the next that Peter finally found his voice again, working through the nerves of anxiety to keep conversation going.
“So, you’re applying to MIT?” he decided to ask, hoping he could pick up where they left off.
The pause that came next had him doubting as much.
“Thinking about it,” MJ, thankfully, eventually answered. In-between them both was the paper bag of doughnuts, and she grabbed it with one swift move — clenching and unclenching the top fold until pieces began to break away. “I haven’t set my mind on anything in particular, and we’re still only sophomores, so it’s not like we gotta decide tomorrow. But I think that would be my first choice, of everything there is. My mom’s got me thinking a lot about colleges, lately — that’s why I said that. She doesn’t want me ending up like my dad. Which — who would? I’m pretty sure dirt is cleaner than he was.”
MJ’s fiddling hands came to an abrupt stop, barely holding onto the bag with her fingernails when she shot her head over towards Peter — her expression flat and eyes wide.
“I…just said a whole lot at once.”
Peter nodded.
And nodded.
And nodded.
“My-my parents…” he shrugged and squeaked out, “are dead.”
Slowly, matching that of the speed of a snail, MJ’s eyebrows climbed up her forehead. They may as well have reached the same height as the bridge they sat on top of.
Finally, she handed over the paper bag with a smirk. “You get the last jelly doughnut.”
Peter took it, beating her smirk with a grin that reached both his ears.
“You’d totally get in,” Peter mentioned as he dug inside the bag for the final doughnut. “If you applied to MIT? You’re so smart, they wouldn’t even second guess approving your application.”
Peter was pretty sure that the blush he saw spread across MJ’s cheeks was the same ruby red as the jelly that squeezed out of his doughnut, caught only by his fast reflexes and eager tongue.
“What about you?” MJ laid both hands in her lap and crossed her legs together beneath her, the tips of her converse sneakers briefly tapping against the steel of the bridge tower. “Any top five choices in your future yet?”
Peter took a large bite of doughnut and swallowed it down quickly.
“This year’s been so crazy,” he managed between chews, covering his mouth with the back of his hand to avoid anymore sugar-spit that may come flying out. “I haven’t had time to think about thinking about colleges.”
It was definitely the truth, despite how much of an excuse any other person might view it to be. Mysterio getting away in Times Square, everything with Dmitri the wannabe Bond villain, all of the symbiote —
“Dying kinda does that to a person,” MJ plucked the thoughts straight out of his head, so easily Peter almost didn’t believe it was her who spoke. “Or so I would assume,” she quickly followed up with a stuttering ramble and a few shrugs that rattled her jacket. “I’ve never, you know…died.”
Peter let out a breathy chuckle that was nearly consumed by the traffic of the bridge. The traveling cars caught his attention, where he turned his gaze downward and watched the vehicles zip on by.
Life always seemed so much simpler from up here. The people down below all seemed harmless, like creatures just going about their innocent, every day activities. And his problems always seemed to level out, as if looking at the grand cityscape of his home made him realize whatever issue he was having, it wasn’t as terrible as he first felt it to be.
He’d been coming out here a lot since they got back from Wakanda.
Unfortunately, not even the peace of the bridge could ease the struggles he’d taken on since then.
“Sometimes I think Mr. Stark would flip if I told him I didn’t wanna go to MIT,” Peter quietly spoke aloud — at first not intending to. MJ’s openness seemed to unlock a door of his own, and the words he spoke came naturally. “Not right away, not at first. I wanna go, I do. I just think that, I dunno…a few years at Empire State — do that first, multi-task classes and, you know, the city—”
“You wanna stay in New York for Spider-Man,” MJ read him like a book.
Peter twisted to look at her. “No! It’s not just that—”
“It’s totally that,” MJ could read a book if she was blind and didn’t know braille.
And still, Peter never knew when to stop. “It’s not just that—”
“Than what else could it be?” MJ met his gaze with her own, and the cocked eyebrow that spoke everything she didn’t was heard without question — especially as a harsh breeze tore across the bridge, blowing back her hair and exposing her expression in whole.
Peter didn’t know what it was, but there was something in that look that just made him…trust her.
“If I take on too much at once…” Peter slowly started to say, turning his eyes away until his head dropped low and his gaze locked onto his hands. His fingers tapped at the inside of his palm, repeatedly. “If I’m just…thrown to the wolves…”
Actually, legitimately dying was one thing — something that would never not be weird.
Being brought back to life?
Being chosen to be brought back to life?
No amount of time spent overlooking his home from on top of the bridge could help him settle those thoughts. And the longer he sat with them, the more they seemed to tangle and knot together. No different than MJ’s hair from a shared swing across the city.
“I’m afraid of letting everyone down,” Peter admitted, earnestly.
Mr. Stark, Steve, May, the Avengers…they all were expecting so much of him. He’d been ‘worthy’ enough to be brought back from the dead. And yet he couldn’t even get the local newspaper to say a single good thing about him.
He wasn’t sure if some friendly neighborhood Spider-Man could live up to all that pressure.
The next breeze took his voice and carried his words across the bridge, where New Yorker's went along with their lives as the day came to a close, and the lights from the city stole away any stars that may have peaked through the sky.
MJ turned to look at him, even when he looked nowhere else but at his hands.
“Yeah,” she said, with a firm yet somehow shaky nod of her head. “I get that.”
What happened next was too sudden for even Peter to process, spider-sense at all.
Her hand laid across his — both of his, forcing the tapping of his fingers to come to an abrupt stop.
“It’s gotta be a lot of pressure,” MJ gently remarked, using her free hand to tuck hair behind her ear when it threatened to obscure her face. “Doing everything you do.”
Peter drew in a shallow breath — on the verge of saying something, anything — what, exactly, he was clueless to.
Instead, he just smiled.
Even with all his problems, even with the stress of seemingly the world and all the pressures of the Avengers weighing on his back, something about MJ’s presence just made everything feel…
She made him feel a lot of things.
Mostly, she made him feel okay.
“I’m glad we’re doing this,” Peter let the words come without any forethought.
“Yeah, me too,” MJ seemed to do the same, answering without a single beat passing by.
Her hand stayed on top of his, long enough that after a passing amount of time, Peter could feel the heat of her skin through the gloved material of his suit.
Just when he was ready to muster up the courage to adjust their hands and hold hers in his —
“Did you see the new song I added?” MJ reached into her back pocket before he’d even answered, digging around for the cell phone tucked securely inside her jeans.
Peter furrowed his brows with a shake of his head.
“No-no. When did you — no, I haven’t seen — heard it.” Peter closed his eyes, muttering a few choice words to himself as MJ preoccupied herself with her phone.
“Here, lemme —” A tap, a scroll, another tap, and finally a move to untangle her ear-buds that had been wrapped around the phone. All the while, MJ explained, “Remember how you added the Scarlet Witch to the playlist, and then she went and spent time with that Sorcerer dude magician guy, and she came back and added a ton of retro songs that were there all of a sudden, like, outta nowhere?”
Peter frowned as he watched MJ scroll through her phone. “Doctor Stranger doesn’t wanna be called a magician—”
“I went listening to some other stuff this one band did and — well, here.” MJ scooted a bit closer to Peter, ensuring the ear-buds had enough length to share. “Check it out.”
Peter looked at the ear-bud before slowly placing it in his left ear, with MJ securing hers into her right.
Their heads stayed close enough that their hair practically touched, all the while MJ hit the play button on the streaming app — starting up the song with a gentle strumming of an acoustic guitar, creating sounds as warm and mellow as the setting sun over the distant skyline of New York.
▶• lıllılı.ıllı.ılılıılıı.lllııılı. Now Playing [Have You Ever Seen The Rain] 0:21 ———♡——— 2:40 ◁◁ ▐ ▌ ▷▷
♫ Someone told me long ago
There's a calm before the storm
I know, it's been coming for some time ♫
Peter bobbed his head along to the music, his smile softening at the edges with each passing strum of guitar. “I like this.”
MJ matched the bob of his head with her own. “Yeah, it’s-it’s good.”
The song continued on, soaring with a melodic hook that immediately captured Peter’s attention. It wasn’t the electric guitar’s piercing and expressive notes that pulled him into the moment, though. It was the look MJ turned to give him, their faces so close that her hair brushed up against his, and his nose nuzzled against hers.
The urgency and passion in the song sung on as timeless as the decade it originated from, playing in their ear with the steady traffic below adding to its melody.
Peter used that hook in the notes to lean forward and lock onto MJ’s lips, kissing her with nothing more than a soft graze.
She returned the measure, twice. Long enough that the chorus became their sonic background, and the easy breeze that swept across the sky their only witness to a moment only they’d remember.
When MJ pulled away, after a moment that lasted forever and yet not long enough, she didn’t hesitate to lay her head against Peter’s shoulder — nestling up close to him until there wasn’t any space left remaining.
Peter, though hesitant at first, wrapped his arm around her with a smile that melted every tense muscle in his body.
That was, until, he remembered that he really needed to start carrying around breath mints.
Peter’s face fell flat at record speed, and as discreetly as he could, he turned his head into his opposite shoulder to try and sniff his own breath.
“That kinda tasted like jelly,” MJ wasn’t even looking at Peter when she spoke — Peter had to do a double take to ensure he saw that right.
That was the thing about MJ. She always just knew.
And as MJ smiled, Peter found himself laughing — gently, an easy chuckle that bled away all his problems, if only for the moment.
The sun had officially set, with barely a line of tangerine peaking over the edge of the horizon. MJ pointed a finger up ahead, all while staying close against Peter’s side.
“Hey, did you know that before we stole all their land and kicked them out of their own homes, native tribes called The Mohicans actually populated the Hudson River and it was only in, like, the late seventeen hundreds that things really changed where there were these two really bloody wars, the Esopus wars, where…”
Peter listened as MJ talked, hearing her voice without taking in much of what she was actually saying.
As she leaned up against him — with head on her shoulder, comfortably rambling on about her favorite historical facts — Peter immersed himself in the view of the city, all while listening to the song play out its final beats.
♫ I wanna know
Have you ever seen the rain
Comin' down on a sunny day? ♫
The nonstop, erratic clicking of a computer mouse echoed against every nook and cranny of Tony’s personal quarters — nowhere near as grandeur as the mansions that once entertained his youth, but still suitable for the occasional stay.
Even if the occasional stay had become semi-permanent ever since they moved out of the Stark Tower. And even more semi-permanent since his mansion in Malibu took a very permanent nose dive into the Pacific Ocean.
“We’re sorry to tell you—” Click. “We have given thoughtful consideration to your proposal, but—” Click. “At this time, we’ve decided that—” Click. “We have carefully assessed—” CLICK.
The rhythmic clicking sung the song of his frustrations, and without daring to open another email, Tony dropped his head into his hands — forgoing the mouse in favor of scrubbing the tender tissue of his eyes with callous fingers that didn’t press hard enough into his skull.
“I haven’t felt this rejected since I appointed a new CEO to Stark Industries and she up and quit,” he muttered, just loud enough that the microphone of his computer could pick up the sound.
“For all of three minutes!” And Pepper heard him, loud and clear, with her voice reaching far above any click of a mouse.
The live picture of her in a hotel room somewhere far away from New York took up half his screen, the other half holding the display to his inbox — and if Tony had decided to do anything else beside scrub viciously at his eyes, he would’ve seen just how unhinged her jaw had become at his remark. Falling so far down it nearly hit the desk below her.
Tony had chosen far more comfortable arrangements for their video call — his desk across the room stayed unoccupied as he let his head fall back until it collided with the stack of pillows behind him. Each fluffy brick of comfort wedged a barrier between him and the headboard of the king sized bed — allowing him to lay upright with his legs crossed and his laptop conveniently in his lap.
The large bed felt empty more days than not. Pepper spent most her time traveling for business affairs, and Tony spent most his business on-site — no different than the laptop sitting on his lap, it was convenient; what with the past year seeming to be nothing but Avenger problems stacked on top of more Avenger problems.
They hadn’t even given themselves the time of day to start looking for new property, not ever since Killian’s Extremis-powered missiles wiped his only home off the map. What became a temporary living situation — first bouncing from the tower and then to the compound — had gone on long enough that Tony could feel an itch starting to creep up along his skin. One he could no longer ignore.
There was simply too much work here. No matter what they did — no matter how many pancakes Wilson cooked, how many pots of homespun stew Wanda made. It didn’t matter how many dinners they tried to arrange together, ‘a semblance of structure’ as Romanoff insisted.
There were things he could always count on here — Rogers could always be found reading a newspaper in the lounge after his early morning runs, and Barton would always stock the kitchen, their private kitchen, with a bit of something for everyone. The stock of cereal seemed to have doubled in the last few months, and it had been long enough now that they all knew not to touch Natasha’s unsalted almonds.
Without even trying, they all did their damnedest to make things as domesticated as possible. For their sanity, it seemed.
Even Banner seemed to have planted his roots with them — as if a trip to space was enough to finally keep him still from travels, if only for a little while.
Pepper had a good portion of her belongings here, sure. Peter had room and board — granted far less extravagant in size than the other living quarters. And yeah, it always went without saying — it was a hundred acres with a lap pool.
But it just wasn’t home.
Tony wasn’t sure why that had been such a pestering notion as of late, fused to his brain like melting metal in a crucible. Living at the compound had given him the peace of resting his head somewhere he could get his thoughts straight, where he could pave the next path of his journey and create the road-map necessary to get there.
Now that he’d reached that point, it felt like it was finally time to move on. To rest his head elsewhere — to find a home, a real one.
But for once in his life, it wasn’t just him to worry about. There was a whole team behind him, now. Dare he say — people he cared about. It wasn’t just him that needed to make the move, long gone the days of the lone gunslinger act.
Tony just couldn’t figure out what laid ahead of them — what laid ahead for all of them.
And mounting issue like this certainly wasn’t helping him figure things out.
“Since when were attorney’s so picky about their clients, anyhow?” Tony groaned as he quickly rubbed at the nape of his neck, and then with double that speed, returned to his emails — clicking away on the mouse at a rate too fast to be heard.
“Since the dawn of time, I’m pretty sure.” Pepper kept her focus on her own work, even as their conversation kept on. Without much thought, she shuffled papers around in her hands, reviewing the documents with careful ease even as she spoke. “Legal merit, reputation, resource allocation, and you know — viability. That sorta has a big hand in it all.”
The clicking continued, mashing over every word Pepper said. She finally looked up into the small camera of her laptop — the frown of exasperation that followed so expressive, they didn’t need cameras for Tony to see it. Even with her halfway across the country, it was surely visible.
“How do you even know those are rejection emails, you’re going so fast.” This time, not even Pepper’s huff of incredulity could reach over the noise of his mouse.
Tony kept clicking, his eyes turning dry as he stared dead-on at the screen. “I know, I can tell.”
Pepper made a face. “How?”
Tony flittered his eyes to the camera of his laptop, the bags above his cheekbones becoming more pronounced in the dim lighting of his quarters.
“What do the kids say…” Tony wearily turned his attention back to the screen, clicking away with a pessimistically drawn out, “there’s a vibe.”
“Oh, good lord.” Pepper audibly snorted, earning at least a smirk out of Tony — short lived, but still present. “You’ve been hanging around Peter and his friends too much.”
Tony really couldn’t argue with that. So instead, he kept clicking — the flood of emails never-ending, and none producing the solution he desperately sought out.
It had been a long day. Longer than that, it had been a long year. A long few years — a long decade.
A long life.
Pepper really hadn’t been exaggerating when she said there was always a crisis. It had been one thing after another for so long, with little to no break in-between things. A big reason they kept post-poning buying new property. Where was the time? Certainly not on his watch.
At the very least, he was hoping to get some of this Osborn mess under control before the wedding. If only for peace of mind.
There hadn’t even been an inkling of doubt when they finally got the subpoena on Norman. Tony was sure of it — with all that evidence they snatched off OsCorp’s servers, there was no way the bastard wasn’t going down.
And now, here they were — right back at square one.
Tony was getting sick of looking at his emails. Yet even as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back into the fluffy barricade of his pillows, he could see them imprinted behind closed lids. Taunting him with each professionally written ‘no’ that was sent his way.
“Have you contacted the number to the firm I sent you yet?” Pepper didn’t just read him like a book — she had every chapter memorized and ready to recite on a whim.
Tony opened only one of his two eyes, going on to squint it with skepticism.
“You mean Simon and Garfunkel from Hells Kitchen?” he scoffed, so hard it rattled the laptop resting comfortably in his lap. If Pepper was bothered by the momentary shaky cam, she didn’t mention it out loud. “I’d rather get a dozen more rejection emails than bring on board two fresh faced nobodies from Columbia University with barely a case under their belt —”
“Barely a case? Tony!” Pepper discarded the papers onto the desk with enough force that the slap they made almost overtook her shout of incredulity. “They put a New York crime lord behind bars—!”
“They caught a break,” Tony interjected, without hesitation.
“A big one.” Pepper’s heated look made him wish he hesitated after all. Tony wasn’t sure which hurt more to look at — the mocking emails or Pepper’s namesake coming out on full display. “If they could incriminate Wilson Fisk, who’s to say they can’t do the same with Norman Osb—”
“—Fisk was released from prison in that same year.” Tony sat up straight in his bed, the flexibility of his sweatpants allowing him to easily cross his legs underneath himself until his bare feet were tucked underneath his knees. He adjusted his laptop to keep it still. “Sight and Shadow clearly can’t be doing that great of a job if they can’t keep the criminals in jail, Pep.”
“You know that wasn’t on them,” Pepper defended with a hefty roll of her eyes, multi-tasking as she shrugged off the dark lavender blazer that paired well with her white button down. She neatly set it to the side and out of reach. “The Albanian Syndicate take down was one of the largest quid pro quo’s New York has seen in centuries. The courts had no choice but to release Fisk for that information.”
Tony watched, without much thought, as Pepper discarded her blazer and loosened the tight cusps of her forearms sleeves. Her sharp and well dressed business attire contrasted drastically with his casual nightwear — a sleeveless tanktop along with a comfortable pair of sweats showcasing the time difference that stood between them.
It wasn’t out of the ordinary — in fact, it had become their ordinary; for one of them to be miles away, reaching out only with the aide of technology.
That didn’t make it okay for Tony, though.
It just made things feel even less like home without her around.
“So you haven’t called them?” Pepper sternly asked, not just pulling Tony out of his thoughts — she yanked him with a force only his repulsor blasts could have.
He shot his gaze back to the screen, tired frustration taking hold of his expression.
“We need a real firm on this case,” Tony said, no ounce of stress missing from his tone as he scratched absentmindedly at his eyebrow. Anything to keep his hands busy and his mind from spiraling. “And a really good lawyer. One that’ll take Norman down and keep him down.”
And take on the Prada-Wearing Python helping OsCorp ’s case, but Tony didn’t have the urge to repeat the name Jeri Hogarth in Pepper’s presence for a second time.
Her reaction from yesterday was still ringing in her ears.
“Well…” Pepper let out a soft sigh as she began to collect her paperwork, stacking it neatly into a pile in front of her. “It doesn’t seem like you’re getting many bites, now does it?”
Tony didn’t realize he was rubbing at his eyes again until a rainbow of colors caught his attention, forcing him to redirect his aggressive to his temple — where hopefully the heavy-handed massage could ease the ever-present ache that throbbed behind his skull.
“Fury and Friends really screwed us over with this one,” he muttered to himself more than anything, but like always, Pepper still heard.
“It sounds like they did what was best at the time,” she tried to console him — it was obvious in her voice. Her justifications on the matter were weak at best, though; being that she shared the same frustrations as Tony on the matter. “They found a way to keep Norman from conducting anymore experiments—”
“But he didn’t stop,” Tony coldly interrupted, his hand dropping away from his temple as if it had caught fire. The look he gave Pepper was sharp, and fierce. Holding every ounce of fatigue that weighed down his bones. “And Peter died because of it. Who’s next, Pep? Because there’s no playing Lazarus twice, and Osborn has made it clear he has no boundaries, and —”
Tony took a deep breath in to say more — so much more, a whole tangent sitting on his tongue, ready to spill over with a thousand words spoken in a minutes time.
Instead, he simply sighed.
That sigh said everything words never could.
“Hey,” Pepper’s voice was almost too soft to be heard. She pushed her papers aside, adjusting in the chair to sit closer towards her laptop — even if Tony was too busy scrubbing at his face to notice. “Don’t let this eat you up. I’m pretty sure I can see another gray hair growing in that goatee.”
“Yeah?” Tony dropped both hands away from his face and frowned at the camera, affronted — earning a genuine smile from Pepper along the way. “Where is it?”
Pepper gave a hearty chuckle as Tony leaned in to the camera, using it as his own personal mirror without a reflection to see in return.
“Right about…” Pepper pointed a finger right at her lens. “There.”
“Yeah? That one?” Tony pointed at his chin and dipped his head low, making sure his eyes were in full view when he said, “That’s from this wedding.”
Pepper’s jaw found the surface of the desk for a second time that night.
“And who did that to themselves, Mr-Let’s-Get-Married-Next-Month?”
Tony met her snarky look with his own.
“You tell me — you letting the wedding planner handle things yet?”
The pink blush that proceeded to creep over Pepper’s cheeks made each freckle on her skin stand out all the more. Tony had never told her how much he loved seeing those freckles come to life. Yet again, he was pretty sure she knew just by the way he’d smile at her, even as her frustrations grew when seeing that smile.
“Yes,” Pepper stressed, side-eyeing him briefly as she went to to say, “To…an extent.”
Tony let himself chuckle, if only because it came so naturally.
Asking Pepper not to control a situation was like asking him to give up everything about Iron Man. It was who they were. And no different than her freckles, it was one of the many things he loved so much about her.
Now if only they could get this damn wedding over with to make that love as official as he possibly could.
“They say the third times a charm, right?” Tony closed out of his inbox — it wasn’t going to do him any good tonight. “At least everything is finally taken care of. The suits were all fitted today, transposition is handled, catering is planned, the venue —”
“Boss,” FRIDAY rang through his ceilings in a way only his AI could. “You still have to make the rings—”
“Ah-ah-ah!” Tony shot his head up, a finger pressed firmly to his lips as he pushed out an aggressively loud hushing sound. “What part of private did you not understand, FRI?”
Tony didn’t need to be looking at his laptop to see the adulterated, sheer stress emitting off Pepper’s very core. As the kids loved to say, there really was a vibe.
“Tony,” Pepper drawled out, frantically pulling her own laptop closer until it was completely off the desk. “No secrets. Don’t do this, not with the wedding next week—”
Tony’s mouth curved into a wide smile as he turned back to his screen, his lips parted and words ready to be spoken when suddenly —
“Huh.”
The sound left his throat without him ever registering it.
And it wasn’t Pepper he was looking at when he spoke.
“Huh what?” Pepper echoed, staring at Tony intently through her camera — none of which he noticed, his owns eyes fixated straight ahead. The laptop may as well not have been there, his gaze intently focused on the corner of his room — where a desk remained unoccupied, and a few upholstered chairs remained vacant.
Next to them all was a crackling, orange portal.
“Surprises, not secrets,” Tony quickly responded, untangling his legs in one swift, hasty move — all but tossing the laptop onto his end table along the way. “I gotta go — kiss the screen for me, make it a wet one.”
Pepper glared. “I am not —”
“And wear something skimpier next time we do this.” Tony gave an exaggerated wink as he went to close the screen of his laptop — not fast enough to avoid hearing Pepper’s exasperated, “Tony, I swear to God—”
He’d nearly shut it all the way when suddenly, he threw the top open and spit out a hasty, “Love you!”
And then shut it for good.
Tony was across the room in practically a single stride, not wasting a second to reach the all-too-familiar vortex of a magical wormhole, spinning viciously in the air with embers that had no flames.
It was a good thing he hurried, too — by the time he got there, even by sprinting, the portal came to a close with diminishing sparks that fizzled on the carpet beneath his bare feet. It left just a single item in its departure, at first so hard to make out through the bright glimmers of flares that Tony had to squint his eyes to decipher what it was.
Surely that couldn’t be —
“That smug son of a bitch,” Tony muttered, leaning down to snatch the card off the floor.
The wedding invitation caught the glare from the overhead lights of his bedroom, even set to a dim level. One had brushed away the residue of magical sparks that still trickled onto the ground, all while the other tilted the invitation at just the right angle so he could make out the text imprinted on the back — the large RSVP letters standing out above anything else.
Something caught his eye, something below the print that was added on by hand — the ink used was sleek and shiny, but the lines of each letter jagged and shaky; written by hands that were unsteady, dancing along each T and I with a delicate tremor.
꧁༺ 𝓡𝓢𝓥𝓟 ༻꧂
𝒲𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝐵𝑒 𝒜𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓃𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 ☑
𝒲𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒩𝑜𝓉 𝐵𝑒 𝒜𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓃𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 ☐
𝒞𝑜𝓃𝑠𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓌𝑒𝒹𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓈𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝒶𝒹𝓋𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒
Tony found himself reading the hand-written note on the card three times in total, but it was only when he fully processed what the message said — and only then —
— did the alarms of the compound sound.
“What the—!” Tony shot his head up at a neck-breaking speed, his brows furrowing tightly together as the alarms sounded like sirens through the walls.
Always a crisis.
Pepper was never wrong.
“Oh, that’s just great!” Tony stumbled into a pair of shoes and took off like lightning, throwing open the door of his quarters at the same exact time his gauntlet came blasting down the hallway.
He threw his arm up right as it zipped on by, recoiling a few steps back when the attachment slammed against him like a wrecking ball.
He was running before the gauntlet had even finished assembling around his arm.
“FRIDAY, get me details,” Tony could barely hear himself over the alarms, the strobe lights filling the hallways in an annoyingly, blinding sorta way. Tony wasn’t sure how they were expected to handle a crisis if they couldn’t see their way to the crisis. “And shut off these damn alarms! Override code—!”
It may have been hard to see, but nothing could make it hard to see Steve Rogers barreling down the hallway, sweat pants and a tanktop outlining every muscle of his super-serum physique — with his shield swinging wildly at his hip.
Tony stuttered to a halt.
Well, that was a sight.
A draft of air rushed by, right as a figure stomped past him — following the same hallway Steve took off to, with the glisten of a metal arm catching every strobe light from above.
“What the —!” Tony balked as he watched Barnes storm up ahead, a long rifle slung over his chest as he loaded ammo into the bottom. Tony pointed a gauntlet covered finger at the weapon. “Why is that not in the armory? Why the hell do you have a gun in your quarters!?”
“Sleep with it.” Bucky didn’t break pace, marching forward and barely speaking loud enough to be heard over the alarms.
Tony wanted to roll his eyes, but he was afraid the strobe lights would cause a seizure if he looked at them head-on.
“FRIDAY—!”
“I can’t override the alarms, boss,” Friday ruefully explained, her voice following Tony once he picked up his feet; following the others, though much further behind, as they ran out of the east wing of the compound. “SHIELD authorities have set off the alarm, they’ve sighted a UFO descending our way—”
Tony wanted to make an outrageous comment at hearing UFO of all things, but upon entering the main lobby of the compound, he was swarmed with an abundance of SHIELD agents stampeding their way to their doors.
He couldn’t even hear his own thoughts, let alone anything that came out of his mouth.
What the hell was happening?
It was nothing short of a miracle that Tony managed to claw his way out with the mob of SHIELD personnel, though a few choice words and a heated repulsor on his hand certainly helped.
“Details, FRIDAY!” Tony shouted as he pushed past a flock of people, squeezing his way out the doors that lead to the outside. “C’mom, I asked for them yesterday!”
Tony never did like it when his AI couldn’t keep on top of the situation. It never meant good things.
By the time he got outside the building, Steve and Barnes were far ahead of him — and if anyone else had escaped their quarters in same amount of time, it would’ve been impossible to see their faces in the sea of SHIELD agents flooding the lawns of the compound.
Tony kept running forward even as those agents all found a place to dig their feet into the dirt, holding weapons high and keeping their eyes set on the threat.
It took far longer than it should’ve for Tony to comprehend that the threat he was looking at was very real, and this wasn’t some stress-induced hallucination taking his mind for a spin — no matter how illogical it may have seemed at the time.
Tony wasn’t alone in his shock, judging by the way Steve came to a sudden, jolting halt — with bare feet skidding into the grass of the compound’s many acres of land, stopping a few feet ahead of where Bucky had fallen to a knee and aimed his weapon high.
There was a spaceship in the sky.
There was an actual spaceship in the sky, one that was showing no hesitation in parking itself next to the compound; easily taking up the same amount of space as the parking garage that housed every single one of their aircrafts. Quinjet included.
Tony’s pace came to an abrupt abatement, nearly tripping him up as his run quickly turned into a wide-step walk. By the time he approached Steve’s side, the ship had landed and blown a gush of wind against them so hard, Tony stumbled back until Steve grabbed his bicep to steady him.
“Aim and hold your fire!”
“I repeat, do not engage until directed — do not engage until—!”
“—hold your fire, hold your fire!”
The voices shouted and blurred together from across the fields of the compound, bodies among bodies surrounding the ship with their weapons aimed right at the orange and silver hull — unwavering, even if the barrel of their gun was pointed at the wings or windows.
It wasn’t until the door — what was clearly a door — opened and ascended upward, that the SHIELD agents and soldiers holding defense across the lawn all directed their weapons accordingly.
Without so much a second thought, Tony shot his arm up high with a rigid defense of his own — the glow of his palm increased with a threatening hum as Steve held his ground with his shield in front of him.
A ramp descended slowly as the door lifted at an even slower pace, eventually creating an entrance to the confines of the ship with only a single man blocking their view of what laid inside.
The door hadn’t even completed lifting upwards when he held both hands high in the air, immediately — without hesitation.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” the voice kept on, “whoa, whoa, whoa, WHOA!” When he finally stopped, and with both palms high up and outward, the man insisted, “We come in peace!”
Tony’s eyes narrowed as tightly as his brows creased. A flicker to his left, and he saw he wasn’t alone in his confusion.
“Oh, that’s just great, Quill — show ‘em your best ‘we come in peace’ routine,” a different voice came from a distance; scratchy and irritated — becoming louder with each step taken forward. “Because it worked so well the last time we got stuck on Contraxia!”
Tony wasn’t sure what got him to drop his gauntlet — his arm fell to his hip as if his strings had been cut, and it was either because of the walking, talking raccoon that was exiting the ship — or Steve’s hushed, but still audible,
“Holy shit,” he breathed out.
With a voice spoken no differently — all said in one single breath, Tony muttered, “Language.”
Though at first it was almost indisputable that the man on the ship was human, Tony was starting to doubt himself when a much bigger figure came barreling in from the right — far more human than the raccoon, but with skin much too discolored and harshly disfigured.
“This is a lie, Rocket,” his monotone voice said, with hands tucked into his belt — his muscular, threatening figure contrasting sharply with his casual stance. “The last time we were on Contraxia, you nearly lost your tail.”
“I know, Drax!” Rocket — the raccoon, Tony felt compelled to stress against the neurons of his misfiring brain — went on to yell. The claws of his dexterous paws waved frustratingly in the air. “That’s why I used the sarcastic voice, it was sarcasm — you badoon-faced flarkhole!”
Drax, the man twice the size of Captain America himself, pointed to the human who greeted them all at the entrance of the ship. “That was not sarcasm, you provided Quill with fake pleasantries of false truths—”
A young woman with two beaming antennas on her head approached from behind, and Tony noticeably took a step back as she took a step forward.
“I believe the furry one was trying to say that—”
“Call me furry one more time, bug lady,” Rocket pointed a sharp claw up at the woman, her towering height doing nothing to take away from his intimidation, “and these scut’s with guns will be the last problem either of those creepy antenna’s on your head detect — HEY!”
Rocket soared into the air with kicking legs and punching arms — helpless as a tall, powerfully sculpted woman held him by the back of his vest, refusing to drop him until she made it halfway down the ramp and away from the others.
“Leave Mantis alone,” she stressed, the green lips that spoke her words no different than the rest of her skin. She left Rocket behind, discarding her grip on his vest so she could bring both hands in the air for the soldiers and agents to see, even as she descended down the ramp. “And behave. We’re guests here.”
Even all the way up the ship, Rocket’s eye-roll could be seen.
“Oh sure, ‘behave’, because nothing says hospitality like being welcomed by an army of locked and loaded guns!” Despite his vocal disapproval of their circumstances, Rocket joined the green woman in her descent off the ship. “Yeah, just another cozy family reunion for the Guardians — right, Gamora?”
The oddly natured color of skin tones and freakish body parts that they weren’t accustomed to was suddenly the last thing either Steve nor Tony could think about.
With a wavelength only they had developed over time, they turned to each other — brows furrowed with a fierce confusion as the words ‘family reunion’ seemed to echo both their minds.
They hadn’t even turned back to the ship when a thunderous cheer erupted from inside.
“Mighty Avengers!”
Tony and Steve looked away simultaneously — Tony with enough speed to break the first three columns in his spine. And yet somehow, it still wasn’t fast enough.
“Tho—oorrRRR!”
With a strength only an Asgardian God could have, Thor enfolded Steve and Tony in his colossal arms; embracing both men in a hold tight enough to shake the ground beneath them.
“My comrades!” Thor greeted them with a hefty laugh, one that bellowed into the night sky above them.
Tony couldn’t hear any of it, not over the sound of his frantically beating pulse, hammering in his ears with a desperate cry for air.
“Buddy,” Tony choked out, tapping his fist against Thor’s back. “Cn’t breathe,”
“What a glorious occasion for a reunion of Earth’s Mightiest heroes!” Thor kept on, and with each raising echo of his enthusiasm came the additional squeeze of his hold — particularly bothersome to Tony, who was now grabbing onto Thor’s red cape and tugging on it for dear life.
“Buddy,” Tony choked out again, this time with a gasp. “Cn’t breathe!”
Thor suddenly broke away — and Tony gave a deep, deep inhale of sweet, crisp New York air. He was too busy filling his lungs with oxygen to vocalize what Steve got around to first.
“This is...a surprise.” Steve's twitch of a smile started to break away at the edges of his stress, with Thor's sudden presence clearly unsettling even his steely nerves.
The gleaming grin from Thor was what broke away his stress entirely — reminding him it was an alley, not an enemy, at their doorstep.
“Migardians, please!” he addressed the surrounding agents and soldiers all at once, raising his hand in a dismissive matter, even with the weapons all pointed their way. “These people, they come with me — they are my friends. Put your weapons down, they mean you no harm!”
It was with a handful of irritated sighs, a few reluctant standing officers backing down, and Tony’s half-heated glare convincing the remaining to do the same, that weapons began to lower from the air and safety locks sounded from all across the surrounding lawn.
Those still inside the ship took that as their go-ahead for a descent.
“See?” Quill, the most remarkably human of the bunch, tapped the raccoon against his shoulder as they walked down the ramp, side-by-side. “If you just approach these things with a leveled head and a calm way of thinking—”
“They only put their guns down cause he told them too,” Rocket snapped, a sharp claw pointing straight ahead at Thor.
Gamora threw her head around, long waves of two-toned hair briefly hiding the rage in her face as she snapped, “Will you two stop —!”
“Banner!” Thor’s thunderous shout broke through the bickering like a hot knife to butter.
Bruce hadn’t even made it halfway through the crowd of shield agents when Thor tackled him into a hug, taking him right off his feet along the way.
“Hey, Thor — ofphH! Oh gosh, okay,” Bruce kept his hands rigid and where they were, unsure of where to put them in the middle of Thor’s tightly clenched bear-hug. “Alright, we’re-we’re touching. We’re being touchy.”
Any other day, and Tony may have made a remark about how Steve purposefully turned away to hide his chuckle from everyone.
Right now, he was too busy staring at the literal spaceship that just parked on his property.
“I thought for sure you had perished on Sakaar!” Thor roared, clapping both his hands against Bruce’s back with vigorous content. “It is good to see you alive and well, my friend.”
Bruce opened his mouth to say something — or gasp for air that his lungs suddenly lacked, it was hard to say which.
Either way, Thor beat him to the punch.
“Has he told you all the story of the Grandmaster’s Genitalia wars?” Thor whipped around to the others with a grin that spread all the way across the many acres of the compound. With Bruce still by his side, he pulled the man into a side-hug and ruffled his hair excitedly with his closed fist. “Ah, another time! First, we feast in preparation for the festivities!”
In the blink of an eye, Tony stumbled on his feet when Rocket — the literal raccoon, his brain still couldn’t comprehend — pushed right past him, all so he could strut on by.
“Finally — it’s about time somebody said something worthwhile!” Rocket moved as fast as his legs could take him without running on all fours, using his one hand to hold the little twig that sat precariously on his shoulder. “I’m flarkin’ starvin’—!”
“I am Groot!”
The little twig crawled up Rocket’s head, leaving both Rocket’s arms free so he could stamped forward on all fours.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Rocket went off, “we’ll get you something to eat too — you know, if you had just ate your ration bars before we left Xandar—”
“I am Groot,” the tiny twig chanted for a second time in a row.
“Hey!” Rocket’s voice began to dwindle away the further into the crowds of SHIELD personnel he got. “Don’t use that tone with me, Mr!”
Bucky was one of the few not to go chasing after the critter, or the remaining who escorted the strangers off their ship and into the compound — friends or not, they’d be temporarily detained, monitored, and ensured to be safe for others to be around.
As he watched them all depart back into the compound, a silent figure approached him at his side — deciding to completely bypass Steve and Tony in her trek up the lawn.
“Is that tiny tree…talking?” Natasha slowly asked him, with her head cocked so far to the side she could feel her earlobe pressing against her shoulder.
“Lighten up, man!” Quill shouted from a distance, his voice dwindling with the others but the clap of his hands somehow sounding over the crowds mix-matched dialogue. “Let’s have some fun, we’re here to party! It's a wedding, feel the love! C'mon, you know the lyrics — come and get your love! Come and get your — OW, dude, that's my butt, stop it!"
Tony watched, with a jaw slacked to the grass of the ground they stood on, as SHIELD employees detained and escorted a dancing man — and that was the least weird thing of them all, as the talking raccoon and tiny tree made conversation all the way off the fields and into the building.
Twisting slightly at his hips, Tony turned to Bruce — who was in a side-hug so intense, his head was practically embeded tightly in-between the space of Thor’s armpit.
And he looked every bit discontent about it as Tony he assumed he may be.
“Told you I wasn’t mental,” Bruce said, flatly.
Notes:
A “coming of age” story? In this economy?
Well, yes, actually. I’ve been so very blessed to be able to explore so many different genres in this series – angst, drama, horror, romance – and a good ‘ol coming of age tale is a must for a character like Peter Parker. I’m really looking forward to what fun SpideyChelle will bring, even if it’s only bits and pieces here and there. In fact, come the 4th act, this whole story wraps up neatly and tightly to become Peter’s coming of age tale – as if the title of the story didn’t already give that away. It truly is my love letter to Spider-Man, and I can’t wait for it.
But we’ve got some time before we reach that stage. We’re going ALL IN with characters for act 1 and 2. And I mean...all...in…
looks at new character lists
chuckles nervously
I’m in danger.Oh! Regarding “MCU Timelines” – because that’s gunna be something that needs addressed moving forward. This story has always taken place in the year 2017, as recapped in each story’s synopsis. At the time of this installment, we’re exactly one year out from Spider-Man Homecoming, but everything else MCU wise….can kindly f*ck off. The TV shows I mention? Yeah, now all those events happen at our timeline. And sure, I know Guardians of the Galaxy Vol 2 is supposed to take place in 2014. I truly don’t care. The events of that movie now take place in the same year as this series, because that’s where I’m pulling the characters from – the end of GotGV2, baby Groot included. This series is not linear with the movies, it really never has been, it just plucks canon where it wants and rewrites it to a better state of existence. Just bear that in mind going forward.
And yes, I used the blooper line from Spider-Man Homecoming. I also don’t regret it. #preciousPeterParkerforever
Chapter 7: Something Tried and True
Summary:
“That could be because your anxiety has made it hard for you to focus,” Karen said. “That is likely in part due to the fact that you are nervous.”
As much as Peter wanted to roll his eyes at Karen’s answer, he also didn’t have much ground to argue with her. She was, after all, usually right about these things.
It was strange. There was a lot Peter had confidence for — a lot of things he gained confidence for. It wasn’t that being nervous was a foreign thing for him. Hell, these days it felt like a perpetual state of his existence.
MJ made him feel…different.
A different nervous.
Almost a… good nervous.
“I really don’t wanna mess this up, Karen,” Peter spoke quietly under his breath.
There was a noticeable pause from Karen before she asked, “With MJ?”
The sunset of the evening caught the golden hues from the trees, shinning bright against orange and burgundy leaves. Peter had to squint past the light to see the front door of the doughnut shop open up, watching silently as the older man let MJ exit before he locked the door behind her.
“Yeah,” Peter, once again, spoke the words in a hushed whisper.
Notes:
▰Identity Crisis — Chapter 1: Prologue▰
Peter had to admit that while he never, ever wanted to experience almost dying again — not even if you paid him a billion dollars — it certainly came with its perks. And despite really not needing the road trip as some sort of extra apology from Mr. Stark, Peter also didn’t have the heart to turn it down.
If he didn’t know better, he’d say Mr. Stark seemed just as excited. In his own weird way.
Still, by the time the month-long trip came to an end, he admittedly missed the city life enough to say goodbye to the beaches of the West Coast, the deserts of Arizona and the odd alien-abduction culture in Missouri.
Both him and Mr. Stark were surprised to see the quaint little state had New Mexico beat in the ‘obsessed with aliens’ department. Something about a boy going missing in 1988 and the entire town of St. Charles being under this absurd impression that a UFO took him and — well, Mr. Stark had high tailed it out of there before Peter could learn any more.
The stories he came back with seemed endless, and if he needed to keep his suitcase full a little while longer before saying goodbye to summer, than so be it.
▰Identity Theft — Chapter 22: Sweet Sixteen▰
Pepper squeezed his elbow before pulling away. “Listen, you should know that if this is about the spy compromising the company, we’ll recover. I’m pretty sure Happy has already fired half of SI staff just out of precaution. But if this is really about you being afraid to take on a bigger role in Peter’s life, then you need to seriously think twice about what you plan on doing." Pepper turned on her heels but hesitated on walking away. "Either way though, I’m sure whatever you do, you’ll make the right decision.”
“Yeah?” Tony arched an eyebrow and craned his neck to the side, resting his cheek against his arm. “Why can’t you be that confident in me all the time, hm?”
“You just need a little guidance yourself.” Pepper tapped a finger against his chest. “A push.”
As quickly as she had poked him, she leaned forward for a kiss, leaving a gentle mark against the scruff of his face.
The storm outside picked up, heavy enough that the approaching wind began to blow rain inside the hallway they stood in. Pepper walked away before her crisp white suit could suffer from the elements. Tony didn’t care one way or the other.
As she walked away, she made sure to look behind her while she said, “Don’t be so afraid to get close to him, Tony.”
Tony stood up straight and leaned his hip against the balcony railing with a sigh of defeat.
It wasn’t fair; there wasn’t an atlas for this. There were no guidelines he could follow, and every decision he made seemed to bite him in the ass. Now, along with his own subconscious, Rhodey’s ever-annoying and self-righteous presence and even May Parker stewing in his head, Pepper had managed to plant her own opinions where he couldn’t shake them.
As annoyed and frustrated as he felt, he still managed a smile, knowing full well what she was doing. It was just like Pepper to get inside his head like that. She had every intention of planting those seeds in his mind before she left the compound, all so he would spend days, if not weeks, repeating the conversation in his own head like a broken record.
Damn that woman knew him well.
Sipping the last of the coffee, he realized that he couldn’t deny her constant comfort. She was always there to act as his lifeline, always there to pull him from the depths before things got too bad, to rescue him from himself.
‘Rescue...’
Tony shook his head of the thought.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Steve looked out the panoramic glass windows of the compound, his hip serving as a casual perch for his hand and a heavy contemplation etched across his face.
The hallway he occupied stayed busy, SHIELD agents and different staff going about their early morning activities. They continued on with their daily business regardless of his presence; their paths never intersecting, and never needing to, as he stood at a standstill.
The moment of pause in an otherwise hectic lifestyle was needed — much needed. For a man who’d been frozen in ice nearly seventy years, it felt as if he’d never stopped moving. But even he knew the brief respite wouldn’t last for long.
It never seemed to these days.
Though the morning sun caught vividly on the glass window walls, it was the bright orange of the spaceship that reflected against Steve’s face, highlighting the lines drawn into his skin like roads on a map. Each created a new path for his never-ending journey — one that, judging from the ship outside and the newcomers now occupying their compound, was a journey that wouldn’t be stopping anytime soon.
Just when he thought life was as crazy as it could possibly get.
“That’s a spaceship.”
Anchoring his right side was Sam, with his dry and blunt statement arriving so suddenly — and with such perfect timing to his thoughts — that a small smile began to tug at Steve’s lips.
“Mmhh-hm,” Bucky sounded from his left, equally as dry — if not more derisive.
That much Steve expected.
But nonetheless, his smile still grew.
Indeed, out the windows and settled on the many acres of land was a spaceship far too large to be housed in the hangar bay. It captivated not just Steve’s attention, but his fellow teammates as well. And it wasn’t just those who stood on each side of him, like Sam and Bucky — both having gravitated to the view no different than Steve before them.
“Yep,” Clint succinctly ‘popped’ his lips, sitting on the bottom step of a staircase not too far away from the other three men. “Hasn’t changed in the last thirty-six hours. Don’t think it’s gunna change anytime soon.”
A steaming mug of coffee reached for his lips, where he took a sip so loud that Steve swore it held every bit of exhaustion he expected from a father who had a toddler back home — and who was abruptly woken up in the middle of night for ‘work’ related business; earning a few choice words from the archer that not even Steve felt comfortable repeating.
He went to chuckle, barely managing a tiny huff as the air trapped in his chest finally escaped in a breath too heavy to be anything other than a sigh. It wasn't as if he wanted to disturb Clint during what little time he seemed to get with his family. And for what it was worth, he held off for as long as he could.
Unfortunately, SHIELD had a tendency to go way over his head; it was simply the nature of the beast. And when they demanded all hands on deck for an alien spacecraft landing at the compound — well, Steve couldn't argue their caution. Especially not after the Battle of New York.
Plus, Thor had requested Pop-Tarts.
It was killing two birds with one stone, needing to getting Clint back east-side while also stocking up on their kitchen supply for the God of Thunder. But without any question of doubt, it was also the weirdest phone call Steve had to make, possibly in his entire accumulated one-hundred years alive.
He was beyond appreciative that he could always count on his team — no matter how far away they were — to be there when he needed them. When Clint had arrived last night, it was with slew of colorful words and a handful of shopping bags that Steve was almost positive Thor had already devoured by now.
“That’s an actual alien spaceship,” Sam repeated himself, disbelief still dripping off his every word as if it were his first time looking at the spacecraft.
“Mmhh-hm,” Bucky’s murmur sounded for a second time, dryer than the first.
Followed by an even louder slurp from Clint — along with a muffled, spoken directly into his coffee, “Yep.”
Steve let his smile stretch a little wider up his face, though the act didn't come easily. It was hard to truly let himself relax after all that happened. If his guard remained up, it wasn’t all entirely his fault.
To say it had been an eventful day and a half would be putting it subtly. And while he personally didn't perceive any threat with the newcomers who arrived, it still gave him one hell of a late night scare that nearly put the entire facility in lock-down.
Luckily for them, the eccentric mismatched bunch only seemed to want nothing more than to tag along for Thor’s visit. One incredibly impromptu visit, that was — of which Steve knew suggesting a ‘heads up’ for next time wouldn’t do anything other than give Thor a hefty laugh and a slap on Steve’s back that would cripple the otherwise average man.
“A ship that came from space.” Sam kept his eyes dead set ahead as he spoke, not trusting himself to look away from the humongous spaceship that took up most their land.
“Mmhh-hm,” Bucky’s murmur sounded no different than the two times that came before.
That finally got Sam to break his gaze, his head rocketing over to Bucky with enough force that it sent a breeze through Steve's hair.
“With aliens on board,” Sam stressed, staring at Bucky as if he’d grown three heads and suddenly gained a second metal arm.
From the staircase, Clint gave a simple, concise nod with a simple, concise, “Yep.”
The SHIELD agents kept their due diligence watching the foreign spacecraft, treating it like the possible weapon it might suddenly become — something that, again, Steve couldn't fault them for. It was just one of the many compromises the strange group had to comply with if they wanted to stay. Along with a full medical clearance that sounded an array of even stranger words from the talking raccoon.
As it turned out, the middle finger proved to be a literal universal gesture.
With a tension in his jaw that caused his teeth to ache, Steve finally let himself sigh as deep as his lungs would let him. Clint was right on the money — it was only two nights ago the spaceship arrived, where the foreigners had been immediately whisked away for SHIELD examination. And while it was taking some folks like Sam time to truly digest how incredibly bizarre the situation was, Steve found himself stuck on something else entirely. Something completely different from spaceships and aliens entering his already crazy life.
It took a lot of contemplation to figure out what that thing was. Looking outside the large glass windows, Steve let the realization draw a new line on his face — adding another road on the map etched in his skin; the diffused glow of orange from outside painting his complexion with the complexity of his journey. Never-ending, it seemed.
Running outside to the fields of the compound with bare feet and nothing but his Captain America shield had been a rude awakening — and not just in the literal sense, having been jolted out of sleep by blaring sirens that sounded from every corner of the facility, tightening his chest until he was sure his rib-cage would shatter underneath the pressure.
There'd been an uneasy feeling in his gut ever since, one that wouldn’t go away — not even thirty-six hours later, long after it turned out there was no danger to be alarmed over.
They'd been safe here for so long that the very concept of a threat to the compound hadn't ever truly passed Steve’s mind. Not long enough to linger on, not long enough to truly contemplate. It wasn't until now — now that it became a real possibility — that he let himself chew on those thoughts. Realizing with a sick feeling that there was far more danger here than he'd let himself prepare for.
Sure, SHIELD’s occupance was an added layer of protection he couldn't deny existed. It was one of the benefits to sharing the property with the top-secret organization; lending them an east-coast head quarters while the team could stay on-site for any abrupt need. Not even Tony seemed to have uprooted himself from the comfort they’d unintentionally established since moving out of the Avengers Tower.
Steve hadn't expected him to stay after the dismantling of the Accords. Now, it was odd when the man wasn't around.
Silently, and without ever truly acknowledging it, they had all created a safe haven of sorts together. They fell into roles without ever realizing it, forging a refuge for themselves, a place where they could lay their heads and know they'd be protected by one another while they slept.
It was where they could have each others backs, even in the most mundane ways — Clint stocking the kitchen supply with a personal touch for everyone, and the entire team knowing better than to touch Natasha's stash of unsalted almonds. Using the excuse of having meetings over dinner, when the subject of work never seemed to be brought up over the course of their meal. They even saw it in their surroundings — the sofa’s in the lounge became worn down, greatly in need of replacement after gatherings became routine and one another’s company became the norm.
Without ever realizing it, they had created a home.
And the false alarms that came with Thor's arrival shook the very blood inside Steve’s veins, bringing him to the unsettling realization that everything that mattered to him, everything he never knew he held dearly — his friends, his family…they could all be taken away in the blink of an eye.
Even with Captain America right down the hall.
Steve could feel the frown pulling on his face, knowing full well that while everything turned out just fine the other night, there was no making that same promise for the next time. A striking fear knotted in his gut at the probability, with the burden of responsibility as a leader suddenly weighing heavy against his shoulders.
Instead of letting it drag him down, he pulled his shoulders back tautly, straightening his posture to stand taller — lifting his chin slightly to catch the bright glare of the sun shinning through the windows.
Family hadn't ever been a word that found a place in his vocabulary. Some time ago that had changed — so naturally, Steve hadn't even realized it occurred. He came to realize that meant he needed to change along with it.
It was his job to protect everyone, to protect the team — he took on that role without ever needing SHIELD to list it under his responsibilities. That was a personal responsibility he accepted, silently and wordlessly, without ever needing another person to know. It was simply ingrained in the fibers of his being.
Sticking up for the little guy, protecting the innocent, avenging those who deserve better — that would always be his way of life, embedded into his very bone marrow. But there was a whole other principle that slowly yet surely started to top them all. A priority that would be first and foremost, no matter the circumstance.
It was whatever he had to do to protect his home, and the family in it. The false alarm was a wake-up call, one he needed. If an attack on the compound became a reality, he’d make sure that he’d be prepared for it.
Even if that meant going down with his shield along the way.
“You guys really telling me I’m the only one bugging over an actual spaceship?” Sam couldn’t have been more blunt if he tried, his arms folded so tightly against his chest it was a wonder he could even breathe.
It plucked Steve right out of his thoughts, and he immediately looked to his right, arching his eyebrow so high it nearly reached his hairline. Despite looking at Sam, the man never returned the gesture, still staring out the window at the spacecraft with a stupefied astonishment taking up every inch of his face.
Bucky pursed his lips as he dryly sounded, “Mmhh-hm.”
Steve didn't even need to look down the hallway to know the slurp of coffee that followed came from Clint — who finished with a large gulp, a loud exhale, and a short, curt, “Yep.”
Steve chuckled, letting the tension in his shoulders melt away with each gentle laugh that left his chest. His hand found Sam’s shoulder and patted firmly before he swiveled his head to the left, catching Bucky’s gaze and holding onto it with a permanent smirk planted on his face.
“You fella’s ready to meet a God?”
If Peter concentrated any harder on rebuilding his web cartridges, he was sure that he’d give himself a juvenile stroke — not that Tony would’ve noticed, too busy across the workshop with welding goggles covering his eyes and sparks of molten metal igniting the room with bright flashes of heat.
The two were so caught up in their individual tasks that for once, the music playing overhead could barely be heard. Tony’s protective gear blocked out the sounds on his end, with earmuffs snugly fit over his head — whereas Peter’s intense focus kept his attention strictly on the machine in front of him; his hands carefully removing a freshly molded web cartridge that he not-so-carefully tossed into the tray on the opposite side of the table.
He was so focused on creating the next cartridge that he almost failed to pay any mind as DUM-E came wheeling by, carefully picking up the tray with an advance grip of his pincher claw and taking it across the workshop.
Peter was just about to push down on the hydraulic press mold — far more advanced than the dinky old model he had back home — when he saw the robot come to a stop near Tony’s work station.
“Wait—! No, no, no, no, no! Not over there, DUM-E — not over there!” Peter rushed out in a panic, his one hand waving frantically in DUM-E’s direction. “If that heat gets too close to the cartridges, they'll explode!”
Despite the commotion that suddenly erupted, Tony never looked up from his own project. The intense sparks of metal continued to reflect against his goggles as DUM-E slowly retreated away from the dangerous heat, taking the tray with him until he found a safe spot to discard it.
It clanked and clattered as he dropped it down onto a cluttered bench.
“Yeah, yeah — right over there, that’s perfect, that’s great.” Peter’s bulky, heavy-duty work gloves kept his thumbs-up from fully forming, but he tried nonetheless. “Thanks, DUM-E, you’re the best.”
Tony never looked up from his welding as he said, “Stop complimenting him, he’ll think he’s doing a good job.”
Peter spun around on his stool until he faced Tony — nearly spinning all the way around had he not scraped his sneakers against the floor to prevent a complete three-sixty turn.
“He is doing a good job!” Peter defended, his smile reaching ear-to-ear while his arm extended straight out like a stick. “He’s only caused like, one fire so far.”
The sizzling heat of Tony’s welding torch came to an abrupt stop, with the sparks that flew off the scorching metal eventually dissipating in the air like embers.
“Him?” Tony asked, the hand not holding his welding torch lifting the safety goggles over his head — exposing his eyes in full. “Or you?”
Peter wished he could blame the heat of Tony’s welding for the embarrassed blush that dotted his cheeks. Unfortunately, it was hard to say whether the look on Mr. Stark’s face, one-hundred percent ‘not buying it’, was the cause of his humiliation — or the fire extinguisher that laid used and now trashed across the workshop, with bits of foam still dripping down the sides.
In his defense, he wasn’t expecting an entire tray of his web cartridges to explode from a few nearby flames of Mr. Stark’s welding torch. And in double his defense, he wasn’t expecting DUM-E to have a full blown panic attack when struggling to find the fire extinguisher that Peter misplaced the last time they were in the workshop together.
From the look on Tony’s face, Peter figured neither defense was going to win his case.
“I just gotta get a stronger casing on these things,” Peter mumbled, more to himself than anyone else. The bulky safety glove that covered his hand massaged half-heartedly at the nape of his neck. “The aluminum shelling of the cartridge is way better than the original design, but the melting point of six hundred degrees is still too low.”
DUM-E’s whine of discontent towards the situation almost sounded like he agreed with Peter — who felt lowkey bad for startling the robot with a very unexpected fire that, much to Peter’s surprise, barely phased Mr. Stark.
“What are you trying to do,” Tony started to ask, yanking off his safety goggles and earmuffs with one quick motion and tossing them onto the table with ease. “Jump into fires?”
Peter gave a dramatic shrug, one that brought both his shoulders all the way up to his ears.
“Maybe,” he murmured, insecurely turning back to the machine in front of him. His fingers fiddled on the handle of the press mold without any real intention of continuing his work. “Wouldn’t be the first time I wound up in a burning building.”
The sigh that escaped his chest was unintentional, and halted mid-exhale. Peter clamped his mouth shut and clenched his jaw with frustration, shaking away the lingering thoughts of self-doubt that had so rudely managed to creep into his head lately.
Seriously — who would’ve thought the pressures of being brought back from the dead would top the stresses of maintaining his GPA in high-school. He sure didn’t.
Though music still played overhead and throughout the workshop, and was far louder now that Tony’s welding had taken a pause, Peter had a gut feeling that his sigh still managed to be heard — even with his best attempts to stifle it.
A dead giveaway was the lingering stare that burned a hole in his back. It felt hotter than if Tony’s eyes were actual welding torches blowing fire right against his t-shirt, with the large print text of ‘Think like a proton and stay positive’ catching the overhead ceiling lights.
Right along with ‘that’ look Peter was all too familiar with.
“Just…gotta make sure I’m prepared. For the next time,” Peter muttered, not daring to give ‘that’ look any acknowledgment as he ripped off both his gloves with the desperate need to fidget his hands. The heat that spread across his cheeks — this time for a reason other than one impromptu use of a fire extinguisher — kept him from turning to face that stare head-on.
That was, until, Mr. Stark finally spoke up.
“You’re distracted.”
Peter spun in his stool so rapidly, he didn’t stop until the entire three-sixty ride gradually circled him back in Tony’s direction.
“Of course I’m distracted!” Peter practically shouted, tossing both his arms wildly in the air. “There’s a spaceship outside!”
Tony gave a sharp, short nod before turning right back to his work. “And there it is.”
Peter either elected not to hear his exasperation, or was way too excited to pay it any attention.
“You gotta let me meet them, Mr. Stark — c’mon!” Peter all but exclaimed, to the point where his voice cracked in pitch and he couldn’t even bother to care about it.
Tony didn’t even look at Peter as he wagged the welding torch his way.
“That homework finished yet?” he asked, deadpanned and serious — so deadpanned and serious that at first, Peter swore on his young life the man was joking.
It took a solid five seconds to realize he wasn’t.
“What!?” Peter, once again, was too worked up too notice the crack in his voice. His arms flew down from the ceiling until a rigid hand pointed right at Tony. “You said if I spent two hours working on my paper you would compromise and let me spend two hours working on my web cartridges—”
Tony nodded. “Yes, I know, I never said that I didn’t say that—”
“You just said that!” Peter hastily interrupted.
Tony made a face, one that words failed to describe. “I just said that I never said that, I didn’t say—”
Peter kept his hand pointed at Tony. “You totally said that, Mr. Stark—!”
It was Tony’s turn to spin around on his stool, the look that followed so hot it put his welding torch to shame.
Peter elected to keep his mouth shut after that.
Reluctantly.
And with much struggle.
Almost as if he had it down to a science, Tony didn’t speak again until Peter swallowed his lips whole — as if the man knew it would be a waste of oxygen to even try speaking before that. The kid’s sheepishness kicked in like second nature, and Tony waited until those lips — too loose for their own good — sealed away before wagging his welding torch in Peter’s direction for a second time.
“You’re only here right now, kid, because your aunt gave up her weekend with you to make up for a disruption in rotation with the wedding,” Tony casually reminded him, using his free hand to carefully arrange the dismantled pieces of metal on the table below — in no organizational pile that Peter could make sense of.
Peter made a face that nearly rivaled Tony’s from before, a long pause morphing that expression into a tight grimace.
“May let me come here because she’s on a weekend trip with Happy to Vermont.” Peter shook his head with a muttered, “Still weird to say.”
Tony rolled his eyes, noticeable even with the distance that separated them. The chunks of metal on the table below, however, remained far enough away that Peter couldn’t quite make out each piece with perfect precision.
It wasn’t as if he needed too, though. The decade old arc reactor had enough of a signature design that any ol’ fool could’ve picked it out in a field full of junk. Even disassembled and now torn apart by his own hands, Tony’s once life-saving device glimmered brightly underneath the overhead lights.
Tony picked up a small hammer and began striking down with heavy force on a single, dismembered piece of that iconic device.
“The distance doesn’t negate her wrath,” Tony said, finding a rhythm with each hit and sticking to it. “You don’t finish that homework, and I get blasted in the private repulsor parts by one surprisingly lenient aunt, all circumstances considered, who was promised you’d be properly chaperoned to ensure academic success. So pick up that pencil—”
Peter furrowed his brows. “It’s all done on my laptop—”
“—and hit the books,” Tony finished, with one more swing of his hammer, and a final, “Hard. Capiche?”
Peter tried not to sigh.
He tried, and he gave himself credit for that, but it was impossible not to be disappointed after finding out about all the activity that happened at the compound just a few days ago — and now being told he still had to do homework in-spite of it all.
Sitting inside the same building as actual aliens from outer space — talk about things that were never not gunna be weird — Peter knew the ongoing issue of temperature limits to his web cartridges would only keep him preoccupied for so long. Even if May had chewed his ear off the other day when his once-missing cartridges, unbeknownst to him, created a sticky mess in her office.
Peter still couldn’t figure out what had gotten them so hot that it caused a web explosion all over the contents of her desk. Including the paperwork that she insisted couldn’t be salvaged.
But it was also impossible to focus on anything other than space aliens occupying the same building as him.
As if noticing that inability to focus, Tony snapped his fingers in a way that his heavy work gloves prevented anyone from hearing.
“Get a move on, shake a leg — sooner you start, sooner you finish.” Tony didn’t even spare Peter’s puppy dog eyes the time of day, already back to his project before he’d finished speaking; sorting through the scrap metal that laid in front of him with ease.
Peter gave a quick glance to the cracked screen of his cell phone and noticeably frowned when he caught the time. It was still late morning approaching early afternoon, yet it felt like he’d been waiting an entire lifetime for a greet-and-meet that Mr. Stark kinda-sorta-not-really promised him.
Peter couldn’t remember for sure — he had been really excited when Happy picked him up from school last night and was told some ‘unusual guests’ tagged along with Thor on his return to Earth.
The latter alone had Peter bouncing in his seat the entire way to the compound. Once he discovered that the infamous missing boy from Missouri was a part of the ‘alien guests’ who had landed, there was simply no containing his excitement.
And now, instead of meeting them all, he was stuck doing an English essay for Ms. Warren’s class.
Because apparently Parker Luck was as infinite as the space the actual aliens had arrived from.
It was both equally awesome as it was weird.
Tony had just returned to welding and Peter had dug for his laptop out of his backpack when he turned back around, hopeful optimism etching across every inch of his face.
“When I finish my homework, can I meet them then?” Peter couldn’t help but scooch forward, using the heels of his sneakers to push the stool across the workshop until he was halfway to Tony’s station. “And Thor? Can I meet Thor?”
Tony dropped the welding torch and went to rub at the bridge of his nose, stopping when the heavy duty gloves kept him from giving his muscles the massage they desperately needed.
One by one, he took off the protective gear and then scrubbed at his face, letting out a sigh that Peter had a feeling he’d been holding in for a while now.
Just like ‘that’ look, Peter knew full well what ‘that’ sigh meant.
“Thor — maybe, I dunno — kid, keeping track of Thor is like keeping track of a six-month old puppy without a leash.” Without even looking at Peter, Tony wagged a hand flippantly in his direction. “He comes and goes faster than we can keep up with — if you see him, just don’t let him near any of the glassware. Man has no respect for the dishes around here.”
It was a good while before Tony looked up again. When he finally did, and only after what appeared to be a silent pep talk to get there, Peter had managed to inch closer towards his side of the workshop while barely making any noise along the way.
Tony arched an eyebrow, looking him up and down — and then again.
And finally, again.
“You’re not gunna focus on that paper until you get an answer, are you?”
“A spaceship, Mr. Stark!” Peter exclaimed, the only thing wider than his grin being both his arms, spread out further than even what the Staten Island Ferry had once stretched him to be.
Tony spun his stool to face him head-on, keeping a tight pinch on the bridge of his nose as he silently willed away the complications Peter was sure had to exist in a situation like this.
The sigh had given it away. It always did.
“Kid…” Tony started to say, with another sigh at that — the frustration in his breath expressing those complications Peter knew existed somewhere.
FRIDAY lowered the volume of music playing overheard without ever being asked, and Tony didn’t fail to throw an annoyed look at the ceiling along the way — as if perturbed at his own AI’s behavior.
He rolled his eyes before looking back down at Peter.
“The last I heard, Mr. Missouri and the The Marvelous Martins passed SHIELD’s medical clearance — but whether or not they get to stay is completely up to the guys upstairs.” A beat took the room as Tony pointed a thumb casually behind his back. “Not so literally, the big dogs at SHIELD. Ones too important to hang around here.”
Peter tried not to let himself get bummed out — he did, get bummed out that was, but he tried. Yet there was simply no denying the disappointment that hit his gut once hearing the words ‘SHIELD’ leave Tony’s mouth.
He figured there’d be complications with actual aliens coming to the compound — so awesome — seeing as the Battle of New York was only five years behind them. It went without saying that SHIELD still had sensitivity issues to aliens arriving on Earth. Peter couldn’t even blame them for being extra cautious, not after all that happened that day and ever since.
“Are they gunna let them? Stay?” Peter timidly, and almost too quietly asked. “Is SHIELD gunna let them stay?”
Tony worked his jaw and clucked his tongue, finally easing up on the bridge of his nose only to wrap both arms tightly around his chest with each hand digging deep into his armpits.
“Thor’s good graces with SHIELD is the only reason they weren’t shot down at first sight,” Tony explained, almost as he were speaking his thoughts out loud with Peter’s benefit of hearing it all be said. His eyes found a wall and latched on there without any real focus. “We’ll have to see how much sway the God of Thunder still has with Fury’s lackeys. If any of good ‘ol Coulson’s stories hold up…”
A stretch of silence made every whir and whine from DUM-E all the louder. For a moment, Tony stared off at nothing, unfolding his arms only so he could absentmindedly move a few pieces of metal on the table off to the side with a single digit.
He stopped almost as quickly as he started, redirecting that finger straight at Peter.
“Work on that,” Tony sternly told him, gesturing to the laptop. “You’re not going anywhere until you get that done. Regardless of if we have visitors or not.”
Though Peter rolled his eyes at Mr. Stark, his smile stayed in place. It took him a few scooches to get back over to his work table, and with the laptop out of his backpack, he threw open the top and quickly booted up his systems.
“Aliens, man,” Peter excitedly muttered to himself, typing in his password with his grin only growing larger by the second. “So cool.”
It was hard to focus on his paper — half-written and only on its first draft — while the thoughts of Mr. Stark’s wedding and Thor’s attendance floated through his already over-worked and over-excited brain.
Even if he didn’t get to see the other aliens who came along with him — which, Peter wouldn’t deny would be a huge bummer, seeing as the missing boy from Missouri had captivated his attention ever since his cross-country summer road trip with Mr. Stark — there was still no doubt that the God of Thunder joining the wedding party was going to be awesome on its own merits.
Peter really couldn’t deny it anymore. There was something incredibly invigorating about the upcoming wedding; almost as if he felt brought back to life for a second time, renewing his spirit in all the ways he didn’t know he needed.
For once, it really felt like everything was coming together to be okay. Like not even Parker Luck was strong enough to intervene.
After all, friends and family of all kind were going to celebrate two really awesome people, in Peter’s unbiased opinion, marry for the reason of love.
How cool was that?
Suddenly, Peter found himself staring at his fingers, each digit spread across the keyboard but never once striking down on the letters below him.
It was a long moment before he looked up — where he found Tony working diligently with a pair of pillars, carefully shaping the piece of metal that once sat inside his chest into a circular band no bigger than Peter’s finger.
“Hey, Mr. Stark?” Peter called out on a whim.
Tony kept his eyes strictly on his task as he sounded out, “Hm?”
Peter watched for a beat that went on a little too long — earning a curious look from Tony along the way — as the man bent and folded the amber glowing metal with a pair of pillars in one hand and blacksmith tongs in the other.
Even though Mr. Stark hadn’t actually told him what he was working on, Peter was smart enough to put the two and two together. And while his visiting weekends were always ‘Internship’ days — which meant sometimes they’d work on their suits together, other times they’d brainstorm crazy new ideas that either took off or failed — Mr. Stark was right, today wasn’t technically an ‘Internship’ day. Not on his off-weekend that May had traded to make up for next week’s wedding.
And so, without any real plans for the weekend, Mr. Stark had simply told him he had a project he needed to wrap up. For Peter, that was the extent of that.
Taking a moment to truly watch and examine Tony’s movements, Peter didn’t need verbal confirmation on what he saw. It was obvious to the passing eye; a ring of sorts being crafted by hand, and the material used to forge it laid all across the table Mr. Stark had stationed himself at.
Peter could tell himself all he wanted that he didn’t know what provoked his next question. But even he knew the focus of the wedding had taken his thoughts hostage for a while now — sometimes even more than the lingering weight of being brought back to life.
“When you asked Ms. Potts to marry you…” Peter trailed off, swallowing hard to wet his parched throat. “When did you…I mean, how’d you…”
Tony slowly set his tongs down, careful on where he put the glowing hot ring along the way. An arch eyebrow vocalized his puzzlement more than words could’ve.
“How’d you know?” Peter forced himself to finish, the best that he could.
Tony let the tongs lay down next to his welding torch, being sure to keep the still-glowing metal in a safe place where it couldn’t be disturbed.
“That she’d say yes?” he tried to clarify, proving Peter’s attempt ineffective after all.
Looking down at his work table, Peter tapped his finger on the surface without ever stopping — never once finding the courage to look at Tony when he spoke.
“That you…loved her,” Peter managed to fight against every atom in his body that screamed for him to stop talking. “How do…how do you know when you love somebody?”
When Peter finally looked back up at Tony, he wished nothing more than if he could go back in time and shut up after all. The look of confusion on the man’s face was enough for Peter to crawl into a ditch and die from dirt inhalation.
“Like, obviously I know what love is,” he tried — oh boy did he try to make himself look better. “It’s not that I don’t know what love is — I love May, I love…you know, other family. And friends.”
He was making it worse. With every growing inch of Tony’s smirk, Peter knew he was making it worse.
“But what’s it like?” Peter finally found the words to ask, and with a heavy sigh parting the break that came in-between. “With you and Ms. Potts? What’s…what’s that like?”
Peter wasn't lying — not even in his nervous stammered fit that failed to string together a coherent sense of words. He knew what love was. He knew he loved Uncle Ben, he knew he still loved Aunt May. He knew he loved his parents at one point — what kid didn’t?
But yet, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop thinking about almost two nights ago. Not because of the aliens that landed at the compound while he was in Queens — no, something else finally disrupted his excitement for that.
It was remembering MJ’s smile on the bridge, and the way she smelt like powdered doughnuts and vanilla lavender, mixed with the draft of sea water that rose from down below.
The way the bridge’s lights made her skin look like polished chestnuts, and her hair a perfect frizzled mess of tangled vines and curls.
How her laugh was as soft as the wind, and her smile was bright as the setting sun.
It was remembering the way she made him feel — a way he’d never felt before. A feeling he couldn’t quite explain, but also couldn’t forget.
Peter couldn’t help but wonder what that was.
And as Tony looked at him head-on, with a small smile turning his lip up towards his ear, it was easy to say the older man had it figured out a long time ago.
“Well, Mr. Parker…” Tony went on to clear his throat, “when a man loves a woman—”
“Alright, alright — stop, stop, stop!” Peter waved both hands frantically in front of him, his eyes clenched tightly shut along the way. “Forget it, just forget it. Forget I said anything.”
Because of course Mr. Stark wouldn’t pass up that opportunity.
The belly-laugh that followed from him only proved as much.
Annoyed, Peter returned to his laptop as Mr. Stark’s laugh began to slowly fade away — not that the words on his screen did him much good either. It was all gibberish at this point, and the stare against his back returned, this time with a vengeance.
Tony could’ve actually blown his welding torch against Peter and he wouldn’t have known a difference.
“So how are things going with MJ?” Tony finally broke the silence with a smirk so proud, it etched new lines on his face.
Peter spun in his chair so fast, he nearly tipped right off.
“That’s not what I asked—”
“It’s called reading between the lines—” Tony blithely argued.
“Then-then learn to read!” Peter’s defense was weaker than a newborn child. “Because you clearly can’t read—”
“Oh, yeah?” Tony cocked his head to the side.
Peter rapidly nodded his. “Yeah, because there-there are no lines…to be read. So…you’re just…reading…nothing.”
Once again, Tony folded both arms over his chest and leaned back, resting against the edge of his work table with an expression so cocky, Peter suddenly had a full understanding on how the man got to be where he was in life.
He relented, with as sigh so dramatic it put an emphasis on each of his sixteen years alive.
“Things are going good,” Peter finally answered, a bob of his head getting stronger by the second. “Really good.”
The pause that followed was on purpose. Tony kept quiet, just long enough that Peter could whisper a hushed, but carefree, “…scarey good.”
When Tony didn’t respond a second time around — again on purpose — DUM-E strolled by with a few “Whee- whoops” to break the silence.
They both threw him a look of annoyance, both at the same time, before he rolled away.
“I just don’t know how I feel about her and if, like…” Peter trailed off, waving his hand in every which direction as if that would clarify his nonsensical ramblings. “I dunno, if this is, like…if what I’m feeling is…”
Tony straightened his head, looking Peter straight on.
“Love?” he asked, the crinkle in his eyes matching the crinkle of his lips.
Peter tried to hide the blush that heated his cheeks, but even turning away briefly wasn’t enough to disguise what was so openly worn on his face.
“What’s it like?” Peter asked with little preamble, diving head first into what he figured would be awkward no matter what either of them did or said. He knew if he didn’t jump now, he never would. “When you…you know, love somebody? How do you…how do you even know? What’s it even like?”
There was a long hesitation on Tony’s behalf, but not one Peter worried would be an abrupt end to a conversation that had yet to start. His eyes once again gravitated towards nothing, looking away to give his head the freedom it needed to formulate his words.
Finally, he pointed a finger up ahead, lackadaisically gesturing to the fire extinguisher in the corner of the room — where he’d been staring all along.
“It’s like a fire,” Tony nodded ahead, silently pointing to the tray of still smoldering web cartridges that saw their fate at the hands of a few welding sparks. “One that requires kindling — they all do. You have to tend to it, nurture it, feed it — or else it'll just burn out.”
Peter looked to the tray of smokey web cartridges, and then to the used fire extinguisher on the floor, before finally swinging his gaze back at Tony.
The man had redirected his own eyes down to the surface of his table; where pieces of metal laid scattered about, and random letters that had been laser imprinted as text laid scrambled in a mess.
“At first you don't know how to tend to it,” Tony said, slowly working those pieces in a disorganized pile. They had been disassembled entirely, with only some of the arc reactor core remaining in tact. “So like the moron you are, you throw a bunch of gasoline on it — and it sort of works. You get big flames. Lots of fire, lots of passion.”
Peter watched, without daring to utter a single sound, as Tony slowly but steadily arranged the pieces of metal into a circular pattern. Gradually, letters like PROOF and STARK started to form into words. All encasing the arc reactor that Peter still couldn’t believe once sat inside Mr. Stark’s chest.
“But the fire dwindles out,” Tony continued on even as Peter got lost looking at the contexts scattered on the table. “And once it does, you realize it's going to take more than just dumping gasoline to keep it going. It’s not some one and done, mess-up-and-it’s-over. It’s maintenance. Careful, precise maintenance. So you figure out what those things are — what keeps the fire going.” Tony paused to work his jaw. “Leaves, twigs, little pieces of wood — euphemisms, of course. Big teddy bears — not usually one of those things, learned that the hard way. But you find something to throw in the fire, stick to it, and you keep tending to it to keep it alive. You realize the work never stops, the project’s never completed. It’s always going, always a constant. But you’re better for it. They, uh…they make you want to be better.”
The next sigh Tony let out was far less heavy than any that came before it. The smile was even lighter than that, spreading his lips so naturally it looked smooth as butter.
“It’s a chore, every day. Takes a lot of energy. Lot of time, lot of commitment,” he explained, absentmindedly working the final pieces back into their original design. “But you know you’re in love because…absolutely none of that bothers you.”
Leaning back from his work and the rearranged pieces of metal in front of him, Tony nodded silently to himself. There were many chunks missing from what it once was, all now molten down into the glowing metal that sat off to the side. But for what remained, the text across the circular device could still be discerned.
“You know because…you just know.”
Peter flickered his eyes to the arc reactor and the now empty glass display case off to the side. It was at the same time he realized he was smiling that he also realized the conversation was a lot less awkward than he originally thought it was going to be.
He rolled with it, managing to gather the courage for what he asked next.
“Did you always know it was Ms. Potts?” Peter’s hand waved in all sorts of floppy motions that correlated with his nerves. “You know, that’d she’d-she’d be your wife. One day. Did you always know?”
Tony nodded, and nodded, and nodded — but all the while, he looked away, making every single nod that bobbed his head a contradiction to his unspoken answer.
“I had my moments of doubt,” Tony finally spoke that contradiction out loud. Though his head nodded yes, his words spoke differently, even scoffing with a bit of self disdain. “Hell, I’ve doubted a lot of things in life, kid. I’ve doubted myself. My friends. The Avengers. I’ve doubted…yeah, I, uh…I’ve doubted a lot.”
Tony cleared his throat, not just once but twice. It wasn’t until he swallowed a few times and chuckled away a few private thoughts that he finally looked back at Peter, his smile returning with the same lightness as before.
“But Pep, she’s…she’s always been there for me,” Tony admitted, honestly. “Always. Once I knew, I…I just knew.”
It was Peter’s turn to nod, and he did it twice as much as Tony before him — a feat, all things considered. So rapid and shaky that it was a surprise his head didn’t roll right off his shoulders.
Despite his eagerness, Tony’s eyebrows furrowed somewhat warily — the skepticism in his own explanation evident in his tight expression.
“Get it?” he asked, doubtfully.
Still, Peter kept nodding. And he meant it, each bounce becoming more genuine than the last.
“Yeah, I-I think I get it.”
There was little Peter had to lie about these days — and boy did it feel great having that burden off his shoulders. There was no reason to keep his secret identity of Spider-Man from his friends or family; not to mention having an entire superhero team watching his back meant he’d be safe from others finding out.
Hell, the most sneaking around he had to do lately was only when he wanted to pull some childish prank on Sam and Bucky — who never failed to start the trouble that Peter insisted he had no choice but end, like the responsible do-gooder he was.
And ever since everything that happened in Wakanda, Peter felt like he could be one-hundred percent honest with Mr. Stark, no matter the subject at hand. It was a openness he hadn’t felt with anyone since…
Well, ever.
It seemed the kinship he and Mr. Stark had developed was one nothing could compare to.
So there was no reason to lie. And he didn’t. Bit by bit, Peter was really starting to feel like he was understanding things.
Maybe that’s what growing up felt like.
“Good,” Tony concisely said, with a wagging finger quick to get Peter’s attention. “Wrap it up with the ladies if you have any plans.”
Just like that, Peter threw his head back and shouted, “Oh my god, Mr. Stark!”
So much for not being awkward.
“No spider-babies, you hear me?” Like all awkward times that came before, Tony relished in Peter’s humiliation — wagging his finger in the most waggish way he possibly could. “Is that clear? For all we know, you lay eggs—”
“I don’t lay eggs!” Peter’s voice squeaked at its highest possible pitch, earning a very confused “Whee-whoop?” from DUM-E.
Like always, Tony kept on — basking in Peter’s embarrassment. “Is that a hypothesis, or have you done extensive research—”
Peter frantically shook his head. “This conversation is not happening—”
Tony waved a dismissive hand. “Of course you’ve done extensive research, you’re a teenage boy — you probably do your research every night—”
“Dude!” Without wasting a nanosecond, Peter threw his arm out straight as a stick — two fingers pressing firmly down on the webshooters that were attached to his wrist.
At that same time, Tony spun in his stool and clawed his fingers deep into his wrist watch — dragging his nails down his palm until the nanites of his repulsor brought his Iron Man gauntlet to life.
“Hey — hey, hey,” Tony warned with a smirk, aiming the deactivated repulsor right at Peter with all five fingers spread wide apart. “Watch it. You wanna show off your toys, I’ll show off mine.”
The playful stand-off was met with Peter’s belly laugh of his own, and the sudden interruption of an Irish accent flooding through the ceiling.
“Incoming call from Colonel James Rhodes,” FRIDAY announced, having shut off the music at the same time her systems brought to life a large holographic screen, right at the very end of Tony’s work table.
It blinked with an afterglow of blue as FRIDAY awaited his signal to answer the call.
Tony briefly glanced to that screen before using a gauntlet covered finger to point right at Peter.
“This isn’t a white flag, it’s a ceasefire,” he strictly announced, all the while letting the nanites of his gauntlet seal back into the watch on his wrist. The way they dispersed and disappeared could’ve very well been magic in Peter’s eyes. “Homework. Now. And stop making me say it — it leaves a bad taste in my mouth, gets worst every time, pretty sure it’s going to cause acid reflux.”
At the same time Peter rolled his eyes, this time with much less of a smile, Tony rolled his stool towards the end of the table and tapped the ‘answer’ button on the holographic screen.
The grin that spread over his face was a sharp contrast to the hard-pressed expression Rhodey greeted him with.
“Good morning, Pooh-Bear,” Tony began with enough syrupy goodness in his tone to drown a bee.
Rhodey took in that fake sweetness with a deadpan expression and stress lines that easily aged him by decades.
“Good morning? You think this is a good morning?” he blurted out, not daring to hold back a single ounce of his tone-biting frustration.
Tony’s lips parted to speak at the same exact time a resounding CRASH came through the video call, sounding louder by the passing second — until it abruptly stopped, prompting one very confused look from Tony and an absolutely fed up look from Rhodey.
“Don’t stop! Believing!” The obnoxiously loud singing came from a distance, very clearly not belonging to Rhodey despite his face being the only thing taking up the video call. “Hold on to that feeLLINGG!”
“Where are you?” Tony’s eyebrows knitted tightly together until they became one, and he rolled his stool closer to the holographic screen as if he could figure out the answer for himself.
The only clues he could pick out were the sounds of pots and pans banging relentlessly together, combined with the annoying singing that could’ve very well come straight from a karaoke bar at ten o'clock on a Tuesday night.
“Streetlights! PeopPLLE—”
“Where are you?” Rhodey bit back, looking even more annoyed than before — Tony was honestly impressed. “Are you soldering — is that jewelry you’re making?”
Tony quickly glanced back at the table behind him, where the welding torch laid next to a pair of blacksmith tongs and a still-glowing warped piece of metal.
“It's a hobby,” Tony breezily answered as he turned back to the screen. “Now answer my question, I asked it first — don’t skip turns like that, it’s rude.”
“Do I look like I’m in the mood for games right now?” Rhodey’s lips pursed into a tight circle, accentuating the stress lines already dug deep into his face.
And yet Tony shrugged it off like it was lost spare change. “We’ve already established you aren’t having a good morning, but what’s new there.”
At the same time another worrisome CRASH sounded through the speakers, a handful of pillows came flying from the left side of Tony’s screen, soaring behind Rhodey and eventually far out of sight.
Not a second later, Tony snapped his fingers.
“Those are from the lounge sofa,” he concluded. “You’re upstairs.”
If Rhodey’s face fell another flatter, it might as well have reached the center of the earth.
“Wow, Tony, it’s almost like you’re a genius or something,” Rhodey drawled out, more than ready to say something else when a raccoon suddenly popped up from the bottom corner of the screen, startling even Tony for a hot second.
“Lemme have this, I need this—” Rocket reached for the phone with two gloved paws that managed to quickly grab it from where it'd been placed.
Rhodey yanked the phone back just as quickly, and fast enough that Tony briefly got dizzy as he watched the lens shake and swing about, all while the two fought over the device.
“Touch my stuff one more time, rodent—”
“Don’t call me a rodent!”
“Seriously bro, don’t call him a rodent!” A voice sounded from the distance, only having a face when Rhodey’s phone briefly caught Quill in the kitchen — holding a broom in one hand, and a spatula in another. “He’s sorta got a thing about that, could get real nasty — pop open a beer and I’ll tell you about the time on Birj, it’s hilarious—”
“Oh my god, are they there?” Peter’s sudden presence behind Tony nearly gave him a heart attack — visible in the way he spun around fast enough to give himself whiplash, and with eyes wider than the old arc reactor on the table nearby.
“Jesus, kid—”
“Mr. Quill and the aliens, are they there with you?” Peter failed to notice Tony’s startlement, going on to excitedly ask Rhodey, “Right now? Here? I mean — in the lounge?”
Tony made a face that Peter was pretty sure he’d never seen before, while Tony was almost positive he’d never made it before.
“Homework. Yesterday.” Tony waved his hand hard enough to create a breeze — teenagers. A whole different breed in his book. “Go, shoo, get busy.”
The disappointment from Peter was palpable, and Tony was a millisecond away from telling the kid to stop dragging his feet on the floor — he was almost convinced that Bambi looked less sad when his mother died.
“What’s Peter doing here, I thought this was his weekend in Queens.” Rhodey’s face settled back into frame as he got his camera in a safe place again, though he noticeably kept one eye on the raccoon that passed by, who was muttering under his breath the entire time.
“What are you doing here, I thought you were in Washington State kissing D.O.D ass,” Tony matter-of-factly assumed, spinning back around on his stool only once content having seen Peter actually start typing on his laptop.
“I was,” Rhodey curtly tossed back. “Up until SHIELD called me with news that space aliens made a landing at the compound — which by the way, Tony, that’s something you need to tell me! Preferably when it happens, not over a day later!”
Tony tossed both his hands in the air. “I thought you were in Washington State kissing D.O.D ass!”
“I was!”
The only thing louder than Rhodey’s frustrated shout was the room-echoing BANG that followed, and a gasp so startled it could’ve taken up every ounce of oxygen from the compound.
“You have broken it!”
“No, no, it’s not broken! It’s not — it’s just—”
“Peter, if you don't stop touching things—”
“I’m allowed to touch things, Gamora!”
“You’re breaking everything you touch!”
“It’s not broken!”
Tony slowly worked his jaw and before choosing his next words. “Just gunna go out on a limb here and make some wild assumptions—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rhodey rapidly nodded his head, “that’s a real smart thing to do right now—”
Tony kept on, “Judging from the way Flash Gordon over there is tearing through the lounge—”
“Mh-hm, mh-hm, yep, yep,” Rhodey hurriedly agreed, in the most sarcastic tone he was physically capable of conjuring up.
“This mean SHIELD doesn’t have a problem with Space Invaders dropping by for cocktails?” Tony concluded, earning a hard-pressed look from Rhodey — and a long stretch of silence that never meant anything good from his friend.
“Why do you think I’m stuck on babysitting duty?” Rhodey finally answered with a question of his own, and with an aggravation Tony wasn’t sure he had heard in quite some time. If at all. It seemed they were both managing new things today — Tony showcasing expressions previously unseen on his face, and Rhodey with a new level of annoyance that very well could break world records.
Before Tony could even try and make a defense to the situation, a young woman with pale skin and pitch black eyes jumped into the frame, taking up half the lens with a smile that reached all the way to her ears.
“The metal-man has agreed to be our chaperon while we visit Terra!” Mantis squealed, the antennta’s on her forehead moving right alongside her visible enthusiasm.
Rhodey didn’t waste a second in grabbing her arm, gently but firmly, and forcing a gap between them.
“I didn’t agree to jack, Ladybug — three feet back, please, and keep those antennta’s away from me,” he said, every bit ‘no-nonsense’ as all the times that came before.
For eyes as dark as the night, Mantis’s pupils manage to grow even larger; with her antennta’s shining brightly and casting off the windows nearby.
“Ohhhh…you are more than angry,” Mantis slowly revealed, her brows knitting closely together as she looked Rhodey straight-on. “You are, as Quill says, pissed off.”
“Tony—!” Rhodey let go of the alien girl so quickly, it was as if she’d caught fire — or was an actual bug, his hand wiping at his bicep with quick, forcible swipes up and down. “I didn’t sign up for this!”
Tony made a face, and stuck to it. “How was I supposed to know they’d drag you into this?”
Rhodey immediately stopped rubbing at his arm, his head skyrocketing up to the lens of his phone.
“They’re considered weapons, Tony! They’re aliens. Of course they’re gunna drag me into this!” Rhodey was officially as pissed as Tony figured he could get. “You have a Colonel of the United States Air Force with direct ties to the Avengers and the contracting Weapons Procurement Liaison division of the US government. They don’t want anyone else but me touching this!”
“Take a compliment!” Tony tried to reason, gesturing one hand out to the screen with a smile that was entirely there for pacification. “They trust you enough to watch what are technically intergalactic space weapons—”
“I did not put in my vacation time to babysit aliens, Tony!” Rhodey shouted, so loud it reached over the banging of pots and pans from across the room. “I put in my vacation time for your impromptu wedding—”
“This is part of the wedding!” Tony argued, his smile doing absolutely nothing to placate Rhodey. Still, his grin grew larger. “Think of it as an…extended bachelor party.”
“Did someone say party?” Quill’s voice was only heard as he shouted from out of frame, and the abundance of excitement in his tone came through clear as day. “I am down to party! Oh man, let’s do this, I need a good shindig—”
“Are you joking!?” The only other female in the room raised her voice — no antenna’s on her head, but just as alien as they could come. “Peter, you and Thor just spent two weeks on Spartax—”
“We were working—”
“We didn’t get paid!”
“Because we couldn’t find the Celestial Mirror!”
“Because you both were too busy wasting time at the Star Dust Disco—!”
“There was a lead there! I told you, the owner’s sister—”
“Yes, Peter, please tell me even more about the owner’s sister—”
Rhodey didn’t give their argument the time of day, too busy pointing a stern finger at the lens of his phone as he had his own argument with Tony.
“None of this would be happening if you hadn’t invited Thor—”
“Hey, I was as much in the dark about this as you,” Tony countered. “If you’re gunna point fingers, point them at Strange. You ask the man a favor and the smug bastard can’t resist the opportunity to show off — how was I supposed to know that Thor would arrive in a damn spaceship, unannounced, with the Astral Anarchists Galaxy Goofs in tow?”
“Hey!” Quill shouted, simultaneously mixing with Rocket’s indignant, “Watch it, you flarknuff! That’s the Guardians of the Galaxy, to you!”
If Tony hadn’t rolled his eyes as hard as he did, he would’ve never seen Peter staring from across the workshop — fingers still on the keys of his laptop, but his attention long since diverted back to the phone call taking place.
“Homework, kid.” Tony didn’t even look Peter’s way, deciding that multiple finger snaps was plenty enough to get his point across. “Focus up, pen to the paper, chop chop.”
Rhodey silently watched the encounter with an eyebrow arched high, and his silence making the disorderly racket sounding from the lounge all the louder.
“Let me guess,” Rhodey eventually started to say, “May finally put her foot down on extra-curricular activities?”
It was Tony’s turn to throw Rhodey a deadpanned expression, and Rhodey’s turn to return it with a grin of his own.
“Kid has some kind of paper due and I’m playing the part of the responsible adult while she’s outta town,” Tony reluctantly explained, followed by a harsh grimace that crinkled his nose up tight. “I’m going to need mouthwash if I keep saying that.”
Rhodey couldn’t have shook his head any harder if he tried. “Uh-uh, what you need is to get your ass up here. Now. ”
Tony furrowed his brows. “I’m a little tied up with this wedding planning, Platypus—”
“Bullshit,” Rhodey spit out. “We both know Pepper handles every detail down to the nth degree — including keeping you away from the planning.” Rhodey didn’t give Tony a pause of air to make his case. “You aren’t doing anything down in that workshops besides goofing off with Peter—”
“I’m babysitting too!” Tony still found a way to defend himself.
“The tree talks, Tony!” Rhodey was bordering the line of hysteria at this point, Tony could tell. The aggravated anger that once reached maximum heights had now become something else entirely new, and it showed in the crack to his voice. “It only says three words. But it talks.”
“I heard that!” Rockey yelled from out of view, only to pop into frame just as quickly — with the aforementioned tiny tree perched innocently on his shoulder. “I'll have you know that Groot has a far larger vocabulary than any of you Terran scut rugs!”
“I am Groot!” The high-pitched voice eagerly joined in, before jumping off Rocket’s shoulder and running into the kitchen with a waddle that nearly took him to down to his knees.
Tony watched — unblinking — as the little creature ran off. The tiny tree managed to climb up a barstool all on his own before finaly accepting help from a much larger man, who took him across the kithcen and out of sight. Around that time, Tony finally managed to shake away his trance, though he definitely looked like a wet dog trying to get there.
“Tell you what,” Tony finally suggested, “If you need backup, I’ll send the kid to you — he’s dying to meet the Quill guy, anyhow.”
The sound of a resounding CRASH came from inside the workshop this time, and Tony spun on his stool just in time to watch Peter jump up from his, so fast it toppled right onto the ground.
“Holy cow, seriously?” Peter excitedly asked, his hands fumbling as he struggled to pick up the stool and place it back on its two legs. It fell two more times before he got it upright.
Tony rolled his eyes with a response sitting in his throat, but Rhodey beat him to it.
“Uh-uh!” Rhodey snapped, pointing his finger directly at the camera lens — tapping enough times to get Tony’s attention again. “Don’t you go pawning this off to Peter. Don’t you even think about it. Come deal with this chaos yourself.”
Tony spun back around on his stool. “I’m in the middle of—!”
“I mean it, Tony.” With decades of experience under his belt, Rhodey knew better than to keep talking. The phone call ended with a single tap of his finger, and no sooner after did the video connection cut to black.
FRIDAY dismissed the holographic screen long before Tony could even think to ask her.
A few ‘tsks’ worked his tongue, only accompanied by the passing “Whee-whoops” on DUM-E’s end.
And Peter stood silently—anticipatively—with enthusiasm so blatantly tangible that Tony could practically feel himself drowning in it, even all the way across the room.
“Come on," he begrudgingly relented, "we better get going before that vein on his forehead gets any bigger,” Tony didn’t hide the sigh that spoke his words. He pushed his stool to the side and waved Peter on to the exit doors. “Besides, I wanna make sure the rodent hasn’t spread rabies, anyway.”
Despite Tony being closest to the doors, Peter managed to get there first — so quick, the automatic feature failed to function in time for him to run out.
“This is gunna be so cool!” Peter excitedly bounced on the heels of his feet as he waited for Tony to catch up, only to run ahead of the man the moment the doors parted, already far down the hallway before Tony could holler for him to slow down.
Their departure left both projects discarded on the workshop tables, and it wasn’t long after they left that FRIDAY shut off the overhead ceiling lights — the surrounding technology the only remaining thing that brought a little bit of light to the room.
The soft glow from monitors and computers shined a gleam of blue over the decade old arc reactor, one that had been constructed into a memento of love; now dismantled and reassembled into something else entirely.
Notes:
Listen, ya'll. Filler chapters don’t exist in fanfiction. You can’t have cherry pie, or ANY pie, without the filling, right? Right. Plus, there’s so much plot discretely laid down in all these character development scenes that once this is finished, you'll be screaming at the connections. I mean screaming 😆
That’s my way of saying enjoy the next few chapters. We’ve got a lot of nonsensical fun character bonding moments that are 100% essential to this story, even if it’s simply just a means to therapy for the author. Not to mention, we've done this rodeo twice now. Ya'll know that once shit hits the fans, you'll be screaming for me to hit the emergency stop button.
#no regrats
Chapter 8: Vows, Vacation, and Valor
Summary:
The further Peter walked into the kitchen, the more lights that turned on. The small under-the-cabinet type that illuminated the counter space and nothing more. With another yawn, he reached for the top shelf and brought down a box of cereal, one of many that he kept up there.
Well, the many that Clint kept up there.
He had the archer to thank for his sugary midnight snacking eating habits. To be honest, he wasn’t sure if he had ever even asked Clint to stock up on the cereal. But that was Clint; the guy just knew how to make the team happy, no words needed.
Natasha’s unsalted almonds were always in the cupboards, right alongside Bruce’s chamomile tea, Sam’s Eggo’s, Rhodey’s craft beer, and the loaf of bread that Steve never really ate. Rather, it stayed in the cabinet for his peace of mind.
Notes:
If you aren't here for all the team bonding and found family, I must ask you....
Why the flark are you even here?
▰Chapter 6: Something New ▰
The large bed felt empty more days than not. Pepper spent most her time traveling for business affairs, and Tony spent most his business on-site — no different than the laptop sitting on his lap, it was convenient; what with the past year seeming to be nothing but Avenger problems stacked on top of more Avenger problems.
They hadn’t even given themselves the time of day to start looking for new property, not ever since Killian’s Extremis-powered missiles wiped his only home off the map. What became a temporary living situation — first bouncing from the tower and then to the compound — had gone on long enough that Tony could feel an itch starting to creep up along his skin. One he could no longer ignore.
There was simply too much work here. No matter what they did — no matter how many pancakes Wilson cooked, how many pots of homespun stew Wanda made. It didn’t matter how many dinners they tried to arrange together, ‘a semblance of structure’ as Romanoff insisted.
There were things he could always count on here — Rogers could always be found reading a newspaper in the lounge after his early morning runs, and Barton would always stock the kitchen, their private kitchen, with a bit of something for everyone. The stock of cereal seemed to have doubled in the last few months, and it had been long enough now that they all knew not to touch Natasha’s unsalted almonds.
Without even trying, they all did their damnedest to make things as domesticated as possible. For their sanity, it seemed.
Even Banner seemed to have planted his roots with them — as if a trip to space was enough to finally keep him still from travels, if only for a little while.
Pepper had a good portion of her belongings here, sure. Peter had room and board — granted far less extravagant in size than the other living quarters. And yeah, it always went without saying — it was a hundred acres with a lap pool.
But it just wasn't home
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tony had absolutely no trouble tracking down Rhodey, and subsequently the Space Oddity Squad in tow — who seemed to have boldly embarked on a full-scale mission to colonize his compound.
Even if he hadn’t been able to pin-point their location so quickly, it was far too easy to follow the lively tempo of electronic rock music blaring at volumes only he ever dared to use, reserved strictly for his soundproof workshops.
♫ Sun is shinin' in the sky
There ain't a cloud ♫
in sight ♫
Tony managed to reach the top of the staircase that led into the lounge a whole whopping second before Peter — an impressive feat, considering Peter’s hyperactive impatience to lead the way. He could actually feel the inside of his eardrums vibrating from the sound overhead, the beat of drums and synthesized piano keys so loud that it practically shook the banister railing.
“What the hell is this music?”
It shouldn’t have been his first question.
No, Tony’s first question should’ve been asking why a man more muscular than the great Captain America was bent over the kitchen sink; eating hummus dip with his bare fingers, all while looking positively repulsed by the food — only to go back for more, this time making the serving size bigger than the last.
Or better yet, he could’ve asked why the young girl with antenna’s on her head was jumping childishly from one sofa to another, springing each leap like it was a dramatic climb to Mount Everest — with high-pitched giggles, to boot. Giggles that he swore matched the activity of her antenna’s, moving freely on her forehead with a glow as dim as the afternoon sun casting through ceiling skylights.
Hell, it wouldn’t have even hurt to ask why the green-skinned woman, sitting casually on the only armchair in the lounge, was using a goddamn sword the size of her arm to slice through individual pieces of almonds — eating one half of an almond for herself, and handing off the second half to the tiny tree perched on her shoulder.
Tony furrowed his brows, watching as the tiny tree’s limbs — legs? — dangled with a breezy innocence, both small hands holding onto the piece of almond as he went in for a large bite. With wooden covered eyes closing shut, his tiny head bobbed along to the beat of the music, all while he happily chewed away on the nuts given to him.
On Tony’s ever growing list of concerns, Natasha’s stash of unsalted almonds suddenly ranked the lowest.
Using the banister as a standing perch, Tony leaned his back against the metal railing while he surveyed the energetically charged room.
“It’s my tunes, man!” Of all people to answer his question — Tony noticed that Rhodey was blatantly ignoring him with a painfully obvious cold shoulder — it was the man across the room, dancing freely and without any care, who wound up providing an answer. “Mr. Blue Sky, Electric Light Orchestra, 1977!”
Quill pointed to the ceiling with one hand while the other showed off a small rectangle device Tony barely made out as a music player. He furrowed his brows, tightly. The word ‘outdated’ didn’t do the poor technology justice.
“I got your thing to play my thing, and your thing plays it so much better — listen to that volume, I can’t even get the Benatar to sound that crisp!” Quill spun on his feet with a carefree twist, clapping his hands all at the same time. “And hey, now that we’re all here, everyone’s game to jam like a band — how sweet is that!?”
Tony swore he heard the crack in his neck when he shot his head up to the ceiling.
“FRIDAY—”
“Sorry, boss,” FRIDAY knew to apologize just by Tony’s tone, adding a bit of contrition to her own artificial voice along the way. Almost immediately, she lowered the volume of music down to a somewhat reasonable level. “My protocols were overridden by—”
“You’re gunna play like that?” Tony pointed a sharp finger across the room, where sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop and paperwork surrounding him was Rhodey; looking every bit displeased as he did on the video call minutes earlier.
In fact, Rhodey’s deadpanned expression only intensified as he met Tony’s finger with a heated glare — seen only in fragmented snapshots as Mantis hopped sofa-to-sofa, obstructing his otherwise clear line of sight.
“Weeee!" Mantis cheered as she made one leap larger than the last. "This is so much fun!”
Tony was forced to stare at her just to catch a glimpse of Rhodey in-between each jump, and vice-verse for Rhodey, who only managed to look even more disgruntled with each jump she took.
Mantis remained oblivious to them both.
Peter timidly looked to Tony before slowly — very slowly — he entered the lounge, taking small steps away from the staircase with a cautious finger pointed over at the couches.
“Is she…gunna hurt herself…doing that?” Peter asked as slowly as he walked inside, watching with visible confusion — and a bit of amusement — as Mantis used the couches like trampolines.
“Knowing Mantis, yeah, she probably will,” Quill answered at the same time he grabbed his leather jacket hanging across the back of a kitchen chair. With movements smooth as butter, he easily shrugged it on. “But I’ll be totally honest with you, her bones are basically like rubber — beef jerky has more snap to it.”
As Quill strutted pass the couches, he walked by Gamora sitting on the single armchair — and she had no problem following him with her eyes, all the way to the staircase leading up to the lounge.
“Why do you take such pleasure in lying to these people?” Gamora dryly asked, never once looking at Groot as she handed him another piece of almond.
Groot took the piece of almond with both hands and chomped down.
“Not lies — totally not lies!” Quill kept his stride even as he turned back to look at her. “Mantis, tell them all about the time you did that thing with your elbow, you know, the one you did during that asteroid storm on Krileeis—”
With his attention focused everywhere but where he was walking, Quill bumped right into Tony on his way to — well, Tony.
The black polo Tony wore took no beating from the brief physical encounter. And yet Quill brushed off his leather jacket like a few dozen bags of sawdust had just exploded all over him.
“Mr. Grouchy Glowly Hands.” Quill gave Tony a friendly nod of recognition. It wasn’t reciprocated. “I remember meeting you when we landed. You’re the Groom of this whole sha-bang, right?”
Quill didn’t wait for an answer, slapping the back of his hand against Tony’s bicep while he was still speaking — earning a look from the billionaire that not even Peter Quill’s million dollar smile could afford.
“Congrats on the snagging the pretty lady, my man. Hope she doesn’t become a ball and chain, if you know what I mean.”
Quill’s heavily dramatized wink did nothing to drown out Tony’s indignant bark.
“Hey—!”
“—there, Tiny Tyke,” Quill immediately spun to face Peter, going on to casually approach the gawking teenager standing not far away. “How things hanging? I’m Star Lor—”
“—ter Quill, the boy from Missouri who got abducted by aliens!”
Peter may have been five inches shorter than Quill, and easily half his size, but he couldn’t have steamrolled the man any faster had he tried.
In fact, it took a solid three seconds for Quill to even realize what’d been said — startling back with his arm hastily retracted, once ready for a friendly handshake and now held closely to his chest, affronted.
“Wait, what? No, man, no! I’m Star Lord—” Quill shook his head harder than a soaking wet dog coming out of a hurricane. The confusion that painted his face was as vivid as the red lining his jacket. “The boy from Missouri who got abducted by aliens? Are you kidding me — that’s really what I’m known for here?”
A muffled, hoarse, and downright tickled laugh came from behind the refrigerator.
Tony shot his head in the direction of the sound — not so much confused by the noise as he was the lack of attention given to it. Not even Rhodey seemed to spare a glance from his laptop.
Peter was the only one to get a pass; Tony was fully aware that the kid’s starstruck excitement would likely survive a nuclear holocaust.
“Mr. Stark and I learned all about you when we stopped in Missouri during our road trip!” Peter took a deep breath in — proving Tony right, as always — as his hands went on to move as fast as his words. “There’s this gas station in the town where you grew up, it’s really small and cramped, and the guy who works there is super weird, has these crazy big glasses that took up half his face and he spoke a lot about salt, like the guy had a crazy obsession with salt — but anyway, they have all the bathrooms decked out with all this alien stuff to like, commiserate you or whatever. Somebody even painted your face above the toilet stalls. Your name was on the urinals, dude! You’re totally famous there!”
Peter’s next oxygen-deprived inhale was cut short. A pause abruptly broke his tangent as realization sunk in.
“Who’s Star Lord?”
It was hard to say for sure, what with the actual logistics involved in atmospheric calculations combined with distance to telescopic advancements, but Peter had a gut feeling that Quill’s offense could be seen all the way back up in space.
“Star Lord. Legendary outlaw?” Quill’s eyes grew wider with each passing second. “Guardian of the Galaxy?” The silence only further widened his eyes, now blown wide open with panicked offense. “Saved the galaxy twice?” Quill’s voice started to squeak. “Star Lord, man!”
Peter’s five silent blinks held the pause that followed.
Something rattled loudly from the kitchen — Tony furrowed his brows tighter, refusing to look away from that direction, even if he was still the only one looking there.
Meanwhile, Peter stayed where he was; visibly confused until, like a flip of a switch, he wasn’t.
“Oh — oh, oh!” Peter suddenly sounded, straightening his posture stiff as a board right after. Frantically, he wiped his open palm against the jeans covering his thigh, ensuring complete dryness before outstretching for a handshake. “We’re-we’re using our made up names, then. I’m…I’m Spider-Man.”
As Peter extended his hand towards Quill to shake — who looked down at that hand like it was the intergalactic space alien who suddenly arrived from a whole other planet — Tony rolled his eyes harder than the racket that came from behind the fridge.
“For your sake and mine, I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.” Tony patted Peter’s shoulder on his way to the kitchen table, aiming for Rhodey’s direction but noticeably taking a detour around the island along the way.
It was only there that Tony finally caught a glimpse of the furry tail swinging wildly from underneath the double door refrigerator.
“HA ha ha HA!”
The sound of gruff, obnoxiously loud laughter was muted from where it sounded, echoing crassly against the kitchen tiles and marble flooring.
Quill shot his head towards it with a crease deepening his brow. “Dude—”
“You got your wish, Quill! You’re famous, alright!” Rocket crawled out from underneath the fridge, yanking off the safety shield that covered his face and tossing it to the side as he wagged his screwdriver in no particular direction. “Famous for being a d’ast idiot on Terra who got kidnapped by a bunch of junker space pirates! HA ha—!”
“I was only abducted by Yondu because my father was trying to—” Quill suddenly stopped talking, taking a deep breath in until his chest puffed out and his shoulders pulled back. Letting a pause break his next words, he finally said, “You know what? I don’t wanna talk about it.”
Quill spun on his heels — literally spun on his heels, popping the collar of his jacket with a flare that almost seemed practiced ahead of time, matching a little too perfectly to the beat of the music that played overhead.
A second later and he craned his head around, the frown tugging on his face a harsh contrast to the energetic tempo and synthesized piano keys of Mr. Blue Sky.
“Urinals?” Quill whined, disappointment noticeably weighing down his voice. “Really, man?”
Peter tried to give a sympathetic smile. Perhaps, if his teenage nerves hadn’t swallowed his lips up whole within the very confines of his mouth, he would’ve done just that.
Meanwhile, it was all Tony could do just to roll his eyes; hard enough that he should’ve very well lost his balance on his way to the kitchen table — not helping matters by throwing frequent backward glances to the refrigerator on his way to Rhodey.
“You owe me, Tones,” Rhodey barely waited for Tony to be in earshot before he spoke, not letting his friend’s distraction of the refrigerator stop him from going on. “I mean it. I mean it with every fiber of my goddamn being. You owe me big time—”
“Add it to my tab,” Tony tossed out, with both his arms thrown carelessly into the air. The noise Rocket made from underneath the fridge clashed irritatingly with the overhead music and surrounding chitchat taking place — Tony raised his voice to be heard. “What do you want me to say? Hm? It’s not my fault Thor’s buddy-buddy with SHIELD, thank Coulson for that — even long gone that man’s rubber stamp holds up. If Thor says they’re good, then—”
“I have to babysit them. Not you, not anyone else. I have to babysit them.” Rhodey’s bite was sharp and fierce, the glare that followed even more-so. The papers laid out on the table were roughly yet neatly pushed away in a show of frustration. “For a week.”
Tony made a ‘tsk’ sound with his jaw, looking to the corner of the room with a harsh bite on his back molars.
“Might be a little longer,” he threw gasoline on the fire, a little too carelessly. “If Thor decides to stay for the after party, and they’re his ride—”
“I’m going to kill you,” Rhodey didn’t hesitate with a threat that Tony briefly contemplated as legit.
“Let me marry Pepper first so she can get my money,” he said nonetheless, his blithely humor only further aggravating Rhodey — so much for making sure that vein didn’t get any bigger.
Rhodey’s jaw unhinged for a retort, but before his voice could be heard —
“You know what?” Quill planted himself firmly in the middle of the lounge as he shouted over the music. “I’m going back to Missouri! Screw it, we’re on Earth, we’re making the trip!” Twisting at the hips, Quill threw a sharp finger in Peter’s direction. “Hey, Spider-Guy, this gas station — I need coordinates, where was it exactly?”
Peter’s brow creased as he looked between Quill and the others. “It’s…it’s Spider-Man.”
“Wait!”
Quill was over that in a nanosecond.
“We’re in New York, right?” Twisting hard again, he stopped just in time to face Gamora. “Oh man, we gotta go to the Statue of Liberty first! Gamora, you gotta see it, you’re gunna love it. Then we’ll go to Missouri — wait!”
Gamora raised her eyebrow. Just in time for Quill to twist in place even harder than the last time, nearly stumbling to the side when he finally came to a dizzyingly stop.
“Is Kevin Bacon still alive?” A CLAP of his hands resounded over the music. “Oh man, we gotta find Kevin Bacon, I absolutely need his autograph while we’re here—”
“You’re not going anywhere!” Rhodey snapped — a little too nonsense for Tony’s liking.
It was his shout that prompted FRIDAY to lower the volume of the music down a tad bit more. She knew trouble in Rhodey’s voice as well as she knew it in Tony’s.
It was just in time for the songs to switch, making Tony realize there was a very distinct theme happening with the music that played. It was the only thing he found to be more odd than the source of the music itself; Tony couldn’t help but wonder why a man all the way from intergalactic space travels had been holding onto one hit wonders from generations back.
There wasn’t much time to chew on the thought. Not with Rhodey’s forehead vein officially past the point of no return.
“You’re not setting one foot outside of this compound.” Rhodey pointed a firm and dangerous finger at them all, even the baby tree — who noticeably frowned at the threat. “If you do go anywhere, it’s with me. You cannot leave my sights, you cannot leave my side — you even think about sneaking away, the US government will make sure you never leave Area 51 so long as you live. That clear enough for you, Space Lord?”
A blanket of silence almost stole the room.
It would’ve, if Mantis hadn’t been continuing to leap across the sofa’s, her excited “Weeee’s!” filling the void of blasting music that had since been turned down to an acceptable level.
Combined with her was Rocket, who continued his tinkering underneath the fridge — something that, once again, earned multiple double takes from Tony. The sounds of cling and clatter kept the tension at bay, combined with stifled chuckles and muttered insults most definitely belonging to the raccoon.
Finally, Quill cleared his throat, giving way to an easy smile as he did.
“It's Star Lord,” he corrected, far too smoothly for the way Rhodey was speaking to him. Whether that was confidence or nativity had yet to be understood. “And hey, you wanna tag along to see the Statue of Liberty with us, that’s cool by me—”
“You make no sense,” Drax spoke up from inside the kitchen, where he stood leaning against the sink — one hand holding a container of hummus, the other hand positively slathered in the same hummus. “How is it possible for liberty to be a statue, if a statue remains frozen and liberty is freedom?”
Sitting on the one and only armchair, Gamora looked away from the almond she sliced in half; craning her head around to face the kitchen behind her.
“That was oddly deep, Drax,” Gamora spoke up, feeling a small rustle on her own leather jacket — far darker in colors than Quill’s — as Groot nodded along to her statement, all while nibbling on his almond from the perch on her shoulder.
Drax dug his hand into the hummus container once more, taking a large tongueful and smacking his lips with growing disgust.
“This food taste like a Jackogel’s piss,” he dryly stated, harshly spitting out the remainder into the sink below him.
Gamora paused, her expression remaining deadpanned as she eventually turned back around.
“Lovely,” she stoically drawled out.
Groot eagerly reached both his hands out for another almond, and yet Gamora seemed to have lost her appetite after that. She set the bag of almonds onto the nearest end table at the chairs side, and paid no mind as Groot carefully climbed down her shoulder to go after the snack.
The bag was nearly as big as he was, but it didn’t stop the little creature from digging inside.
“We have traveled halfway across the quadrant for this?” Drax all but tossed the container of hummus into the sink, causing a mess down below that only managed to splatter upwards and across his chest. He growled in frustration as he furiously wiped it away from his bulging chest muscles. “This is a waste of our time!”
“We came here at Thor’s request,” Gamora slowly, yet firmly, reminded him. “We’re here so he can attend a ceremony — and we all agreed to behave so that would be possible. Remember?”
A bark of laughter sounded from the refrigerator, growing louder as Rocket wiggled himself out from underneath.
“Yeah, sure, you know what I remember, Gamora?”
Rocket climbed off the floor and made his way on top of the kitchen island, standing on his two feet and smacking both paws together to rid them of dirt.
It was only then Tony was free to see what activities had kept the creature so busy. His eyes widened as he caught sight of the wires and metal pieces strewed about.
The underneath of the refrigerator had been completely gutted.
Rocket wasn’t deterred by Tony’s expression of shock. “What I remember is you starting to treat that big barbaric buffoon with kid gloves ever since he had one itsy bitsy existential crisis—”
“Don’t even start, Rocket,” Quill immediately chimed in, his one hand outward from across the lounge. “You know we’ve gone out of our way for you in the past—”
“Yeah, well, I expected that from you!” Rocket quickly retorted, with arms folded tightly over his chest.
Gamora raised an eyebrow as she carefully sheathed her sword, no longer of any use now that her team had so wonderfully ruined her appetite. “You don’t think that’s the least bit selfish?”
“I think it’s tit-for-tat!” Rocket said, removing one paw from his fold to point a long nail at the stairs of the lounge, gesturing towards Thor’s absence. “What tit has this guy given us for a tat!”
Quill wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Dude, that just sounds wrong on so many levels.”
Still standing near the staircase, Peter made his own face — mostly one of confusion. Almost entirely confusion.
Definitely nothing but confusion, especially as Mantis began to do spins in the air with each leap she made across the sofa’s.
Rhodey rubbed so ferociously at his forehead, Tony was almost positive that the pressure against his skull was the only thing keeping that vein from popping out entirely and causing immediate brain death.
And Groot had surrounded himself with almonds from the bag left unattended on the end table, where he happily chomped away, his legs dangling off the edge without a care to the conversation at hand.
“Behave, Rocket,” Gamora insisted, going on to roll her eyes when the obnoxious, “Ha!” followed suit.
“Behave? I’ve done been behaving!” Rocket crassly insisted, throwing his arm in no general direction that meant anything. “But if they’re here to force me into taking one more shower—!”
Drax smacked his hand down on the counter, smearing hummus dip all over the marble top. “You needed that shower, you smelt like a soiled Slakebeast’s groin on hottest side of Elidra—!”
“Are you calling me filthy!? That’s RICH!” Rocket laughed, intentionally laughing harder by the second — earning an aggravated sigh by Gamora and an equally aggravated groan from Rhodey. He stopped almost as quickly as he started. “Quill, can you believe this sack of scaggscutt is calling me filthy—!”
“Wait!” Mantis appeared behind Peter so suddenly, Peter couldn’t help but startle back — with a screech that wasn’t muted in time, though he did try his damnedest to clamp his lips shut the moment it sounded. “You said we cannot leave? So, does this mean we’re not allowed to explore Terra?”
Two black pools of pupils stared at Peter, wide and unblinking, somehow growing deeper with the onyx undertone that shined from the overhead skylights.
Peter gave a timid smile, even as her antennas worked in two different directions; noticeably freaking out despite how hard he tried not to freak out.
“We have a swimming pool here,” Peter offered with a nervous shrug. “It’s kinda cool.”
Though Mantis’ response failed to change from the almost childish disappointment that painted her face, there was still excitement shown in the electric, downright dramatic gasp that sounded from Quill.
“Gamora!” Quill twisted to face the armchair where Gamora sat, who looked entirely unamused by his presence. “We should go swimming!”
Gamora quirked an eyebrow, raising the soft green skin of her forehead. “I’m not going—”
“Oh come on, go swimming with me!” Quill didn’t relent, his voice bordering that of a whine. He bounced his knees hard enough to be jumping without taking his feet off the ground. “We never do anything fun—”
Gamora raised a second eyebrow. “That’s because we’re busy working—”
“We’re not working now!” he insisted, throwing his arm arm out in the general vicinity of the room. “We’re on vacation, right? Everyone’s gotta swim on vacation!”
The sound of running water started up from the kitchen.
“A swimming hole could be quite relaxing right now,” Drax casually chimed in, all while craning his neck over the kitchen sink, opening his mouth wide for the faucet that poured out water.
With a shared sense of curious confusion, both Mantis and Peter watched silently as Drax lapped up water like a thirsty dog, in the most inconvenient way he possibly could.
Peter was almost positive his alien-stunned-trance could’ve lasted all day, but thankfully for him, a squeak of a voice broke him free of his thoughts as it loudly called out from the lounge,
“I am Groot!”
Climbing off the kitchen island, Rocket sat down on the nearest barstool as he crossed both arms over his chest. “Groot says if Drax is going swimming again, someone needs to make sure he wear clothes this time.”
From behind Rocket, Drax stood up tall with a face dripping wet, going on to slam a clenched fist down onto the counter in frustration.
“If I am to relax, I will not be confined by the fabrics of modesty—!”
“Do not go skinny dipping in my pool. Any of you, for that matter,” Tony spoke up with a voice that didn’t yell, yet managed to steal everyone’s attention — angry muscular men included. He used that opportunity to gesture towards the occupants with a lazy twizzle of his index finger. “And while addressing the room, please, refresh my memory. You…people. How exactly do you know Thor, again?”
Drax spoke as he bent over the kitchen sink for a second time, his mouth opening wide to catch running water.
“We have not yet disclosed that information with you to bare repeating.”
Tony watched, deadpanned, as Drax slurped the sink water without a single break for breath. For a brief moment, the primitive sounds he made reached over the music playing throughout the room.
“That was my point,” Tony eventually managed, taking note of the twitch he could feel in his left eye while watching the man lap up mouthful after mouthful of faucet water. He was beginning to understand why Rhodey’s forehead vein had made its startling and tenacious appearance.
Breaking away from the running water, Drax took in a deep inhale, followed curtly by, “Your words have no edge for a point.”
“He is our friend!” Mantis enthusiastically pitched in — saving Tony from a response he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to formulate. Even if given the time.
Quill turned away from Gamora to face Tony, waving his hand hard enough that it eventually got Tony’s attention away from Drax — and what was clearly his attempt to drink every ounce of water that came running from the faucet.
No one seemed eager to tell him the water wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.
“He’s-he’s more like an acquaintance,” Quill insisted, brushing off the subject both with his words and his hand; if his wrist flapped any harder, it would’ve created a breeze.
Gamora easily and casually crossed her legs, all while staring up at Quill with an unblinking, firm stare.
“Peter, he’s been with us for a year, he’s a little more than just an—”
“He’s a close acquaintance, then,” Quill very quickly amended, without once looking back at Gamora.
Tony quirked an eyebrow.
Even Rhodey looked up at that.
Gamora, however, continued to look up at Quill with an expression that managed to say it all, and still remained mysterious at the same time.
“He’s a pain in the ass, is what he is!” Rocket shouted from his stool at the kitchen island, mimicking Quill’s motions as his arms moved all about with his words. “Brooding Biceps hasn’t left us alone for a single cycle, constantly making a ruckus, eating all our flarking food—!”
Gamora craned her head behind her. “He has been traveling with us for a year, Rocket—”
“That ain’t no good reason to be blowing through our rations!” Rocket bit back. “If he touches my grub one more time—!”
Quill cleared his throat. Loudly. And then again, until finally Tony craned his head over in his direction — his expression not hiding his annoyance.
“We know him because we know him,” Quill concisely started, only once having Tony’s full attention. Tony's annoyance visibly grew. “We met him, we got stuck with him. You know how it goes. Say the way.”
Tony made a face that physically hurt.
“You mean c'est la vie?”
“Here’s the real question,” Quill kept going on as if Tony hadn’t said a word. And Tony noticed. “How do you know him? Since when did Earth folk start hanging out with Gods from…Godly dimensions?”
Truly examining the young man for the first time since his arrival to the compound — especially now that he was the cause for the throbbing that pestered behind his eyes — Tony turned further inward to give Quill a good once-over. His vividly colorful jacket matched his personality, the tacky red leather saying more about him than his attitude ever could. And that was saying something, judging both the jacket and his personality.
The music playing overhead was starting to make a lot more sense to Tony. If he listened hard enough, he was almost sure to recognize the 1969 classic ‘Spirit in the sky’ begin to play. It went without saying that the eleven years of Peter Quill's life spent on Earth mattered to him. That, or there wasn't much going on in space.
“You’ve missed a lot in the last few decades, Mr. Lord,” Tony easily replied back, leaning his hip against the table Rhodey continued to work at — who noticeably gave Tony the side-eye when his hip bumped into a bundle of papers. Rhodey laid a firm palm on those papers to keep them in place.
Quill, meanwhile, held his palm out in the air.
“Just…it’s just Star Lord, okay?” he insisted, before using that hand to make empty circles in the air. “And clearly you must be buddy-buddy with the guy — he’s a God from Asgard, and he goes and just drops everything the moment some creepy wizard looking man with a cape tells him he’s invited to your I Do’s? Doesn’t add up. I’m just not buying it.”
Tony furrowed his eyebrows, folding both arms across his chest with eyes narrowed tight.
“You’re telling me Thor’s never mentioned us in any of his stories?” He didn’t hide the incredulity that laced his tone. If anything, Tony exaggerated it.
From over in the kitchen, Rocket bluntly called out, “Man has a lot of stories. Comes with the territory of being a gazillion years old.”
Tony turned to look at Rocket, the face he made only intensifying.
If Rocket noticed, he didn’t care. In fact, when Tony kept staring at him, his response was to give an inflated, almost comical shrug.
From the couches, Gamora uncrossed her legs and leaned forward in her chair, looking up at Quill with a gaze a sharp as her sword.
“Peter, are you…jealous?” she began to ask, with the slightest twitch on the corner of her upper lip. “Of Thor being invited to this man’s wedding?”
If Quill had spun around any faster, he would’ve dislocated his ankle.
“No,” he all but shouted, facing her head-on. “I’m not jealous!”
“I dunno, Quill, sounds like you’re jealous to me,” Rocket insisted, all while freely dangling his legs over the bar stool he sat on.
Quill turned to face the kitchen with a huff. “I am not—!”
“I am Groot!” Chewed up chunks of almond spit in the air with Groot’s indignant cry, followed by a harsh cough as the dryness of the nuts got caught in his throat.
Quill didn’t hide his exasperation the third time he spun around. “No, I didn’t—!”
“I am Groot!”
Quill froze, his face hardening.
“That is totally misconstruing what I said—!”
“Listen, Star Lord,” Tony hastily, and almost eagerly, interrupted what he was sure would be juvenile squabble without an end in sight. He gestured his hand Quill’s way, motioned as casually as he possibly could. “You’ve said you saved the galaxy a few times — we’ve done the same for Earth folk over on this side of the cosmos. The Avengers? New York, circa 2012? Ultron, Sokovia? Sure it doesn’t ring a bell?”
Quill raised an eyebrow, so high up it could’ve returned to the very space he came from.
From the stairway, Mantis chewed on her bottom lip, thoughtfully, as she raised a single finger in the air.
“Was that before, or after, the ancient Muspelheim Battle that Thor fought in?” she asked, almost timidly. An excited smile immediately planted across her face as she all but gasped, “Wait! Were you apart of the Great Genitalia Wars as well?”
Tony threw her a look.
What that look said — well, not even he knew.
It was during that time Quill perceived Tony in his own way, no different than the other man had done before him. A once over became a twice over, quickly becoming a quadruple over, as he gave Tony a curious look with thoughts that he wouldn’t vocalize, only ever think to himself.
The moment passed no sooner than it came, and with that, he spun back around — facing the green-skinned woman with a grin wider than what his face should’ve been capable of giving.
Gamora arched an eyebrow, and said nothing.
Until,
“I am not going swimming.”
The only thing that kept her response from lingering was the music playing from the stereos embedded into the very ceiling tiles, changing songs before Quill could even open his mouth for a rebuttal.
It took no more than the first few beats, enough time for a blink or two, for Quill to recognize the song. With that recognition, his face lit up brighter than the surface of the sun.
“Then dance with me!” Quill couldn’t have seem more pure-hearted than he did in that moment, the smile that stretched his lips wide highlighting the dirty blonde hairs that filled his mustache. He reached down with both hands out for Gamora, only to be slapped away.
“I am not dancing with you,” Gamora insisted, her tone harsh and uncompromising, and yet the smirk that tugged ever so slightly at her mouth betraying her voice.
Quill didn’t relent. He reached down again, with both hands as he did before.
“C’mon,” he coaxed her with a voice that swayed at the edge. “It’s our song! You gotta dance with me!”
The voice singing lyrics from decades passed filled the room with a buttery smoothness, robbing the silence from touching any empty corner, regardless of the lull of conversation.
It also stole Gamora’s soft huff, far too tame to be what she presented herself to be — allowing Quill to take both her hands, and only resisting slightly when he pulled her off the chair and to her feet.
♫ 'Cause, baby
there ain't no mountain high enough ♫
Ain't no valley ♫
♫ low enough
Gamora bit back an exasperated sigh. “Peter—”
“Shake off the stress, shed that tension —” Quill pulled Gamora right off the armchair, squeezing both her hands in his along the way. “C’mon, look at all this space, we have so much room! You, me — we’re dancing, baby girl.”
“Do not call me that.” Gamora rolled her eyes, scoffed, even groaned in frustration as Quill grabbed her at the waist and all but dragged her close to his body. And yet the moment she was there, her grip on his hand relaxed by tenfold, and she allowed herself to rest against his body with far less resistance than before. “I’m not a baby, nor am I a girl.”
♫ 'If you ever need a helping hand
I'll be there on the double ♫
Just as fast as I can ♫
Their feet moved in opposite directions, dancing around one another as their bodies swayed to the beat of the music.
“You have made us look like fools in front of these people,” Gamora pulled away when she spoke, her body still moving to the melody of the music, but her gaze locked straight onto Quill’s.
He wasn’t intimidated by her. And he made sure to let that show; the stare he kept on her equally as unrelenting, but with a softness that matched the harmony from above.
“Fools in love,” Quill said, with a free and easy grin to follow suit.
If Gamora found herself smiling when she pressed her head into Quill’s chest, not an occupant in the room was fast enough to catch sight of it.
The poetic lyrics sung a tune of vintage love from long ago, and yet somehow it found its way to the present; looking no different than the time it originated from.
That same music nearly hid the sounds of footsteps climbing up the stairs, two different pairs of feet falling in sync with the beat from above.
“Hey, I know this song.”
Only one voice could be so bold without yelling.
Steve rounded the corner leading up to the lounge, with Sam on his six just one step behind.
“Yeah, thanks to me.” Sam gave a breezy chuckle and a friendly slap across Steve’s back, making a straight beeline for the kitchen right after — he would’ve arrived there much sooner if the look he gave the animal sitting on a barstool hadn’t slowed down his pace considerably.
As Steve aimed for that direction as well, he also fell back a few steps, passing by the couple dancing almost playfully in the middle of the lounge.
“Marvin Gaye, right?” Steve pointed a casual finger towards Quill, who nodded back with an easy going, good-natured grin.
“Yes, Captain, sir, Captain!” Quill gave a sloppy salute with the arm not wrapped around Gamora’s waist, careful to keep his dance partner close to him — it didn’t matter, she pulled away hard enough to remove his grip entirely.
“You are an embarrassment.” Gamora looked him dead in the eyes as she spoke, with a tone as flat as the ground they stood on.
Despite it, Quill smiled at her. “And yet you still hang around me.”
It took no effort at all for Quill to scoop Gamora back into his hold, and no different than the last time, she scoffed and rolled her eyes along the way.
Ultimately, their bodies resumed a rhythmic sway to the soft words being sung from above. Combined with the upbeat music, it was hard to deny the vitality of the moment.
“You scut rugs actually listen to this noise!?” Rocket did just that, twisting around on the barstool to watch as the two newcomers rummaged through the fridge — Sam reached inside for the items, barely looking over his shoulder as he passed them behind for Steve to take. “I thought it was exclusive to morons like Quill!”
Quill purposefully swung Gamora around in the opposite direction, the sudden twist ensuring he was looking Rocket head-on when he shouted, “You love it!”
The song played with crystal clear clarity through the speakers lining the walls, the timeless and classic tune filling the room with a slight, upbeat spark to the air.
Rocket rolled his eyes, his mouth twisting to the side with a mumbled, “It ain’t awful.”
“I am Groot!”
On the end table where Groot sat, his outburst knocked down a few almonds to the floor. The tiny creature failed to notice or care; the twigs that were his arms crossing so tightly over his chest, it was a wonder they didn’t snap and break.
Rocket brazenly shook his head. “No, his Zune went missing, remember? I didn’t take jack from his room—!”
“I am Groot!”
The argument between animal and tree continued on, but the music playing overhead drowned out the sound of their bickering, pairing well with the soft footfalls of the two individuals dancing in the lounge.
Beers in hand, Steve approached Rhodey and Tony at the kitchen table, the two never once acknowledging him as they stayed glued on the scene up ahead. After all, it wasn't an every day event to watch aliens overtake what had essentially become their personal domain.
“I think the fridge is broken, fella’s.” Steve twisted off the beer cap with just the palm of his hand, the sizzle of carbonation sounding beneath his grip as streams of liquid dripped down the bottle. “Brew’s are a little warm.”
Just like that, Tony snapped his head over towards Steve — he was at serious risk of paralyzing himself one of these days if he kept that up.
Steve met his gaze with genuine confusion, twisting off the cap to another beer that he casually handed off to Rhodey.
“What?” he asked, waiting until Rhodey took the one bottle before he carefully extended the second bottle out for Tony to take.
He took it, but not without proceeding to give the most bewildered, befuddled, absolutely baffled expression his facial muscles could possibly conjure up.
“Did SHIELD know about aliens before Roswell 1947?” Tony used the bottle to talk along with his hand. The foam continued to drizzle down the sides, his movements causing tiny drops of beer to wind up on some of Rhodey’s paperwork. “That’s the only explanation I can think of to why you’re so chill about this — and yes, I’m going to take advantage of the pun, because really, it’d be criminal if I didn’t.”
Tony finished that sentence with a large gulp of Barton’s craft beer, the type he’d bring back from Iowa almost specifically for Rhodey — who was already halfway done with his bottle, though it was hard to tell if that was because of taste, or need.
Steve chuckled, twisting off the cap of the third and final beer bottle. “Let’s just say that when you wake up nearly seventy years into the future, things surprise you less often.”
Tony wanted to argue that.
Really, he did.
But God, had his life gotten so weird lately. All he had to do was think about special Wakandian herbs, and bam — he was on his own realm of ultra special weird. The type that involved resurrection of the dead, for crying out loud. Something Tony hoped would be the limit to how downright weird his life had gotten.
Watching Steve observe the dancing couple in the lounge, Tony figured the man had an advantage of his life always being weird. This may as well be another drop in the bucket for him.
A loud burp sounded from beside them.
“This shit’s just weird,” Rhodey mumbled, followed suit by the harsh clacking of his keyboard. His eyes focused intently on the screen, making the tension show clear as day with the bulging vein on his forehead.
Looking over that way, Steve hesitated on taking his first sip of beer. The bottle neared his mouth, but his lips never touched down on the glass.
Rather, he watched as Rhodey worked tirelessly on his laptop, with the papers surrounding him making for easy cross-reference. The OsCorp case had been keeping him on edge lately, and the stress showed now more than ever.
Reaching over, Steve slowly but surely closed the screen of his laptop.
“Give yourself a break from all that, Rhodey.” Steve met his frustrated stare with a patient gaze, his palm laying gently across the laptop to keep it closed — all five fingers spread as wide as his smile. “Captain’s orders.”
Though Rhodey’s initial response was to be downright indignant, the look Steve wore cut through his frustration like a hot knife to butter. Maybe it was the Marvin Gaye playing from overhead, or perhaps it was as simple as the carefree smile Steve was giving him — so foreign as of late, it felt as sacred as the bald eagle itself.
Rhodey relented, with a sigh he decided didn’t need to come out. Lifting his drink and signaling for Steve to do the same, they clanked the bottles against one another with a noise barely heard over the music, and drank no sooner after.
It was right at the time Steve finished his swig, and equal the same time the song changed over, that he felt a new presence approach his side.
“To be honest though, the tree’s still a little strange,” Steve admitted, handing off his beer bottle to Bucky without a second thought, or a single word spoken about it.
Bucky took the bottle, only because decades of experience taught him it was useless to keep Steve from giving to others what he needed himself. He took three large gulps before making his way to the refrigerator — not a single word spoken about it.
“It’s the raccoon for me,” Tony mentioned from off to the side, pursing his lips tightly together as he studied the creature sitting at the kitchen island.
“I ain’t no raccoon!” Rocket yelled back at them, immediately forgoing his disagreement with the tree to give the men his full attention. “Say it one more time and I’ll put a C4 Krytillian Kill Switch right up your —!”
“What are you, then?” Bucky returned with both his question and a fresh beer bottle for Steve, in the middle of uncapping it with his metal arm when he spoke. The gold and black glimmered underneath the skylights, with a ray of afternoon sun creating a glare as he handed the bottle off to his friend.
Steve took it with a sheepish, grateful smile and a silent thank you.
“I’m me, that’s who I am!” Rocket all but slammed two fists against his chest. “And Groot’s Groot, Gamora’s Gamora, Drax is flarkin’ Drax—!”
“Ceiling lady, turn up the music!” Quill twisted and turned with Gamora, much to her discontent now that the music had changed — her scowl was more genuine now than ever before. “Make it so I don’t have to hearing that annoying raccoon rattle off our names!”
Rocket jumped off the barstool. “Why you—!”
“Well, I’m going to make some brunch,” Sam practically shouted — purposefully, going so far as to slam down a jug of orange juice and package of bacon on the counter to add to the noise. “If you guys eat that sort of thing.”
It seemed to be the magic words that needed to be said all along. Rocket crawled on all floor to hop back onto the kitchen island, eager as could be when he jumped up on the counter-top.
“What’s brunch? Is that food? Where the flark do you Terrans even keep your food!”
Tony could officially feel his own vein begin to pulsate on his forehead. The painful kind, the this-is-how-an-aneurysm-feels kind.
Without ample, he gestured his beer bottle up ahead. “In that big rectangle thing you just disassembled!”
At first, Rocket seemed confused. Almost as if he didn’t know where to locate said big rectangle thing Tony spoke of.
When he realized the correlation, a smirk tugged at his lips. Rocket jumped down from the counter, passing by Drax — still drinking from the faucet — to make his way to the fridge, all in five large leaps.
Throwing the double doors open, Rocket could practically see his pupils grow large in the reflection of many glass bottles lining the fridge, surrounded by a surplus of food that his eyes couldn’t keep track of.
“Oh, now that…” Rocket drawled out with a grin, “that I can do with.”
The raccoon rummaging through the refrigerator didn’t appear to concern Steve, who watched almost nonchalantly as the animal tossed out various items from inside, much to Sam’s aggravation.
“You do know you’re guests here, right?” Sam’s indignance failed to bother Rocket, who was already three shelves deep into the fridge — literally sitting on the shelves that were inside, gathering all he could in the fold of his arms before making a hasty retreat.
Rhodey finished his bottle with another loud burp, and didn’t hesitate to go fetch another.
It was while watching Rhodey venture to the broken refrigerator that Steve caught sight of Peter in the lounge, sitting on one of the three cushioned sofa’s — leaving the cushions available for anyone who wanted them, as he sat crossed-legged on the top back of the sofa itself.
Gawking wouldn’t have been a strong enough word to describe Peter’s current reaction to their guests. For a moment, Steve had to remind himself to be the adult when a laugh nearly escaped the threshold of his lips — it was hard not to break at the wholesomeness of the younger hero’s innocence.
“Peter,” Steve started with a smile, “don’t you have homework to be doing?”
It would’ve been physically impossible for Peter to snap his head over at Steve any faster than he did. His jaw unhinged down to the first floor of the compound.
“Aliens, Steve!” Peter couldn’t even find it in him to be frustrated that his voice squeaked. He kept going, with his arm outstretched wide. “You can’t say no to this, this is literally the coolest thing to ever happen to me!”
Peter was in the middle of his defense, puberty in his voice and all, when additional pairs of feet came climbing up the steps. They were already up the full flight of stairs by the time anybody realized their presence.
“Remember when he was that excited to be around us?” Clint called out before even reaching the top of the staircase. His hand glided up the banister the whole way there. “You save the kid’s ass a few times and suddenly you’re a whole bunch of nobody’s.”
There were additional feet behind Clint; additional people making their way up that Peter could hear. But he preoccupied himself with the archer right off the bat, having been the first of three to make the entrance, and the first to pass Peter by.
“Dude — that’s not fair!” Peter called out, twisting at the hips while remaining cross-legged on the back of the sofa. A laugh bubbled from his chest when Clint pretended in great exaggeration to ignore him. “I didn’t mean — Clint, c’mom!”
A hand touched down on his shoulder before his spider-sense could even warn him.
When Peter twisted back around and found himself face-to-face with Natasha, he suddenly understood why that was.
Damn, she was always so sneaky.
“It’s a good thing, pauk-rebenok,” Natasha smiled in her words, looking down at Peter with a single brow arched high. “It means you’ve finally settled.”
Peter went to say something — in hindsight, he had no idea what he planned to say, and was sure it would’ve been lowkey embarrassing if he did say it.
Thankfully, and not so thankfully for him, Natasha stepped aside before he could speak.
“Peter, I’d like you to meet Thor.” Natasha opened a window of space that wasn’t there before, now barely visible in Peter’s line of sight as she gave way for the Asgardian. “Thor, this is Peter.”
Introductions weren’t needed. Peter was pretty sure he could be blind and still somehow know the man who just walked up to him was Thor Odinson, Asgardian God of Thunder.
Thor Odinson.
Asgardian God of Thunder.
In front of him.
Peter.
Peter Parker.
“Uh…” Peter swallowed, hard — then harder, suddenly unable to work his vocal cords past whatever nasally hum it began to produce. “Uh — uh…”
Thor’s beard may have been thick and stocky — full of luscious, honey wheat blonde hair — but it didn’t do anything to hide his grin, reaching so far up to his ears that it nearly got lost in the long locks varnishing his head.
“Ah, yes, you are the man of spider’s!” Thor’s voice easily bellowed over any other noise in the room, people and music included, as he motioned his hand at Peter. “Much smaller than I pictured you, even for a Migardian.” A frown suddenly took his voice, as he looked Peter up and down. “Far less, uh…legs. And arms. And eyes.”
Peter nearly fell flat to his butt jumping off the couch. If not for his sticky hands clinging to the back of the sofa, he would've done just that.
Suddenly, he couldn't wet a throat parched painfully with nerves, no matter how many times he swallowed. Peter didn't think it was possible to ever speak again — not while looking at biceps more massive than Popeye on steroid's.
“I-I-I-I have…I have two. Of each,” Peter violently stammered on, suddenly unsure of where he should be looking at when looking at Thor. He kept coming back to the biceps. “You know, two…two legs. Two arms. Two, uh, two eyes.”
His answer only seemed to confuse the God of Thunder even more.
Peter took a deep breath in, wiped his palm dry until it felt raw against his jeans, and extended his hand out to the man way bigger than he was.
“I’m-I’m-I’m Spider-Man.” Peter gulped, immediately noticing his hand was shaking as he waited for Thor to take it. He tried to shake the nerves away, but shaking the shakes only seemed to make things worse. “Uh, Peter. Peter Spider…Man.”
Watching from the kitchen table, Tony rolled his eyes hard enough to see the back of his skull.
“Somebody make him sit down before he faints,” he called out, with a swig of beer to follow.
Rhodey returned to the kitchen table with three more beers. No one, not Steve, Tony or Bucky, reached for the additional beers he brought with him — they all had a good feeling they weren’t for them.
“Oh, c’mon!” Quill’s voice was the one that shouted from the center of the lounge, having broken away from his dance partner to approach the far-more-muscular man and the boy standing across from him. Judging by the way his hands gestured about, Quill wasn’t happy. “What’s the big deal with this guy! So he’s a little toned, somewhat decent looking, has like…all mighty God power—”
“You are jealous.” Drax slammed the jug of orange juice on the counter — now empty, with an orange tinted mustache covering his upper lip.
Quill made a face as he turned to look at Drax. “I’m not jealous!”
Drax wiped away his juice mustache with the back of his hand. “Of course you’re jealous — this man is a God, what’s there not to envy over? I have no doubt he pleases women in ways you could never dare to dream of.”
“Bro —!” Quill huffed, hard enough to puff his chest out in exaggerated ways. “Why you gotta stoop low like that?”
Drax already had his back turned to Quill, looking through the fridge for anything else he could consume; again, much to Sam’s frustration.
“I have no idea what you speak of,” Drax plainly stated, head-first into the fridge. “I’m standing at the same height as I always do —”
Quill groaned loud enough to vibrate the walls. “Oh, knock it off, man!”
Across the room and most importantly, across from the fussing mayhem, the men of the group watched on with differing expressions.
“What the hell is happening right now?” Bucky couldn’t help but ask, his tone dry enough to sound apathetic, but the arch in his eyebrow speaking of his curiosity as much as Peter’s armpit sweat spoke to his awkward nerves.
Natasha joined the other men with a beer bottle of her own, using her belt buckle to pop the cap as she settled her backside against the nearest wall.
“I honestly have no idea,” Natasha took a sip of her beer, but not before saying, “and I’m not sure I want to find out.”
The fussing from the lounge continued on, but the music kept on as well, playing over the bickering voices and adding to the chaotic atmosphere.
On top of that, pots and pans began to sound from the kitchen as both Sam and Clint prepared to cook the food that would most certainly spoil soon, thanks to the dismantling of their kitchen appliances at the hands of literal raccoon paws.
Bucky shook his head free of the thought, going for a swig of his beer only to stop halfway there.
“They do say ignorance is bliss…” Bucky looked over at Natasha, gesturing his bottle out towards her shortly after. “Don’t know ‘bout you, but I could use a little bit of that in my life.”
A pause briefly stole Natasha’s response. She looked to the bottle Bucky directed her way, before reaching out towards it — clanking the glass of her bottle against his.
“Cheers to that.”
Their swigs fell in sync, though neither noticed it in the moment.
Up ahead of them, they watched as Thor placed both his hands on Peter’s shoulder, rocking his body with an almost robust excitement; it was a feat he didn’t knock Peter right off his feet.
“I’ve heard quite a few tales of your adventures with my friends.” Thor’s voice easily reached over the music, with every word he boisterously spoke coming from deep within his chest. “A boy as heroic as you deserves a place at the feasts table!”
Peter nodded.
And nodded.
And nodded.
“T-thanks?” he finally squeaked out, far too high-pitched for his comfort. He immediately cleared his throat with panic desperation before trying again. “Thanks. Thanks, that’s…that’s cool.”
Thor smiled at him, teeth and all.
Peter couldn’t feel his lips.
“Today, we celebrate!” Thor announced loud enough to rattle the foundation of the room, turning around with enough gusto that the cape firmly attached to his shoulders briefly fluttered in the air. He threw both arms wide open, the muscles of his biceps catching the skylights in ways that didn’t appear humanly possible. “Gather the Vision, the heartiest drinks in the land, and we will revel in celebration and camaraderie! My friends! It's good to be back!”
With eyes wider than his jaw was unhinged, Peter watched completely starstruck as Thor made his way to the other adult men in the room — immediately slapping Steve on the back so hard, it was a wonder the Captain didn’t become crippled in that very moment.
Now, Peter couldn’t feel most of his face. But he knew that, without a doubt, he was grinning like a buffoon.
It was official. All the other days before this were just preparation.
This, this was the greatest day of his life.
“Oh! I got just the song for this!”
Quill’s voice shouted over the roar of laughter from Thor across the lounge. He was already messing with the small device nestled in the pocket of his leather jacket, whipping it out in a heartbeat as his thumb pushed buttons that coincided with the changing music from overhead.
It skipped five songs before landing on the beat that flowed through the speakers.
▶• lıllılı.ıllı.ılılıılıı.lllııılı. Now Playing [Hooked On A Feeling] 0:21 ———♡——— 2:47 ◁◁ ▐ ▌ ▷▷
♫ I can't stop this feeling
deep inside of me ♫
As Quill proceeded to use the space of the lounge for dance moves that seemed far more foreign than they did relevant, the others moved about in their own ways — conversations came from all corners of the room, filled with light-hearted laughter only overtaken by the sound of sizzling bacon and slamming kitchen cabinets, with the occasional rattling pot or pan.
On her way to help Sam with his cooking in the kitchen, Natasha came to a noticeable stop near the singular armchair — now empty as its occupant had joined the others for food.
She craned her head to the side, unblinking as she stared at the tiny creature sitting on the end table. It appeared to have its own stock of food, surrounded by a mountain of nuts that he eagerly chomped down on, all while his head bobbed along happily to the sound of music.
Natasha narrowed her eyes. “Are those my almonds?”
Quickly looking up at the red-haired woman, Groot swallowed down the mouthful of almonds that he only partially chewed — forcing him to gulp hard, rattling the tree bark that was the skin of his throat.
Looking down at the almonds surrounding him, the tiny tree immediately reached for a single nut, picking it off the end table and extending his arms out straight ahead.
“I am Groot.”
Natasha raised an eyebrow.
Wordlessly, she took the almond from Groot.
Notes:
♫ I'm hooked on a feeling
I'm high on believing
that you're in love with me ♫Hey there. Howdy. How’s it going.
Life can be a bitch, can’t it.
If you haven’t come across my Tumblr updates for this series, I'll break the news here. This lovely author of yours is going through some major life changes at the moment. Hell, you name it and it's happening. I’ve lost all my free time for writing, but fear not — this series survived a pandemic. It survived a pandemic, from an author who was working the hospital floors of said health crisis pandemic.
We will see the end of this journey, together. Just have some patience and faith in me, and as always, drop the comments of love. It amazes me how well the creative soul does with feedback. And truly, from the bottom of my heart, I appreciate each and every one of you so much for it. We wouldn’t be here today without your lovely, lovely kind things to say.
I can't say when the next update will be, but I CAN say that we've got a good handful of fluffy, found family, glorious happy feelings chapters ahead of us. At least 4 to 5, as we enter the highly anticipated wedding.
And then, you know, it all goes downhill from there.
Because...duh.
But hey! Can't have a wedding without the bachelor's party first. Stay tuned, the final chapter in act 1 is next.
Oh, if you're wondering if I've lost what little sanity of mine I had left remaining (I sure have) and if you're wondering if I believe it's still 2002 and everyone's writing song lyric fanfics (my sweet summer children who do not know of this age in fanfic, you remind me too painfully of my mortal age) no, I haven't lost my mind. The whole introduction of songs in this story plays a big part into Peter's character arc. I think you all will really enjoy it.
(and yes, perhaps I'm a bit nostalgic for 2002)
Chapter 9: Bachelor Party
Summary:
“I meant what I said to you, you know,” Steve broke through his thoughts like a runaway train with broken brakes.
“Hm?” Peter squeaked, shaking his head to get out of his head. His hands worked on his earbuds, but he didn’t look at what he was doing. He kept his eyes on Steve, and nowhere else.
Steve met that gaze, head on, with a smile that grew at the edges.
“That you’re going to be the best of all of us?” Steve tilted his chin low, a sincerity warming the cool blue to his eyes. “I meant that.”
Peter swallowed, a bit too hard for a mouth that had run dry. It was impossible not to look away; his eyes found his hands and his fingers sorted through the knots one tangle at a time.
“Jeeze, no pressure or anything...” Peter trailed off, his frustration with both the conversation and his earbuds causing him to throw the latter into his dufflebag. “Aren’t you, like...I don’t know, don’t you think you’re expecting a bit much?”
Notes:
Nope. I’m not apologizing for the word count. Especially not after that hiatus.
We are in the final installment. This is it, ya’ll. These chapters, in all their glorious length, lead us right to the end of our journey. So if you think I’m even remotely apologetic for the word count now, or will ever be apologetic for the word count, you’re off your rocker.
Folks, there are 17 active characters in this chapter.
17. Active. Characters.
Don’t you dare word count shame me when I’m working with 17 goddamn characters.
(I'M EXHAUSTED)
I have limited time with the Guardians — they’re only here for Act 1 and 2 with a final end appearance. That’s it. So yes, I needed all these interactions. I have no regrets. Here it is. This is a feel-good chapter. It’s a really, really, really feel-good chapter. And I spent literally years building these characters to have this feel-good chapter. Ever since I saw Age of Ultron and was tricked into thinking we’d get a live-action version of the cartoon show Avengers Assemble.
We didn’t, but I have this instead.
Just enjoy. Enjoy a really, really, feel-good chapter. And a couple more after that, because when shit hits the fan — well, you know by now.
When shit hits the fan, you’ll be screaming to go back.
In fact, it’s about time to turn those fan blades on here soon…
▰Identity Within— Chapter 6: Something New ▰
“If I take on too much at once…” Peter slowly started to say, turning his eyes away until his head dropped low and his gaze locked onto his hands. His fingers tapped at the inside of his palm, repeatedly. “If I’m just…thrown to the wolves…”
Actually, legitimately dying was one thing — something that would never not be weird.
Being brought back to life?
Being chosen to be brought back to life?
No amount of time spent overlooking his home from on top of the bridge could help him settle those thoughts. And the longer he sat with them, the more they seemed to tangle and knot together. No different than MJ’s hair from a shared swing across the city.
“I’m afraid of letting everyone down,” Peter admitted, earnestly.
Mr. Stark, Steve, May, the Avengers…they all were expecting so much of him. He’d been ‘worthy’ enough to be brought back from the dead. And yet he couldn’t even get the local newspaper to say a single good thing about him.
He wasn’t sure if some friendly neighborhood Spider-Man could live up to all that pressure.
The next breeze took his voice and carried his words across the bridge, where New Yorker's went along with their lives as the day came to a close, and the lights from the city stole away any stars that may have peaked through the sky.
MJ turned to look at him, even when he looked nowhere else but at his hands.
“Yeah,” she said, with a firm yet somehow shaky nod of her head. “I get that.”
What happened next was too sudden for even Peter to process, spider-sense at all.
Her hand laid across his — both of his, forcing the tapping of his fingers to come to an abrupt stop.
“It’s gotta be a lot of pressure,” MJ gently remarked, using her free hand to tuck hair behind her ear when it threatened to obscure her face. “Doing everything you do.”
Peter drew in a shallow breath — on the verge of saying something, anything — what, exactly, he was clueless to.
Instead, he just smiled.
Even with all his problems, even with the stress of seemingly the world and all the pressures of the Avengers weighing on his back, something about MJ’s presence just made everything feel…
She made him feel a lot of things.
Mostly, she made him feel okay.
▰Identity Theft— Chapter 8: Afterparty▰
Peter looked down at his hand, still shaped like the glass he was holding.
"I don't even think I can get drunk..."
It wouldn’t be the first time Clint tried to pass off an alcoholic drink to him. It got to the point where Steve and Natasha stood close by, each taking guard for the next time Clint would either set down a cup close to him or put it directly in his hands. They’d simply take it from Peter’s grasp before he could even speak, either drinking it themselves or pouring it down the drain of the kitchen sink.
Natasha poured it down the sink. Steve drank it, knowing full well it had no effect on him.
It was only when Tony threatened to cut Clint off from accessing the bar that he finally stopped.
“Tony,” Clint argued, “the kid fought a fifteen-foot rock monster today. I think he can handle a little bit of liquor.”
Tony narrowed his eyes. “Try it one more time and FRIDAY won’t let you three feet near the bar.”
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Man, will you get out of the cabinets!”
“I’m not in your stupid—!”
“—you’re quite literally hanging out of—!”
“—take it easy, birdbrain! I'm just trying to find something that won’t taste like cardboard! I’ve eaten spoiled rations better than whatever you Terrans call food!”
Clinking of utensils, sizzling of pans, rhythmic clang of pots colliding — even standing in the same room, Rocket had to shout to be heard.
Sam purposefully dropped his spatula, creating a sound almost as loud as the shout that followed.
“Would you just let me finish cooking before you put your nasty paws all over my—!”
“—my paws are clean, you arrogant—!”
For a spacious lounge that had multiple corners holding an array of rooms, from a kitchen all the way to an entertainment space, there suddenly wasn’t enough fresh air for everyone to breathe.
The smell of Sam’s burning cooking oil only made that all the more difficult.
And as if their visiting guests weren’t enough, the straggling few who eventually arrived made things things all the more crowded — Vision was brought over at Thor’s request, with of course Wanda at his side, much to her content.
And Bruce was all but dragged along, much to his dis content.
The lounge was quickly packed, bustling with activity in every corner accessible. It was a far cry from the modest five who normally occupied the sofa’s.
Clint — one of those aforementioned five — sat at the kitchen island on a barstool that hunched his back forward, sipping casually on his beer while dead-center of the ongoing chaos.
“I’m telling you right now, rodent—!”
“—what I’d tell you about calling me a rodent!”
“There is quite a lot of people here.”
Vision’s voice came from Clint’s hip-side, his presence known only with the words he spoke. If he hadn’t said anything, he was sure to get lost in the abundance of bodies that shuffled in and out of the kitchen.
Clint threw the android a sideways glance, and then another glance when the initial sight of human blonde hair and pale white skin threw him for a loop.
A few weeks hadn’t been long enough for any of them to adjust to his new appearance.
“Sure is.” Clint gave an easy, firm nod — the shatter of glass stealing away anything that could’ve been said next. A wince got caught in the opening of his beer bottle as he swigged down the rest of his drink.
Foreign curse words followed, but were barely heard over the roaring music of the late 1970’s.
“It doesn’t feel weird,” Vision just barely managed to be heard over excitedly sung music. Clint considered that a feat, seeing as the android barely changed the volume of his voice — and the music was just that loud.
Swallowing the last of his drink, Clint sat the empty beer bottle down onto the island with a slightly-muffled burp.
“Nah,” he said, half into his fist, half out in the open, “it really doesn’t, does it?”
Clint twisted in his chair and looked around at the crowd; eyeing more people than he could keep track of all at once. But Vision wasn’t wrong — it didn’t feel weird. There was no urgency on his behalf for surveillance, no need to find a corner to oversee everyone with a full head count of occupants.
Alcohol aside, he felt the most relaxed he had in some time.
While the kitchen remained the most occupied, seeing as there was freshly cooked food being stacked all across the counter tops, there were still some folks who managed to find a secluded space away from the activity — no matter how difficult that task seemed to be.
Clint wasn’t even remotely surprised when he finally caught sight of Bruce, isolated at the corner of the lounge. His laptop sat on the window bay overlooking the courtyard garden, his back hunched forward while sitting on a bar stool he’d dragged away from the kitchen.
“Better get some food before it’s all gone, Banner!” Clint cupped both hands over his mouth when he called out to the scientist, making sure he was heard over both the music and the bad karaoke singing of the same music — loud enough to sound as if three men were singing it, but in actuality was only voiced by one.
“Everybody’s FEELING warm and BRIGHT, it’s such a—!”
“Give it a break, Quill—!”
The only response Bruce gave was a dismissive wave of his hand, his attention never once wavering from the screen of his laptop.
Not even the upbeat music and smorgasbord of food seemed to have any effect on his attention. Or his mood.
Vision noticed as much, and a tight furrow went on to wrinkle the pale skin between his brows.
“Pardon me for asking this…but is Doctor Banner—?”
“Yeah, no, he’s been a mess ever since Wakanda.” Clint reached for his bottle, only to realize it’d been emptied moments earlier. He tapped it mindlessly against the kitchen island, with no rhythm to the beat. “That whole thing with Venom got into his head, bad. He’s been tying himself up with his own meaningless projects ever since we got back. All of its distractions, if you ask me.”
Tired of holding his empty beer bottle, Clint opted instead for food — leaning over the island for the plate of chicken wings and grabbing one of the two remaining.
As he did, Vision kept his attention strictly on the window bay where Bruce sat, hunched over his stool and typing furiously on his laptop.
“I can’t speak on what happened, having not been there myself,” Vision paused, his head tilting slightly as he stared up ahead. Bruce was far too invested in his work to notice the attention that had found his way. “Still, I imagine going up against a creature like that must’ve been…something of a traumatic event.”
“Yeah, sure.” Clint chewed meticulously slow on the center of his chicken wing, only sparing Vision a glance once he swallowed his food in one single gulp. “But for who?”
The beat that followed softened Vision’s expression, every stress line in the pale skin of his face falling flat with abrupt realization.
“Oh.”
And then a fourth plate shattered in the kitchen, followed by Sam ’s, “If you don’t knock it off this goddamn second—”
“Rocket!” Gamora all but screamed across the lounge. “What part about behave are you not comprehending—!?”
“It ain’t my fault these dishes are so flimsy! Who makes dishes this flimsy, I mean, come on! Even Groot wouldn't trust these things to hold his twigs!”
“Mh-hm,” Clint sounded, reaching forward for the last chicken wing on the plate up ahead.
With his attention still directed towards Vision, Clint reached blindly — and failed to notice when a stream of red lights tangled around the plate, lifting the remaining chicken wing with ease and floating it far out of reach.
Only when he only grabbed thin air did Clint shoot his head around, managing to locate the floating chicken wing through zig-zagging bodies coming and going from the kitchen.
With the hand not pulling the food towards her, Wanda gave a fluid wave — all five of her fingers dancing with a grin highlighting the laugh in her eyes.
“Pick-pocketing appetizers now?” That laugh burst right through her when Clint pointed a overly-stern finger straight in her direction. He didn’t hesitate to admonish her, his eyes narrowing with his finger growing more ridged along the way. “I thought we raised you better than that, Maximoff.”
Whether it was in jest or not didn’t matter; Wanda’s laughter only grew louder. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath long enough to nibble on the chicken wing she’d stolen from him.
Clint kept up the act of chastising the young woman even as she slipped back into the crowd, rejoining Sam at the stovetop with excited movements of her hands; correlating with the seasoning he picked from the cupboard, having already prepped for the next meal to be made.
Vision spared glances from one individual to the next — eyeing Clint as long as he eyed Wanda, with silent contemplation that filled the lull in their conversation.
It was a total of four times he cleared his throat before he turned to Clint, and stiff as a board along the way.
“What I’m about to say may sound…particularly selfish, considering Doctor Banner’s current struggles,” Vision began, words nearly failing him for a moment. “But all things considered, I’m glad Wanda is, at least, doing better. After…everything. Particularly, from this year.”
Clint didn’t need Vision to get specific — he could’ve said little to nothing at all and the message still would’ve gotten across, even in his awkward-android ways.
It only hit harder as he kept on watching the red-haired girl from across the kitchen, long after she diverted her attention to the others.
There seemed to be an argument about how to season a cooking pan, but there were too many voices talking all at once to truly understand.
All Clint cared about was the smiles and laughter he could hear break through the music playing overhead, sounding of better days that were long since overdue.
“Yeah, yeah, you know…” Clint manged to get the words out even as he worked his jaw side-to-side, slouching so far over the island that his elbows were pressing against the counter top. “She needs this time off. It’s well earned.”
For a moment, his chin found its way to the cusp of his hands, until his slouch took him so far down it began to pull at the muscles in his aching and aging back.
“Leaving after the wedding, right?” Clint cleared his throat at the same time he straightened his back, using the moment of physical discomfort to disguise his vocal discomfort.
If Vision caught on, he didn’t mention it. Rather, he simply answered, “Tickets for Scotland are on her bedside. I must say, she’s…very excited.”
The argument grew louder from near the stove-top, where Wanda was pushing Sam away with her hand, laughing as he continued to make threats they could all hear were nothing but good hearted.
As unnatural as it felt, Clint forced a smile. “Bedside tickets. Well, if that isn’t romantic.”
Even without looking his way, Clint could see the grin that spread across Vision’s face — different now, far more human appearing than ever before. It was the same type of genuine happiness he’d seen from Wanda as of late.
Clint couldn’t deny what Vision had said; it nice to see Wanda doing better, all things considered.
Here, he could see that.
“Yeah, yeah, she needs the time off,” Clint spoke as if he were trying to convince himself of what he knew was already true. His head bobbed along to his own words, arms folding over his chest as he spoke to reality what would be reality regardless.
A whole year.
It was a whole year Wanda planned to go away.
The decision had come as a surprise, and an unexpected one at that. Just a few weeks ago she had announced it, and not even Steve had the heart to deny her request. Clint couldn’t fault her, either — no matter how hard he tried. And already being a father of three, he liked to think he’d perfected the skill of persuasion as well as he perfected the craftsmanship of his archery.
But with Wanda…well, he truly couldn’t find any reason to fault her. All the girl wanted to do was to go and live her life, take advantage of the opportunity her brother never got — an opportunity she never thought she’d get, either. A life full of war and loneliness, topped with a handful of near-death experiences — it was more than enough to warrant her a break from all that madness.
But here, at least, he could see her doing better.
“I’m glad she’s got you,” Clint cut through the stagnance of their conversation, leaning back slightly, folding both arms against his chest along the way. “You know, to be there for her.”
Vision kept his response as a single nod of his head, the quietest thing against the activity from the kitchen.
So when Clint didn’t hear a direct response, he physically twisted inward — arms still crossed, with an eyebrow arched as tight as he’d pull his bow string.
“You better be there for her.”
Clint’s voice didn’t need to reach over the volume of the kitchen chaos. The music could’ve been blasting through the ceiling speakers and his words would’ve still found a way through.
Vision tilted his head low, and with genuine sincerity at that. “I wouldn’t dare do anything but.”
There wasn’t silence that followed, but there weren’t words either. It was a pause long enough that unbeknownst to them both, the red tangles of airy magic had slowly begun to transcend their way, until a single chicken wing dropped down on the kitchen island — right where Clint sat.
Clint looked at the piece of fried chicken, briefly, before looking up and finding Wanda standing off to the side.
She waved again, as light and carefree as the last time — with a smile to match.
“You can do that?”
Wanda jerked her head to the side, that smile nearly running right off her face at Mantis’ sudden appearance.
As if noticing her distress, the two antennas on Mantis’ forehead began to glow; casting off a light as soft as the afternoon sun coming through the ceiling skylights.
Wanda nodded, with a smile that was a tad bit more stressed than before.
“I can,” she answered, quietly. “Yes.”
Mantis’ curiosity didn’t need to be vocalized — it was evident in the way she eyed Wanda from head to toe, fascinated, almost ecstatic looking.
And close enough that her antennas could’ve brushed against Wanda’s own forehead.
“And what’s your secret sauce, grasshopper?” Clint’s voice reached over the kitchen crowd from where he sat at the island, easily gaining Mantis’ attention — and diverting the spotlight from Wanda, who seemed visibly relieved. He took a large bite into his chicken wing before asking, “Tell me, why did SHIELD classify you a level four threat?”
“Wait — what? Hold up a minute!” Quill’s voice was heard at a volume no different than how he’d been singing. In fact, he raised his voice even higher to ensure Clint heard him from the entertainment space of the lounge; standing over the billiards table with a cue stick in his one hand, and a block of chalk in the other. “She’s classified as a level four threat? Four of what?”
Their back-and-forth semi-shouting caught the attention of the others, with various conversations dying out in favor of hearing what was being discussed.
“Five.” Clint didn’t even turn in his barstool to face Quill when he answered the question.
Quill spun to face the others, those who were nearby having directed their attention his way.
“She’s a four of five?” Quill used the tip of his cue stick to point at his chest, looking to the kitchen where Clint sat. “So what am I? I’m a five, right? I’m OP, I’m as high as they go, I’m—”
From the lounge, Rhodey was the one to answer, “Two point five.”
Sitting next to him and kicked back on the sofa, Tony audibly snorted into the mouth of his beer bottle, managing to sputter some liquid out along the way.
“Two point five?” Quill dropped the billards chalk without a care to where it rolled off, using his cue stick to express his incredulity — waving it forward with heated frustration. “Two point — I’m half-God! She was just larval that got touchy-feely powers! What kind of bogus, rigged, stupid system is that—!”
“She can get into people’s heads.” Clint turned around to face Quill —his expression as deadpanned as his muscles could manage. “SHIELD classifies that as a level four threat.”
The room grew noticeably quieter than before — the kitchen still stirred with cooking activities and lively conversation, but now the overhead music and the lyrics from decades passed took center attention.
It was Wanda who turned to face Mantis, her brows furrowed slightly. But out of curiosity more than fear.
“You can do that?” she asked, quietly, her accent seemingly thickening with each word.
Mantis looked around, the slight furrow in her own brow showcasing the same feel of insecurity Wanda showed moments before; suddenly put off by the many eyes that found their way towards her.
It was a tight shake of her head that argued their assumptions.
“No, I’m — it’s different,” Mantis spoke with clipped, timid words. She didn’t fight the long pause that followed. “To get in your head, it’s…it’s…— telepaths know thoughts. Empaths…feel feelings. We feel what you feel. Emotions.”
CLANK!
“That’s just great.” Rhodey leaned forward, placing his beer on the glass surface of the center coffee table with more force than necessary. “I’ve been emotionally compromised by a bug, Tones.”
Sitting on the couch cushion next to him, Tony smacked the back of his hand against Rhodey’s arm as the man stood to his feet, mechanical leg braces whirring through it all.
“The witch got into my head!” he playfully tossed back, along with a quick snap of his fingers. “Just think of it as an initiation.”
Rhodey’s glare was harsh enough to put Tony’s repulsor energy to shame — lingering long after he departed to the dining room for food.
And still, Tony smirked — never one to resist pushing buttons when there were buttons to push.
“Wait,” Peter peaked his head through the crowd in the kitchen, turning towards the lounge with a plate dangling precariously in his one hand — and dangerously close to losing his mountain of bacon with one wrong move. “Are you guys talking about reading minds? Isn’t that how I got initiated?”
“It doesn’t matter!” Quill couldn’t have swung his cue stick any harder if he tried. All fifteen balls took a hard hit from his one, bouncing across the billiard table with force. “So big deal, she can touch you and then say ‘you’re sad, you’re angry, you’re cranky because you didn’t sleep last night after that Dr’skin food ruined your stomach and you couldn’t stop having the bubble shits in a sketchy reststall of a fuel station off the detour from the ninth star system—”
“And there goes my appetite again.” Gamora pushed her plate of food away at the same time she stood from the dining room table, with Groot jumping off her shoulder as she left him behind.
His little legs took him as fast as he could towards the plate of half eaten nacho’s left on the table.
As she made her way to the kitchen for a fresh drink, Groot had no hesitation digging both his twigs into the abandoned nacho’s for himself; guiding the cheese-covered chip into his mouth and careless to the mess that he created.
“Hey, Quill!” Rocket crassly called out from the kitchen, somewhere near the stovetop but noticeably lost in the array of people floating around. “We gotta get one of these for the Benatar!”
Cranking his arm back, Quill hesitated mid-shot on his cue-stick as he looked up and over into the kitchen. Both his eyes squinted when he caught sight of Rocket, standing on the counter-top next to where Sam was cooking.
“A griddle?” Quill called out, all while making sure his shot lined up.
Rocket waved a dismissive hand from over in the kitchen. “Yeah, sure, whatever you squishy Terrans call it.”
“I saw something like a griddle back on Knowhere!” Quill straightened his back, standing straight so he could point the cue-stick at Rocket. “Back when we were scrounging trades for engine parts. You wouldn’t let me get it because you said ‘there ain’t no flarking room for that hunk of junk!’”
Once again, Rocket waved a dismissive hand from over in the kitchen — somehow more dismissive than the last.
“Yeah, but that’s before I knew it could make pancakes.” Rocket pointed a sharp claw at the griddle in front of him, the steam rising up over his fur as Sam flipped the row of pancakes laid out in front of him. “It can make pancakes, Quill!”
The word pancake seemed to flip a switch in Groot’s brain.
“I am Groooottt!”
Almost immediately, he dropped the nacho filled tortilla chip that once consumed his entire focus — nearly slipping in melted cheese as he scampered down the dinning room table and all but ran into the kitchen.
“I am Groot! I am Groot!” The small voice excitedly chanted in high-pitched enthusiasm, but with the many conversations taking place, he was barely heard. “I am Groot!”
Quill made a noticeable face as he wagged his cue-stick towards Rocket.“I told you it could make pancakes!”
Rocket’s hand flopped in the most dismissive way possible yet. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t listening.”
If it were at all possible, Quill’s eye-roll could be seen all the way back up in space.
Rocket didn’t seem bothered. His attention stayed strictly focused on the cooking device in front of him; his eyes growing wide as Sam poured liquid batter onto the melted butter bubbling across the surface.
“You know,” Rocket went on to point a single claw at the griddle, “I could easily dissemble this heating device and rewire it into—”
“Man, shut the hell up and let me finish cooking my damn pancakes.” Sam didn’t even waste effort looking his way. He flipped a single pancake without sparing Rocket so much a glance.
Rocket frowned, making a noise — and most certainly swearing in foreign curse words — as he made his way off the counter-top and elsewhere in the kitchen.
Sam knew that without looking, because within minutes the sound of more breaking glass was interlude to the changing songs playing overhead.
“Get out of the kitchen, Rocket!” Gamora’s no-nonsense tone was sharper than any knife they had at their disposal.
And yet still, “I didn’t do nuttin’! Groot nearly tripped me—!”
“Have you never heard of you break it, you buy it?” Quill’s voice shouted along with the CLACK of billiard balls scattering across the table. “Keep it up and you’re paying every credit they charge us with—”
“With what!?” Rocket shouted back. “We haven’t had a job in months, and who’s flarking fault is that—!?”
Sam shook his head and flipped another pancake on the griddle.
“Captain America needs my help. There's no better reason to get back in,” he muttered to himself, the sarcasm in his voice as thick as the bottle of maple syrup that sat next to the plate of pancakes.
Drax approached that plate with a burp that could’ve rumbled the floor they stood on, not even hesitating as he grabbed the entire plate for himself — and reached over Sam’s shoulder as he used his bare hands to grab those still cooking on the griddle.
Sam watched, wordlessly, as the large man took all the pancakes off the griddle. Fully cooked or not.
With that, he twisted the cap off the bottle of maple syrup and proceeded to dump the entire contents onto the stack of pancakes, not stopping until the plate was drenched and soaked.
As Drax took a seat at the kitchen island across from Clint, Groot found a way to join him, climbing up the bar stool with tiny huffs and puffs echoing his efforts.
Hunched forward, the larger man dug into his meal — fork in one hand, knife in the other — with Groot digging both twigs into the pancakes for himself, chewing away at the massive stack one bite at a time.
Sam wasn’t the only one to watch wordlessly. Clint didn’t have a single coherent thought to speak out loud.
There had to be at least twenty-five pancakes on the plate.
And yet, Drax wasn’t showing signs of stopping anytime soon.
The breezy, carefree music took the place of their voices, shifting the atmosphere with something far less upbeat — and far less likely to be selected for an mutually unwanted Karaoke session.
▶• lıllılı.ıllı.ılılıılıı.lllııılı. Now Playing [Refugee] 0:15 ———♡——— 3:21 ◁◁ ▐ ▌ ▷▷
“Ohh, sing it, Tom Petty!” Quill pocketed his music device back into his jacket, immediately going for the cue-stick he’d set aside against the pool table. It made for a perfect microphone.“We did somethin' we both know it, we don’t talk too much about it—!”
Thor’s bold break of laughter easily overtook Quill’s deep-throated singing.
Though most didn’t know what the laughter stemmed from, they had no complaints hearing it over the greatly-exaggerated ‘twang’ that Quill bolted from the depths of his lungs — making it nearly impossible to hear who actually sung the classic song from decades ago.
“Don’t! Have! To live like a refugee!”
“Oh, how I’ve missed these little talks of ours,” Thor spoke in a sigh that lifted his chest high and came sinking down with him onto the sofa.
He spread out on the cushion, his arm reaching over the back of the couch and his legs far apart without a care to spacial awareness. The casual attire he’d since changed into made him fit in all the more with the group, blending in far more than their fellow space visitors.
It wasn’t that he needed to change clothes. Tony just got sick of Peter fumbling over his words because the Mighty God’s bulging-biceps kept distracting his already short and shot attention span.
“What’s it been, anyway? Two years?” Steve joined him on the opposite sofa, and opposite to where Tony already sat — with his leg crossed over his thigh and tinted glasses placed stylishly on his face, yet already slipping down the bridge of his nose.
They each sat alone on their own respective couch, but still in close proximity to one another — unintentionally finding a moment where only the three of them occupied the lounge.
Thor’s laughter grew softer in his answer. “I suppose, yes, that sounds right. And quite the time it has been.”
“You know,” Tony lifted his drink to his mouth as he said, “it wouldn’t hurt to give a little heads up the next time you decide to come crash landing on highly secured government property.”
Steve threw Tony a look, one that tried to look more aggravated than he actually was.
“While Tony’s not wrong,” Steve turned away from Tony — who was unapologetic as always — and gestured his own drink forward without consuming a sip. The bottle may have been brown, but the liquid was just that for him. Plain, average liquid. “It’s still great to have you here.”
While Steve drank with no consequence, Rhodey was clearly already feeling the effects of his drinks; busying himself in the kitchen as he somewhat audibly, excitedly, and slightly drunkenly exclaimed—
“—BOOM! You looking for this?”
Peter’s gasp could’ve very well been drunken as well, if the same reasons for Steve didn’t also apply to him — not to mention his drinks were limited to the small variety of alcoholic free juices in their now-broken refrigerator.
“Dude! That’s so cool!” Peter hesitated only so he could take a bite of food, garbling out, “And then what?”
The pause that followed was painfully awkward.
“What…what-what do you mean, then what?”
“Like, then what?” Peter was chewing something — it was audible in each muffled attempt of his words. A hard swallow freed his mouth to ask, “What happened next?”
Rhodey cleared his throat a few times before he finally answered.
“Well…then I had to file a report with the AMC to follow up with Major Commands of Air Staff — you see, the AFSOC, that’s the Air Force Space Command — there’s paper pushing after stuff like that, usually a mission detail, and then with that you make something they call a contingency plan, it’s essentially your plan B, C and D, and they gather that data and use it for any similar mission in the same classified — you stopped listening, didn’t you?”
There was a solid beat before,
“Huh?”
“This place is bigger!” Thor broke the lull of their conversation with a hearty smile and an equally hearty bout of enthusiasm — though a tight line did quickly crinkle the space between his brows. “Or so I think. It’s still tiny. But…also, bigger.”
Steve kicked back on the sofa, looking towards Tony to answer.
Tony simply gestured his drink forward.
“You know what they say. Gotta keep going to keep growing,” he rolled out each word with a smooth and easy effort, and a smirk to follow suit. “After all, a business like this — the more people on our side, the better.”
Thor nodded in agreeance, at first eagerly, and then with diminishing vigor.
“Yes, yes,” he nodded on, looking around the lounge with a weight that clouded his eyes. “These battles, they never stop coming our way, do they?”
It was the timeless lyrics from far back in the 1970’s that filled the place of idle conversation — as long as Quill’s music played from the overhead speakers, there was never truly a moment of silence between them.
♫ Somebody, somewhere,
must've kicked you around some ♫
tell me why you wanna lay there♫
and revel in your abandon ♫
Tony purposefully cleared his throat, breaking the lull as gently as he could.
“You know, not to turn the fun times into shoptalk…” he started to say, leaning forward to dispose of his near-empty beer bottle. “But the last time we saw you—”
“The stones, yes,” Thor easily interrupted, long before Tony had even gotten his bottle on the table.
Tony arched an eyebrow and Thor nodded his head some more, turning contemplative as the seconds passed.
“The infinity stones have proven themselves to be a mighty foe.” Thor frowned, deeply. “I’ve been seeking answers I cannot find…about many things.”
The energy that once played in the music seemed to have vanished, replacing the mood with something noticeably heavier.
Clint, already listening in with one ear, slowly but surely left the kitchen island once his curiosity couldn’t be contained.
“Thor?” Clint stopped where the couches began, leaning his hip casually against the armrest of the sofa where Tony sat. He gestured his beer bottle forward. “You okay there, big fella?”
Before anyone could open their mouths to speak, a crass shout sounded from the kitchen.
“Don’t get him started!” Rocket raised his voice so loud, it cracked at the edges — practically sounding desperate. “You get this blubbering mess started and—!”
“It all started with my father!” Thor boldly interrupted, followed by a groan from Rocket that was so loud, it echoed through the kitchen. That didn’t stop Thor from continuing on, leaning forward on the sofa as if the weight that burdened his shoulders was too heavy for even him to carry. “I found him to be missing. And it was in my search for him that I discovered my brother, Loki, had been well and alive all along.”
Tony leaned forward much quicker than Thor, absolutely no burden of weight keeping him from doing so.
“You wanna pass that by us again?” he quickly fired out.
“Loki’s alive, Thor?” Steve was hand-in-hand with Tony’s concern. They went so far to share a look — both saying different things, but somehow still communicating the same message.
No sooner after that, Steve looked back at Thor. “I thought you said he died, shortly before everything with Ultron.”
The mere mention of that name spoken was enough to bring Natasha to the lounge, her arms tightly crossed against her chest as she found a stance next to Clint. The music may have been lively and loud, but it wasn’t loud enough to overtake Thor’s voice — even if she hadn’t been discreetly listening in, she still would’ve heard him talking.
Unlike Thor, Natasha stayed quiet, waiting like the others to hear his answer.
“Yes, so I assumed,” Thor finally managed to say, his gaze caught on the rim of his metal cup, with eyes that seemed far away from the liquid that swirled inside. “That betrayal, it was…”
No different than the hours that had passed, Quill’s music kept the silence at bay. Vocal’s flew down from the ceiling with a raspy, warm, rugged tone, keeping his sentence hanging in the air as the classic rock song played on.
♫ You see
you don't ♫
have to live ♫
like a refugee ♫
“It does not matter now,” Thor broke through the silence with a voice far weaker than any tone he’d used so far. Natasha went so far as to arch an eyebrow — suddenly put off by the display of emotion. “He has gone his way, and so have I.”
As Steve leaned further forward on his sofa, he shared another glance with Tony — who had since peeled off his glasses, busy tucking them into the opening of his polo placket where they could hang freely. He kept his eyes on Thor, no different than Clint and Natasha.
“Yep, off you’ve gone, all the way to space—” The crass voice called out from the kitchen, reminding them they weren’t the only five who occupied the lounge. “Time moves on, we get over things, we stop talking about things—!”
“Rocket!” Quill was the one to admonish him this time, giving Gamora a much needed break.
Rocket didn’t care. “You know damn well if we don’t stop him now, he’ll—!”
“—ever since the mechanical beast you named Ultron, I’d been plagued by a reoccurring dream,” Thor steamrolled right over him. “One of Asgard falling to ruins—”
“ —what’d I tell you!”
With a deep breath pulling his shoulders taut, Thor looked to the ceiling, the thickness of his beard catching the skylights glare and long locks of golden blonde hair that draped over his head.
He kept his gaze there, even as he kept speaking. “I had no foresight to see that the end of Asgard would come from my very sister, forcing the prophesy of Ragnarok on my people.”
Natasha’s eyebrow climbed higher up her forehead.
“You have a sister?”
Thor looked straight to Natasha, his voice firm when he answered.
“Had,” he corrected. “By blood only. My father’s first born, the Goddess of Death.”
For a brief moment — just a split passing hand on the clock — there was silence as one song faded out before another started.
Nobody seemed eager to touch that one, not any of the four who’d gathered around.
So no one did.
“She stole Asgard form us all. Destroyed it,” Thor eventually continued on, and so did the music. “Destroyed my hammer! In the midst of our first encounter, she threw me out of the bifrost, where I found myself on a planet called Sakaar. That’s where I found Banner!”
Just like that, Thor found himself in high spirits — twisting on the sofa so he could face the corner of the lounge.
“Banner! Hey, Banner!” Thor shouted across the room, waving his arm frantically in the air to be seen. “I’m talking about you!”
There wasn’t any possible way for Bruce not to hear Thor — and he did, going on to wave his hand dismissively, no different than before. If his back hunched any further forward, his nose would’ve been kissing the screen of his laptop.
Thor twisted back around with a beaming grin, all while pointing his thumb behind him where Bruce sat far away from the others.
“Banner had been on that planet since his departure from the place you called Sokovia — Hulk was, anyway,” he explained, eagerly, with a smile that pulled his lips tight. “Hulk even tried to kill me in battle!”
Thor gave a hearty laugh, a vast contrast to the mixed bag of expressions that painted the faces of everyone else.
“He almost won,” Thor chuckled with his words, his laugh growing much quieter as he kept nodding his head, over and over again. “He almost won.”
There was just enough silence to make things awkward for all five individuals — Bruce being the sixth, but too far away to pay any attention to the conversation at hand.
Tony noticed as much, making a face as he lifted his chin high to catch sight of the man nestled away in the corner.
“Brucey-bear, why didn’t tell us about any of that?” Tony called out, his lips tightly pursing together.
Bruce’s shoulders noticeably lifted as he took a deep breath in, facing the others with a shrug that dropped them low.
“Probably because I’m hearing it all for the first time,” he hesitantly admitted, the tint to his cheeks highlighted by the sunlight coming through the bay window. By habit, his one hand began to rub at the back of his neck; embarrassment showing clear as day. “I have no memory of Hulk on Sakaar. All I remember is being zapped back down to Earth, right here, by Doctor Strange — to give you that message, Tony.”
Tony’s lips pursed even tighter at the mention of memories from earlier that year. He jerked his head in the direction of the lounge, signaling for Bruce to come over.
“Stop being a party pooper, Doc Green, join the cool kids already.”
Bruce arched his eyebrow, questionably. “I’m working on your wedding present.”
Tony’s mood changed faster than his Iron Man jetboots could take off.
“Never mind then,” he waved his hand, almost excitedly, as he turned back around on the sofa. “Keep at it, then, busy bee — productivity makes progress, and all that good hoopla.”
The look Steve proceeded to give Tony was too indiscernible for words, but the wink Tony gave in return — that was as Stark Charm as the man could ever get.
And Steve’s look of disappointment that followed when he caught on — well, no different than Tony, it was every bit true to his Captain America nature.
Thor remained oblivious to it all, taking the lull as an opportunity to pick up where he’d left off.
“It took many days to get off Sakaar, and a timeless battle until we saw our escape. Once free, we went for Asgard, me and my friends…and even my brother. Confronting my sister, saving what people we could, but…ultimately, we fled the ruins of our home. She, and Asgard, are no more.”
The weight to Thor’s words were almost as heavy as the man himself, weighing down on the room with a somberness no music could lift.
Steve frowned, leaning forward on the couch to bring himself closer.
“I’m sorry, Thor,” he said, sincerely. He let a break separate his next words. “I can see how it’s been a hard time for you.”
Tony wasn’t quite was sympathetic.
“And Loki?” he asked, a little too quickly.
Steve jerked his head to Tony, his face speaking what his mouth didn’t — ‘ Not appropriate timing, Tony. ’
Tony gave him a face in return — ‘No time like the present, Rogers!’
“Oh, my brother,” Thor chuckled quietly, still oblivious to the two men’s silent communication. Caught up in his own thoughts, he allowed the lines around his mouth abate with a smile. “He came with us, at first. With the Asgardian’s, in our search for a new home. I was hopeful. Oh, I was hopeful. I thought…”
Thor let his words slip away from him, caught in a memory that took his voice and with it, the story he told.
It was clear in the sharp clarity of his crystal blue eye where his pain laid — the vivid hazel of his other eye standing out in the moment of emotion, looking as displaced as he clearly felt.
“The first morning of our journey…he was nowhere to be found on the ship,” Thor spoke quietly, with a rumble that sounded like stones to his throat. “I thought we had fixed our ways. Our father, Odin, brought us together. Loki once said it was poetic his death should split us apart.”
Thor dipped his chin low, moving his wrist slightly to swirl the amber liquid sitting inside his metal cup. He cleared his throat twice before looking up again.
“He had decided his home was elsewhere, I suppose.” Thor forced a smile that was strained at the edges. “Loki, he battles his own demons. He must be the one to fight them.” A hard swallow moved the nodule in Thor’s throat. “That weaselly, greasy bastard. I do miss him.”
The only sound keeping tension away from the moment was the startling CLACK of pool balls bouncing off the table, followed by Quill ’s enthusiastic, “YES, baby! Do better than that, I dare you—!”
“Well, Peter, if you would let me have a turn—”
“I traveled with my people, for a short time,” Thor continued on, just like the changing songs from Quill’s playlist. “But I realized, just like my brother…it was not my journey to go on. Their journey was not mine to embark.”
The noise from the kitchen persisted, even as their conversation went on. Though Tony had long since stopped paying any attention to the troublesome raccoon, others like Clint still couldn’t stop watching as the tiny, walking, talking tree continued to stuff its equally tiny face with pancakes.
There was no denying the complete surrealness of their current guests.
“So how’d you come across…” Clint silently gestured to the Guardians with his head, unable to look away as he watched while maple syrup dripped down Groot’s mouth, all the way to the toes of his twig legs.
It practically drenched the spot where he stood on the kitchen island.
Thor exclaimed with a gleeful, “The Reigning champions of The Genitalia Wars!”
“That’s not—!” Quill quickly interrupted, wagging his cue stick left and right until it made a wobbling noise. “We were undercover, we took a job—!”
“You took that job,” Gamora hastily corrected, “we got dragged into it.”
Thor clapped both his hands together with enough booming resonance that even Groot suddenly stopped eating.
“These good people, I saw their warrior strength — I saw their hunger for battle!” Thor spoke with genuine excitement, earning the attention of the others if only because of the passion he had for his tale. “It was shortly before we fled captivity from Sakaar — Banner! You were there!” Thor twisted back around to face Bruce. “Tell our friends how Hulk dragged us into the Grandmaster’s Great Genitalia Wars!”
Bruce’s dismissive wave came at the same time as Quill’s frantic, “It’s not what it sounds like—”
“The Genitalia Wars were fierce, bloody! A combat of the people I’ve never seen the likes of before!” Thor laughed — a little too loudly for everyone’s comfort. His renewed enthusiasm practically rattled his bones, the grin that overtook his face day and night compared to mere moments earlier. “It was still while trapped on Sakaar that I encountered these fine people, fighting with honor in a way I’ve only ever seen in the hearts of Asgardian’s! They joined our side to win the Grandmaster’s Genitalia Wars, where we forged unity together!”
Quill stressed, again, “We took a job—”
“YOU took that job, Quill!” Gamora shouted back.
“I promised them their victory in our battle, if they could promise their aid in our escape to Asgard,” Thor eagerly explained. “And victory, did we see! Oh, you should’ve seen the Grandmaster’s face when Hulk led the way to triumph as champion—!”
“Oh, did he, now?” Tony couldn’t have whipped his head over to Bruce any faster.
Bruce proceeded to give Tony a gesture that was far from a dismissive wave.
“It was then that silly, strange man came and took you away, Banner,” Thor kept on, completely oblivious to the silent banter happening between the two men. While Bruce kept his finger high in the air, and Tony a smirk that was every bit his flavor, Thor’s brow creased with a sudden tightness. “I had no idea of what happened to you — I thought for sure you had perished there on Saakar!”
Clint noticeably squinted an eye as he gestured his drink off to the side, lazily pointing where the game of billiards was taking place.
“And so…” he trailed off, confusion already vividly laced in his voice. “You guys exchanged pen pals or something…?”
A sharp gasp sounded from across the lounge.
“We are pals, yes!” Mantis’ delighted chime couldn’t have reached any higher in pitch. Along with another shatter of glass from the kitchen.
Tony looked to the ceiling, briefly.
Steve caught glance of him; for a moment wondering if the man was calling for patience, or for his armor.
“These people — you see, I never thought I’d see of them again! They meant nothing to me!”
Thor’s enthusiasm felt misplaced with the words he spoke. Steve went as far to arch an eyebrow, and even Natasha looked on with an uncharacteristically expressive face.
“It was in our journey to find a new home that our ship was forced to land on a nearby planet for supplies and sustenance,” Thor continued on, never one to easily understand their social cues. “By the fates of Odin did I happen to find the Reigning Champions there! Surely it was a sign — someone across the nine realms speaking through to me, saying what needed to be heard at a time I needed to hear it most…”
Thor’s voice trailed off as he looked away, almost distantly, the cup still clenched in his hand but the rim neglected to touch his lips.
At the same time, another clatter sounded from the kitchen.
“I told Quill to hurry up and get to the Bentar running before he saw us,” Rocket droned on from across the lounge, slamming a kitchen cabinet shut along the way. It caused a rattle of noise that echoed through his tangent. “None of you listened to me! I’m tellin’ ya, all of this could’ve been prevented if we had just ditched Mantis at the fuelstop—!”
“We weren’t ditching Mantis!” Quill shouted back.
“And now we’re stuck with him! Congratulations!” Rocket wasn’t shy to holler in return.
“I knew my place was not on our ship,” Thor, to no ones surprise, kept on — even as their bickering continued, just more noise added to a room full of activity. “I knew my home, it laid elsewhere. That…that is what I believe was spoken through the nine realms. And to find it…I needed to venture on my own. And so I asked these good people if they would open their doors to me—”
“—you broke down into a blubbery wet mess until Gamora felt bad enough to let you stay!” Rocket hastily butted in.
Thor failed to notice, “And it is in my travels with the Space Lords—”
“How many times have I told you that ain’t our flarking name—!”
“—that I hope to find a home of my own.” Suddenly, against then harsh layer of chatter and activity nearby, Thor’s voice grew quiet. His face softened, noticeably, but with less grief than before. The lines that deepened the skin around his eyes weren’t that of sorrow, but surety. “And perhaps, though hope is thin, I may find my brother again along the way.”
Not even Quill striking against billiard balls could make the moment that followed any less uncomfortable than it already was.
That much, to everyone’s surprise, Thor wasn’t oblivious to.
“I apologize,” he started to say, leaning back against the couch as if to distance himself from the others. “I know that the mere mention of my brother here on Midgard brings up sour memories—”
“The past is in the past.” Steve held an open palm in the air, stopping Thor right in his tracks. He nodded, firmly. “Family’s important, it’s understandable.”
It had always been hard to gauge the Asgardian for his emotions — always stoic, always firm in his resilience. Steve was more than surprised to see that barrier had broken down since they last were together.
There was now an opennesses wearing on Thor’s sleeve now. If Steve didn’t know better, the God of Thunder almost looked relieved — heartened at the acceptance to his burden, regardless of the history attached to it.
“Yes, yes, right you are.” Thor nodded, many times, before coming to a stop. “Of course, Loki is adopted—”
“Still family.”
This time, it wasn’t anyone in the lounge who spoke up.
All heads turned over to the entertainment space, finding the source of words to have come from the green skinned woman at the pool table. She bent over with her cue stick ready to strike, barely giving those in the lounge a single glance when they all turned to face her.
Standing behind Gamora, Quill pointed his own cue stick in her direction.
“What she said,” he needlessly added.
No one spoke up to disagree.
For a minute, only the music played overhead — a new song overtaking the last, with no song having repeated itself so far.
It was certainly a wide range of tunes in Quill’s collection — no doubt all of which was as outdated as the music player it originated from, but at the very least it kept the atmosphere in the lounge steady; calm and positive, even when dialogue had taken a more somber tone.
Though the conversation came to a halt, things weren’t necessarily quiet. Rather, there was a loud contemplation that followed — internal, and brief. But still there.
“I thought the world of my brother,” Thor broke that shared introspective with his own thoughts spoken out loud. His vulnerability was genuine, bringing a shared nostalgia to the group that grounded them all. “I thought we were going to fight side by side, forever. But at the end of the day, he’s him…and our paths diverged a long time ago. Still. I hope to see of him, once more. To start anew, in this new chapter of our lives.” Thor brought his cup to his mouth, hesitating before it could touch down on his lips. “But if I should never see of him again…so be it.”
And with that, he tossed his drink back, taking a mouthful that emptied the cup dry.
Thor noticeably sniffed when finishing, and swallowed twice for good measure — ruffing his hand through the thickness of his beard in hopes no one would pay any mind to the spasm in his throat, even long after finishing the remains in his cup.
Tony noticed.
“Losing Asgard can’t be easy on you.” Tony looked Thor head-on, his eyes bare and unwavering, with his glasses folded and tucked into the dip of his polo shirt.
“That was your home,” Steve chimed in, scooting a little closer to the edge of the sofa — at this point, the coffee table was the only object that put distance between them.
Thor started out with a nod, one that eventually brought his gaze up to the others. He found each individual in the room — Tony, Clint, Natasha — before firmly settling on Steve, allowing a small smile to tug at his mouth.
“Yes, but…Asgard is not just a place,” Thor finally managed, far quieter than anything he’d said so far. “It’s a people.”
A voice that was normally as resounding as the lightning he’d summon from the skies had suddenly softened, almost beyond recognition — and yet remained as powerful as ever before.
No music could overtake it, no pandemonium from the kitchen, no chit-chat from all corners of the lounge. It was heard, loud and clear — and for Steve, he needed to sit with it for a moment longer than anyone else.
Tony hummed next to him — Steve heard that. Clint made a sound himself, responding more in expression than anything. Steve saw that, having given the archer a quick glance right alongside Natasha; who, per usual, spoke in her own ways. The smallest squint of her eye, a slight arch to her brow.
It was the small things Steve had gotten to know over time, the small things he’d gotten to know about them. It wasn’t even with effort he’d done so. Time had simply had its way with them all, forging bonds between them as natural as the conversation they had now.
“Home is a people.” Steve turned back to Thor, landing on his gaze with a smile in return. “I like that.”
SCREEEeecchhhHHH!
“Yeah, well,” Rocket used both his arms to drag a barstool away from the kitchen island, the legs audibly scratching against the floor as he made his way further into the kitchen. “The Bentar’s guest room is getting a little crowded, so if you wanna unpack your bags here—”
“Rocket!” Both Quill and Gamora simultaneously chided — doing absolutely nothing from stopping Rocket as he used the barstool to reach up for the range hood of the stove.
“What!?” Rocket was already pulling off the range hood’s filter so he could dig his paws inside. “I’m just saying. They seem like a welcoming bunch — stay a little while. Or forever. We won’t know unless you give it a go!”
Quill rolled his eyes as he reset the pool table, aligning the different colored balls inside the wooden rack. Gamora had already departed for the kitchen — most likely to stop Rocket from dissembling whatever he could get his paws onto next.
Steve gave them a brief glance before turning his focus back ahead.
“Well, Thor, as long as you’re here,” he started to say, with a genuine grin to follow suit, “you have a home with us. It doesn’t matter how long you stay—”
“Eight days,” Rhodey curtly interrupted, making his way out of the kitchen as an argument between alien and animal began to increase in volume. At this point, Rocket said more in foreign swear words than he did anything in English. “They need to be flying their asses back to space in eight days—”
“I am Groot!”
The high-pitched shout was so sudden, even Tony looked back to the kitchen — immediately regretting the decision when he caught sight of the tiny tree bouncing up and down on his feet, his twig arms pumping up and down with childish excitement.
Rocket climbed down the top of the stove’s range hood, earning a hard pressed look from Gamora along the way. One that he easily ignored.
“You can’t swim — you just ate!” Rocket pointed a sharp claw Groot’s way. “You can’t swim on a full stomach!”
Both twigs fell to Groot’s hip, planting firmly there as if he were still rooted in a pot himself.
“I am Groot!”
Rocket’s jaw dropped as quickly as he dropped from the range hook. “ No, it doesn’t matter that we’re on vacation — that rule still applies!”
Gamora cocked her head to the side as Rocket walked away from her, his tail swishing with a heated motion that arched her eyebrow high.
“Rocket, if Groot wants to go swimming, then let him—”
Rocket kept walking away, throwing his arm in the air as he called back, “ You take him swimming, then! I don’t want any part in this!”
Groot sounded out with an excited cry, quickly running off the kitchen island and leaving Drax to finish the remaining pancake left on the plate.
A hasty shimmy took Groot down the leg of the table, and his knees buckled when he landed to the floor, stumbling a few steps before he finally took off.
Right as he did, Drax let out a burp so loud, so long, and so hard — it startled Groot into running faster.
Drax then proceeded to lick his plate clean. And then some.
Paying no mind to any of that, Thor went on to give a light laugh, one that matched his easy going smile.
“Thank you, my good friend, Steve,” he said, genuinely, reaching into the pocket of his jacket to retrieve a small bottle from inside. With his other hand, he twisted the lid off, storing it away in the same pocket as before. “Know that for the time I am here, I’m happy to be with you again — please be honored to know that I consider you both my brothers in arms.”
As Thor poured some of the liquid inside his cup, Tony and Steve exchanged a look — amused, to say the least, at Thor’s never ceasing ego.
With a gesture of his hand, Thor motioned for Steve to take from his hold. The movement caught Steve’s attention, who quirked a smile when he took the small glass bottle from Thor.
From there, Thor lifted his cup, gesturing for Tony to do the same. Though his drink was nearly empty, he still brought his bottle forward.
They toasted, wordlessly. And without any words needed.
It was with impeccable timing that Tony finished his swig of beer right in time to catch Steve from trying to hold in his stifled cough, his face twisting into a hard grimace that pinched his eyes tightly together.
Tony arched a brow.
“That do it for you, Rogers?” he asked — eagerly, his curiosity peaking through a little too strongly.
Steve threw him a look, rubbing his bottom lip with his thumb and moving his jaw side to side. He needed to swallow a few times before answering.
“I’m not sure what it is,” he managed through a tight expression, handing the bottle back to Thor with a tight lipped, but still very polite smile. Thor wasn’t offended, not even as Steve went on to say, “Not sure I’ve ever been drunk before.”
Tony craned his head around to face the far corner of the lounge, so suddenly it nearly gave himself whiplash. “Need anything, Bruce? Your drink good? Wanna place an order for the smorgasbord? Would you like a back massage?”
Even with the skylights putting a glare against his glasses, Bruce’s deep concentration on his project could still be seen in his eyes. He didn’t even bother to give Tony any acknowledgment, deciding instead to continue typing away in a fit of hyper focus.
When Tony turned back to Steve, the man still had that look to give.
Tony, already making moves to slip back on his glasses, met that look with another wink that quickly became hidden behind stylish frames.
But not before earning the slightest smirk from Steve — a twitch of his upper lip, in all reality.
Tony saw it.
By the time he had his glasses back on, Thor had already twisted on the couch to face Bruce, his zest renewing a spark of energy inside of him.
“You know Banner, I do greatly miss the Hulk,” he called out, grinning ear-to-ear. “A fun friend, he is!”
A hard scoff shook Bruce’s back, so loud it could be heard all the way from his corner of the lounge.
“Yeah, well, Hulk has had his fair share of excitement since leaving Sakaar,” Bruce kept typing as he spoke, though he did spare a glance to Thor at least once along the way. “After…Venom, I think he’s gunna be taking some much needed time off.”
Crossing the length of the lounge to take the stairs, Drax was the last of the group to hit the steps — Gamora, Groot, and Mantis were already out of sight as they left for the downstairs pool, but the words Drax heard kept him from following.
“Venom?” Drax immediately turned around, returning to the lounge with a sudden disinterest in swimming. “What is this Venom you speak of?”
It was hard to say what noise belonged to what person — everyone had their own share of reactions, from groans that Clint took with him all the way back into the kitchen, to Tony’s drawn out breath of air, exhausting the entirety of his lungs in one single breath.
“You would’ve loved that one, Thunderbolt.” Tony threw a look in Thor’s direction, who seemed simply enthralled at what he was hearing.
It was a sharp contrast to everyone else — even Natasha wore her ordeal openly on her face, biting back a sigh as she took a seat on the armrest next to Tony.
“We could’ve used him for that one,” she needlessly added, tucking her hands deep into the crevices of her armpits with a palpable sense of discomfort.
A long silence fell. Long enough that both Thor and Drax quickly turned their attention to Bruce, fervently anticipating an answer that no one else seemed eager to provide.
This time, Bruce noticed the attention on himself. He looked to Thor, found himself briefly staring at Drax, and ultimately answered — with a demonstration of hands —
“Big monster.”
Drax belted out a laugh that startled them all.
“You weak Terrans have fought a beast!?” His laugh grew louder, followed by the roar of, “Ha! There’s no way—!”
“Got the scars to prove it, Walking Wikipedia,” Tony quickly, and curtly, cut in. The unamused look on his face said the rest — this wasn’t a discussion they wanted to have. Not any of them.
“And this beast was here? On Terra?” Drax never did pick up well on subtly. His excitement only grew from there. “Then we will stay here until I conquer a Terran beast!”
Watching the game of pool take place from where he sat at the dinning room table, Rhodey hiccuped into the rim of his bottle as he stressed,
“Eight days.”
Mid-swig, Rhodey’s chest bounced with another hiccup. He didn’t seem to care, going on to swallow more of his drink right after.
Quill struck his cue stick against the billiard balls before standing up straight. “Drax, we’re not sticking around here so you can—”
“I long for battle!” Drax argued, without hesitation. Five large steps brought him to the billiard table, with his hands clenched tightly into fists near his bare chest. “It has been ages since we’ve fought the flesh of another! I want to feel the throat of my prey beneath my fingers as I choke them into the pulsating agony of—”
“Drax.” Quill immediately put his cue stick aside, laying it gently across the pool table as he took quick but cautious steps towards his friend. “Dude. Chill out—”
Drax smacked his hand away. “This…this stillness! This quiet. It doesn’t depress you?”
Partially listening in, Steve craned his head around to face those not far behind him.
“I lived through the great depression,” he commented, with a smirk. “Things can only go up from there.”
“The great depression?” Rocket threw a closed fist down onto the dinning room table, bouncing a few loose forks and spoons along the way. While others ate, he pouted. “This is the great depression! We just going to sit around and yap all day long, or we going to do something!?”
Quill passed by the table on his way into the kitchen, gesturing his arm openly to Rocket as he walked on by.
“Go swimming with Groot and the girls!” he suggested, going on to point at the stairs where Gamora, Mantis, and Groot had since departed.
Appalled, Rocket jumped onto the dinning room table — much to Rhodey’s displeasure.
“You know I don’t swim!” Rocket crassly called out, his right leg stomping down on the table and rattling the plate Rhodey was trying to eat from. “I don’t get wet!”
Quill spun dramatically fast on his heels to face Rocket, long before ever crossing the threshold of the kitchen.
“Oh, you don’t get wet?” he repeated, strutting forward with an eyebrow arching higher than the skylights. “What about that time on Exita—”
Rocket scampered across the surface of the table, his tail swinging wildly along the way. “Don’t you dare tell that story—”
“C’mon, man!” Rhodey exasperatedly huffed, pushing his plate aside once Rocket’s tail flopped down into his food.
“What happened?” Peter’s voice called out from behind Quill — a little too eagerly at that. His interest in the conversation was only outmatched by his appetite, where he continued to devour the plate of bacon sitting in front of him, one piece at a time.
Sometimes two.
Three if he was really caught up in the conversations taking place.
Which he currently was — his wide eyes bouncing between Quill and Rocket with a smile that made it hard for him to keep chewing.
Quill went right for three pieces himself, taking off Peter’s plate with a smile as large as the bacon itself.
“Alright, so hear this little man—” Quill bit right into the bacon, going on to talk with muffled chews that garbled his story. “I’m standing there, knee deep in Wuruum on Seknarf Nine, all while face-to-face with this crazy rabid Hellhound—”
“No, you were not!” Rocket’s voice shouted from out of sight.
Quill shot his head around, not even bothering to find Rocket when he shouted back, “Yes, I was!”
“He was not,” Drax dryly added, standing motionless from off to the side, folding both arms firmly across his chest.
Quill threw him a look next. “I was too! ”
The silence that followed argued that statement more than anyone else could.
Even Peter, who looked on with unsureness, could feel his smile growing more tepid with the passing seconds.
Quill looked to Rocket — back to Peter — somehow found Drax along the way — back at Rocket, and almost immediately rolled his eyes when Rocket did that thing with his hands and hips.
“Aright,” Quill kept his head low as he reached inside his jacket pocket, pretending he needed to look down to see what he was doing with the music player in his hands. “So in hindsight, the Hellhound wasn’t that rabid—”
▶• lıllılı.ıllı.ılılıılıı.lllııılı. Now Playing [Gimme Shelter] 0:48 ———♡——— 4:30 ◁◁ ▐ ▌ ▷▷
♫ Oh, a storm is threatening
my very life today ♫
if I don't get some shelter ♫
oh yeah, I'm going to fade away ♫
The story continued on, with Drax intermittently correcting Quill along the way — much to Quill’s intolerance to his interjections.
None of that mattered to Peter, who listened on with an enthusiasm so charged and genuine, it managed to hype up Quill even more along the way.
“And then, the next thing I know these two giant fangs are barreling down on me faster than the speed of a Jump Point—”
“That’s so cool!” Peter breathed in awe. “What’s a Jump Point?”
Rocket rolled his eyes as he listened on from the kitchen, standing on the barstool he’d dragged to the stovetop; but this time so he could gather a plate of food for himself.
“Go swimming, Rocket, go swimming,” he muttered with nothing but pessimism, scooping out whatever contents filled the pot on the stove and pouring it over the other contents that filled his plate — which was already stacked to the brim with one of everything that had been laid out. “One of these days I outta take the fuel thrusters and jam them right up Quill’s—”
A large arm reached over his shoulder.
“Don’t gotta take everything all at once, you know,” the voice sounded from his left side — Rocket shot his head around, catching more bicep than he did face.
“Huh?” Rocket harshly tossed back, squinting one eye practically shut until that arm withdrew and a face could be made out.
Steve grabbed a plate from above Rocket, motioning it towards the numerous pots and pans that sat out in front of them.
“The food,” he gently answered. “We can always make more. There’s plenty to go around.”
As Steve began to load his plate with large but modest portions, Rocket scoffed from off to the side — making his next scoop all the bigger.
“Yeah, well,” Rocket crassly bit back, “where I’m from it’s take before it’s taken from ya.”
With that, he added a final slop of something to his plate, satisfied with the weight only once testing it out for himself.
Up and down, and then up again — Rocket smirked.
And then immediately dug into the food, one handful at a time.
Steve watched on with a curious eye, and a very noticeable arched brow.
“You know,” Once he finished filling his own plate, he turned to Rocket. “Believe it or not, I can understand that.”
Rocket slowed his chewing, one motion of his jaw at a time. Eventually, he stopped all together, giving Steve a look that rivaled audacity in its rawest form, mixed with undeniable cynicism only a face of his nature could hold.
Steve saw that look. It brought on a smirk, almost as if he forgot what it felt like when people didn’t know every single minute detail about him.
The concept of Captain America was a foreign to Rocket as Rocket was to Steve. Steve looked to his plate, forming the words in his head before he spoke them aloud.
“When I took the serum that made me who I am today, I swore I’d do everything I could to protect people like that,” he mentioned, turning his head to the side to catch Rocket’s eye. “That little guy, always having things taken from them. I was one of them. So trust me, I get it.”
Rocket’s look of audacity only grew from there.
“Wait.” Rocket pointed a claw at Steve, one that dripped with gravy — or so Steve assumed, based off the biscuits, eggs, and chicken wings that covered his plate. There was also signs of a hot dog somewhere off to the side. And definitely pancakes underneath. “You willingly let people experiment on you?”
Steve went to answer — only to pause before his vocal cords could make any attempt at a noise.
His face then fell flat, and immediately twisted up tight.
Ultimately, after a long, drawn out, and increasingly awkward pause —
“My situation was a little…different, from others,” Steve humbled himself, forcing a modest grin that spoke of his understanding.
Even with humility in his own spoken errors, Rocket still scoffed, digging his paw into the pile of food on his plate with no care to the mess he made.
”Yeah,” he muttered, before shoving a handful of food into his mouth and garbling out, “I’d flarking say so.”
The tension was undeniable from that point on. Steve fiddled with his fork, taking a bite or two along the way but suddenly too occupied in his own head to keep eating.
He let his gaze wander, briefly, with no intent on landing anywhere. Huddles of different activities took place across from him, some folks being invested in the on-going game of billiard balls, while others simply invested themselves in hearty conversation.
One person in particular caught his attention.
“You should meet my friend, Bucky,” Steve didn’t waste a beat once he saw the man in question.
Bucky wasn’t doing anything in particular — it appeared a conversation between him, Natasha, and Clint had taken his interest.
What they spoke of exactly was hard to say from a distance; but at one point Natasha laughed, and shortly after he could see Bucky give a thin, shallow grin.
“Bucky who?”
Rocket looked back and forth, up and down — he only stopped when Steve gestured lackadaisically to the side, using his finger as a way to give direction.
Rocket found Bucky, but only thanks to the glimmer of black and gold that glistened across the lounge, his artificial limb caught up in a ray of sunshine that came through the skylights.
“Oh, he’s Bucky,” Rocket’s tone changed word by word, lifting with a sudden enthusiasm. The thrill that dripped in his voice was almost as thick as the gravy that dripped down his plate. Or was that maple syrup? “Oh, the wonderful and terrible things I could do with that arm.”
A break of laughter sounded from a different corner of the lounge, where Thor threw his head back in a fit of hysteria while Bruce hid his face away from anyone’s view, the story being told clearly bringing him humiliation — and Tony, much delight.
Steve was distracted by the moment, where as Rocket remained fixated without any break in his focus.
“You’d think he’d sell me that arm?” Rocket’s question was enough to reclaim Steve’s attention, his head jerking back over with an eyebrow arched high into his hairline — genuine disbelief coating his features.
Rocket noticed, following up with an all too casual shrug and an equally casual, “You know, for the right price.”
Steve paused.
“No, I...” Another pause nearly become a stretch of silence. Steve shook his head long before he spoke. “I don’t think he’s looking to get rid of it.”
Rocket worked his mouth in many directions, his face making a few different expressions as he noticeably pondered on in thought.
“Everyone’s got a price,” he finally settled on saying, quietly enough that Steve just barely heard him — but he heard him, nonetheless.
Clearing his throat, Steve looked away, awkwardly, forcing himself to find his plate to be the most interesting thing in the lounge.
Seventy years in the ice certainly didn’t prepare him for this.
He kept his focus on his food, even when a shoulder brushed past him — a body sliding seamlessly into the kitchen as if the marble floors were a skating rink.
“Thank you, I’ll take some of that — thank you.” Quill quickly and easily grabbed one of everything that laid out in front of them, passing by Steve and Rocket with a twirl of his body that took him to the next counter top. “Ohhhh, and that, please. Awesomesauce, thank you.”
No different than Rocket, Quill had overfilled his plate to the brim, causing a mess behind him as he made a straight beeline for the lounge.
For every chip that fell off his plate, he swept it to the side with his foot.
Gamora, still playing billiards by the entertainment side of the lounge, gave him a noticeable eye-roll as he did.
The sofa’s had since been cleared, with its prior occupants having made their way to different areas of the room — Thor’s loud laughter clearly came from the corner Bruce had tried to seclude himself in, much to the scientist’s ever growing discontent.
With four sofa’s and two armchairs, Quill still managed to pick the only couch where there was a single occupant left sitting — plopping down on the sofa next to them with his plate of food resting comfortably in his lap.
“It’s Peter, right?” Quill pointed a finger at Peter, his other hand digging for a tortilla chip buried deep within a heaping load of salsa and cheese.
Peter went to nod, but before he could even twitch a muscle—
“I’m gunna call you Little Peter, that way there’s no confusion,” Quill steamrolled right over him, finding the largest nacho chip in his mountain of dip and bringing it straight up to his mouth.
Peter nodded — rapidly, as if afraid he wouldn’t get it out in time. Any faster and his head might’ve fallen right off his shoulders. It was a downright feat it hadn’t already.
“Yeah, yeah, totally, that’s — yeah, cool, that’s…that’s cool,” he stammered on, painfully, undeniably enthralled with Quill’s presence even when the man nearly choked on a tortilla chip. Twice.
It was sometime between his second choking fit that Quill reached a hand inside the inner pocket of his jacket, rummaging around until he retrieved what he was looking for.
“Wait, is that the thing your music is playing from?” Peter fired off the question before he even heard it in his head.
It was a habit of his.
A bad habit, according to May.
One he showed no signs of fixing anytime soon.
“Sure is!” Quill excitedly answered, flipping over the rectangle device to showcase front and back. The device looked as outdated as the same type of old school gadgets Peter would find back during his dumpster diving trips — and the same kind of out dated stuff he’d dissemble with his bare hands and rebuild into something far better.
And yet, despite all that, Quill still beamed at it with pride.
“This bad boy holds three hundred songs, can you believe that? And the battery power — man, this thing is a beast, longest it’s ever stayed on was almost a full cycle. Almost got there, it was super close, would’ve made it if Groot hadn’t wanted to play Dolly Parton that night as his bedtime song.” Quill admired the device with a softening smile. “Tell you what, I didn’t have nothing like this when I was your age. Nothing close to it.”
Peter sat up a little straighter on the couch, his confusion easily overtaking his curiosity. The thing looked a bit like something May had tucked away in her bedroom closet, so old that it was gathering nothing but dust and cobwebs beneath an old and worn out box of extra blankets and pillow cases.
Still, he asked, “What is it?”
Quill never looked away from the device in his hand, not even as he answered,
“It’s a Zune.”
The device could’ve come straight from Mr. Stark’s lab, still warm from fresh innovation, and Quill’s tone of wonder and expression of delight wouldn’t have changed a bit. There was a sense of awe for the small, slightly beat up, obsolete equipment that lit up his face with childlike happiness. If the word joy had a picture next to it, Peter was pretty sure Quill’s face would’ve done the job perfectly.
“A what?”
Peter didn’t share that same expression.
Not even close to it.
Quill snapped his head over at a speed that nearly knocked his nacho’s right off his lap.
“A Zune,” he stressed, eyebrows lifting so high up his forehead it somehow managed to lift some of his mustache too. The blank stare Peter proceeded to give only intensified that look of disbelief. “Wait, you’re telling me you don’t know what a Zune is?”
Peter blinked.
And slowly shook his head.
“No,” he drawled out — hesitatingly, based off the look of unadulterated shock Quill was giving him.
“What!?” Quil exclaimed, twisting his hip on the couch to face Peter, spilling a few nacho’s onto the floor near his feet as he did. “No way! What are you talking about, I was told these things are super popular down on Earth!”
Peter kept shaking his head, slower by the passing second.
“No.”
His tone didn’t change.
Neither did his expression.
Quill didn’t stray far from his disbelief, but there was no denying the growing tint to his cheeks was starting to look eerily similar to the crimson red of his jacket.
Embarrassment painted on his face like his features were a canvas.
And Peter couldn’t resist the smirk at that.
“Well…they should be!” Quill lifted the device for show, and yet kept it protectively close to his chest — Peter’s growing smirk may have had a part in that. “This tiny guy — three hundred songs, dude, three hundred. My walkman couldn’t even dream of coming close to that! And it’s all on one — don’t gotta flip the deck or nothing! This is state of the art! You kids have no idea how lucky you got it!”
Peter gaped, jaw to the floor and all.
“Dude…” The words almost didn’t form. Just like Quill, he twisted inwards on the couch, facing the man head-on. “You have an actual spaceship…and you think that’s impressive?”
When Peter pointed a single finger at the Zune, Quill’s face proceeded to scrunch up with painfully obvious insult.
“It is,” he bluntly bit back.
Peter almost laughed.
Almost.
He gave himself credit for that.
“Here, lemme — hold up.” Peter didn’t waste another second, lifting a bit off the couch so he could reach into the back pocket of his jeans.
His mouth twisted to the side as he dug for his phone, barely retrieving it from the hole that was his pocket — and the actual hole that he kept forgetting existed in this pair of jeans.
It suddenly made sense why he lost his change on the way back from Delmar’s the other day. He just figured May ran it through the wash by accident.
“You want a good collection of music?” Peter shuffled an inch closer to Quill on the sofa, showcasing his phone to see — what could be seen through the many cracks that shattered screen of the device. The pad of his thumb scrolled in all sorts of directions before landing on what he wanted. “It’s the Internet, dude. This is all online.”
For a man with a spaceship parked outside, Quill looked down at Peter’s phone like it was the rarest gold in all of existence.
“No way…” he barely whispered under his breath, hesitantly reaching for Peter’s phone — who handed it off like it was no big deal, even as Quill held it in both his palms like a newborn baby bird.
“Last year I created this playlist with my friend — uh, girlfriend — well, she was my friend at the time—” Peter rambled on as Quill proceeded to scroll through his phone, using his pointer finger instead of his thumb to navigate the screen. “And I don’t know if we’re actually there yet, I mean, she’s kinda my girlfriend but we also haven’t said it yet but she was my friend at the time we created this playlist together, so if we’re talking about things in that sense then we weren’t dating yet, because our first date was like, three weeks ago when I took her to our junior year prom, and that went really well actually, I think she really likes me, which would be super cool cause I really like her and I’ve never had a girlfriend before so—”
Peter took a in deep, much needed breath.
He really need to learn when to stop.
“Anyway,” Peter picked up where he left off, using his hands to motion alongside his words. “There’s like, five thousand songs on here. Probably, anyway. Maybe more? It’s getting really big, actually, now that I think about it. It started small, just me and her. We tried getting our friend Ned into it but his mom won’t pay for the subscription to the app. But anyway, then Wanda — that girl, uh, that one right over there — she joined us.”
Peter pointed over to the kitchen at Wanda when he spoke, but Quill didn’t bother looking at the red-haired girl in question. His gaze was locked intently on the phone, with wide eyes that started to glisten in wetness underneath the ceiling skylights.
Meanwhile, Peter gestured to his phone like it was nothing.
“And then, uhm, well, this crazy stuff happened where I ended up in Africa, and I met this really smart girl named Shuri — super smart, total genius. Anyway, and now she’s in on it now, too — all this African tribal stuff, that’s totally her. And there’s a lot of kinda funky foreign bands, it’s actually really cool, I like it. I listen to a lot of it when I’m studying, it helps me focus.”
The more Quill’s finger scrolled the screen, the more his eyes lit up. The scrolling showed no signs of stopping — and neither did Peter, so long as no one told him to.
“There’s no theme or anything, we all just sorta throw songs in that we like. You can browse all sorts of music and add songs to your collection. MJ has her own taste in music — that’s my girlfriend. Uh — friend. She’s a girl who’s a friend, any way. Her taste in music is really different, but cool. Mine’s kinda everywhere, I like it all. And then Wanda — Wanda’s is cool cause she’s got her stuff, but she also spent time with Doctor Strange over spring break —he’s this magician kinda guy — but he doesn’t wanna be called a magician. He does magic, though. Sorcerer stuff. Anyway, she went and hung out with him and he’s into this really old people music — kinda like what you’re listening to right now — and she added a lot of that to our playlist as well. So it’s kinda like Doctor Strange is in it too.” Peter paused. Just for a second. “Huh, never really thought of it like that.”
Only once Peter stopped talking, for good, did he realize how quiet things had gotten.
When he looked over at Quill, the man’s next blink shed a drop of liquid down to his plate below, tainting his nacho’s with salty tears.
Peter frowned. “Are you crying?”
Quill immediately ran his forearm across his eyes, going on to pinch the bridge of his nose tightly until his eyes couldn’t squeeze shut any tighter.
“No!” Quill cleared his throat. More than once. “Maybe. A little.” The warble in his voice betrayed him.
Peter arched an eyebrow, but for once, he kept his mouth shut.
Not even the music playing overhead saved Quill from any embarrassment.
“You know, weddings are just—” Quill rubbed at both his eyes with clenched fist, hiding any of his sniffles behind poorly timed coughs. “Weddings are a really beautiful thing, you know, love is — it’s really magical, actually, and the last time I checked it’s socially acceptable to cry at wedding’s—”
“This isn’t Mr. Stark’s wedding,” Peter interrupted, a beat full of confusion separating what came next. “And…and you don’t even know Mr. Stark.”
The obvious was brushed off as easily as Quill brushed away the emotion from his face, going on to clear his throat one more time before he faced Peter again.
“Well, I know him now, and really, I think it’s all just very beautiful, the thing he’s got with his gal is something a man could envy, and-and-and you know, who doesn’t love a good wedding, and-and—” Quill swallowed, hard, as he regained his composure long enough to ask, “and do you think we can take what you have and put all of that into this? Please? Pretty please?”
Peter laughed — humbly, looking down at his cell phone with the screen cracked in eight different directions and battery barely holding on at fourteen percent.
But he had to admit, the playlist was pretty cool.
He really liked that MJ came up with the idea.
Scrolling against the crack on his screen, Peter’s eyes caught every song he knew she added to the bunch.
He really did like her taste in music.
There was a lot about her that he liked.
Briefly distracted, Peter snapped himself out of it — looking up at Quill with a toothy grin that reached all the way to his eyes.
“I think Mr. Stark can get you something even better before you leave,” he suggested, gesturing to his phone before pocketing it away — this time in his front pocket to avoid any holes in the back. “His technology is like, super advanced. He’s kinda a big deal down here on Earth. His stuff is one of a kind.”
Quill met Peter’s toothy grin with his own.
“That’s awesome, dude.” Quill slapped the back of his hand against Peter’s collarbone, readjusting himself on the sofa so he could lean back further into the cushions, relaxing casually with his plate in his lap. “I’m glad your old man’s cool like that.”
Quill dug in for a nacho at the same time Peter opened his mouth to correct him.
“My dad tried to kill me.” Quill went to take a bite of his chip, only to stop halfway there. “And then he died.”
Just like that, Peter’s mouth shut almost as fast as he tried to speak.
Quill crunched down on his nachos, working his jaw as he chewed and spoke — his words mixing with salsa dip and tortilla chips.
“Then my real dad, not my real dad but you know, my real dad — he saved me from dying.” Quill went for another tortilla chip, digging it deep into the salsa but stopping before lifting it off the plate. A pause froze him. “And then he died.”
Peter opened his mouth to speak again.
This time, he didn’t know what to say.
Quill filled the silence with another loud crunch of chips and dip.
“But it’s all good!” he eventually exclaimed, a little too enthusiastically. His mouth was still full of food as he spoke, with crumbs freely spitting from his mouth. “Cause I got the tunes, and so long as I got the music, no matter what happens, my song is always gunna be there to get me through the rough times.”
Peter suddenly perked up.
“Your song?” he gasped — like Quill, a little too enthusiastically. As Quill relaxed against the couch cushions, Peter sat closer to the edge. “Wait, are you in a band or something?”
Quill threw him a look.
“No, man!” Quill reached for his Zune, using it to gesture towards Peter’s pocket where his phone laid tucked inside. “You know, my song!”
Peter raised an eyebrow, but otherwise looked like a deer in the headlights.
“You’re seriously telling me that you don’t have a song?” Quill gestured his Zune more zealously towards Peter’s pocket. At this point he was waving his hand hard enough to create a breeze. “A song you always listen to, a go-to song that captures everything about you, a song that’s all about you, a song that’s just…yours?”
A pause turned into a stretch of silence, sans the upbeat guitar strumming that dated back generations before Peter’s birth.
Young and green as he was, Peter timidly shook his head.
Quill immediately put his plate of nachos to the side, practically bouncing on the sofa as he sat upright and closer to the edge like Peter.
“Here, hold up — just wait a minute.”
Quill immediately went for his Zune, manually clicking on a few buttons with the pad of his thumb. Each click he made synced with the music overhead, changing the songs that played with only a slight delay to his movements.
Nobody seemed to notice — or care — as the soundtrack to their night suddenly switched up at a speed no ear could keep up with. The songs skipped before they even started, and yet the activities around them went on uninterrupted.
Sam hovered over Rhodey at the pool table, watching as the Colonel swayed side-to-side with the cue stick held loosely in his grasp.
His arm pulled back, and in doing so his elbow knocked into a beer bottle placed on the corner of the billiards table.
Sam barely caught it in time.
“Man, you are wobbling that cue-stick—”
“Shut up, Sam, you’re just afraid I’m about to beat your ass at—” Rhodey hiccuped. Hard. “—at a game of pool after eight beers.”
“Ten,” Sam easily corrected, reaching for Rhodey’s elbow only for him to jerk it away. “And no, I’m afraid you’re going to poke your eye out with that thing—”
CLACK.
“Shit!”
“Yep.”
Any curses of Rhodey’s that followed were drowned out by the rich, soul-heavy tunes of the 1970’s , with lush harmonies as smooth as the vocals that followed.
▶• lıllılı.ıllı.ılılıılıı.lllııılı. Now Playing [O-o-h Child] 0:17 ———♡——— 3:17 ◁◁ ▐ ▌ ▷▷
Peter watched, wordlessly, as Quill very passionately went on to sing,
“Ohhh child, things are going to get easier.” Quill snapped his fingers, with precise rhythm to the beat.” Oh-hh child, things are going to get brighter.” Each snap was more passionate than the last. Peter didn’t think that was possible. “Oh-hh child, things are going to get easier. Ohhh-hhh child, things are going to get brighter.”
Without warning, Peter startled back as Quill—
“Some day, YEAH!” Quill shouted, his high pitch signing ringing out with a belting enthusiasm. “We'll put it together and we'll get it undone. Some day! When your head is much lighter!”
In the midst of his head-banging, enthusiast, passionate soul singing, Quill managed to catch a glimpse of Peter’s bare-faced expression.
It earned a hard stop from his otherwise gratuitous singing.
“No?” Quill furrowed his brows, confused.
Peter shook his head.
“No, I uh…” Peter looked to the ceiling as the music played on, wracking his brain for anything that came even remotely close to Quill’s slightly off-putting obsession he had for the song of choice.
Sure, he had his favorite songs. Peter could name a handful right now, way better than he could remember anything from history class. And then there were there songs MJ listened to — he liked her taste in music a lot.
He liked her a lot.
♫ Some day
we’ll put it together and get it undone ♫
some day ♫
when your head is much lighter ♫
Peter shook his head, looking away from the ceiling that had nothing to offer him. No matter how hard he chewed on it, his mind kept coming up short. Whatever Quill had, whatever connection there seemed to be with the song — Peter wasn’t sure that even existed for him.
“Nope,” he popped the P in his answer, practically shrugging his shoulders to his ear lobes. “Nothing I can think of.”
Suddenly, Peter realized that even with the wide-array of never ending songs in his collection that put Quill over the moon, there wasn’t a single, individual one out of the bunch that stuck with him.
Nothing in particular he could say, in Quill’s words, was all about him.
Peter wasn’t really even sure what the song would be about, if he found it.
He wasn’t really sure who he was, to begin with.
Worthy of being brought back to life. That much he knew.
But why — well, that was a question that plagued him no different than Parker Luck.
And with it came the added pressure he wasn’t even sure Spider-Man could withstand, mutated abilities and all.
“Oh, dude. We’ll fix that.” Quill crashed right through Peter’s ruminations, and not a second too late. Peter already had to shake his head a little too much like a wet dog, frantic to get out of his thoughts and into the present moment.
Looking back over at Quill, Peter watched as he frantically scrolled through his Zune with an excitement only a new born puppy could contain.
“I’m getting you a song,” he eagerly insisted. “I’m an expert at getting people’s songs — just ask Gamora.”
The timing was impeccable, as Gamora casually climbed the stairway up to the lounge; pool towel swung messily over her shoulder and the tips of her red hair damp with wetness.
“Oh!” Quill twisted at the hip to face her, watching as her bare feet left wet footprints the further she entered the lounge. “Gamora! Gamora!”
Gamora didn’t stop to face him, but she did at least slow her speed.
“Tell Little Peter all about my songs!” Quill just barely managed to catch her attention, stopping her briefly when she bent over to unroll the cuffs of her pants. Her feet were still damp with water, showing evidence of having dipped her toes into the pool.
“He has songs. Many of them,” Gamora dryly answered as she unrolled the fabric to her pants. The leather shined with a bit of the wetness of pool water. “He will make you listen to them for hours.”
Quill flopped his hand all about, even as Peter fought back a smirk.
“No, not that,” Quill drawled out, somewhat annoyed, but mostly unphased. “How good am I at nailing people songs?”
With the pool towel still draped over her shoulder, Gamora reached for the fabric and pulled it off in one swift tug. She was bent over when drying her calves and feet, sparing Peter a look along the way.
“I like the song he picked for me,” she answered, succinctly.
Peter leaned forwarded, ultra-curiously.
“What was it? Your song?” he asked, sitting forward even more — the edge of the couch was no longer a thing for him. Only his agility kept him in place.
Gamora switched from drying off one leg to the other, looking away when curtly answering,
“That’s none of your business.”
The deadpan answer was almost enough to steal away the music playing overhead. Peter looked away from Gamora and back over to Quill, staying on the latter with a bit of growing confusion clouding his smile.
Quill, however, still remained unphased.
“It’s a good song,” Quill insisted, without ever looking away from Gamora.
Peter quirked an eyebrow, high — but otherwise kept to himself. If the alien assassin said he had a good taste in music…well, he wasn’t going to question that.
More specifically, he wasn’t going to question her.
Even had he wanted to, he wouldn’t have had a chance. Before Peter could gather a single coherent thought into a sentence, a cup was suddenly forced into his line of sight.
Peter went cross-eyed trying to distinguish what the item was. It took many blinks until his vision regained focused.
“What’s this?” Peter looked at the cup with furrowed brows, turning it left and right to examine its every detail. It was glass, allowing him to see through it. “Orange juice?”
When the cup gave him no answers, Peter craned his head behind him where the source of the drink came from.
Tony used an index finger to guide his stylish frames up the bridge of his nose.
“Screwdriver,” he answered, casually, with a pat against Peter’s shoulder as he walked away. “Drink responsibly.”
Peter gaped, flopping around on the couch until he was facing Tony as the man walked on.
“You’re only giving me this because you know it has like, no effect on me!” he hollered, completely unable to resist the grin Tony had long since deemed ‘little shit.’
“Not true.” Tony spun on his heels to face him, finger pointed at Peter even as he kept his pace across the lounge — walking backward the entire time. “It just takes a exorbitant amount. Enough to clean out an entire vineyard.”
Peter made a face, far from ‘little shit’ and more in the likes of ‘whatever, Mr. Stark.’ A quick sniff of his drink led to another, and another after that; his enhanced senses picking up on the vodka that the orange juice had easily drowned out.
Barely alcoholic or not, it was a drink.
One that, Peter realized, Mr. Stark trusted him with.
“It’s your one and only for the night, so enjoy,” Tony said from near the entertainment space, grabbing a cue stick from Rhodey to join their game of billiards — not that Rhodey could do anymore rounds, what with his swaying. “Consider this my bachelor party. The age appropriate one for your attendance.”
Peter stared at the drink for far too long — he knew that, because when he looked up again, Steve had already helped sit Rhodey down on the couch across from him.
A firm pat to Rhodey’s shoulder to ensure he was okay, and the Captain rejoined the others for a game of pool; their chitchat spawning the occasional laughter and loud-mouthed banter that felt more relaxing than Peter figured any alcohol could be.
Alcohol, right.
Peter dry-swallowed, hard, looking down at the cup with a tight V creasing his forehead.
It wasn’t that he was afraid to drink — an absolutely silly thought, what with Mr. Stark being right in how much it would take to even have an ounce of an effect on him. No, that wasn’t the problem at all.
“Oh, so when I try to help the kid broaden his horizons,” Clint hollered out from the kitchen, half-irritated and half-amused, “what with responsible adults in the room to watch him, I'm somehow a bad influence. But when Stark does it, suddenly no one has anything to say about underage drinking?”
Peter shot his head up from the drink and over to Clint.
It was that.
It was totally that.
“He was younger then!” Tony hollered back from the pool table.
Clint’s voice drew closer as he crossed the lounge. “Bullshit, we’re talking eight months ago!”
Peter brought the drink to his mouth, letting it sit on his lips long enough to get a taste. It was just orange juice with a little bit of vodka thrown in, he knew that. But still, knowing that just earlier this year Mr. Stark didn’t trust him enough for the same thing —
— being worthy enough to be brought back to life —
Peter took a swig. And then another for good measure.
No pressure.
There was no pressure at all.
“You know, now that there’s hindsight…” Bruce’s voice was suddenly sharper in clarity, and closer in proximity than anytime before.
Peter finished his double-swallow gulp just in time to see the scientist had left the kitchen, with a plate full of food he was eager to take back to his corner of the lounge — it was clear in his fast steps away from the others.
Still, Bruce stopped his pace for a brief moment, pondering out loud.
“Had we allowed Peter to drink that night, we probably would’ve discovered the extent to which his enhanced metabolism would’ve effected the use of painkillers. Would’ve prevented those issues we had down the road.”
Tony’s CLACK of his cue-stick was practically harsher than the last, causing the balls to hit roughly and land in many different directions — a bad shot that put him out of the game.
He noticeably eyed Bruce, who immediately retreated back to his laptop in the far corner of the lounge, cautiously and carefully taking his plate of food with him.
“Enhanced metabolism?” Quill watched the game of billiards from where he sat on the couch, slumped down into the cushions with a plate of food sitting comfortably on his stomach. “What’s that?”
It was somewhat-hard to understand what question he’d asked, what with his words being garbled out of his mouth. His voice was more hot dog than it was anything else.
Tony had a quip on his tip of his tongue, but turning around to rest his cue stick against the wall, he caught a passing glimpse of the kitchen to his right.
It wasn’t unusual to see people off to the side having their own conversations. The day had been long and full of socializing to the likes Tony had only ever seen at his Stark Industries conferences.
Only here, and much to his relief, everyone got along. He couldn’t ever say the same about the conferences.
So knowing that, he wasn’t entirely sure why it was off-putting to see Natasha tucked away in the corner, having an entirely too quiet conversation with Barnes.
Crass laughter recaptured his attention.
“It’s when you eat like that,” Rocket pointed a sharp claw at Quill’s consumption of multiple hotdogs, all while nodding in the direction of the billiards table where Steve stood with the others, “but you look like that.”
Quill nearly shot up.
Nearly.
“Are you calling me fat!?”
Rocket laughed.
Even when having put his plate of food to the side, Quill struggled to get off the sofa — so slouched down, his legs withered above him as he fought to sit upright.
Rocket’s laughter continued.
“I ain’t calling you skinny, Quill!”
“Gamora!” Quill heaved in three heavy breaths as he finally sat up on the couch. He had to brush away bangs of hair that got in the way of his face from his laborious efforts. “Do you think I’m getting fat?”
The music overhead seemed to have ended at the worst possible time for Quill. It made Gamora’s silence all the most awkward — telling him more than her words ever could.
“I think…” Gamora struggled to speak. The absence of music only made that more obvious. “I think…that you and Thor have been…spending much time together simply…enjoying yourselves.”
The scoff that followed was dramatic enough to be heard throughout the entire lounge.
“I can’t believe this!” Quill reacted exactly how she expected. And then-some. “Nobody thought to tell me sooner?”
“I was afraid you were gunna eat me!”
“Rocket!”
▶• lıllılı.ıllı.ılılıılıı.lllııılı. Now Playing [For What It’s Worth] 0:12 ———♡——— 2:37 ◁◁ ▐ ▌ ▷▷
The melody from above switched no different than the many times before it, with the vocals of a band from long ago swimming out of the overhead speakers.
♫There’s something happening here
what it is ain't exactly clear ♫
On his way into the lounge, Tony passed by the kitchen — and noticeably made a handful of passing glances to the occupied corner.
It was hard not to.
“Being enhanced is what Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum are,” Tony finally kept his attention in one place, looking away from the kitchen and keeping his gaze on the couches that filled the lounge. His arms folded over his chest with surefire cockiness. “It’s having your genetic makeup altered by external sources — one of them can lift fifteen-tons, and it’s not who you think it is.”
From behind Tony and still at the billiards table, Steve made a face.
Peter made a face as well, but having chugged the last of his screwdriver, Tony couldn’t tell if it was because of the comment or the alcohol he consumed.
“I wanna take them on!” Quill discarded his plate of food onto the coffee table, jumping off the sofa with an obnoxiously loud clap of his hands. “C’mon, I’m half-God, I can take it!”
“You’re a two point five to SHIELD.” Clint took Quill’s spot next to Peter, kicking his feet up on the coffee table and pushing Quill’s plate aside along the way.
Sam struck his billiard balls at the same time a laugh broke his focus, making for a terrible shot, and a hard-pressed look from Steve.
Who, admittedly, was more amused than he was upset.
“This is great news!” Thor clapped his hands together, far louder than Quill’s — and far more unsettling. The only thing more exuberant was the footsteps that bounded him into the lounge. “So the boy can take to battle!”
Even with music playing overhead, and many other conversations taking place across the lounge, there was never a moment where everyone and possibly the floor below them couldn’t hear Thor.
He was just that bold.
Mantis, having heard all the way across the room, gasped with excitement.
“Wait!” she practically inhaled her words, leaping forward with large skips taking her across the lounge. “Is there going to be a fight?”
“Finally!” Drax’s cheer nearly reached the same volume of Thor, a both impressing and frightening feat. “Some excitement!”
Tony definitely gave himself whiplash this time around, twisting so hard at the hip to face the Asgardian that he could feel the ache in his lower back from the movement.
“Absolutely not.” Tony held out a hand, uselessly, to stop Thor. “No — God of Asgard, don’t you dare—”
Thor, expectedly, barreled right through him.
And Peter, watching from his place on the couch, froze harder than Cap in the ice.
“Holy shit,” he breathed out, his heart racing a thousand miles an millisecond. “Holy shit, holy shit—”
“I’ve trained Peter well.” Natasha raised her beer with a smirk, leaving the kitchen to join those in the lounge. A wink accompanied what came next. “I say let them at it.”
Tony twisted the other way to face her, ripping off his stylish frames just so he could point them her way.
“You’re trouble,” he bit back, his glare only growing harsher as her smirk grew wider.
Meanwhile, Peter was on the verge of hyperventilating.
“I’ll take you on, boy of spiders!” Thor bolted at a volume no music could overtake. Each hammering step vibrated the floor beneath them. “Come at me!”
“Point Break, if you don’t stand down this very second!”
“Holy shit—!”
Bucky watched from the kitchen island; a cocked eyebrow the only part of him that displayed any amusement to the scene unfolding. Otherwise, his face remained neutral as could be, even as he took a swig of his beer and burped out the excess carbonation.
The sudden mayhem from the lounge kept him from hearing as claws climbed up an empty bar stool.
Bucky took another swig of his beer — right as Thor went hurtling towards Peter, completely ignorant to Tony’s harsh rebukes and Drax’s cheers of incitement.
As he gulped back a mouthful, he managed to catch sight of the rodent that plopped down next to him.
“How much you willing to take for the arm?” Rocket’s legs swung back and forth with a carefree attitude that failed to match the intent behind his words.
Bucky didn’t spare him a glance.
Only from the corner of his eye did he look at Rocket, briefly, before immediately returning to the flurry of activity happening straight ahead.
“Not for sale.”
Rocket opened his mouth to speak, but in place of his voice—
The CRASH! that vibrated the very walls of the lounge was more than enough to silence the room, music included.
Peter’s startled gasp kept that silence at bay.
“I am so sorry!” he cried out — all in one panicked, heavy, squeaky breath.
The floors were still shaking when Thor let out a vigorous laugh.
“I like this one!”
The night kept on right alongside Quill’s playlist, with conversations flowing easily even when the music failed to do the same.
They shared stories well past the afternoon and far into the evening; some tales being far more captivating than others — most being Thor’s, something that not even Tony could argue much with. Not much else came close to his stint of slavery with a literal fire demon from the depths of the nine realm’s hell.
Turned out there was only so much of Venom’s terror they could use to one-up the God of Thunder.
Though some parted ways together, like Wanda and Vision, most trickled out on their own accord. It left just a handful of them remaining in the lounge as the evening came to a close.
The music stayed playing through the speakers as Thor told of his adventures full of valiancy and heroism, but like the activity around them, even that dimmed away into the night.
“I’ve missed this, my good friends,” Thor spoke gently against the music and softly into the rim of his cup, his words giving a slight echo against the metal. “This camaraderie of ours. It’s been greatly missed.”
He swigged back the drink like it was average water, somehow managing to time his gulp perfectly with Rhodey’s groan — who was haphazardly slouched on the armchair furthest from them all, a beer in his one hand while his a forearm laid resting over his eyes.
Tony threw him a quick glance, his eyebrow noticeably lifting with a smirk. He hadn’t seen his friend so drunk since their college days.
“Doors always open,” Tony easily responded, lackadaisically gesturing his cup forward at Thor while casually propping his ankle against his other knee.
There was jut enough space between him and Rogers, who shared the couch alongside him, that he could move comfortably without much resistance. It helped that Clint sat off at the very end— it helped even more that he sat on the armrest instead of an actual cushion of the couch.
Tony threw the archer a glance and immediately rolled his eyes. Even with just the handful of them remaining in the lounge, the agent always found a way perch himself somewhere high. Just like the hawk he was.
In looking that way, Tony caught the end of a fluffy tail walking on by.
“You hear that?” Rocket was heard, but not seen as he made his way across the lounge — reminding Tony that they were more of them left in the room than he’d come to believe. A CLAN-kK and CLUNG-RkR followed the voice somewhere near the dinning room. ”Make yourself at home, find yourself your own little space. Lemme go get some boxes, we’ll move you right out—”
“Thank you, Stark. Truly, I mean it.” Leaning forward just slightly, Thor allowed the coffee table to be the only thing separating them. His eyes met Tony’s, even with Tony’s veiled behind tinted glasses. “But I cannot settle where I am simply comfortable. I meant what I told you. I must go on from here. It’s the only way for me to…to find who I truly am.”
Though a tint of yellow hid his eyes behind stylish frames, the smile that hit Tony’s lips was seen even behind the glasses that covered his face.
“Well, we’re glad you’re here for the wedding, at least,” Tony said, making a cheers motion with his mostly-empty mountain glass, one that he’d been debating on topping off for hours now.
A high-pitched, exhausted yawn came from the kitchen table.
Only a handful of eyes looked to where Groot laid on his side, wrapped in a dishcloth he utilized as a blanket, and what Tony almost swore was a marshmallow for a pillow.
Furrowing his brows tightly, Tony looked to the kitchen where Peter sat at the island, his suspicions confirmed when he found the open bag of marshmallow’s laid out next to Peter’s textbooks.
That’s right, he’d almost forgotten — the kid had refused to leave with Wilson and Barnes sometime earlier in the evening. It was only when they compromised, after much debate, that he could hang around so long as he completed his homework. And stayed out of anymore reckless sparing matches with literal Godly beings.
Tony watched as Peter’s one hand dug inside the bag of marshmallows, grabbing one for himself as he simultaneously studied the test materials on his laptop.
The kid was giving trees marshmallows for pillows.
Tony looked down at his cup, going for whatever liquid remained inside.
“Yes! You and lovely woman named Pepper,” Thor belted out with renewed enthusiasm. He gestured his glass to Tony. “What a wonderful ceremony this will be.”
“I Am Groot!”
The tiny voice came in half-yawn, half-words, all while Groot flopped over to his other side — grabbing two beer bottle caps with his twigs and using them to delicately cover his eyes from the lights above.
“That’s a good point, actually.” Rocket climbed up a kitchen chair, dropping an armful of disassembled refrigerator parts onto the table that had been long since cleared of any plates and food from earlier. He utilized the space as a work bench, not breaking his focus as he mentioned, “Groot says he needs something to wear if we’re showing up to this yawnfest. Unless you want him au naturel.”
Tony was pretty sure he pulled a muscle with how fast he craned his head around.
“Uhm — that’s a hard no, Ratchet,” he said, firmly. “Limited seating, private event — sorry, no invitations to spare. Friends and family only.”
If Rocket had anything to say, it was overtaken by the hiccup that echoed across the lounge.
“Yeah, Tony,” Rhodey’s words slurred into one another like they were greased with oil. He tried to swallow his next hiccup, only to fail. Stupendously. “Friends and family only.”
Tony spun his head around, brows furrowed as he looked Rhodey head-on. Not that Rhodey returned the gesture — his forearm blocked his eyes no different than the bottle caps that Groot placed over his.
“Which means I’ll be there,” Rhodey couldn’t speak at a volume they could all hear. For those that couldn’t, they looked to Tony for answers. “Which means wherever I go…”
While nowhere no the intoxication level of his friend, Tony swore the alcohol he’d consumed was what caused a delay in his comprehension.
When it hit him, his face fell flat.
“Pepper’s gunna kill me.”
Tony looked back down at his glass.
He needed to top-off his drink after all.
“Oh, love,” Thor steamrolled right over Tony’s newfound predicament. It was no concern of Tony’s, who immediately stood from the couch to get a refill on his drink. “You know, the last matrimony I went to was that of my good comrade, Volstagg. Oh, what a warrior Volstagg was. A fierce man, strong — courageous.”
Thor’s gentle laugh filled the quiet space between them, right alongside Tony’s footsteps into the kitchen. Things had grown far quieter as the night went on, with less occupants and less energetic conversation to be had. The sounds of him rummaging through the cabinets was more audible than ever.
“The woman he wed, she was a dedicated spirit. But free, all at the same time,” Thor spoke in fond memory, the slightest of grins tugging at the corners of his lips. It earned a smile from those around him; Steve, Clint, Natasha — they all looked his way as they listened.
“The Temple of Union was no place for their ceremony,” he continued on, much to everyone’s interest. “So we took to the wilderness of Asgard and stripped the clothes off our back—”
“Oh boy,” Steve hid his words inside the opening of his beer bottle, swallowing down a mouthful in one gulp. For him, there was no blaming the alcohol on the pink that brightened his skin.
“It was a long twelve hours in the night, but when the Oathbinds were declared…” Thor’s grip on his cup seemed to tighten in the pause that followed. A heave of his chest let out the sigh that not everyone heard. “I do believe the golden halls of Asgard lit with a light like no other. As enchanting as that ceremony…and my good friends, and the love they once shared.”
The music faded out gently and softly. In the time it took for another song to play, no one had anything to say.
“That’s both very beautiful…” Natasha managed to speak against the silence, though the hesitation was there. “…and very disturbing.”
Perched on the armrest across from her, Clint buried his face into the mouth of his own bottle.
“I’m never going to a naked wedding,” he muttered into his drink.
From within the kitchen, Tony set his glass down onto the island, popping off the cork of a bulky bottle at the same time.
“Afraid the arrow isn’t big enough?” Tony smirked and winked, pouring a small amount of amber liquid to fill the bottom rim of this glass. Only once satisfied at the amount did he raise it to his lips — ignoring Clint’s look of exasperation, and Peter’s look of disgust along the way.
“You’re a man of many years, Thor,” Tony started, gesturing the bottle of liquor at Thor. “You wed yet?”
From within the lounge and spread across the sofa, Thor casually shook his head.
“Oh no, no. Never,” he said, earnestly, adjusting himself just slightly. “I think the closest…well, I feel confident in saying that would be Jane.”
The pause that followed didn’t go unnoticed. Tony took time in replacing the cork on the bulky liquor bottle that he sealed away. There was no rush to return it to the cabinet where’d it belonged.
As he took a sip of his drink, so did Thor.
“I wish her well,” Thor said, exhaling out the burn of his drink, “wherever she may be.”
There was a noticeable pause in the room. The hush, borderline whispered conversation between those tucked away in the entertainment space was nothing more than the distant background to their already playing soundtrack.
Of all of them, Rocket made the most noise — tinkering on the dinning room table with hushed mutters and curses. But even that remained quiet through it all.
“Somebody like that…” Thor forced a smile that was too tight at the edges. But still, the smile remained just. “You’re honored to even meet them.”
There was no denying that the words had impact. They held for a moment too long, giving a pause long enough that if Steve didn’t know better, he would’ve sworn the ceiling lights got brighter and caught a glimmer of Clint’s wedding ring along the way. Right at the time the archer decided to lift his drink to his mouth.
Steve had a feeling he was just seeing what was on his mind.
“You know, Tony,” he looked over and to the side, craning his head slightly to catch sight of Tony in the kitchen. The easy atmosphere of the night made it simple to say what came next. “I’m aware of how you and Pepper got together. But I’m not sure I’ve ever heard the story of how you two met.”
Even from all the way to the kitchen, the slightest tug of Tony’s brows gave way his muted surprise.
Even Peter saw that surprise, though he looked at Tony discreetly — or so he thought he looked at Tony discreetly.
Tony slapped the back of his hand against Peter’s shoulder and pointed a firm finger at the screen of the laptop, all without ever looking his way.
Peter rolled his eyes and went back to typing.
“Well, it doesn’t pull at the heart strings quite as much as the world war two lovebirds,” Tony wound up saying, snatching the bulky bottle off the counter top and taking it with him to the cabinets. His arm reached high as he placed it back on the top shelf.
Steve watched with a half-turned smile.“I’m sure it’s special in its own way.”
The bottle of liquor was returned and there was still a layer of amber left in Tony’s mountain glass; a layer he happily sipped on, taking the drink with him back into the lounge.
He didn’t get much further than past the kitchen island, going on to rest his back lazily against the counter-top, nonchalantly standing in front of where Peter sat.
Peter tried to keep at his homework, but with Mr. Stark’s back facing him, he wasn’t even sure if he noticed Peter had stopped.
After a long stretch of silence and multiple sips of whiskey from Tony, a sudden WHACK! echoed from the entertainment space.
“I shall tell you the story of how I met soul, Ovette.”
Every occupant, sans Rhodey, shot their heads to the corner of the lounge where the billiards table was placed.
Rhodey simply groaned at the obnoxiously loud slap that sounded.
“Oh boy, here we go again.” Quill covered his face with the handful of cards he held in his hand, sitting on a barstool at the billiards-now-turned-poker-table. While he, Drax and Gamora utilized actual chairs, Mantis simply sat cross-legged on the table itself.
Drax tossed his cards aside, letting them sprawl all over Mantis’ lap and flutter away to the ground. He twisted hard at the hips to face those in the lounge.
“It was on the hills of Luminara, on my home planet of Kylos, where I met my beloved,” he began to say, the depth in his voice ringing deep and sincere.
“Groot, cover your ears, little guy.” Rocket pulled the screwdriver from between his teeth, speaking up as he hollered from the dinning room. “You’re too young for this story.”
A high-pitched yawn followed almost immediately.
“I Am Groot!”
Flopping onto his side, Groot adjusted the marshmallow pillow beneath his neck, rolling his eyes when Rocket called out, “You weren’t tiny then!”
“The war rally raged on — everyone in the village flailed about, dancing.” Drax’s deep pitch gave the room back to him. He clenched both his hands into tight fists, bringing them to the bare skin of his chest with a robust emotion. “Except one woman. My Ovette. I knew immediately she was the one.”
Sitting on the corner of the billiards table, Mantis’ slowly lowered her deck of cards down into her lap, listening to Drax’s story with a growing smile.
“The most melodic song in the world could be playing, and she wouldn’t even tap her foot. She wouldn’t move a muscle,” Drax looked away from his group of people, finding eyes of the strangers and holding their gaze — uncomfortably holding their gaze. “One might assume she was dead.”
Clint nodded. Slowly. “That’s…”
Drax looked him head-on. “It would make my nether regions swell. ”
From on the end table, Groot grumbled as lifted himself from his sleeping position, picking apart his marshmallow pillow until he made two small plugs. His grumbles weren’t heard over the many who cleared their throats, shifted in their seats — did everything to express their sincere discomfort at Drax’s story.
One at a time, Groot stuffed his ear canals with the white sticky fluff, creating earplugs that blocked out the sound around him.
Leaning slightly to the side, Quill placed a hand casually on Drax’s shoulder; clasping down and holding firmly.
“I hear ya, buddy,” he said, turning his gaze straight ahead where the only other occupant sat across from him. “Sometimes you just look at somebody and you…you just know.”
Reshuffling the deck of cards, Gamora found Peter’s gaze and quirked an eyebrow — confused and annoyed, and the latter only growing with the passing time.
Quill simply smiled. “From the moment they put their sword against your throat.”
Almost immediately, Gamora rolled her eyes.
“You’re an idiot,” she barely managed to get her muttered response through the smile that threatened to break her veneer. A flip of her wrist gave the deck of cards back to Quill, who took it — along with her hand in his.
Steve looked briefly to the ceiling, catching the skylight and keeping his eyes there for a moment.
“When I first saw Peggy, I didn’t think a fella like me could ever get with a girl like that,” he let the words run off, for perhaps a second too long. By the time he looked up again, more than a few faces were paying attention to him. He smiled the insecurity away. “She helped me become who I am today. A person like that…they never leave you. They become a part of you.”
Thor was immediate in gesturing his drink forward, right in Steve’s direction. “Not even from the distance of Asgard to Minigard.”
Steve nodded back, almost in silent agreeance.
“Yeah, you know, I gotta say — it makes a difference.” With a sigh, Clint plopped himself down on the empty couch cushion next to Steve, brushing off his jacket once settled in place. “Never thought I’d see myself a married man. But when you find that person...”
Though most of the room waited to see if there Clint would add anything more, Steve was the one who decided to let the glimmer of the man’s wedding ring say the rest of what he didn’t.
“Ya'll are a bunch of sad saps.” A spark of electricity sounded along with Rocket’s crass remark.
Only a few looked his way - Tony, decidedly, did his damnedest not to see what havoc the creature was currently up to. He had more than his fair share of disbelief in a single day. He really didn’t have it in him for much else.
“Well, it was nothing like Randy Savage’s story over there,” Tony sarcastically tossed out, crossing both arms over the fold of his chest.
His hesitation was palpable. Even those across the room, like Quill, noticeably cleared his throat with discomfort. They all went right back to their game of cards with a clear intent of busying themselves.
Between himself, Gamora, Mantis, and Drax, it was only Drax who seemed interested in what Tony had to say. He failed to engage in their game; rather going on to stare intently and quietly as Tony stayed deeply reserved in his thoughts.
He wasn’t the only one. Steve looked Tony head-on even when the man didn’t seem to want to look his way, making it all the harder to gauge Tony’s response — or lack thereof.
Steve knew Tony was a private man, deep down inside. Past the covers of magazines and beyond the filters of the camera’s, he never let those near him truly see him. He kept things personal, painfully personal.
Just like Thor, he’d been surprised to see an openness wearing on Tony’s sleeve these days. It was side to him Steve felt like he’d been fighting for since the skies opened up above New York City, all those years ago now.
Watching as Tony stared at the bottom of his shoe, tapping his foot relentlessly against the marble flooring of the lounge, Steve couldn’t help but wonder if there was still a line between them that shouldn’t be crossed.
“It’s okay, Tony,” Steve started to say, one hand open-palmed in Tony’s direction. He gave him an easy out. “I was just curious. You don’t have to—”
“Don’t hit the brakes so fast there, Cap,” Tony cut through that out with seamless, effortless effect. His head shot up and his arms unfolded, allowing him to take a casual sip of his drink. “Pep and I, we…we go back quite a ways. Just gotta dust off some shelves to get that one out there.”
The sip that followed was purposefully long. Steve didn’t resist the small tug that kept his mouth half-turned, even as Tony stared off to nothing in particular, his gaze noticeably catching the skylight a few times.
Even the game of poker from across the room had gone quiet in his moment of contemplation.
“If my math is right, which it always is — that takes us…” Tony blew a hard breath of air through his cheeks. “Whew, nineteen years ago. Time flies when you go from running the world’s largest tech conglomerate to saving the world on a bi-monthly basis.”
With his back still pressed firmly against the kitchen island, Tony crossed his legs in front of him, letting his drink settle somewhere near the buckle of his pants.
He looked at Natasha.
A firm, solid beat passed by.
Natasha arched her brow not a second later.
“What?” she asked, simply — devoid of any tone to her voice.
Tony gave a smile. Nothing more than a smirk, partially hidden behind glasses that tinted his eyes with technology.
“You know the date I hired her,” he said, just as simply in return.
Natasha didn’t answer.
It earned a look from Tony — a different look. A cocky look.
“You know everything.”
Natasha was as skilled as they could come when it came to the inner workings of her field. They all had a feeling she could know the codes to nuclear bombs and not give off the slightest impression that she held such immeasurable information stored away in her mind.
Staring at Tony, it was the slightest twitch to her lip that eventually broke her expressionless face, taking away the facade that she normally held so ruthlessly in place.
“You were an assignment for me,” Natasha answered, easily, her head bouncing with an almost playful attitude. “I had no other choice but to know everything.”
Tony let a bit of white show beneath his smile.
“The date, then?”
The pause that followed was tense enough to have even those sitting away from the lounge drawn into the moment.
Quill was mid-draw of poker cards when he froze, eyeing Tony and Natasha from where he sat. His arm reached to pull from the deck, but got stuck halfway there.
Natasha eyed Tony, just as intently. Not breaking her stare, as if hoping he would break first.
Finally,
“July 18th, 1998,” she answered.
Tony snapped his fingers.
“On July 17th, 1998, I leave my office at Stark Industries HQ — good ‘ol LA, back in the day,” Tony perked right up, turning to the others with his smirk on full display. “Gave Happy the day off — idiotic move in hindsight, but as they say hindsight truly is twenty-twenty - because unbeknownst to me, I had acquired myself a friendly little stalker.”
It wasn’t just those in the lounge who listened to Tony’s story, told in every bit of personality the man could hold without his suits for aid.
Peter’s fingers dropped away from his keyboard, his typing coming to a slow stop as his his attention suddenly focused in on the conversation ahead.
“Couldn’t tell you her name now, they’re a dime a dozen — or so they became. Blonde, I remember that. Always the blonde’s,” Tony tsked, casually, before flapping his hand both ways in the air. “I’m halfway down the hallway when she jumps out at me, having hid behind this large, uh…” His fingers snapped. “Dracaena plant. This humongous dracaena plant that belonged in the Smithsonian's National Zoo. Don’t know why they had that thing in the damn office. I made them burn it. Anyway, next thing I know, she’s got her legs around me, screaming something about making babies — tell you what, never gave Happy another day off after that.”
Over on the sofa’s, Steve leaned forward as Clint laid further back in the cushions. They shared the same curiosity, but expressed it in wildly different ways.
“I’m dying to know how Pepper comes into all this,” Clint’s dry mirth was opposite to Steve’s growing amusement.
Tony gestured his drink out, fast enough that his glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose.
“Pepper doesn’t,” he said, quickly, using his free hand to snatch the glasses off his face. “Our head administrative aid, Virginia Potts, comes barreling down the hall, screaming at the top of her lungs — to this day, I’ve never seen a woman run so fast in four inch stilettos heels. It was magical.”
Tony fiddled with the glasses in his hand, twisting them left and right, spinning them back and forth between the crevices of his fingers.
“I turn my head and all I see is this…freckled, young, twenty-five-year-old woman holding up her hand before she…unleashed an entire can of pepper spray on the both of us.”
Without missing a single beat, Steve smiled.
“Pepper,” he came to realize, speaking softer than the sound of Tony’s glances settling on the kitchen island — placed somewhere next to Peter’s laptop, not that either of them really noticed.
Peter kept listening in on to the story, intently, though he was sure Mr. Stark didn’t even notice that he’d completely stopped doing his homework by now.
It didn’t matter to him.
This was way more interesting than any of Mr. Harrison’s assignments.
“Security finally arrived, took care of the crazy one — still going on about babies, even with a mouth full of pepper spray. Don’t mess with the crazy ones, I’m telling you. Brunette to blonde doesn’t help, either — it really is a thing with the blonde’s,” Tony laughed a little, bringing his cup to his mouth only to stop halfway there and decide against it.
“Luckily Obie was there that day. His office wasn’t far down the hall — got me to the company cafeteria, where I proceeded to pour every gallon of milk they had in the kitchen reserves straight onto my face. And that explains why I no longer drink dairy.” Tony looked to the group, his eyes landing directly on one individual in particular. He told Steve, “From there, I offered Pepper a job as my personal assistant.”
Steve’s response was held only in a grin.
Clint wasn’t as moved as Rogers was by the tale.
“Alright, let me get this straight,” Clint started, making a few grunts as he struggled to sit upright on the couch. “Pepper — as we know her — went ahead and physically assaulted both you, and the woman attempting to also physically assault you, and so you…hired her on as your assistant?” Clint tried not to scoff. He almost snorted instead. “Yeah, I see assistant skills in that story, it makes total sense.”
Steve threw him a look; it was too softened to be anything but amused.
“You see, Pepper — Ms. Virginia Potts — knew Happy was off that day,” Tony had a confidence in his voice that was borderline unbreakable. “She knew, because she knew my schedule like the back of her hand, if for no other purpose than keeping that company straight. Better than I ever did, better than I ever could. And she knew every employee in that building, and who was allowed access where. So when reviewing the access logs at the end of her day, she knew one name was off — the woman who had flirted her way into getting tier one access into the building.”
Clint caught on long before the pause that hung on Tony’s explanation. The brief lull that followed only added a layer of nostalgia to his voice that wasn’t there before.
“She proved her worth for the job,” Tony went on to say, to no one in particular and yet to everyone who listened. He cleared his throat, not just once. Not just twice. “A lot has happened since then. A lot.” His head ducked low, using the glass in his hand as the distraction for his gaze; suddenly noticing there was far more ice in the cup than liquid. “Through it all…I’ve never lost trust in her. She’s been the most capable, qualified, trustworthy person I’ve ever met. Nineteen years and Pep, she’s…she’s always been there. One way or another, no matter what it is — and when things go wrong, which they always do…”
Slowly, inch by inch, Peter lowered the screen of his laptop until it shut completely.
The only thing he could see was the back of Mr. Stark’s head as he spoke, and yet even the smallest movements seemed to say it all. Like Peter didn’t even need to see the man to know the meaning of what he said, and yet somehow — closing the screen to his laptop — it was like he needed to see every bit that he could.
Like seeing would make him understand what he was hearing.
Like he didn’t truly, fully, completely already understand what realization he’d come to.
“She’s always there. Always making sure I’m okay. Always making things okay.” Tony chuckled, just light enough for it to make a sound. “Even when I’ve been at my worst, she…it’s quite the impressive feat, but she always finds a way to rescue me. From it all. She’s, uh…she’s something else, that Ms. Potts.”
The quiet chuckles that rattled Tony’s back spoke of a smile that Peter couldn’t see, with his focus so far away it rivaled the home planet of the very aliens occupying the same room as him.
Peter’s mouth ran dry — painfully dry — with realization seemingly knocking the wind straight out of his chest.
Something clicked. It didn’t make sense why it made sense now.
But it did.
It wasn’t just that he liked a lot about MJ.
It wasn’t just that he liked MJ, a lot.
Peter inhaled his lips until they were all but gone, barely muttering out a tight, “Oh, boy.”
“My story was far better,” Drax’s attempt at keeping his voice discreet went nowhere. His voice was clearly heard from across the lounge. “His makes no sense.”
Quill slapped a fold of cards at Drax’s shoulder, who slapped his hand back at the fold of cards in return — and Tony looked away from them with a roll of his eyes so hard, he swore he briefly saw the back of his skull.
“You and Pepper really have gone through it all,” Steve was the first to break what ice had fallen between them. Sitting back on the couch, he remained genuinely sincere with his smile. “It’s admiring. I’m glad I get to be apart of this milestone with you both.”
Not typically one for conversations that led to open doors, Tony decided to finish off his water-downed drink with a final sip that had him exhaling out the burn.
“Yeah, you know, it’s uh — it’s long over due,” Tony said all in one breath, clearing his throat hard as he moseyed back to the lounge. He stood near his spot on the couch, but didn’t sit down. “I was a bit of a coward in the beginning. Things got messy when she took over SI. Not to mention we both almost let silly things get in the way — but honestly, what couple doesn’t?”
Tony looked down at his glass, empty of any liquid but still captivating his attention.
From across the way, the hushed-loud response came, “Ovette and I would never do such a thing. ”
Drax’s discreet voice was once again heard loud and clear.
Tony threw that corner of the lounge a dirty look.
He was starting to side with Rhodey’s eight day ruling.
“Next week, right around the corner,” Clint looked up at Tony from where he sat, his head cocking generously to the side. “Getting the pre-wedding jitters yet?”
As Tony settled down on the couch, Clint gestured his drink over to the others — narrowing his focus on Steve and Thor.
“I remember the night before my big day — almost ran back to the circus,” he told them both, half-smiling, half-embarrassed. “Would’ve gotten there too, if Nat hadn’t tackled me in the church parking lot on the way to my car.”
Sitting on the single armchair across from them, Natasha raised her glass to her mouth.
“You deserved that busted lip,” she easily responded, sitting with one leg so high up that her chin rested against her kneecap.
Clint furrowed his brows her way. “I looked ridiculous in my wedding photos.”
Natasha shrugged. “And who’s fault is that?”
Clint had a hasty retort on the tip of his tongue.
“Sorry Barton, no jitters,” Tony beat him to it, adjusting himself slightly against the sofa. He straightened the nonexistent wrinkles on his polo shirt along the way. “Not in my blood to get nervous.”
The pause that followed allowed for a moment of silence that Tony suddenly realized was true, actual silence.
For the first time all night, there was no chit-chat, there was no music — craning his head around, Tony looked to the source of where he knew the music was coming from, confused by the sudden dead air that had taken over.
Once his eyes found Quill, he saw the man messing with the device still tucked inside his jacket pocket. Things quickly made sense when Tony scantily made out mutters of ‘Sometimes it does this,’ and ‘ever since I let you borrow it, Rocket!’
The music eventually picked up again, once Quill caved and rebooted the device in a fit of his own frustration.
By then, Tony was long past hearing any of the songs that played. His thoughts, and the memories that occupied them, had suddenly become a unmalleable focus.
▶• lıllılı.ıllı.ılılıılıı.lllııılı. Now Playing [Lean On Me] 0:28 ———♡——— 4:17 ◁◁ ▐ ▌ ▷▷
♫ Sometimes
in our lives ♫
we all have pain♫
we all have sorrow♫
Tony didn’t typically like the conversations that led to open doors. They were messy, awkward, and uncomfortable. They made things difficult, they made people difficult.
But for one of the few times in his life, he couldn't shake the gut feeling that this moment — it felt felt like this was a door he was supposed to open. Like some of the others that he’d been dealt with before — people like Rhodey, and Happy. People like Pepper. And Peter.
He hadn’t regretted anytime he’d done it so far.
The statistics, at the least, were in his favor.
“But I will say that…uh, well…” A tightness to his throat had Tony reaching for his glass, consuming what little layered the bottom. It didn’t help ease his vocal cords any, but the atmosphere was easy enough to continue anyway. “When it comes to all this — this whole, you know, wedding. Stuff. Uh…”
The volume of music kept away any silence, but it didn’t lessen the pauses that separated Tony’s words. With nothing left to drink, he tapped a finger relentlessly against the empty glass. It filled the space of anything he could say next.
For what he didn’t say to fill the silence, Quill managed to do it for Tony — even late into the night and three rounds deep into a poker game very little of them seemed entertained by, Quill managed to find the energy to sing lyrics of the music playing overhead. Quiet, but audible nonetheless.
“Lean on me…when you’re not strong…and I’ll be your friend…I’ll help carry on…”
No one seemed perturbed by his behavior this time around.
In fact, Gamora hummed quietly along with him, laying down a card shortly before he did. Mantis swayed side-to-side with the music, and even Drax seemed to be enjoying the sounds that played.
And Clint eventually forced himself to look away from it all — because nothing was never not going to make that group of individuals anything but weird.
Some, however — like Steve, kept his attention focused steadfast. Even when Tony couldn’t do the same.
“Well, thank you,” Tony eventually managed, gesturing a hand out with no real purpose other than to loosen his tension. “For…those who are…you know, here. Still. After it all. Short and simple. We’ve gone through a hell of a ride this year. No one had to stick it out.” Tony purposefully dropped his head low, tapping his finger harder against the glass to cover up the sound of him clearing his throat. “You did. Stick it out, that is.”
Tony couldn’t have been anymore matter-of-fact with his words than he already was. For every bit as dry and honest as he was, he also failed to keep the facts strictly facts. There was a pitch to his voice that showed his nerves, rigid was they were.
It only widened the smile across Steve’s lips.
Natasha’s own smirk seemed to grow along the way.
Tony pretended not to notice any of that.
“It's funny, you know -I uh…just gotta say, that, uh…it's redundant, really, but, after...everything that’s happened, it, uh…well, with all that we’ve…point I’m trying to make is, uh — you know, you're not-you’re not just...a team. Believe it or not. You’re, uh…”
The further his words drifted off, the faster Tony tapped his finger against the empty glass. It was louder than anything else in the room, purposefully — and when his voice eventually failed to pick up, Tony made sure the tapping didn’t stop.
He pretended not to notice the looks sent his way.
But he did.
The silence he gave sufficed for what else he couldn’t say.
“You are very happy.”
It was against that silence a voice sounded — quietly, but all the mirthfully, as Mantis spoke up with a gentle fondness.
Tony whipped his head around, the words ‘emotionally compromised’ ringing through his ears no different than he was sure Rhodey’s hang-over was ringing through his head. The complete inability to read the room couldn’t have been anymore obvious with Mantis' interruption of empathy.
Emp—
When Tony found Mantis, ready of fire out a never-ending tirade at their newly acquired alien empath guest — the one who rated a whopping level four of five in SHIELD’s books — it took a full fledged two seconds to realize what he was actually looking at.
Mantis sat on the corner of the pool table, peacefully enthused, rocking herself back and forth to the tune of the music. She gripped her ankles as she swayed to the song, her own hands being the only contact she made with anything, or anyone, around her.
The burn that hit Tony’s cheeks may or may not have been from the distance that separated them, all the way across the room. And with no means of physical touch.
“Hey,” Tony snapped his fingers right in Thor’s direction, quick and urgent to distract. “He hasn’t seen Mr. Detention yet!”
Just like that, Steve’s groan could barely be heard over the slew of laughter that erupted — immediately followed by Rhodey’s own bemoaning, the sound from both men easily drowned out with the fast-pace, playful banter that was quickly tossed back and forth.
As Steve hid his face behind the palm of his hand, covering the smile that kept his embarrassment at play, the others excitedly encouraged the moment on with carefree jesting.
For a moment that made time feel alright, they enjoyed it — the music continuing on, but the lyrics hidden deep beneath their laughter.
♫ For it won't be long
til I'm going to need ♫
somebody♫
to lean on ♫
“I did it!”
Until suddenly, Bruce stood from his barstool so quickly, so suddenly, it fell right to the floor.
“Holy sh—I actually did it!” The only thing louder than the sound of the chair toppling over was his excited shout, cutting right through the lounge in a way that made them all come to a sudden stop. “I can’t believe — this works! This can work! I actually did it!”
Not a single head didn’t look to the far corner of the lounge, finding Bruce at the window bay furthest from the couches. He stood tall, with both arms high in the air, and a bright glare from the moonlight causing a refraction against his glasses, already affected by the bright screen of his laptop.
As if just now noticing that glare, Bruce whipped off his glasses, turning to look at the window he stood next too — noticeably confused at the dark skies that greeted him from outside.
“D-does…” Bruce looked back to the others, gesturing innocently with his glasses to the outside window. “Does anyone know what time it is?”
The only response came in the form of a hitch-pitched yawn from where Groot slept.
Notes:
For it won't be long... til I'm going to need somebody to lean on
We just concluded Act 1, everyone.
It’s about goddamn time, amiright? That hiatus really kicked me in the BUTT.
Let me be a broken record and thank every single one of you, every active reader involved in this story and this series, for your ever impressive patience. I hope that this far into things I don’t have to reassure anyone of the completion to this series, but if I do, I’ll gladly be a broken record about that as well. This story will see completion. I truly don’t care if it takes another 6 years. Hang in there with me.
As I’ve mentioned before, life threw me a curveball that knocked me right off my feet, and because of that we’re seeing large gaps between updates. I’m a part of operations to management, running a business now — can you believe that? I operate an actual, functioning, business. And holy hell almighty is it time consuming. Life has taken me a LOT of places these past 6 years, and never in my wildest imagination did I see this one coming. It’s taking up a tremendous amount of my time, but the timing for this career change couldn’t have been better. Because this series has such an embedded place in my heart, it’ll always come out on top.
Act 2 is next. Believe it or not, we’re just starting this ride. Buckle up while you can.
Some things for you to look forward and stay tuned to:
Here comes the bride, all dressed in — stress. Pepper’s definitely getting stressed out on the big day. And the talking raccoon sitting on the pew bench certainly wasn’t helping keep her calm.
Peter isn’t faring much better. He’s trying to figure out what’s gunna get him into the most trouble — the fact he still can't tie his tie, or the fact that he can't remember where he put the wedding rings…
At this point, Tony’s not sure he and Pepper will ever say their I Do’s.
May really wishes Peter would charge his phone more often.
And of course, what final installment would it be if we didn’t have Avengers Assemble
*creeps over to the wall*
*hovers hand over the fan blade switch*
(•◡•)
Chapter 10: To Love and to Cherish
Summary:
“—I will ground you until you graduate high-school,” May easily steamrolled him, and for a blip of a second, she was more serious than serious-business-May.
Peter was too busy being elbow deep into the third file cabinet drawer to notice. “It’ll be fine! Seriously, the new aluminum shell cases can withstand a lot of heat. Like, six hundred degrees Fahrenheit . That's like, fire, May. I promise you, wherever they are—”
May groaned. “Good God Peter, you don’t even know where they are—!”
“They’re around!” Peter squatted low to look inside the very last file cabinet. “Somewhere. I’m sure of it. I just gotta remember where—”
“Is he losing things again?”
The voice came at a distance to Peter, but that was mostly because he’d stuck his head behind the file cabinet to see if anything happened to wind up back there.
When he looked back around, Happy was already inside the office, both hands stuffed casually inside his pant pockets.
“Of course he is,” May answered easily, watching with a straight face as Peter began looking through the bookcase. When he started pulling out books, going so far to open them up to see if anything were between the pages, she simply rolled her eyes.
Notes:
Gosh, we really have come a long way since Homecoming and Infinity War, huh? Friendly reminder that the technology used for Peter’s web-shooters comes from the bus scene in Infinity War and was mentioned back in Infinity Crisis as the web-shooters Mr. Stark helped Peter create with nanites leftover from the Chamelon incident. I'm a sucker for re-working canon.
▰Identity Theft — Chapter 29: Breaking the Cycle of Shame▰
The rushed attempt at gratitude was met with physical contact, one Tony nearly backed away from. He turned to see Strange with his hand against his arm, chin tilted low, and eyes solemn.
“Tony, I meant what I said when this all first started,” his tone held a heavy weight. “You will play an integral part in all of our futures, however, and whenever that may be. I have no doubt we’ll be seeing each other again.”
Tony turned his attention back ahead, watching as Sam and Clint both argued over the sofa where Peter and Wanda sat. Something about whether Pink Floyd or Garfunkel and Oates were the better bands; Tony couldn’t quite hear and he wasn’t paying much attention.
“So does that mean you want to pass on a phone number, or…?”
The rush of wind blew through his hair before he could finish the thought. Snapping his head to the side, Tony furrowed his brows, surprised at the empty space next to him where Strange once stood.
“Alright then,” he muttered.
▰Identity Within — Chapter 3: R.S.V.P▰
“Okay,” Peter’s brows began to narrow into a tight V as he looked between the fusebox and the screen of his cell phone. “Four down, six to go. I’ve got like, five percent left on my phone battery, hopefully it holds out—”
“Peter, you have got to get better about keeping that thing charged!”
Peter winced and gave a grimace he knew May couldn't see through the phone. Or maybe she could. It was hard to tell with her — sometimes he swore she knew it all.
“I know, I know,” he insisted.
“What about a wireless charger?” she began to ask, almost desperately. “Can Tony build you something like that, something that charges it while it’s in your backpack? A backpack charger?” May sighed — almost as if suddenly realizing it was foolish to recommend an invention on the very item Peter had a tendency to lose every single day. At the very least, it was Tony’s problem now to deal with. “Seriously, kiddo, your phones gunna die one day and you’ll need it and if I can’t get a hold of you—”
“May, you’re starting to freak out —”
“And if Tony can’t get a hold of you and if you need help —”
“May. Freaking out. Stop.”
▰Identity Within — Chapter 9: Bachelor Party▰
“Next week, right around the corner,” Clint looked up at Tony from where he sat, his head cocking generously to the side. “Getting the pre-wedding jitters yet?”
As Tony settled down on the couch, Clint gestured his drink over to the others — narrowing his focus on Steve and Thor.
“I remember the night before my big day — almost ran back to the circus,” he told them both, half-smiling, half-embarrassed. “Would’ve gotten there too, if Nat hadn’t tackled me in the church parking lot on the way to my car.”
Sitting on the single armchair across from them, Natasha raised her glass to her mouth.
“You deserved that busted lip,” she easily responded, sitting with one leg so high up that her chin rested against her kneecap.
Clint furrowed his brows her way. “I looked ridiculous in my wedding photos.”
Natasha shrugged. “And who’s fault is that?”
Clint had a hasty retort on the tip of his tongue.
“Sorry Barton, no jitters,” Tony beat him to it, adjusting himself slightly against the sofa. He straightened the nonexistent wrinkles on his polo shirt along the way. “Not in my blood to get nervous.”
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tony looked away from his phone, taking in a breath deep enough that he was sure even the cathedral ceilings above him didn’t have any oxygen left to spare for his lungs.
One day.
It was all he asked for — nay, begged for from a universe that was destined to doom him at every corner.
One day away from the chaos, one day away from the terrorism; both of the wordly and alien kind. Just one single day where there wasn ’t a Stane, there wasn’t a Vanko; no Loki, no Zemo. Most certainly not an Ultron — he wasn’t going through that ever again.
No Chameleon, no ridiculous cape-wearing Mysterio’s, or sentient biological poisons that turned into—
Tony let out his breath in a single exhale, hard enough it could’ve touched those same cathedral ceilings he’d taken the air from.
He just wanted one day away from the stress. If not for the purely selfish reasons that ran forefront in his mind, most certainly — and above all else — for Pepper.
After…well, everything, she deserved it.
She more than deserved it.
Tony frowned, his chest growing tight as if he hadn’t even taken that breath after all. The more he thought back on it, the more he realized just how much exactly Pepper had gone through, all in the span of a single decade.
It felt surreal how well he could remember that freckled smile of a ginger-haired woman greet him upon his return home from captivity in Afghanistan, and yet the taste of the desert sands no longer lingered on his tongue the way it used to. Time had its way with him, there was no doubt about it. But Tony knew much of the credit went to her.
That smile, no different than how he remembered it all those years ago, was what got him here today.
And if he couldn’t get one single day to go by smoothly for her — well, at that point, Tony wasn’t sure he even deserved her in the first place.
The non-stop vibrations from his phone was enough of a distraction to shake him out of his own thoughts. Tony’s forehead creased deeply, almost painfully, as he went to look at the screen that lit up with equally non-stop text messages.
Tony was a one of a kind genius to society, but not even he knew how Peter Parker managed to be one of the most highly responsible and equally irresponsible people on the planet.
“You know, Stark,” a voice reached from behind Tony, crawling into his ears right along with the rhythmic clicking of dress shoes against marble flooring. “I can’t say that I ever would’ve pinned you for catholic.”
Tony quirked an eyebrow almost as high as the ceiling, but otherwise stood the same — there was no need for him to turn around and face the person approaching.
Their voice had become a little too familiar to him, as of late.
“Then you can pat yourself on the back for that sharp perception, Doctor,” Tony easily responded, dropping his phone away inside the pocket of his tuxedo pants. Though it kept vibrating against his leg, he ignored it — choosing to keep his focus straight ahead, gesturing his now-free hand in the direction of the many pews that led up to the alter.
“All this — this is all Pepper,” he explained. “They truly mean it when they say this is the bride’s day.”
A quite hum was only heard when the footsteps came to a stop.
“Ah, not quite as surprising, then.” Stephen looked to Tony as he walked up from behind, even as Tony kept his focus straight ahead; his high-tech glasses tinting his eyes behind the light hue of lavender. “Potts is, after all, of English origin. The English were of heavy catholic descent. All and all, it’s not uncommon to see family heritage come into play with weddings like this.”
Tony made a noise from his nose that didn’t go unnoticed.
“The in-law’s are about as old school as anyone can get,” he commented, almost flippantly. “Pepper wasn’t much one way over the other — she’s been ready to have everything signed away at the courthouse for months now. Her own fault, really. She never let the wedding planner handle any of this. I expected nothing less from her, of course.”
Tony decided the distraction of watching guests pour inside the church was easier than making any eye contact with Strange. His eyes never wavered, even as he spoke.
“The amount of stress she’s been under since the first time we postponed…I’d swear she wasn’t even this worked up when taking over Stark Industries.” Tony gave a tiny huff full of humor. “You’d think a world renowned tech conglomerate of a company would be a little more nail biting than the simple, ceremonial I Do’s.”
Standing next to Tony, Stephen joined him in looking straight ahead to the church, sliding both hands deep into his own pant pockets along the way.
“Weddings can be quite the stressful event for the ladies,” he mentioned, casually, while nodding straight ahead at the chapel. “She seems to have handled it well, taken into consideration what you’ve just shared.”
Though the view up ahead scarcely changed, Tony and Stephen shared sights on it regardless — watching as the cathedral church full of pews grew full, with the distant chatter of small talk echoing against the high ceilings; mixing in gently with the soft pipe organ tunes playing up ahead. All the while, guests proceeded to gather in through the entrance of the building, one at a time.
Being one of them, Stephen stayed near that entrance where Tony stood tucked away, standing off to the side and closer to the open hallways that were lined with floor-to-ceiling pillars; giving open access to the chapel up ahead.
Tony cleared his throat, a bit more than once.
“Yeah…can’t say she was too thrilled on the tradition of it all.” A hard swallow was obvious in the way Tony’s throat moved. He tried to clear the dryness away from his voice, with the tune of Pachelbel's Canon becoming distant soundtrack to his awkward pause. “She was raised catholic — me? Never stepped foot into a church until the day my parents died. Never had the reason to.”
Tony wasn’t sure why he was rambling. He knew himself well enough to know he’d only ever ramble when nervous.
Surely, this couldn’t be that.
“Howard was raised in Judaism, never practiced once he left home. Mom was swiss, neither for or against. I never understood why Obie insisted on having their funeral at a church.” Tony let out a shameless, hoarse chuckle. “I like to imagine Howard yelling at his bald head somewhere from the beyond for that one.”
There was another pause that followed, long enough that Tony eventually had to clear his throat again, this time loudly — almost awkwardly. Anything to break the ice that was quickly building over their conversation, so thick that not even Cap would’ve survived it.
“Speaking of from the beyond,” Tony cocked his head to the side, finally giving Strange his attention — looking the man up and down with his eyebrow arched high. “You show up through your magic genie lamp, or…?”
Stephen lifted his arm for display, dangling a set of car keys from his finger and thumb.
“Parking was a bit of a hassle,” he said with a smirk, going on to close his fist and pocket the keys away inside his sleek, black suit jacket — doing it almost too quickly, before the tremble in his fingers could be noticed. “Fortunately, I’m not far from home in my travels today.”
Tony snapped his fingers.
“Ah, so you’re a local, then,” he deduced, grinning almost pretentiously. “That knocks out three digits to your phone number. Wanna go all in, finally share the remaining ten?”
For as conceited and smug as Tony came off, Stephen kept his response as neutral, his attention staying focused instead on the chapel.
“It’s good to see everyone here is well,” he skipped the question entirely, turning just slightly to face Tony. An eyebrow arched into the black and gray of his hairline. “I take it Thor had no issues in receiving my message from you?”
Tony gave him a look that his glasses mostly hid behind purple lenses.
“Yeah, about that,” he stressed, finding himself turning slightly to face Strange, no different than the man had done to him. “New rule — next time you wanna show off? Twenty-fours hour notice. Required. No exceptions.”
His glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose and Tony had to push them up to keep his eyes concealed, looking away in the process; not interested in seeing the equally conceited and smug smirk that Strange had to offer in response.
Damn, the man was a cocky bastard.
“That said…can’t imagine it was easy getting in touch with the literal God of Thunder. Especially considering his recent space tours.”
A pause had Tony working his jaw side-to-side in a way that made it easier to chew his next words and spit them out.
“Thanks, for that. I suppose,” he managed, as painful as it was to get out — and that much he couldn’t hide.
Stephen shook his head, the tiny huff that followed full of noticeable exasperation. His look of disbelief to Tony’s never-ceasing pride was far more humorous now than it had been in the past, but still, it was there; even if the time that passed allowed grace to excuse their flaws.
“It’s as I’ve said to you before, Stark,” Stephen began, tilting his chin low and keeping his eyes focused only on those who began to congregate into the chapel. Neither men bothered to look each other for longer than a few seconds. “I’m not some all powerful, magical being to this universe. I’m learning the restrictions of my abilities every day.” A beat stole what managed to follow. “I believe our most recent encounter speaks to that much.”
Tony almost didn’t hear the unspoken in what Strange said — so consumed in everything that was his wedding the past month, he’d almost forgotten about the events leading up to it.
A tightness gripped at his chest again, forcing him to take in another deep breath. The air went strictly through his nose, his lips pursed tightly together as he stayed quiet for a moment too long.
“Don’t sweat it,” Tony finally said, all in a single exhale of his breath. Tensely, he folded both arms across his chest, knocking into the cuff-links on his wrists as he dug his hands deep into his armpits. “Besides, not even your Vegas Night Show would’ve fixed that monstrosity of a cursed conundrum. Count your blessings you got to skip out on that one.”
Though Stephen didn’t seem very convinced, he seemed to take the answer for what it was; sparing Tony of any further details that, to this day, still caused phantom pains to ache up and down the length of his once mangled arm.
“I’m glad, in spite of my failure to help, Peter still saw a positive outcome to his troubles. However that may have been,” Stephen quietly said, looking around the church for the first time in their conversation. “Is the boy here today?”
“He will be,” Tony answered, looking off to the side but not at anything in particular. His foot began to tap on the ground, giving his chaotic energy its own noise. “Running late. He tends to do that.”
The thought spurred his next action — almost quick enough to pull a muscle, Tony whipped his hands out from underneath his arms, pushing back the sleeve of his white button down to catch the time from his the watch.
He didn’t like what he was seeing.
The only thing he disliked even more was the accent of red that caught his eye when looking back over at Stephen, the pocket square that sat firmly in his jacket making him forget all about Parker’s current tardiness.
Tony arched an eyebrow.
And higher after that.
“Just do me a favor,” he started to say, wagging a finger lackadaisically at Strange — circling specifically on the pop of red that colored his attire. “Keep the rabbits in your hat for the big day, will you?”
Stephen knew immediately what Tony was implying, seeing as the man wasn’t trying to be discreet in his gestures.
And yet, still,
“What ever could you be insinuating,” he dryly, sarcastically, drawled out.
Tony rolled his eyes so hard, they found their way to the other side of the chapel — where he motioned his head in the direction of the pale-skinned woman wearing a comically large fashion hat to cover the antennas he knew were hidden underneath, sitting next to a heavily muscular man dressed in a suit that was clearly causing him discomfort, as he tugged relentlessly at the collar of his button down shirt.
“Just saying,” Tony said, averting his eyes from the impromptu guests that had his lawyers scrambling to add additional wording to their wedding’s NDA’s. “Having Thor’s company here is all the strange we need. Don’t need another Strange ontop of it.”
Stephen shook his head, just as exasperated as before, while Tony found himself tugging at the collar to his own shirt; still bare of a jacket, but suddenly finding himself warmer than minutes prior.
“But yeah,” he cleared his throat as he undid the top button of his shirt, “thanks for coming.”
As Tony’s hands worked around the button near his neck, he realized it wasn’t just his jacket he was missing. Bare of any tie, he suddenly remembered it was laying in the room within the church being utilized as a groom’s suite. His outfit was far from fully put together.
Time was suddenly seeming a thin as the air he breathed, which was odd, considering no one else in the chapel seemed to be having the same issue as him with getting enough oxygen.
Tony’s thumb pressed against the sternum of his chest in old habit of soothing a wound that was no longer there; too busy fiddling with the open space of his button down to notice that Stephen was looking his way.
“Wanda is quite the reserved type, you know,” Stephen suddenly mentioned, without preamble — looking around the church in a way that distracted Tony from his fit of discomfort. “I’ve seen that she tends to keep many things close to her chest. She’s not one to rely on others — her history puts her at arms length with most. It’s obvious. As well, expected.”
Stephen lifted his chin a little higher, as if to catch sight of someone far away. Tony threw him a look, watching as the man seemed to subtly take attendance of the faces he recognized, and those he didn’t.
“Even after the time we have spent together this past year, she still remains distant to my teachings — she prefers much of her own solitude to the exposure of asking others for help. I can truly say it’s only been in times she’s meant it that she’s reached out to me, contacting me with the use of her magic.”
However many people Strange silently counted could’ve been one to a hundred, Tony wasn’t entirely sure. All he knew was it was a solid minute before the man eventually looked back at him.
“I appreciate the invite,” Stephen said, not free of any force to his words; but the genuine smile that pulled at the corner of his lip making up for that.
Tony knew that much, because — as unfortunate as it was, he knew Strange and himself were far too alike for their own good.
He should’ve figured it out back when they first met, but even a genius to society like himself couldn’t figure everything out on his own.
It was actually Pepper who eventually pointed it out to him. The arrogance, the cockiness, the pride—
Tony dropped his gaze, unintentionally eyeing the two hands that Strange had firmly pocketed away in his pants; dressed to the occasion, including magical outerwear that Tony swore was making movement in the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
No different than the slight trembles of movement from Strange’s hands inside his pant pockets.
There was far too much of about them that was alike.
Though Tony never had high hopes they’d find themselves tea-time buddies on a Sunday afternoon, it was hard to deny that with all Strange had done for him this past year…
Well, magical superiority or not, Tony figured he could put his differences aside for that much.
“You know what I’d appreciate it?” he started to say, whipping out his cell phone with one fluid motion and swiping up on the device with only the tip of his index finger. “An easier way to contact you instead of having to use a magical equivalent of a messenger pigeon. Area code 212…?”
Strange arched an eyebrow, looking down at the screen of Tony’s phone. All the while, Tony’s finger hovered over the device, his eyebrow climbing further up his forehead in the silence that followed.
Stephen kept his smile, but eventually looked away, turning back to the chapel ahead even if the sight hadn’t changed.
“You’re really gunna do this? Keep making me go through Maximoff to get to you?” Tony made a face. “It really wouldn’t kill you to give me your phone number.”
Still looking ahead, Stephen easily answered, “I really don’t want to give you my phone number.”
Vibrations began to tingle in the palm of Tony’s hand. With his face still twisted up in insult, he looked down at his phone, watching as string after string of messages began to light up his screen.
Willing himself the patience not to crush the phone in his grip — Iron Man repulsor not needed — Tony instead shoved the device back into his pocket, blissfully ignoring the remaining string of vibrations felt against his thigh.
One day.
All he asked for was one day.
“Thanks again for checking yes,” Tony airly brought the conversation to an end, giving Strange a friendly pat on the shoulder as he went to walk away — stopping only to gesture a finger lackadaisically at one side of pews. “You can sit on the groom’s side, find a spot next to Ant Amelia and Wrestle Mania — they’ll welcome you right on in.”
Strange had to do a double take to the individuals in question. Even he couldn’t hide the face of his that followed.
In that quick moment, he failed to notice Tony walk away; the man quickly turning at hip as he tapped twice on the temple of his glasses, with FRIDAY already working quickly on his wordless command.
“Mazel tov, Tony,” Stephen called out in departure, the linger of his voice following him as he and Tony went in opposite directions.
While Strange found his seat in the church, Tony quickly passed down the hallways that lined the building, all while accessing a digital clock from his AI.
The numbers pinned themselves right to the corner of his glasses, counting down in sync with the quick hammering of his footsteps.
Fifty-nine minutes.
He felt as his jaw began to tighten in place; there was no ignoring it now.
As Tony took quick and large strides down the hallway, that very count down kept him from noticing the group of people he hastily passed on by — crying toddler and all.
“I’m just saying,” Clint’s voice was second in line to the chest-heaving sobs of a young child that bounced frantically on his hip. His one arm kept the toddler near his chest while the other moved about frantically. “The more I think about this, the more I think it isn’t such a good idea after all. You really haven’t thought this through. Scotland? I mean, Scotland? You made this decision, what, three weeks ago?”
Standing in front of him, with her hair tousled in waves as elegant as the simple, maroon dress that fell down to her ankles, Wanda simply smiled.
“Clint—” she softly tried.
“Wakanda was barely a month ago, Wanda,” Clint was on a roll, and it showed, not only in his tangent but in the frantic bouncing of the boy that sat on his hip. At this point, his cries were more from his father’s erratic motions than anything else. “Let’s give this some time. Just stay home, or come to my home — you can take a break with me, on the farm. Let’s not go running away because—”’
Wanda bit back a sigh. “Clint, that is not—”
“How’s Vis even going to get through airport security, hm?” Clint didn’t let up. “What’s he going to do, sit in a tray with your laptop?”
As the boy began to slip from his grip, Clint readjusted his hold, his frustration only growing with the look Wanda proceeded to give him.
“I have told you, Stark has that handled. I have told you this many times,” Wanda was slow and deliberate with each word she said, her impatience showing in her tone but her affection evident in the smile that tugged at her lips. “You know this.”
If Clint’s jaw tightened anymore than it already had, it would’ve very well locked in place.
“I know it, I just don’t trust it,” he said, matter-of-factly.
The hiccup that proceeded to sound from the toddler jerked his attention away, and Clint threw Nathanial an apologetic look as he immediately slowed his bouncing.
All the while, Wanda smile.
“You trust so little,” she teased him, even at the cost of his SHIELD-days-originated ‘don’t mess with me’ look.
“There’s no better way to describe him.”
Laura’s voice came from behind, her footsteps accompanied with others — the mother leading the way for her two other older children to follow behind. As she neared, she tossed her baby-bag down onto the pew that Clint and Wanda stood next to.
Not a second later and she had the bag zipped open, digging inside and bringing out a packet of sanitizer wipes.
Clint was reaching for those wipes before she’d even had them out, taking one to clean up the mess that came from Nathanial’s mouth.
“Cooper snuck out of the house last month,” Clint shot back in rebuttal, making sure to throw the teenager a hot glare along the way — who, expectedly, shrugged when his dad gave him the type of look that could kill. Clint turned back to Laura, perturbed, as he handed off the dirty wipe. “I have valid reasons for my trust issues, and you know it.”
Laura threw the wipe away and pushed the baby bag to the side. As she stood up straight, she reached around to Wanda, laying an arm around her shoulder with a sympathetic smile directed at her husband.
“Trust her,” Laura insisted, patting her hand against Wanda’s arm. “She’ll be fine. You’ll be fine, Wanda, right?”
Though Laura looked to Wanda, the same wasn’t done for her.
“I will be fine,” Wanda insisted, looking nowhere but at Clint as she spoke.
Clint kept bouncing Nathanial against his hip, though the speed was slower now than before. His attention had gone elsewhere, with the tight lines across his forehead speaking to the defeat that showed in his face.
“See?” Laura gave a smile, looking between her husband and the young girl at her side. “She’ll be fine.”
Nathanial’s crying was far and few in between now, and the only thing that kept the silence at bay. There was a hard pause as Clint kept bouncing him against his hip, staring at Wanda all the while.
“I know you’ll be fine,” Clint said — reluctantly, but sincerely.
Despite his dismay, Wanda’s smile only grew.
“I will miss you,” she said, just as sincerely. And far from reluctant.
If Clint had anything to say in turn, the chance was quickly stolen away by the upset boy in his arms, who suddenly belted out with a cry that had the oldest of the bunch, Cooper, groaning with annoyance.
“Natty, little dude — you have been a cranky pants all morning.” Clint began bouncing him fast again, using both arms to hold the two-year-old against his chest. “What? What is it? What’s got your diaper so far up your butt?”
Wanda stifled a chuckle as Laura swung her arm off her shoulder, approaching her husband and youngest son with a frustrated laugh.
“Sing him Twinkle Twinkle, he’s been on a Twinkle Twinkle kick lately,” Laura insisted, reaching both arms outward to switch off the child.
“Twinkle Twinkle?” Clint frowned as he freed his arms from the crying toddler. “What happened to Old McDonald?”
Though Laura’s hold on Nathanial wasn’t doing much better than Clint’s, it at least got him to stop belting his cries out louder than the pipe organ playing Pachelbel's Canon.
“I don’t know, he stopped liking that one so much after we watched Lassie.” Laura bounced him gently, up and down, as she started to hum the aforementioned lullaby.
Clint’s forehead noticeably creased with confusion. “Why would have a two-year-old watch Lassie?”
Laura stopped humming, looking at Clint as she shrugged, innocently. “It’s a classic.”
Clint shook his head, rapidly. “That’s exactly why he’s cranky — he’s traumatized . You had our toddler watch Lassie, Laura!”
“He didn’t know what was happening!” She defended, raising her voice over Nathanial’s crying. “He just saw some fun farm animals and then a sad boy at the end. It’s not a big deal!”
Clint pointed a harsh, stern finger her way. “I don’t want any lip on how I raised Cooper.”
Laura threw him a look, half amused, half indignant. “Cooper snuck out of the house last month.”
“Will you guys just let that go?!”
Wanda couldn’t keep her amusement in anymore, a chuckle seeping through the hand that covered her mouth, with her palm failing at hiding the smile that followed.
So busy bickering, neither Clint or Laura noticed when an arm suddenly reached between them.
“Sleep,” Mantis softly encouraged, standing off to the side as she leaned over towards the child in Laura’s arms.
An open hand laid gently across his forehead. So quickly, so out-of-nowhere, neither Clint or Laura had a second to react.
The hat that covered Mantis’s head began to glow, and her eyes grew with complete darkness; the black of her pupils overtaking every inch like a dot of ink on paper.
Not a second later and the crying petered out, right alongside Nathanial quietly drifting off to sleep in Laura’s arms.
There was a long moment before Mantis finally pulled away from the toddler’s forehead.
When she finally did, she offered Laura a smile that appeared too awkward for her own good.
Laura — expectedly — remained speechless, though not for the same reasons as her husband.
Without any words, Clint’s eyes followed — silently — as a tiny tree waddled on by. Each small leg of his tripped over the scattered rose petals that covered the floor.
One by one, Groot began to pick up the rose petals that were in his path.
“I am Groot,” he grumbled, collecting petal after petal in his walk down the aisle.
They littered the floor with soft, romantic decor; and Groot busied himself to clean them up, huffing and puffing with each step he took — carrying in his arms more rose petals than his small body could withstand.
Cross over, tuck underneath, turn back—
Wait, no.
Untuck, cross under, now cross over, turn back, tuck—
Wait. Crap, no. That wasn’t right either.
Cross—
“Ugh!”
Peter dropped both hands away from his tie, throwing his head back with enough exasperation that it should’ve snapped the very bones in his neck.
It was dramatic — but he was feeling that way, gosh darn it.
He’d done this before. Peter gripped both ends of his tie with clenched fists — it wasn ’t like he hadn’t dressed a tie before. Why now, after not just one but two homecoming dances, was this suddenly giving him so much trouble?
“C’mon, Parker,” Peter hyped himself up, forcibly untangling the tie to start over again. He huffed in a deep breath that pulled his shoulders back before giving it another go. “You can do this.”
Cross over — Peter stuck his tongue out, concentrating hard.
Tuck under — he gnawed away at his bottom lip, crossing the tie only to cross it back over with confusion.
Wait — shit, no.
“Damn it!” Peter cursed with a muttered hush that was somehow both low and quiet, but obnoxiously loud all at the same time.
He couldn’t do this. For some ridiculous reason, he just couldn’t do it.
And looking to the clock hanging in the corner of the room, he quickly realized he didn’t have the time to waste for a hold up like this.
Crap.
He definitely should’ve gotten here sooner.
The sound of a door opening caught his attention, but Peter didn’t look around to the source. Instead, he watched through the reflection of the body length mirror in front of him, staying quiet as Steve walked out from a connecting room; dressed and groomed for the occasion.
Defeated, Peter craned his head around with his hands still criss-crossed on the tie hanging around his neck.
“Hey, Steve?” Peter cringed when his voice cracked in pitch. Talk about salt in the wound.
If Steve noticed, he didn’t let it show. Rather, he arched an innocent and open-minded eyebrow, as if to welcome in any question, all while simultaneously buttoning the cuff-links to his dress shirt.
Peter gestured to his tie with a face coated in embarrassment. “You think you can—?”
“Rogers,” the voice came butting in before any individual was ever seen. Even when she was finally seen, Natasha only stood halfway in the doorway, somehow already halfway down the hall as she told him, “Come with me. Now.”
If there was any hesitance on Steve’s part, it was merely a blip of a second — long enough that both he and Peter expressed the same amount of confusion and curiosity to what was going on.
Steve was out the door in six solid steps, throwing Peter a quick glance on his way out.
“Be back,” he simply, sternly, said.
Peter frowned as he left, stepping high on the toes of his shoes as if he could see further down the hallway.
Natasha and Steve were long gone around the corner that took them away, but another figure rounded that corner at the same time — breathless with each step he took.
Peter grinned. “Dr. B—!”
“Oh, no, no, no, no,” Bruce muttered, frantically, peaking his head into the groom’s suit as he clenched the door frame hard enough to leave imprint marks on his palms. “Did I bring it with me? I don’t see it. I don’t know if I brought it with me. Not good — not good at all — no, no. No, no…”
Peter didn’t holler after Doctor Banner when he took off.
It seemed he had his own problems to figure out.
With a deep breath that was definitely not a whine on its way out, Peter turned back around to the mirror ahead of him, evening out the tie on both sides of his neck before pulling one end lower than the other.
“It’s just physics, dude,” he mumbled, with his mouth pursed to the side in deep concentration. One hand crossed over another, and then reversed, and then hesitantly crossed again. “Don’t over think this. You can do this.”
Cross over. Got it.
Turn back. Yeah, makes sense.
Wrap and pull — that’s a knot.
Peter sighed as he began to untangle the knot to the very expensive tie Mr. Stark had gotten for him, that he still couldn’t dress no matter how hard he tried.
“No, Johnson — no. We need the authorization papers specifically, not anything else. You’re risking far too much leeway here, this man has lawyers as corrupt as Bulgaria.”
Rhodey’s voice came sharply from the hallway, quick to stampede right into the groom’s suit; his frustration evident in each fast footstep that led him to his luggage bag.
Peter nearly spun around, startled at the man’s abrupt presence.
“I want the documents, the documents, that disclose this agreement with the D.O.D for the merger of—”
Rhodey dug furiously into his bag until he found what he needed, tucking his laptop underneath his arm and taking it with him in quick strides out the room.
Peter was far too late when he tried to call out, “Hey, Rho—”
He was long gone.
Leaving Peter by himself, standing in front of a mirror that showed him head to toe, with both ends of his tie held in each of his hands.
Without anyone in the room, it got quiet.
Peter turned back around, his shoulders slumping as heavy as his sigh.
This was Parker Luck. Everything about this screamed Parker Luck — Peter tried crossing, tucking, looping; his hands worked in fidgety motions to get the job done, but ultimately he only wound up with a tangled mess.
“Damn it!”
His sigh, one that was definitely a wine that time around, wasn’t heard over the noise of a toilet flushing.
A long whistle followed, only getting louder once the bathroom door swung up and allowed for the sound inside to escape.
“Whew!” Quill made sure to shut the door behind him on his way out, all while his other hand flapped around in the air, acting as if it could clear away the stench he’d created. “I would not go in there for a while!”
Peter shot his head around, one eyebrow arching high up his forehead as he watched Quill exit the bathroom.
“Admittedly, I may have gone a little too hard on the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet this morning.” With his white button down only halfway tucked in, Quill made sure to work the back and sides back into his pants as he walked across the room. “What can I say, I forgot just how good Earth food can be. There ain’t nothing like a good gravy biscuit with bacon to get you moving in the morning, if you know what I mean.”
There was a single armchair across from Peter, one that Quill was quick to settle down into. He could’ve very well been boneless with how easily he plopped down, practically bouncing onto the cushion.
As he did, a single button to his shirt popped open, failing to keep in place where his stomach expanded the most.
Peter decided the best thing he could do was go back to working on his tie.
“Rocket might be right,” Quill half-muttered, half mused aloud as he worked the button back into the place. He sat up a little higher on the armchair, not slouching nearly as much as before. “I’m gunna get myself a Bowflex while we’re here, find some space on the Benatar to do some lifts.” It was in the mirror that Peter watched Quill lift his arms up and down, exaggerating each flex of his muscles along the way. “You know, get some post-vacation love handles back where they belong.”
Peter gave a tiny shake of his head, not quite rolling his eyes but not quite paying much attention either.
He couldn’t afford the distraction at this point, any distraction, even if the distraction was Space-Man Peter Quill. Peter knew it was already bad enough that he showed up late today — which was totally not his fault for once.
But not being able to dress his tie?
“When this thing start, anyway?” Quill asked, carelessly messing with the sleeves of his shirt by rolling them up to his elbows.
Peter made a face as he ripped open the tie to start over again.
“Soon,” he curtly answered, dry-swallowing against the tightness that sudden found its way to his throat. “Could you be quiet? I’m trying to focus.”
The struggle wasn’t just obvious in his words, it was evident in his every move. Peter’s face was starting to glisten with sheen as the stress got underneath his skin, all as his hands fought to dress the fabric around his neck — failing once more, and grumbling as he worked to untangle it loose.
“I never learned how to tie a tie either,” Quill spoke up, leaning forward in the armchair. “Not like I had a dad to teach me. Not a dad dad. You know.”
Peter threw him a glance, but otherwise kept his focus on the mirror.
That didn’t stop Quill from going on.
“Anyway, never needed to, otherwise I woulda figured it out. Wasn’t like I was gunna join the Nova Corps or nothing. Space pirates don’t typically need to get all dressed up.” Quill gestured forward with an empty hand. “Now that I’m talking about it, I’m not sure Drax has ever worn a tie before. Pretty sure today’s a first. Man, what I wouldn’t do to get that on video. It’s probably driving him crazy!”
With his hands still working in many different directions, Peter insisted, “I know how to tie a tie.”
Watching Peter from the short distance between them, Quill gave a slow nod of his head, leaning back into the armchair with just as much speed.
“Oh, right, yeah, I can see that,” he drawled out.
Peter was drowning in the sarcasm.
“I’ve done it before!” he snapped, frustrated as he once again knotted his tie. The sweat on his palms was starting to make it hard to untangle the knot loose. “I’ve watched YouTube tutorials and everything — I’ve totally done this before. There’s no reason I can’t tie a tie.”
The knot fought to come loose, and Peter nearly gave up all together, huffing a sigh as he took a break.
It was either that, or rip the damn thing into pieces.
“I just…I can’t do it, right now,” he admitted, quietly — almost too quietly.
For a moment, Peter wasn’t even sure if Quill heard him.
For a even shorter moment, he hoped he hadn’t.
The shame was starting to sit heavy on his chest. Every single time he tried to dress the fabric, he was messing it up. Every single time — it didn’t matter that he learned how to do it last year, it didn’t matter that he’d done it before.
He couldn’t do it now .
And it was just him to do it, no one else.
It was suddenly more pressure than Peter could stand. With the high expectations everyone had for him, with all that he was expected to do…
Peter swallowed hard enough to shake the fabric around his neck.
There was a lot of pressure on him.
Yet Quill dismissively waved his hand in a way that said otherwise.
“Skip it,” he casually suggested. “You look better without it anyway.”
Peter definitely rolled his eyes that time.
“I can’t skip it,” he justifiably insisted, drying his hands against the front of his thighs before pushing his hair away from his forehead — fidgeting with insecurity. “This is Mr. Stark’s wedding. I have to wear it all. That’s just…that’s just how these things work, you know?”
It was stating the obvious, but Peter tried to give Quill credit; he figured a guy who had spent ninety-five percent of his in life outer space wasn’t exactly up to date on the standard cultures of human life.
Outer space — Peter’s lips twitched with a smile.
So cool.
“Your call.” Quill shrugged, somewhat indifferently. “What about this Stark fella, why not have him help you?”
Peter’s eyes grew wide enough to fall straight out of his head.
“Are you kidding me?” Peter twisted around, hard enough that his hair swung against his forehead. “No way, I’m not bothering Mr. Stark with this! I can’t have him know I can’t tie—“ He shook his head, fast enough to make himself dizzy. “No. Absolutely not.”
Peter turned back to the mirror in an instant, heaving out a heavy breath as he once again worked his hands left and right, under and down — trying for the dozenth time to get it right.
Quill watched from where he sat, at first wordlessly.
“You know, just my opinion—” It’d become obvious to them all that Quill didn’t have it in him to stay quiet for long. “Outside looking in and all that good stuff, just a different perspective and all. But I don’t think your old man is gunna think of you any less for needing help with something.”
Peter twisted his jaw to the side, hard, as he concentrated on his tie.
“That’s not what this is,” he said, half-distantly, half-irritatedly.
Quill quirked an eyebrow. “Sure looks that way.”
Peter was definitely getting annoyed now.
“It’s not,” he insisted, his hands moving with harsh tugs and pulls as he untangled the fabric. “I know how to ask for help. Trust me, I learned all about that lesson. This isn’t about—” Peter suddenly flapped one hand around with wild exasperation. “No one’s here to ask for help, dude! I’ve tried asking for help, I can ask for help, it’s not about being embarrassed to ask for—!”
A harsh sigh deflated whatever frustrated argument Peter tried to have. With it, his anger blew away, dragging his shoulders down until they felt dislocated from his body.
“It’s just…” he trailed off, slowly but surely pulling away the fabric that hung loosely around his neck. One hand gripped it tightly as his arm dropped listlessly to his side. “Mr. Stark’s always treated me like a kid, you know? He’s never trusted me, not really — not like he does everyone else.”
The words came out on their own accord, and Peter was far too agitated to stop them.
It didn’t help that Quill, for once, was keeping quiet.
It allowed a moment for his thoughts to form on their own.
“But ever since…”
Looking down at the hand that clung onto the tie, Peter found himself noticing the wrinkles he was creating with each attempt at tying the fabric.
“I dunno, things are different. Good different, but…different,” he admitted, mindlessly trying to smooth out the wrinkles that crumbled the silk. “It’s like…it’s like Mr. Stark’s not treating me like a little kid anymore. It’s like he’s…trusting me with stuff now.”
Sometimes, Peter had to remember that just earlier this year, Mr. Stark didn’t even want the Avengers knowing who he was. Sometimes, Peter forgot just how intimidated he was back then, all at the idea of being anything more than a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.
Now, here he was — not only the ring bearer for the Mr. Stark’s wedding, but finding himself involved in the day-to-day lives of the heroes he once admired from TV screens and newspaper pages.
Sometimes, when Peter remembered that…well, it certainly didn’t help ease the pressure he was feeling.
“I’m not going to undo all that just because I can’t figure out how to tie this stupid thing.” Peter frowned, swinging the fabric around his neck with a strong pull of his shoulders straightening his back. “He’ll see me like a kid again, and everything will go back to the way it was. I can’t have that.” His hands worked quickly, but diligently, to cross and tuck the fabric into its dressed design. “I mean, c’mon, I’m almost seventeen. I can tie a—”
“You’re almost seventeen?” Quill practically shot up from the armchair, so close to falling off that he needed to re-balance himself right again. “That’s it! I got it!”
His hand dug deep into his back pocket, searching quickly and eagerly. When his one side resulted in nothing, he switched for the other; only to find both pockets were flat and empty, much to his discontent.
“Hey, where’s my—!” Suddenly, Quill groaned, flopping back down into the chair with a greatly exaggerated groan. “Damn it, Rocket! I swear, if you took my player again—!”
Peter’s eyebrow quirked, just slightly, as he watched Quill come to the realization he was sans his music player. Along with that, the leather jacket he’d religiously wear was long gone in favor of a hastily thrown together suit and jacket for the wedding.
Wherever his music player was, it wasn’t in any proximity to help him.
“Stevie Nicks? Edge of Seventeen?” Still, Quill tried — his voice increasing in pitch as Peter proceeded to show no signs of recognizing anything he said. “White Wing Dove? The classic?”
Peter, at least, gave a smile when he shrugged — as tight lipped and thin as it was.
Quill, expectedly, didn’t let it go.
“Come on! Everyone knows Stevie Nicks!” Quill barely took in another breath before belting out, in the deepest-throated voices Peter was sure he’d ever heard before, “Just like a white wing dove, sing a song, sounds like she’s singing,” he sang, a little too loudly — “I said ooh, baby ooh, said ooh!”
The only noise that followed Quill’s impromptu melody was the echo of his singing — unwarranted, unwanted, and a bit off pitch, causing Peter to narrow an eye with an uncomfortable wince pinching his face tight.
“Your song?” Quill reminded Peter, gesturing enthusiastically. “C’mon, this is totally your song!”
For as passionate as Quill seemed in his music selection, Peter didn’t share the same enthusiasm.
Instead, Peter — very politely — shook his head.
“I’ll find it. Just you wait and see, I’ll find it.” Quill made a face, but accepted the defeat; stubborn and adamant, and momentarily confused as he once again reached for both of his back pockets in vain. “And whoever took my player. Can’t take my eyes off that thing, I swear…”
As Quill grumbled under his breath about thieves on his ship and something about the dirty paws of a raccoon, Peter turned back to the mirror, quickly and abruptly deciding to ditch the tie around his neck.
“I’ll do this last, maybe I just need a break from it,” he told himself, slinging the tie over the chair that also held his jacket, going to instead readjust his focus to his wrists; messing with the sleeves that still needed cuff-links to keep them together.
Peter retrieved both from inside his pant pockets, placing one between his teeth as he fiddled to work the other into the slit of fabric.
As he tried to cuff the fabric around both his wrists, strapped onto his forearms were also black devices adding bulk to him that otherwise wouldn’t be there.
Peter worked meticulously to get his shirt buttoned around his web-shooters. The distant, low-throated signing from Quill chattered on in the background along the way.
“Just like a white wing dove,” he hum-sang, if only for his own entertainment, “sings a song sounds like she’s singing!”
Frowning, Peter struggled to get his sleeves buttoned. It was strictly out of precaution, but he’d kept his web-shooters on for the drive over in anticipation that slim design of the devices would’ve easily fit underneath the sleeves of his shirt.
“Darn it!”
Turns out, he was wrong.
“I can’t get this to close!” Peter bit down harder on the cuff-link between his teeth, frustrated as his fingers failed to close the loop over-top his web-shooter.
That much got Quill’s attention, who stopped his signing so he could look towards Peter, with a frown pulling his mouth down harshly.
“Aren’t those the super-duper webby things that you shoot gunk out of?” Quill asked, noticeably confused. “Take ‘em off — it’s not like you’re gunna need ‘em anyway.”
Peter was tempted to tell Quill that May had said the same exact thing before they left the apartment this morning.
But a part of him knew that would also be admitting that May was right.
And gosh darn it, he’d been insistent about this one. He did the measurements and everything!
“Yeah…yeah, I know, I just — I just like wearing them,” Peter admitted, with a tone of disappointment; pulling the one cuff-link out from between his teeth so Quill could understand what he was saying. “You never know, you know? And these are actually a lot slimmer than Mr. Stark’s original design, so I was really hoping they’d fit under the shirt. Just…you know, just in case.”
No matter which way Peter tried to button his sleeves, they simply wouldn’t stretch over the thin design of his web-shooters. And he certainly wasn’t about to ruin one of Mr. Stark’s very expensive purchases on him so he could make it happen.
“It just feels…weird. Without them on.”
Peter pressed down on both sides of his wrist, the web-shooter that was strapped and braced around his arm immediately shrinking into itself until it was nothing but a small black square, no bigger than the size of a stick of gum.
Quill, mildly impressed, nodded up ahead to Peter.
“You said Stark has special tech down here on Earth.” Quill lifted an eyebrow, watching as Peter repeated the motions with his other wrist. “That all that?”
It went without saying what Quill was talking about. The way the web-shooters retracted into themselves was far too advanced to be anything average by human standards, even with the time that had passed since his stay on Earth.
“Nanites! Isn’t it so cool?” Peter confirmed as much, lifting a black rectangle for view before pocketing them both away. “This pair’s new, Mr. Stark helped me create it with the leftover nanites from one of his Iron Man suits.”
Somehow, Peter didn’t even need to take a breath before rambling on,
“You see, he was building this super cool nanite suit for himself but completed disassembled it so he could save me from this really creepy underwater lab bunker thing that this crazy Russian guy was using, and that guy kidnapped me, and that’s where he was keeping me, and there was all this high tech fog that was down there that like, canceled out any technology, so instead of using nanites Mr. Stark had to use magnets to keep his suit together but then he got into this really tough fight with the Wannabe Bond villain Russian guy and lost a lot of pieces to the suit during all that.”
Peter had both cuff-links in place once removing his web-shooters. By the time he kept rambling on, he was already working on his tie again.
“Anyway, the creepy crazy Russian spy dude body slammed me into this pipe sticking out of a wall — he was a super soldier from Russia, like Captain America but a really bad guy. And really strong. I was totally shish-keabobed.” Peter momentarily stuck out his tongue with concentration as he crossed his tie and began tucking it underneath a loop. “The nanites that were left over went to a new invention of Mr. Stark’s that heals broken bones really quickly, and then he let me use what was left for these new web-shooters.”
Suddenly, and without much thought, Peter dropped the tie that was barely half-dressed and crooked around his neck, all so he could quickly and abruptly pull the rectangle stick out from within his pant pocket.
“Watch this!”
Just like that, Peter slapped the device against his wrist — the impact creating a burst of tiny metal particulars that began to form against one another, quickly building a strap that eventually took shape as the web-shooter he was familiar with.
Quill simply smiled.
“Yeah?” He cocked an eyebrow as a single finger reached behind his ear. “Try this on for size.”
It was hard to tell if Quill had even put any pressure on the contact point behind his ear. The moment his skin touched down, the bright lights belonging to billions of nanites began to flash across his face, forming a helmet around his skull no different than the device that sat strapped around Peter’s wrist.
“Space,” Peter awed, watching with a child-like expression as Quill retracted the high-tech helmet from around his head. Without it, his boastful smile was as visible as the sun on a clear day, and the colors of a broken rainbow dissipated entirely until his face could be seen again. “So cool.”
Peter turned back to the mirror for focus while Quill leaned back into his chair, his arms crossing slowly but surely over his chest.
“Shish-keobbed, huh?” he asked, barely hiding the wince that pinched at his face. “Who’d you piss off, man.”
Peter shrugged a little too nonchalantly as he reached for his suit jacket, draped across the back of a chair and quickly whipped away with one fluid motion of his hand.
“That’s nothing,” he casually answered, pocketing away both his webshooter’s once retracted into the small, rectangle devices that sheathed them from anyone’s attention. They dropped into the suit pocket with ease. “Couple months ago, I accidentally came in contact with this experimental plasma slime that’s supposed to cure cancer, but it actually created some kind of sentient monster by using my DNA to feed off my body and give itself life.”
Peter slipped his suit jacket on, his tie half-dressed and hanging zig-zagged across his chest, with his attention glued strictly to the mirror in front of him
“It killed me,” he swallowed, hard, as he repeatedly straightened his jacket in place. “I died.”
The words left a quiet echo in its place. Even Quill, one never to stay quiet for long, couldn’t find anything to say that would fill a moment too heavy for a day of celebration.
And yet still,
“Died?” Quill repeated, his eyes growing wider with each passing beat. “Legitimately?”
Peter nodded, tightly.
“I was dead, dude.”
The tie hung crooked around his neck, and Peter fidgeted to get it into place. It was the only place he put his attention.
Quill blinked, and then again.
“Dude.” And again.
“Mr. Stark brought me back to life,” Peter kept on, without any preamble guiding his way — or any intent behind the actions of his hands, both working without thought as he de-knotted and re-dressed his tie. “Well this, uh, this magical herb thing from Wakanda did, anyway. But they all decided to use it on me. The last of it. They have no more. It’s gone.”
Peter could see his entire body in the mirror, but the only place he found himself looking was the brown eyes that stared back at him — wide and bright, and full of life.
“And I’m here,” he said, by rote, barely hearing his own words over the pumping of his anxiously driven heart.
He hadn’t been hiding anything from Quill. Things were definitely different now, it was painfully true — Peter knew that much. Good different, but still different. And there was no denying Wakanda had been what spurred that change on.
But no different than that change, Peter felt the increasing pressure that sat on his chest suffocate him more and more each day. The same pressure that had come back with him from Wakanda.
“Okay so now that I’m really thinking about it, those Hellhounds on Seknarf Nine were super rabid and super dangerous after all,” Quill rambled on in the distant foreground of Peter’s hearing, only a few feet from where he stood but sounding thousands of miles away. “I think that it was such a, you know, heroically tragic event that I-I, you know, blocked some of it out of my memory—”
Peter could feel his hands work in different motions, tying and tucking the fabric that hung around his neck. But it was only at his eyes he looked, reflected back to him in the mirror that showed him everything he was — standing, breathing, talking.
Alive.
Brought back to life, and he couldn’t even dress a tie.
He couldn’t disappoint the Avenger’s, they thought so highly of him.
He couldn’t let Mr. Stark down like that.
Peter’s thoughts wandered off as his hands moved beyond his concentration.
“—and some nights I lay awake and think about that smelly breath and ragged teeth coming after me—”
It was only when Peter realized he’d run out of fabric to maneuver that he looked down, mildly surprised at what he saw.
“Wait, I think I got it.” Peter suddenly spun on his heels, adjusting his suit jacket to rest under the collar of his shirt. “What do you think?”
If Quill had anything to say — and knowing Quill, there was always something to say — there wouldn’t have been any time.
“Hey. Punk.”
Bucky’s words were heard before his appearance was seen.
Peter had to turn on the heels of his shoes once more to face the entryway where the man stood; mildly surprised at the sight that greeted him.
Bucky, per usual, remained neutral.
“Try answering your phone every now and then. Your aunt’s been callin’ you.” Bucky noticeably furrowed his brows as he looked Peter up and then down, pausing hard before deadpanning, “Your tie looks like shit.”
Offended, Peter shot his head down to his chest — only to quickly forget about the uneven and crooked tie, realizing instead what Bucky had said.
“May’s been calling me?” he repeated, confused; reaching for his back pockets, front pockets, and eventually the inner pockets of his suit jacket. “I haven't heard—”
Peter retrieved his phone with a frown. No matter what button he hit or how hard he tapped it, only a blank screen greeted him in return.
“Oh, crap.” He threw his head back with enough exasperation that it hurt his neck. “I musta forgot to charge my phone last night!”
Alright, so May was right.
And not just this morning when it came to his web-shooters.
He really did need to get better about charging his phone.
“Where is she?” Peter was quick to ask, and just as eager to distract himself from the lecture he knew was waiting for him once he found his aunt.
Bucky’s shrug of indifference only prolonged that lecture further into his future.
“Looking for you,” he dryly answered.
Peter made a face.
“Did you tell her I’m here?” he was, again, quick to ask.
Bucky, again, responded with a shrug.
“Didn’t know you were here.”
“How’d you find me, then?”
“Went looking for you.”
Peter bit back everything that rose up from his chest, and then some.
He didn’t have time for this.
“I need a charger—” Peter moved in one direction only to jump to the next, finding his bag in the nearest corner and digging around inside while asking, “What’s going on, what does May need?”
Bucky leaned against the doorway, one hand gripping tightly to the wooden frame, with the ceiling lights overhead catching a gleam of black and gold from what laid underneath his jacket.
“Something about a photographer and rings,” he answered, plainly, watching with a slowly arching eyebrow as Peter frantically dug through his bag.
“Okay?” Peter looked behind him at Bucky with a frown, all while his other hand kept digging inside his travel bag. “What’s the problem, she has the rings.”
Bucky gave one sharp shake of his head. “No, she says you have the rings.”
Peter shot up straight, disregarding his search for a phone charger with sudden and harsh confusion.
“I don’t have the —” Realization hit him, fast. “Oh, crap.”
Bucky cocked his head to the side. “You say that a lot.”
Peter wasn’t paying any attention to Bucky. His eyes closed shut, tightly — wondering just how much more worse his day could possibly get.
“I forgot that May gave me the rings in the parking garbage,” he lamented, with an open palm rubbing harshly at his forehead. “She said the place was too big and that she might not be able to find me again. She didn’t trust me with the rings, she didn’t want —”
If Peter pressed any harder against his skull, he was afraid he might leave an indentation.
This was just his luck.
When May had first told him that she didn’t trust him to hold onto the rings, Peter was infuriated. But, in May’s words, seeing as the very expensive rings cost more numbers than he had fingers across both his two hands, Peter couldn’t blame her for wanting to hold onto them until the processional started.
That changed when they arrived, and May was more worried about not finding Peter in a building that was impressively large for being in the middle of New York City.
Peter had forgotten all about the exchange. And seeing as May was already having trouble finding him, she was right to pass off the rings after all. It was a big building.
Peter rubbed harder at his temple in hopes to spur the memory. “I put them in my jacket pocket and…”
Just like that, Peter dug both hands into his jacket pockets. The inner silk material was almost enough to have him come up empty handed, with his fingers slipping on the items tucked inside.
His one hand came out empty, with nothing to hold. While the other gripped the devices that were his web-shooter’s. The two black rectangles were the only objects he had on his possession.
Crap.
He lost the rings.
“You lost the rings?” Bucky read his mind like a book, and accurately enough that Peter couldn’t even be mad.
He shot his head up, wanting to argue, but finding no ground to stand on. His face fell as flat as his heart sank down to his feet.
Turns out, May was going to be right about a lot of things today.
“May’s car,” Peter didn’t say it, he prayed it. “Maybe it slipped out of my pocket when I got out of May’s car?”
Bucky gave Peter a wild look.
“Why are you asking me — I don’t know where they are.”
Peter didn’t waste half a second. His shoes practically burned against the floors as he took off, stuffing his web-shooters back into his jacket pocket as he sped out of the room; brushing past Bucky to get through the doorway.
“Tell May I’m gunna check her car!” Peter hollered down the hallway, the back of his suit jacket flapping in the air from his haste. “I’ll be back — I’m going to check her car, I’ll be back!”
Bucky watched, wordlessly, as Peter ran down corridors of the chapel; rounding a corner so fast it nearly took him sideways.
Even long out of sight, the plethoras of “excuse me!” and “sorry’s!” were heard for some time to come.
It was only when a low, deep-throated chuckle sounded that it brought his attention back into the room. Bucky twisted at the hip, catching Quill sitting in an armchair off to the side, laughing quietly to himself.
“I’ll be back!” Quill kept on chuckling, even when Bucky didn’t seem to catch on to his joke. His smile only dampened a bit when that became clear to him. “You know, ‘cause of the arm and all. Terminator. Arnold Schwarzenegger. I’ll be back!”
The only response Quill received from Bucky was a look dryer than the atmosphere between them.
Quill quickly stopped laughing.
Tony wasn’t sure what had become the most aggravating to him — the constant hallways of the chapel that were leading him absolutely nowhere , or the changing numbers in the corner of his eyes, counting down the time into the double digits.
Forty-eight minutes, and dwindling.
The timer had been put there to help him stay on track of things. Now, he felt like it was starting to taunt him.
It had Tony reaching for his tie, suddenly feeling as if it had been tightened too tight. When he went to tug it loose, he was met with thin air — reminded that had yet to be put on, right along with his tux jacket.
And yet his throat felt too tight and his body too warm.
“FRIDAY,” he managed through a harsh breath of air, taking a sharp and fast turn that not even his designer oxford dress shoes could handle. The material of his white button down and black vest could’ve morphed into wool with how warm things had gotten. “This maze goes on for miles. Get me a shortcut to the grooms suite, fastest route you got.”
Like the excellent AI programing she was — Tony expected nothing less from his own inventions — FRIDAY lit up a path via his glasses, with a bright line spreading out in front of his visuals.
“Sure thing, Boss,” her smooth Irish accent sounded through his frames in a way only he could hear. “Before the turn up ahead, take a right after the second left, where you can proceed into—”
Tony was far too concentrated on where his steps were taking him — not to mention each second that counted down in the corner of his vision — for him to notice the open door of the room he quickly walked past.
Not even his fast pace was enough to keep a hand from reaching out and yanking on the back of his vest, pulling him away from the hallway so abruptly that Tony wasn’t proud of the sound that came out of his mouth.
“Ac-ck!” he just barely managed to swallow down the embarrassing noise of his surprise once face-to-face with —
“Bad luck! Bad luck!”
Pepper gave him a look, as hard-pressed as the curlers that pushed into her scalp and kept her red hair hidden beneath pins and rollers.
Tony didn’t notice — having splayed an open palm across his face, purposefully covering his eyes in the process.
“Where are the rings?” Pepper didn’t hesitate to ask, never one to be distracted by Tony’s childish behavior.
In fact, it was only be using that tone did Tony realize how serious she was.
It may have taken a second for the words to register, but once they did, Tony spread his fingers open across his face, peaking through them before dropping his arm entirely.
“Underoo’s has them,” he said, almost too flippantly — it earned a hotter look from Pepper, the all-too-casual attire of her sweats and a t-shirt enough to make that expression stand out all the more.
She lifted her hand for display, showcasing a ring box sitting in the palm of her hand.
“Oh does he, now?” Pepper’s eyebrow arched so high, it nearly reached one of the curlers that started to slowly loosen from her hair.
Tony stared at the box, only for a second, before immediately snatching it away from Pepper’s hand.
“He will now,” Tony smugly said, tossing the box into the air and catching it just as easily.
Pepper wasn’t amused.
She never was.
Not even when Tony tried to give his best Stark Charm grin, wide enough to reach all the way to the other end of the cathedral.
“Tony, I just found our wedding rings laying on the floor!” Pepper all but snapped, her voice hissing in a low volume that somehow also managed to yell at the same time. Her arm shot out and a finger wagged relentlessly around the room. “I found our wedding rings, laying on the floor, in the corner of the lady’s chapel! Do not act like this is okay, if I hadn’t found those rings — if I don’t do everything, then everything falls apart and—!”
“Pepper, Pepper,” Tony knew better than to let her go on — once wound up, there was no coming back down. Both arms reached for her shoulders, laying them there firmly to keep her grounded. “Relax. You gotta relax.”
Pepper looked down to where Tony touched her, eyeing the hand that sunk into the crevice of her collarbone, bare of the t-shirt that was one size too large and slipping down her shoulder.
When she looked back up at Tony, her head swung so fast that a curler fell out of place and dropped down to the floor.
“Don’t you dare tell me to—”
“You gotta take a breath,” Tony, as always, didn’t back down. He moved closer to her, even when he swore she growled at his nearing presence. “Humor me — do it for me.”
Pepper reached over and grabbed his one arm, gripping it tightly.
“I’m going to kill you,” she calmly said instead.
The stress that emitted from Pepper wasn’t just palpable in tension — Tony swore he could feel it in her touch, where her fingers dug into his forearm with nails that cut deep into his skin.
Strange had assumed she was handling the big day with grace and ease, but Tony had known better for weeks now. After all, it was the infamous Pepper Potts — he wasn’t the only one who could put on a good show.
“Do it after this, I give you full permission, total carte blanche.” Tony didn’t let her respond this time, immediately going for the hand that held his forearm, and instead switching it into the cusp of his own. He squeezed tight. “Deep breath in.”
It noticeably took a minute — Pepper’s fire never did burn out easily. Tony knew that about her no different than any other detail he’d come to know about her, memorizing them right alongside the periodic table. She was just that important to him.
In holding onto her hand, Tony didn’t look anywhere but straight ahead — captivated by the freckles on her face that stood out even amongst the traces of makeup that accentuated her features.
It was then he frowned.
“You really decided to go with curls for this?” Tony asked, his head cocking to the side. “It’s fine, I just thought you’d go for the—”
Pepper’s look could’ve killed. “You’re an absolute—”
“Sorry, distracted — c’mon.” Tony gripped her hand and pulled her closer, much to her annoyance. “Deep breath in.”
The numbers laid out in the corner of his vision were far more than just a disturbance now, they were quickly becoming the source to his own nerves. Tony used his free hand to whip off the glasses, tucking them in his pant pocket without much care.
He gave Pepper his lead — lifting his chest with an inhale she shortly followed suit with, though the annoyance on her face barely fled.
“There you go,” Tony said nonetheless. “Deep breath out.”
With the exhale that blew across his face, Tony swore Pepper’s tension lessened just a bit; enough that it showed in the V across her forehead, dissipating until it was gone entirely.
Tony smiled softly, encouraging an even softer,
“Relax.”
Her grip on Tony’s hand loosened, and Tony loosened his in exchange. He let the moment be, just for a second, before moving his palm to the nape of her neck.
“I’m going to handle this,” he promised.
At hearing his words, Pepper opened her eyes.
“Really?” she tossed back, her one eye practically narrowing shut. “You’re gunna handle this?”
The skepticism in her voice was as noticeable as the pink in her cheeks, none of it caused by her makeup.
Tony smirked. He loved it when she blushed.
“You bet your ass I’m going to handle it,” he responded, confidence oozing through his every word. His hand moved from her neck down to her waist, even when she rolled her eyes at him. “Lecturing Parker has become a past time. I can practically do it in my sleep. I got this, give me some credit.”
Tony neared closer to Pepper, holding her at the hip and bringing her mouth dangerously close to his lips.
She didn’t seem to resist.
“Credit. You. Sure. I’ll give you some credit.” Pepper lifted to her tippy-toes, bare of any heels on her feet as she reached up to Tony’s ear. “Twelve percent credit, how does that sound?”
Tony’s grin broke the skin around his eyes, lining them with crows-feet that spoke all too well of his joy.
Before he could lean in for a kiss, a figure quickly turned into the doorway, only coming to a sudden stop at the sight that greeted him.
“Ah,” Steve gave an easy smile as he froze in place. “So that’s what Natasha meant when she said Pepper was on the loose.”
Both turned to look at him at the same time; Tony with a look of greatly exaggerated annoyance, Pepper with one that started as humored — only to quickly turn horrified.
“Did I just see a raccoon walk by?”
She pushed Tony away from her, bare feet taking her closer to the doorway, her question hard to hear over the crass, indignant shouts that echoed down the hallway.
“I told you, I ain’t wearing it!”
“Rocket!” Another voice, far more feminine, was heard whisper-shouting alongside him. “It’s modesty, you can’t be walking around—”
“I ain’t going out there if I gotta wear that stupid outfit! You tell them they can kiss my furry—”
Pepper spun around with a very stressed out, “Tony!”
Steve, still in the doorway, couldn’t help but throw Tony a look.
“You haven’t told her yet?”
Tony threw him a look right back.
“I told her about them,” he defended himself.
It was safe to say that wasn’t a winning argument for Pepper, who proceeded to stare Tony down with triple — nay, quadruple the tension he saw in her before.
Well, so much for that.
“Thor brought a plus one,” Tony answered, honestly — but as casually as possible. Almost as if it could quell the storm brewing by brushing off the whole situation as no big deal. “And that plus one brought their own plus one. And so on and so forth.” He knew it was a little bit more than a big deal. “This one’s on Rhodey, really, SHIELD’s making him Priority Number One Babysitter — he didn’t have a choice. Go easy on him, he’s been prisoner to these stragglers for a week now. It’s actually impressive he hasn’t committed himself yet. God knows I would’ve.”
With a sigh sharp enough to cut through glass, Pepper reached for her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose until it looked like she might break the bone beneath.
“Press?” she asked, with her eyes firmly closed shut.
“None,” Tony quickly answered. “Private event, invite only. Guaranteed.”
“NDA’s?” Pepper still didn’t open her eyes. Tony had to wonder how many times she’d counted to ten already.
“All signed,” he easily answered. “Almost positive Happy made some guest sign two, just for the hell of it. Not even TMZ will know what goes on in these four walls today.”
The silence that followed stretched on for a minute too long. And the longer Pepper went without saying something, the more Tony began to worry — he knew once she was wound up, there was little chance at getting her back down.
Pepper was strong-headed like that, always had been.
And Tony, well — so was he, in many ways. Especially when it came to remembering to include others in on things.
What could he say; he’d seen through the show she was putting on, and he knew how stressed the entire wedding had made her. He wasn’t exactly keen on letting her know Rhodey’s plus one was a group of aliens Thor had tagged along with.
In the doorway, Steve watched them both, uncomfortably at a loss of what to say or do. His eyes darted left to right, Tony to Pepper, before ultimately he cleared his throat and bowed his head to the floor.
His dress shoes had suddenly become the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.
Pepper redirected her fingers from the bridge of her nose to straight at Tony — pointing sharply, but apathetically all at the same time.
“They need to sit on your side,” she said, almost immediately pointing that same finger to the doorway where Steve stood; implying one thing and one thing only.
Tony took the hint, immediately making his way out.
“You’re looking lovely, by the way!” he made sure to holler as he departed through the doorway, but not before making sure he could blow a kiss her way.
He was halfway down the hall when he heard Pepper’s distant but audible voice call out,
“The rings, Tony!”
And then a door closed shut, sounding from beyond the corner Steve and Tony had already taken.
Steve looked over his shoulder at the sound, a tight smirk pulling at the edge of his lip as he walked alongside Tony.
“She seems stressed out,” he mentioned, slightly concerned, slightly amused.
“What could’ve possibly given off that impression?” Tony reached for the cuff links that kept his sleeve tied together, fiddling with it for no purpose other than to entertain the bout of nerves that made his fingers jittery.
Steve noticed, even if it was just by the briefest glance he threw Tony’s way before they turned another corner.
“Everything will be fine,” he said with a strong layer of assurance, almost as if to subtly tell Tony — ‘you’re stressed out, too.’
If Tony heard that, he opted not to acknowledge it.
Steve smiled kindly as he went on to say, “Besides, what’s the worst that could happen today?”
That much, Tony did acknowledge — throwing Steve a look hot as coal.
“Alright. Maybe not the best choice of words for us,” Steve admitted, putting both his hands open-palmed in the air with enough humility to take that one in stride. They kept walking, nonetheless. “But it’s nice to see you were able to keep this away from the public eye. It’s a good change. I like it.”
The hallways they walked were large and quiet, causing their voices to bounce off the walls and fade away into the high cathedral ceilings. The distant chatter of friendly voices slowly began to grow closer as they eventually took a turn that brought them along the outskirts off the chapel.
They kept walking, occasionally looking to their right where they could see family and friends gather into the pews that lined both sides of the building. The distant tunes from a pipe organ drew nearer with each step they took.
Tony was pretty sure he was walking in circles at this point. He didn’t mind so much now; it was a way to exert the building nerves that had started to eat away at his composure.
Still, he wouldn’t say he was nervous.
“Pep’s grown tired of the the big song and dances. I grew bored of them years ago,” Tony began to ramble, his hands digging deep into his pant pockets as his stride turned casual with Rogers. “We tried it with the press for this, twice. But we never got further than sending out the invitations.” A deep breath brought Tony’s shoulder’s high. He let them drop with the exhale of his words. “We never even sent them the invitations, this time around. Only those who know, know.”
As Tony’s steps came to a slow pace, so did Steve’s.
“It’s nice,” Steve admitted, softly, pocketing his hands away no different than Tony. He turned to look at the chapel, watching as the many different faces quickly filled the pews. “It feels more…personable.”
Though Steve didn’t recognize half the folks who were attending, he knew most of them were Pepper’s family and friends. Considering what they both did for a living, and the publicity that came with their names, Steve expected far more uncomfortable notoriety to be tied in with the day.
Though he may not have recognized most who attended, it still felt just as great to see those he did. Not far away and off to the right were Clint and his family, with Wanda and Vision close to them — a quick double-take and Steve had to remember the pale, blonde-haired man with Wanda was Vision. That was taking some getting used to.
Sam sat off to the side, and even further than him were Natasha and Bucky, having taken the pew closest to the back and tucked away to the corner.
“Speaking of personable,” Tony gestured his nod up ahead, somehow managing to land sights on the same thing Steve had. “Not that the hatchet isn’t buried, but — of all people for your plus one?”
It took a second for Steve to realize who Tony spoke of. Even then, it didn’t register right away.
When it did, a heat tinted his cheeks and he just barely resisted an eye-roll.
“Who else was I going to invite?” he relented, always finding a way to sound serious even when he wasn’t.
Tony shot his head over at Steve with lightning speed.
“A date?” he stressed.
Steve couldn’t resist a smirk, even as he folded both arms tightly across his chest — sans a jacket, no different than Tony, having been in the middle of getting dressed when he’d been called away by Natasha.
“I haven’t exactly had the time to get out there and talk with the ladies,” he reluctantly defended, the slight undertone in his voice captured by the echoing walls around them.
Tony cocked his head to the side.
“Too shy, or too scared?”
Steve threw him a glance, but only once. His eyes stayed firmly ahead when he answered.
“Too busy.”
Tony couldn’t argue that one — not fairly, anyway. He chuckled, turning his attention back to the chapel; not realizing he and Rogers had come to a complete stop at some point.
It was only when the jitters in his fingers started to act up again that he directed the energy straight ahead, pointing lackadaisically to the pew in the furthest corner.
“Seems like Barnes has found the time,” Tony mentioned, done pointing and instead going to fiddle with his cuff-links once more.
It wasn’t that they were giving him trouble. But it wasn’t that he was nervous, either.
Still, he fiddled with them.
Steve furrowed his brows, tight at first — tighter after that. He looked to where Bucky sat, but his confusion only grew with the passing beat.
“What do you mean?” he eventually asked, too serious to be anything but serious that time.
Tony noticed.
The face he made was indescribable.
“Really?” he drawled out, almost sounding impressed — either at Roger’s inability to notice the truly obvious, or his own talented ability to perceive what others couldn’t. “You truly are Captain Oblivious, now aren’t you?” He settled on the former.
Steve’s ever growing expression of confusion only kept on.
Without any words, Tony’s point was proven.
“Do me a favor — get these to Peter. Pronto.” Tony didn’t waste a beat, handing off the ring box to Steve with a casual undertoss. He easily caught it, but looked at it with an even deeper sense of confusion. “Give him that ‘I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed’ Cap face that you always give me.”
Steve’s face fell flat, and he looked Tony head-on.
“Tony—”
“That’s the one!” Tony snapped his fingers before reaching into his pant pocket, retrieving his frames and slipping them over his face with just one hand. Once that hand was free, he patted Steve on the shoulder in passing. “Get a move on, now, it’s almost show-time.”
Though they were supposedly headed the same way, only Steve followed the digital path that was laid out against Tony’s high-tech frames.
The directions to the groom’s suit was still mapped out inside his glasses, but so was the clock that greeted him upon viewing — still in the corner of his eyes, still counting down with dwindling numbers.
Thirty-six minutes.
He may not have been wearing his jacket, but Tony was suddenly far too warm for comfort.
There was no denying it anymore.
He was nervous.
“FRIDAY,” Tony curtly began, turning on his heels and ducking out of sight. “Re-route directions. Get me some fresh air. Now.”
Notes:
♫ And the days go by, like a strand in the wind
In the web that is my own, I begin again ♫
Said to my friend, baby — everything stopped ♫
Nothin' else mattered ♫The ball starts rolling at the end of the next chapter, ya'll. And it won't stop until the story concludes ◑.◑
Huge shoutout to the amazing talents of yibssfinds who has gifted such a beautiful piece of craftsmanship to me in dedication to this series.
Chapter 11: To Have and to Hold
Notes:
Sometimes I have to take that advice for myself. Thank you, with every ounce of my ever appreciative heart, to all those who have such persistent patience for this story. I know my updates are sluggish, but my excitement for the conclusion of this series is too tremendous to let any gap between updates keep me from finishing.
Believe it or not, things have only just begun in our journey. And this roller-coaster has a LOT of loops we're about to go through.
Buckleup, buckaroo's.
It's a wild ride from here.
Chapter Text
The noise of city life hit him at every angle, sounding from far down below and matching the same pace as the breeze passing on by.
It was distant, but audible; playing in the background while the hammering of his pulse took center stage.
Standing outside on the historic cathedral’s balcony, Tony paid none of it any attention. He looked out to the skyline ahead, with the tint of lavender over his eyes covering the towering buildings of Manhattan in front of him.
The city of New York was nothing but a background to the live video that played through his high-tech lenses; something he and only he could see.
“Thirty minutes before the ceremony starts.” Tony smirked, grabbing the balcony railing with both his hands and subconsciously gripping tight. “A little under the wire there, don’t you think?”
For a fleeting moment, one that came with the sudden gust of wind, Tony found himself taking in a deep breath of air; easily for the first time since arriving outside. That feeling, one normally taken for granted, was enough to relax him — if only by small measures.
Staving off a panic attack was surely the last thing he expected to be doing today. And yet here he was.
“What I think is that it’s very stereotypically egotistic of yourself to assume my timing was done on mistake.”
Tony looked back ahead at the video, his smirk only growing at the voice that followed.
“Mhm-hm,” he sounded, humorously; with a quick glance to the corner of his glasses causing his chest to tighten up again. The clock just wouldn’t stop dwindling down. “You sure you didn’t just get the timezones wrong?”
The look Shuri gave him was almost hot enough to be felt across the world.
“Oh, trust me,” she started, slyly, with an equally sly smirk. “When I had first inputted New York, New York, I was sure I had to be mistaken. You American’s have such wildly barbaric names for your cities, you know this, right?”
A part of Tony tried to be frustrated with the young girl’s attitude, but not even he could resist the good-natured chuckle that slipped through the tension in his jaw.
Receiving a personal greeting from the Princess of Wakanda was also something he didn’t expect today, but of all curve balls he could be thrown, that one didn’t bother him so much.
“Twenty-eight minutes,” he told her, the prideful spark in his eyes hidden behind the frames that he wore. Subconsciously, he looked beyond her view and into the distant background of the city skyline. It was easier than making any eye contact. “Hate to break it to you, Xena, but today’s kinda an important day and I’m kinda an important part of it. You might wanna shake a leg with the congratulations, time’s ticking down.”
The grin that stretched Shuri’s lips was almost as bright as the afternoon sun barreling down onto the cathedrals balcony. The few potted plants that lined the walls took in that sunlight with the same kind of glisten as her smile.
“And that is the reason for my timing.” Shuri leaned back into her chair, arms crossed with the glow of surrounding technology only highlighting her hubris.
Even on video call, her ego stole the room.
Tony gave her a look in return, his head leaning to the side with the grip he had on the banister only tightening.
“By all means,” he drawled out, letting a hard beat fall next, “feel free to elaborate.”
While Shuri’s ear-to-ear grin was as cocky as any teenage genius could get, Tony had no remaining energy to focus on anything other than the towering buildings of Manhattan from all around him. The near-afternoon sun had become bright enough to cast a sharp reflection off the many skyscrapers, adding a warmth to the air that didn’t do much to help his current breathing troubles.
It felt like an elephant was sitting on his chest. Or ten.
“Oh, there is nothing to elaborate on, Stark,” Shuri answered, a little too easily. “It is very obvious. You have cold feet.”
That got Tony to focus up.
“I have — wow,“ he scoffed a laugh, shaking his head in a way that brought his attention down to the ground. “Oh, darling — do yourself a favor. Forbes Magazine, 2001 cover page, Innovator Of The New Millennium interview. You’ll quickly discovery that Tony Stark doesn’t get cold feet.”
When Tony finally looked back at the video call — after some time and many chaotic taps of his left foot — he was greeted with a look more smug than he thought was physically possible.
“Denial.” Shuri smiled, teeth showing and all. “How cute.”
The instinct embedded deep into his bones told him to act suave — cool, calm and collected. But Tony’s only response was roll his eyes and look away, his lack of admission being more than enough for them both.
The urge to argue was lost in the breeze that passed by, catching in his chest like a hiccup.
Even outside, oxygen was getting hard to come by.
Tony, as smart as he was, figured out far too late that his nerve-racking tension wasn’t just everyday anxiety. This was something on a level he hadn’t felt before, a kind of stomach-squeezing uncertainty that lit up every neuron in his over-worked brain.
And apparently, much to his chagrin, it could be noticed all the way in Wakanda.
“Don’t worry.” Shuri flippantly waved her hand in a dismissive manner, easing what would’ve otherwise been an awkward moment for them both. “I knew you would want to talk of none of this with me. That is why I have called when I have called,” she said, standing from her chair and squeezing herself out of frame.
A lingering pause caught Tony’s attention. When he looked back to the video, he momentarily saw the image of an empty lab reflected back through his lenses.
“I worried, my friend,” the voice sounded before the figure came into sight, “that my travels back home were cutting it close.”
Suddenly, Tony smiled.
“T’Challa,” he warmly greeted, his grin stretching so far that he could feel every groove lining the skin around his eyes. A smirk pulled his cheek high to his earlobe. “Now hold up — what happened to not being able to make it because of Zimbabwe?”
The vivid, bold colors of T’Challa’s tunic spoke more to what Tony mentioned than anything else. The only thing brighter was his own grin, matching Tony’s and then-some.
“The Wakanda political front can take a rest for a day, to celebrate such a joyous occasion as this.” T’Challa sat down in the chair Shuri once occupied, slowly, with his hands settling softly and gently in the nest of his lap. “I am deeply sorry I cannot be there in person today, Mr. Stark.”
Tony threw him a look — still smiling, but serious all the same.
“Please. This is the last time I tell you to call me Tony,” he insisted, gaining back a sense of control to his voice that had briefly gone away. It tightened the muscles in his spine, bringing his posture straighter while the grip on the banister lessened. “And trust me, what you’re doing right now is far more important. The world needs more men like yourself, you know — you, you have courage to stand up to corruption, when no one else will. That’s a hell of a superpower right there.”
The King of Wakanda, never one to blush, took Tony’s compliment in stride.
“Thank you,” T’Challa said, softly yet sincerely — sternly yet simply. “But today is not about me.”
Normally one to thrive in the attention, Tony found his focus had been forced away again; desperate to seek out the skyline of the city in an attempt to avoid the sincerity looking back at him.
“How are you, my friend?”
It was as if he could predict the raw integrity that exuded from T’Challa, even from so far away.
Tony tried to take a deep breath in. It got caught somewhere halfway into his lungs.
“Well, let’s see—” he cleared his throat, not just once but twice, as his grip on the banister tensed. He was starting to lose feeling in his fingers from the constant clenching. “Believe it or not, after everything I’ve done — from taking on dad’s company at the ripe age of twenty-one, to escaping a cave in Afghanistan with nothing but a box of scrapes — I’m almost positive this is about to be the most important decision I’ll ever make in my life, one that will affect not just me but, god help me, a woman is…who is far more better than I am, and deserves far more than I could ever dream to give her, which is easily the most frightening thing I think I’ve ever taken on. The logic isn’t there. Can’t make any sense of it. Certainly frustrating.”
Tony’s knuckles turned white, but he couldn’t tell over the lavender of his glasses.
“And instead of preparing to make that decision, here I am. Standing on a balcony — hiding, we can say hiding, I’m okay sharing that. Hurts, but it’s true. Still have yet to get fully dressed, don’t know if you can’t tell, don’t know if you even know the customs for our weddings. Tie and jacket are somewhere around here, clearly it’s the least of my concerns. And why is that the least of my concerns? I know, to the minute, how long I have to spare before the ceremony starts — it’s twenty-four minutes, if you wanted to know, which just tells me my priorities aren’t in the right place. Not sure if they were ever in the right place. And that’s not a thought that helps. In fact, there’s not a single thought that isn’t causing me …acid reflux inducing nausea, the kind of indigestion that usually comes with a hangover. You know, the kind that makes you sweaty. I don’t normally sweat in a suit. That’s a new sensation for me. Feels wrong, if I’m to be honest.”
Even after a tangent long enough to give Parker a run for his money, Tony couldn’t take in a breath deep enough to replenish his lungs of much needed air. He settled on a sigh, instead. Exhausting every ounce of his nerves in the process.
“So, you tell me.”
The lining of sarcasm that traced his tone was plenty to broaden the grin on T’Challa’s face.
“My sister is right,” T’Challa spoke in a smile. “You have cold feet.”
This time, Tony allowed himself take a hit to his pride.
It wasn’t like there was much left of it, to begin with.
“So the term’s global, huh?” he played along, allowing levity take away the gravity of the situation. If anything, it eased the pressure against his chest. He’d take a win where he could get one.
“Why, of course.” T’Challa kept his smile even as his words dipped with genuine intention. “We speak of love, after all. Love is…love is one of the most complicated parts of our species as humans.” There was a gentleness to his voice that felt as easy going as his stance; his arms crossing across the bright yellows and greens of his tunic, while he leaned back into the chair with ease. “There would be something wrong if you did not feel such trepidation towards such a tremendous moment in one’s life.”
Tony couldn’t resist the scoff that shook his back, so hard it managed to loosen a stress knot that had been irritating the back of his neck.
“Great pep talk.” He gave a shaky thumbs up that wasn’t seen over the glasses capturing his movements. “Really needed this.”
T’Challa laughed.
Not just a chuckle, not anything soft — a belly laugh caught Tony off guard, where he threw his head back and belted out a sound as happy as Tony knew today was supposed to be.
He just wished things felt that way, instead of the nauseating, electricity-induced nerves that shook him to the core.
It took a minute for T’Challa to quiet down. Even then, he spoke in the sounds of his amusement.
“You must not allow yourself to feel such unworthiness, Tony,” T’Challa insisted, genially, with his own smile tightening the skin around his eyes — but failing to crack his skin the same way it had for Tony, speaking to the youth of a King so young. “The universe will only grant us what we are deserving of receiving. And you…you must allow yourself to feel deserving of what you have been gifted. Only once you do that, will you find and feel the strength that you seek.”
T’Challa’s words overtook the sounds of the city around Tony, the honking and shouting from stories down below suddenly a distant hum to the echo of what was said.
The argument was stripped straight out of his mouth, his accustomed self-defense failing to keep up the walls that normally protected him from showing any signs of his weakness to others.
Deep down inside, Tony knew that was a lost cause around T’Challa. Considering all that had happened between them, it was impossible to keep those walls up. The man had seen him during one of his lowest moments, so far down to the depths of rock bottom that he had no way out.
The hand that pulled him from those depths saved not just his life, but another's.
And even after all that, Tony found himself in front of T’Challa again — barely knowing who he was, but still insisting to lift him up when he started to sink too low.
Tony didn’t know why, he didn’t understand how. But he knew that he didn’t just admire that, he envied it.
“Easier said than done,” Tony settled on saying, unlocking his grip around the banister and instead tapping a closed fist against the metal railing. The repetitive motion was an outlet for his nerves. “You know, I’m not — uh…I’m not someone who comes from many good things. What am I saying, of course you know that. The whole world knows that.” A harsh lump caused him to swallow down his anxiety. “I’ve done bad things. I’ve done…I’ve done wrong things. I’ve tried to right them. I’m not sure I’ll ever…you know — make up for all of it.”
It was strange — Roger’s having questioned how he and Pepper met was nothing more than friendly curiosity that Tony had no problem in satisfying. But ever since he went down memory lane that night, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to get out of his own head.
Nineteen years Pepper had stuck by his side. Good and bad. A lot of bad.
Tony didn’t know why he was just now second guessing himself. All he knew was the weight of his past suddenly felt heavy against his chest, sitting firmly on the scar of a hole that once gave access to his heart.
“Someone like Pepper, she deserves…” Tony took a shallow breath in. It left just as quickly. “She deserves the best. And I haven’t always been that.”
There was no need to be suave around T’Challa — cool, calm, and collected weren’t exactly the traits he knew Tony to have, not after their time spent together.
A part of Tony couldn’t deny himself of that relief. Even with the raw exposure to his weakness, normally intrusive and damaging to his pride, there was a burden lifted off his shoulders to speak in words what had been so tangled up in his head.
“And that...that is what makes you human,” T’Challa said, softly — simply.
Tony looked up. An arched eyebrow spoke to his interest for the man to continue speaking.
Yet T’Challa kept the unspoken as just that. A soft-lipped smile took the place of the words that never left his mouth.
It didn’t need to be said. Tony knew it, long before it was ever implied — him, Tony Stark, not one to ever get nervous, was absolutely a nervous wreck.
He realized that now, finally understanding what brought him out here. And why, for once, he couldn’t escape the tangles of his own thoughts.
A quiet huff barely came through his lips. To think he always preached that to the kid — ‘don’t get stuck in your own head.’ It was no wonder Parker wouldn’t listen to him. He couldn’t even listen to himself sometimes.
“Do not ever question what the universe has done for you.” T’Challa cut through his thoughts with a knife as strong as Vibranium. It took Tony’s attention, and not once did the view of the city take that focus away. “Perhaps, your heart now, makes up for the heart you had then. And perhaps, it is only now…that you can appreciate it, to its fullest extent.”
Tony decided there wasn’t a good enough answer to follow T’Challa’s advice. Instead, he nodded in the place of his words; the tension in his shoulders lessening along with his hold on the railing.
The city life kept on around them, with honking cars playing out in a desynchronized tune, joined with the hollers of citizens down below. Every day life carried on around him, while he stood standing still on a unoccupied balcony of the church cathedral, watching the minutes count down until the moment his life drastically changed — for the better, and no doubt about it, but still in a way so monumental; and yet no one walking the streets down below had an inkling of an idea.
Slowly, Tony's hands dropped off and slid into his pant pockets with ease.
All the while, T’Challa smiled.
“Remember what it is I have told you about the past,” he said, soft spoken enough that the city life almost overtook his voice.
Tony had a feeling no noise would’ve kept him from hearing T’Challa’s words. They played back in his head no different than all the times before, a mantra that he never intended to color his spirit in the same way as the dying words of a good man from Gulmira.
As heavy as the past had been on his mind leading up today, Tony knew he couldn’t make it his permanent resting stop. As painful as those times were, as hard of a journey as it had been getting to where they were now — Tony had to appreciate the struggles for what they were.
He may have cursed the miles in between, but without them, he certainly wouldn’t be here today.
A blush caught the skin of his cheeks and Tony bowed his head until the heat went away. The noticeable difference of weight against his chest was too hard to deny, and he let himself smile away the discomfort that came from his vulnerability.
“Alright, your highness. I suppose your timing isn’t so bad after all,” Tony fell back on what felt the most natural — sarcasm. He had to clear his throat to get the words out, but he managed.
Not a second late, and a voice shouted from out of frame,
“Told you so!”
Tony chuckled, hard enough to unload a margin of stress that was making it so hard to breathe. It wasn’t much, but when he tried again, his lungs finally expanded as far as his ribcage would allow.
It was the first time he tasted the city air since stepping out. And with it, his head didn’t feel quite as heavy as before.
“Yiba nokholo, sihlobo sam.” T’Challa’s native words rolled off his tongue like butter, catching Tony’s attention — quickly and sharply. When he looked back to the video, a smile bridged the words spoken. “Have faith, my friend.”
Tony returned that smile, easily. While the exposure to what laid behind his guarded walls still felt strange and jarring, the sense of relief that came with T’Challa’s encouragement was plenty enough to overcome that discomfort.
It was funny, when he really thought about it. He’d assumed the tale of his self-growth had come to a conclusion some time ago; that there was nothing else he could possibly go through to re-shape and re-mold who he was.
Looking back at T’Challa, Tony noticed the tint of lavender from his glasses covered the man in a purple hue, no different than the glow that radiated from an herb no longer in existence.
The past year he’d experienced told him he still had a lot of growing left to do.
“Enkosi, T’Challa." Tony didn’t speak with quite the same smoothness as T’Challa, having only recently picked up the language to learn. Slowly, he knew he’d accomplish that goal. He was, after all, Tony Stark.
T’Challa didn’t mention the amateurish attempt at his language. Even though it could be seen in the humor that crinkled his eyes.
“Congratulations, Tony. To you, and to the one that you wed.” His smile grew as he bowed his head, just slightly. “May love bless you with its strength.”
Letting himself be the first to end the call, Tony watched as T’Challa disappeared from the video playing through his lenses — and much to his affliction, it only brought further attention to the clock nestled in the corner of his glasses.
Nineteen minutes.
The tension in his jaw reappeared as quickly as it’d left, and Tony bit back a sharp curse. As the video ended, the clock laid sprawled out across the skyline of Manhattan, having no mercy with each second counted down in his view.
It was only by the saving grace of his phone that Tony looked away from that dwindling time, the numbers all but taunting him.
He reached for his pocket, feeling the device down near his thigh, catching the vibrations that rumbled against his leg. With a swipe of his thumb, he opened the message with the phone still halfway inside his pants.
Tony tried to take in a breath, but even as he turned around to leave, the chill breeze from high above did nothing for his struggles.
The wind, however, sounded the noise of a faint hum coming from across the way.
Tony stopped halfway to the door; reaching for the knob but freezing in place the moment he picked up on a melody playing quietly from afar.
The guitar strumming stood out the most to him; faint and muffled, familiar yet muted.
♫ Well I'm running down the road
tryin' loosen my load♫
I've got seven women on my mind♫
An eyebrow arched high into his hairline. He looked left and right, only deciding which way to go when it became clear where the noise was originating from; though with the breeze striking his ears, he noticeably had to listen with focus.
The length of the balcony was short, but in first making his hasty escape to the outside, Tony never noticed the turn that it held. The corner at the very end was small and narrow, barely wide enough to let two men stand side-by-side.
Seeing as the man who stood there was already the size of two men, Tony decided to keep a safe distance — rooting his feet a few steps back.
♫ Four that want to own me
two that want to stone me ♫
One says she's a friend of mine ♫
All the while, Drax never turned to look at him.
♫ Take it easy, take it easy
don't let the sound of your own wheels ♫
drive you crazy♫
Tony watched, wordlessly, as the much larger, muscular man stood quietly by himself; staring somewhere far away from the city ahead of them both.
The music played in faint distance from the wired headphones that hung around his neck — they didn’t sit over his ears as they should, and looking at the size of Drax’s head, Tony wasn’t sure they could even stretch that far. At least not without the risk of breaking.
Tony knew right off the bat what sourced the music. The cord hung somewhere down into the pocket of Drax’s pants, where he had a good feeling he could find an outdated music player nestled inside.
“I like this song.”
Drax’s voice was quiet against the breeze. Even quieter against the music, despite it playing in shallow depth through the bright orange earphones.
Tony nodded. Slowly.
“I can tell,” he kept the answer as simple as the song that kept playing; loudly through the headphones, yet quiet enough from where he stood that Tony couldn’t hear all the instruments that were playing.
The lyrics, however — he could hear those in his head with crystal clear clarity. What little he could make out of the guitar struck a cord of nostalgia in his throat that kept him quiet.
♫ Lighten up while you still can
don't even try to understand ♫
Just find a place to make your stand♫
Take it easy♫
“Quill does not play it often,” Drax mentioned, monotoned in voice, with his back turned to Tony and his eyes straight ahead. Both his arms rested on the balcony railing, no care to the dusty stains it caused his white button down. “I do not think it resonates with him the way it does for me.”
Suddenly, without preamble, Drax twisted at the hips — ripping off the headphones from around his neck and gesturing them to Tony.
It was then Tony noticed the man had his shirt unbuttoned, completely spread open to expose the bare nature of his chest. The fabric even fluttered with the breeze of wind that passed by.
“That’s okay.” Tony quickly put a hand to the air — disturbed, but not enough to poke questions where he didn’t want answers. “I’m familiar with it.”
As polite as Tony tried to be, Drax didn’t seem satisfied. He made a face, noticeable in someone who normally held little to no expression — looking to his headphones in a way Tony could only discern as confusion.
“This Quill fella of yours seems to have a very specifically dated taste in music,” Tony explained, succinctly. He worked his jaw to the side while looking away. “I grew up on a lot of the stuff he listens to.”
Drax nodded.
“Then that makes you old. You should not be fighting such battles as the ones your stories tell,” he answered, unblinking, and blunt as a chunk of wood.
If Tony rolled his eyes any harder, they’d have fallen straight off the balcony. It was an impressive feat he didn’t fall over himself, having turned around so quickly that he was at risk of breaking both his ankles.
“You are weak, right now.”
Tony hadn’t made it three steps to the door when he turned back around.
“Alright, excuse me, Wrestle Mania—”
“You must be,” Drax spoke simply, plainly — no bite to his tone, and no ill intent in his words. It was the only thing that caught Tony’s attention, and kept his feet rooted in place when he otherwise needed to get a move on. “A day where two souls join in union…strong men are not fit for this day. They’re too guarded, too defensive. Too dominant.”
Drax looked down at the headphones he held, slowly but surely wrapping them back around the nape of his neck where they could rest below his ears. Though he didn’t listen to the music the same way as others would, he still listened nonetheless, turning back to the view of the city with a deep sense of somberness coating his features.
“Your weakness…I have seen it before.” Drax paused, briefly. “I’ve seen it in myself.”
Taking a few steps forward, Tony bridged the space between them with growing curiosity; all the while sure to keep his distance — not by choice, seeing as there was little space for him on the corner of the balcony to begin with.
“The day I married my soul, Ovette…” Drax didn’t face anyone but the city as he spoke. “That was the first day I felt I could never be enough for her. I was arrogant. Full of myself. Savage, untamed. And this woman, she…”
For a passing moment, the song was the only noise that sounded between them. It mixed harmoniously with the life of Manhattan, fitting it like it belonged to the streets hundreds of feet down below.
Drax trailed off, noticeably. It was a harsh, long minute before he spoke again.
When he did, Tony was almost positive his words were captured by the sharp whistle of the wind passing by.
“She was an angel.”
Tony was a smart guy. He put himself down for a lot, but when it came to his intelligence — his ego piloted all the controls, and made sure to let him know it.
So it was easy to realize the past tense being used, spoken more quietly than the city life that kept on around him.
Tony pocketed his hands inside his suit pants, staying quiet.
“You worry that you are not enough…” Drax tensed his jaw with a slow nod, growing firmer with time. “But it is that worry that will make you plenty. It is that worry that will give you strength.”
Leaning back on the balls of his feet, Tony couldn’t help but find himself as captivated by the view as Drax was.
It took his attention for a moment, buffering the lull in their conversation.
New York City had always held a lot of memories for him. Flickering his eyes up to the sky, he couldn’t help but watch the clouds drift by in the pool of blue; reminding him of that day five years ago, almost flashing by in vivid detail — having watched in horror as white static consumed the image of Pepper’s final phone call while he flew a nuke into space, certain he’d never see her again.
There was a sense of sorrow Tony could feel coming from Drax’s words. The tone of loss — the kind he prayed Pepper would never have to go through, but worried would happen any day now, so long as he kept up the fight as Iron Man.
He couldn’t dare imagine putting her through that.
“I’ve been trying to break the cycles,” Tony mentioned, absentmindedly, dipping his chin until he was looking down at the cement of the balcony ground. “But I have to wonder if there’s only so much I can do.”
It was a beat too late that Tony realize he’d opened the door to a conversation he absolutely didn’t want, nor had the time, to indulge in.
With a harsh sound clearing his throat, he took a step away — eyeing his exit.
“You are here today.” Drax, of course, never picked up well on subtly. “Exposing the most vulnerable part of yourself to. Your heart.”
Tony turned slightly to look at him, desperate to leave but his eyes narrowing with interest.
Drax lifted his chin high, keeping his focus on the city, all while the song playing through his headphones came to a gentle, quiet end.
"That takes a strength not even strong men have." His voice, as deep and robust as it was, held a certain sense of gentleness that even Tony could tell was foreign for someone of his kind.
Wordlessly, he decided not to egg the conversation on any further — distantly wondering how his life had gotten strange enough that extraterrestrial visitors were attending his wedding, of all events.
He wasn’t sure which was weirder — the fact he was finally settling down in life, or the fact aliens were currently sitting on the groom’s side of the church where he was about to finally tie the knot.
For a life that had worked out pretty well, Tony still couldn’t wrap his head around most of it.
“Oh!”
A sharp gasp barreled right through his thoughts.
Tony was the only one to turn to the source, twisting harshly to face the door not too far away, watching as it was suddenly thrown open.
Drax, meanwhile, had occupied himself by messing with Quill’s music placer, trying to navigate the small device with an increasing sense of frustration.
“Oh my…it’s a balcony,” May stepped out with a sense of wonder, her head swiveling left and right as she slowly took in her surroundings. “This church is…wow.”
The step leading outside had a dip that caused May to stumble on her feet, and she briefly lost her balance on the way out. Even while faltering and grabbing the door for support, she didn’t look away from the stunning view up ahead; easily distracted by the afternoon sun bearing down on her, enriching the colors of her formal wear.
Tony arched an eyebrow, high.
“Ms. Parker."
Startled, May spun to face him — hand pressed against her chest, grasping the fabric of her dress in the fist of her hand.
A beat later, and after a much needed sigh of relief, her lip upturned into a small, sly smile.
“Stark.” May cocked her head to the side. “And what exactly are we doing out here?”
The implication was so obvious, Tony figured someone as literal as Drax could understand what the woman was getting at.
“Just getting some fresh air.” Tony put both his hands in the air with lackadaisical innocence. With a motion of his head, he pointed in the direction of Drax, still standing on the corner behind him. “And having an endearing conversation with Merriam-Webster’s bastard child over here.”
The repetitive, hard tabs of Drax’s finger against Quill’s Zune was the only response in return, the lack of music telling Tony the device had suddenly stopped working.
Tony wasn’t about to resolve that issue for him.
“Okay, Mister,” May teased, light in her tone and even lighter in her smirk. “Just don’t go Runaway Groom on us, okay?”
The irony was almost good enough to get Tony laughing.
“Wouldn’t dare,” he told her instead, with an all-too-charming wink to follow suit.
May didn’t even try to hide the roll of her eyes. In fact, Tony was almost positive she exaggerated it, just for him. He’d gone through enough with the woman to know her real annoyance never came with a smile.
It was with one foot already in the doorway that she came to a sudden stop, craning her head back around so she could face them both.
“Real quick — have either of you seen Peter?”
Tony removed a hand from his pocket to gesture at the entrance back inside the church.
“Roger’s said he’s in the groom’s suite,” he answered.
May snapped her fingers — the loud crack it produced mildly impressing Tony.
“Shoot,” she cursed, the levity of her expression sudden traded for a sense of frustration — the kind Tony knew wasn’t exaggeration. “I can’t find the groom’s suite, I keep getting lost in this place, it’s huge—”
“I find it quite claustrophobic,” Tony dryly interrupted.
May threw him a look. The humor was long gone now. “Pepper just hunted me down in the chapel, she said Peter never gave the photographer the wedding rings for the pre-ceremony pictures.”
“Why not?” Tony furrowed his brows. “I had Rogers give him the rings.”
May quirked her head to the side. “Why would Steve have the rings, I gave the rings to Peter.”
Tony shook his head. “Peter lost the rings.”
“Peter lost the—!?”
“Pepper found them,” Tony quickly worked on damage control. With May Parker, he knew he couldn’t be fast enough. “She gave them to me, I gave them to Rogers, he was supposed to give them to Peter.”
It didn’t take long for Tony to figure out why the kid would get so worked up when his aunt was stressed out. No different than Pepper, Tony found that May was just as hard to calm down as his fiery Medusa. The last thing he needed today was the both of them freaking out.
One day.
All he asked for was one day.
“Great,” May’s sigh was almost as heavy as the wind that came from across the balcony. “And I can’t find Peter, which means we don’t have the rings, which means the photographer can’t get the photos with Pepper before the ceremony starts.”
Tony made a noticeable face. “If you can’t find the kid, just call him.”
“I’ve tried,” May stressed. The wind blew against her hair and she had to brush it away from her face as she explained, “It goes straight to his voice mail. I think his phone is dead — I keep telling him time and time again to get better at charging that thing—”
“There’s nothing in this world that surprises me less,” Tony dryly spoke as he tapped against the side of his glasses, bringing up a map of the same destination he’d been heading for minutes prior. Had it not been for his deviation to calm his nerves, he would’ve been there by now. “Go down the hall, take a left four stories down, take three rights, the second left, and it’s the fifth door on your right hand side. No reason he shouldn’t still be there.”
With her hand still gripping the door, May stared at Tony — blinking more than once as the wind brushed against her face.
“Good God this building is huge,” she muttered, with a harsh shake of her head. “Did you really need a church this big?”
No different than any Stark Expo in his lifetime, Tony gestured his arms out with a resounding sense of smugness only he could achieve.
May threw him one last look, with one last eye-roll included, before she made a quick departure.
Without even needing to look at the clock that sat in the corner of his glasses, Tony knew he’d need to do the same as well. If he got his timing down just right, he’d be able to get Rhodey to meet him at the chapel doors with his jacket and tie.
It was cutting it close, but he could get it done. He just needed to stop letting his nerves get the best of him.
Halfway to the door and Tony craned back around, casually pointing his thumb over his shoulder.
“You coming back in?”
Drax had already turned his attention back ahead, finding himself once again captivated by the city of New York, staring off as if it held the wonders to the universe.
“No,” Drax answered, simply. “The clothes of modesty I’ve been forced to wear are far too confining. I will not endure the torture of what you call a tie any longer.”
Even if he had all the time in the world, Tony wasn’t sure he’d ever indulge in that conversation.
“See you at the reception, then,” he left on a concise, suffice note, departing through the doors that led him back inside the cathedral, leaving Drax to remain by himself on the balcony.
Natasha knew a lot about Tony Stark. He was, after all, once an assignment she’d been tasked with — and she never failed her missions, not even in Budapest.
In fact, if Natasha had really thought about it, she was almost positive that she knew more about the man than he knew about himself. That was always a thought that brought on on a headache-inducing eye-roll, the kind that made her delicately styled hair feel too tight in the bun she wore.
With all that knowledge taken into consideration, along with an aspirin to ease her headache, Natasha knew damn well to use the restroom before any of Stark’s events began.
She adjusted her strapless dress in front of the bathroom mirror, pushing back some loose strands of red hair away from her eyes, tucking them behind her ears when they wouldn’t stay in the bun behind her head. As she left, her heels echoed against the marble floor, clicking with each footstep she made when re-entering the corridors of the cathedral.
The building was large — scratch that, ridiculously enormous. Every bit Stark as she expected it to be. Though she'd only gone to the restroom, Natasha found herself picking up the pace to get back to the chapel. There was less than fifteen minutes before the ceremony started when she’d last checked her phone, now nestled safely inside her hand clutch.
The sound of her haste was clear in the heels that struck the floor with speed.
It wasn’t until she turned a corner that Natasha lessened her steps, stopping entirely once halfway down the hallway.
It wasn’t even the individual in question that caught her attention. It was more-so the attire they wore; the black leather standing out in a painfully conspicuous way against the catholic architecture surrounding them.
“You, uh…” Natasha started, quietly — yet the ceilings brought an echo to her voice regardless. “You gunna take a seat out there?”
With both her arms crossed across her chest, Gamora eyed Natasha up and down — silently.
Natasha returned the gesture, just the same.
It was a beat before Gamora responded.
“You really think someone like me belongs out there?”
The response was quiet, even when the cathedral ceilings tried to create an echo that wasn’t strong enough to produce. Gamora paid no mind to Natasha’s intrusion, with her back pressed firmly against the wall, and both her legs outstretched in front of her.
The black leather boots that ran up the length of her knees spoke to her attire almost as much as the leather skirt that landed right at her hips.
Natasha lifted an eyebrow, mildly puzzled. She had remembered most the foreigner group explaining that they didn’t have anything formal to wear to an otherwise very formal event. But she also wasn’t expecting one of them to dress in what was clearly the only formal attire they owned, thrown together in a careless rush, only to ultimately stay hidden away from the others.
Compared to Natasha’s simple, strapless, navy blue dress that fell down to her ankles, Gamora’s shiny leather seemed as space-like as the skies that she called home.
“Despite what SHIELD tries to make you believe,” Natasha took a single step forward. She stayed in place once there. “These people have seen aliens before. You’re no different to them than Thor.”
Gamora’s look of disbelief couldn’t have said anything more if she tried.
The only thing that supported her stance even more was the Priest who turned the corner, a book held tightly to his chest as he barely resisted the sharp gasp that flew from his mouth.
“Well, then…” The Priest kept a tight face as he hastily passed both women, nearly tripping over his feet along the way. “I think understand now why we were forced to sign those NDA’s…”
Natasha turned to look at the man as he swiftly walked away.
Gamora didn’t.
“It seems like your ‘Earth’ may not be ready for someone as alien as me,” her rebuttal, as dry and disengaged as it was, couldn’t be argued with — no matter how much Natasha wanted to try. The harsh judgment of others was too strong to dispute, and it was clear in the reclusive look that wore heavy on Gamora’s face.
With the lights of the cathedral enriching her green skin, only brought to further attention by the sheen of her leather dress, Natasha came to the easy conclusion that sitting out in the chapel with her friends wasn’t an option she could take.
It made sense, when she really considered it. Most of the group had agreed to borrow outfits that Stark argued would be, in his words, ‘money pissed down the drain once the wildlife gets their hands on it.’ Though she hadn’t caught sight of the raccoon in the chapel yet, Natasha did find herself sitting closely to some of the others. All of them wore their disguises well, with only the small, crying tree becoming the most disturbance to their facade.
Though she may not have been the most abnormal of them, it was clear Gamora didn't want to participate in the exposure of her extraterrestrial life.
Natasha almost couldn't blame her.
Of all the alien-eqs creatures she’d met in her short life, she had to admit that the Guardians, as they called themselves, proved to be an … interesting bunch. A strange misfit group of individuals who would’ve never gravitated towards each other unless the circumstances in their lives had forced them to.
It was clear that they fit so well together. But also odd how they made it work, day in and day out.
The bickering Natasha had witnessed, the fighting, the shrill banter, the downright physical violence — she’d lost count of how many times she watched someone get hurt. In the past week alone, the last piece of toast during their breakfast had turned the whole day into Armageddon.
And yet they stayed together, hell bent on continuing their work. Not just for the money — though they’d make it very clear it was all about the money. But it was also obvious how munch they wanted to help others. Better others. Even protect them.
It was a strange notion that Natasha could almost resonate with.
“The longer you stare at me,” Gamora spoke up suddenly, abruptly. “The less likely it is I’ll answer your question.”
Natasha hadn’t even realized her gaze had fallen loose, unintentionally staring at the green-skinned woman while her thoughts ran wild. She blinked, hard.
“You’re good at reading people,” she said, with a roguish smile.
Gamora threw her a side-glance, and nothing more.
Natasha knew enough about tactic-communication to understand what that meant. She turned to walk away, taking a single step towards the chapel before she twisted back at her hips instead.
“This..team you’re with—” she tried to ask.
“They’re idiots.” Gamora easily answered.
If Natasha rolled her eyes any harder, she’d need to take another aspirin.
“Weren’t the words I would’ve used…” she trailed off, turning all the way at the hips to face Gamora head-on. “But I also don’t disagree.”
It was hard to tell if Gamora made a sound in response, the cathedral ceilings having picked up on every small noise that filled the lull of their silence, concealing any reaction she might’ve had to their conversation. Her stoic stance barely changed, if it did at all.
It was the kind of rigid control that Natasha could feel in the thick of her muscles; the kind that came from years, decades — an entire life of consistent, brutal training.
She knew an assassin when she saw one. She never needed to be told.
“You’re a woman of space,” Natasha started, curiously but tentatively. “You could go anywhere. With anyone.” A beat fell between them, no different than her head fell to the side. “Why them?”
Gamora turned to look at her, her face conveying little to nothing, and yet the slightest turn of her head saying it all.
Natasha read that language well.
“You don’t get to ask the questions that you ask yourself,” her answer was simple and short, low in tone and yet managed to take an echo from the high ceilings above them.
Natasha listened to the words come around a second time. While Gamora continue to show no response to the moment, Natasha allowed herself a smooth smirk to follow suit.
“Touche.”
Her heels struck the floor one after the other as Natasha turned to walk away, getting only a few feet down the long hallway before she gracefully turned back around.
“I’ll keep a seat open. Just in case,” she called out, her steps slowing so her voice could reach over the echo of her heels. “After all, if there’s one thing Stark’s good at doing, it’s putting on a hell of a show.”
It was a second too late that Natasha realized the noise of heels clicking fiercely against the marble floors weren’t coming from her.
The realization came around the same time Gamora looked ahead with sharp confusion, staring just slightly beyond where Natasha stood — catching her attention, and bringing her to turn around, quickly.
“May?” Natasha furrowed her brows, watching with growing confusion as the woman came hastily racing down the corridor. “What’s going on?”
Unlike them both, May had no hesitation to wear her emotions on her face.
Natasha suddenly frowned.
Standing behind the double wide doors leading into the chapel, Tony adjusted his tie for what he swore had to be the umpteenth time since putting it on; fighting the urge to loosen it for extra air that was otherwise not making it into his lungs.
“Officiant’s about to start the processional,” Rhodey’s overly-calm voice came with a clamp to his shoulder, squeezing firmly on the jacket that he blamed entirely for causing the wet beads dripping down his forehead. “You ready for this?”
For what it was worth, Tony did try to answer Rhodey, even if his answer was bound to be nothing but sarcasm and bite.
Unfortunately, it was all his throat could do to manage a swallow that bounced his larynx with surprising force.
Screw it — he was loosening the tie.
“Man, I haven’t seen you this nervous since you were fifteen and starting your first day at MIT.” Rhodey didn’t laugh as Tony frustratingly pulled at the knot that kept his tie dressed. But Tony knew his friend well enough to still throw him a look sharper than daggers, catching the shit-eating grin that said it all.
“Yeah, well, I was fifteen and starting MIT,” Tony easily shot back, forging the fidgeting of his tie to drop his hands deep into his pant pockets. His chin lifted high as his shoulders dropped low. “That was a little warranted, if I do say so myself.”
It was almost flawless the way Tony forced himself back into composure, with an amount of willpower that never once crossed his face. If Rhodey noticed his anxiety, it was only in the small things — things he noticed only because of the length of their friendship, giving Rhodey sight where others couldn’t see.
The way Tony’s jaw clenched, the bounce of his left heel, the fidgeting in his right pocket, where he always stashed his high-tech frames — a habitual habit that Rhodey knew most weren’t aware of.
Eyes exposed without those glasses, Tony looked straight ahead, staring at the two double wide doors ahead of them both.
“I’ve done red carpet shows more nail biting then this, Rhodey.” His voice was almost too low to hear over the soft piano organ playing from inside the chapel. Rhodey had a feeling that was on purpose. “Why can’t I keep it together?”
With a smile as soft as the song playing behind closed doors, Rhodey let go of Tony’s shoulder, going instead to lay a firm hand across his back with reassurance.
“You are keeping it together, Tones,” he reminded him, forcing himself into Tony’s line of vision when his friend still refused to look his way. Rhodey made sure to keep a lock on Tony even when it wasn’t reciprocated. “Hell, I knew it before — but seeing you like this over Pepper…you two have worked hard to be here, man. You both deserve this. Keep it cool, you got this.”
A few pats to the back, with one more clasp on his shoulder, and Rhodey gave Tony his space as the man straightened his jacket, still feeling like it was making him too warm.
While the adjustments didn’t make a difference, his next breath suddenly felt a little deeper than the one that came before it; noticeable in the way his brows slowly started to relax.
Rhodey was right. He could do this.
He could have faith in himself — if not for himself, most certainly for Pepper.
After all, she deserved it.
Tony looked to the side, giving Rhodey a smile as signature as his name. “Betcha never thought we’d be—”
“Tony!”
The shout was recognizable long before Tony’s brain had even registered he was turning around to face the source.
Once there—
“Whoa—!” Tony spun back around with enough speed that he became disoriented. It didn’t help matters to see Pepper come barreling towards him with the train of her laced dress draped over her arm. “Okay, now it’s bad luck—”
“Peter’s missing.” Pepper was huffing for air long before her heels rooted in place, barely inches from where Tony stood, reaching for his bicep with strikingly strong force.
She grabbed his arm and all but forced him to turn back around, much to his ever growing disorientation.
“Missing the rings?” Tony made a face, confused — double the feeling when he saw the slightly blurry figure running up from behind Pepper.
“No, Peter’s missing,” Pepper repeated, letting go of Tony’s arm so she could push away the laced veil that got into her face, the urgency of her pace showing in the pink that tinted her cheeks beneath her makeup.
Calming Pepper down was Tony’s first instinct, but once he realized the woman running up behind her was none other than May Parker, that instinct quickly shuttered to a halt no different than his brain had done.
“No one can find him,” May started in a panic, as out of breath as Pepper but still determined all the same. “I mean no one, Tony, we’ve searched everywhere. And of course his phone’s dead, so I can’t call him, which means I can’t find him—”
“May, May, it’s okay,” Pepper didn’t hesitate to turn around, using the hand that wasn’t holding the train of her dress to firmly squeeze May’s shoulder. “He’s gotta be around here somewhere, I’m sure he didn’t go far—”
“Go far?” Tony looked between both women, baffled and bewildered. All he asked for was one day. “What do you mean he’s missing—”
“Jeffery, the photographer, can’t find him,” Pepper’s growing stress stained her voice tight. “Natasha’s looking everywhere right now, but May can’t get through to his phone, and I haven’t been able to find him, she hasn’t been able to find him—”
Tony shot his head towards May. “What about the gro—?”
“He’s not there,” May hastily, firmly, interrupted.
Tony’s forehead hurt with the look of confusion that hit his face. “What do you mean he’s not—?”
“You sure, Cooper!?”
While the next shout took them all by surprise, it was Clint storming down the hallway, dragging his teenage son with him by the collar of his shirt that stirred a response.
“Whoa, Barton!” Rhodey was the first to intervene, jumping forward with an open palm signaling for some sort of restraint from his former assassin of a teammate against a literal child. “Man, take it easy—”
The gesture did nothing. Clint dragged Cooper right past Rhodey, the grip he had on the boy’s collar stripping away the color from the skin around his knuckles.
“You better not be fucking with me! I mean it!” Clint all but growled, forcing Cooper to walk at the same hasty speed as himself, dragging the kid when he’d trip over his own feet.
“Clint, seriously,” Laura’s voice sounded from not too far behind, her steps considerably slower with the toddler that she carried against her chest. “Stop it and calm down.”
Clint paid them no mind, his focus staying steadfast on where Tony stood at the doors to the chapel. They didn’t stop until they both stood in front of him, so close that when Clint let go of Cooper’s blazer, the kid nearly toppled face first into Tony’s chest.
“Tell them.” Clint stepped back as Cooper stumbled on his feet, regaining his balance only to throw his head back with an exasperation fit for the youth.
“Dad, I was joking—”
“Tell them!” Clint wasn’t having it. The look he proceeded to give Cooper, the type that very easily killed in his younger assassin years, hit at just the right moment.
Though it was obvious his oldest son wanted to give off the appearance of all bark and bite, there was nothing that kept away the fear of his father’s SHIELD-days-originated ‘don’t mess with me’ look.
Timid and shy, Cooper slowly turned to face Tony head-on.
“Mr. Stark….sir.” He gulped, noticeably, all while failing at keeping eye contact. “My dad wants me to tell you that, uhm…that while I-I was outside just-just, like…getting some fresh air and stuff—”
Clint loudly scoffed. “Huffing nicotine isn’t fresh air, dummy.”
“Dad—! What the —!” Cooper spun hard enough to twist his ankle, his arm gesturing out with wild motions. “That’s not fair, you said mom didn’t have to find out about that!”
It was hard to tell if Clint had forgotten his wife followed closely behind him, or if had purposefully chosen to out what knowledge he knew — whether intentional or not, Clint turned around to face the woman in question, far-too-easily telling her,
“Don’t worry, he’s grounded.”
Laura rolled her eyes as she bounced Nathanial against her chest. “Because that worked wonders when he snuck out of the house.”
“This is seriously some bullsh—”
“Cooper!
Clint stared Cooper down, with enough pure-blooded intensity that even Rhodey found himself taking a step away from the family. The look of concern on his face, along with the flood of worry on Pepper’s, and the sheer amount of anger that radiated from Clint — it filled the hallway of the cathedral with an overwhelming atmosphere of tension.
Tony watched as Barton’s oldest kid tossed his hands into the air with irritated resignation.
“I made a joke, that’s all!” Cooper turned back towards Tony, his hands falling down to his sides with a resounding smack. “My dad asked me why I was standing out in the parking garage by myself and I was like — I’m not, cause this other guy was there for a bit, and he kinda looked like that dude on the Forbes magazine — the one I kept seeing on the newspaper stands when dad took us on a tour of New York City last night.”
Pepper walked closer to Tony’s side, bunching the train of her dress closer to her body so it wouldn’t get in the way. Whether or not Tony noticed her nearing presence stood to be reasoned with.
“So I was like no dad, I’m not out here by myself, that Elon Musk wannabe gazilionaire who has that big ass tower you wouldn’t let us look at is here too. And then he went nuts on me, outta nowhere!” Cooper shrugged, dramatically, as he looked between his father and Tony. His voice pitched at the edge of his words, the confusion he felt starting to show in his face. “I just kinda figured you guys are rich people so you invited him to your wedding and it wasn’t any big deal! I didn’t realize I couldn’t joke about it!”
“Norman Osborn?” Rhodey was the one to say it out loud, quicker than anyone had time to even think it. “Are you referring to Norman Osborn?”
Cooper simply nodded.
Tony’s brows skyrocketed to the ceiling. Possibly higher than that.
“Are you asking if I invited Norman Osborn to my wedding?” It was a feat he managed to speak the question at all, the dryness in his throat stripping any moisture to his words, coating the layers of his voice with a gruff hoarseness that sent goosebumps across his own skin.
Cooper, again, nodded.
“Did you?”
Tony couldn’t have answered with a firmer response; a rigid, hard shake of his head following his equally hard,
“No.”
Cooper looked to his dad, over to his mom — who somehow managed to hold more wrath than her significant other, something that had the teenager groaning with dread for any impending punishment — and finally he landed sights on Tony.
“Well,” Cooper put both his hands out in a casual gesture. “Then I’m pretty sure I saw Norman Osborn at your wedding.”
All within a millisecond, Tony’s face went whiter than Pepper’s wedding dress; the blood in his head rushing through his ears in a way that prevented him from hearing the chapel doors crack open behind him.
As Steve slipped out through the small opening he’d created, the soft piano playing from inside leaked out with him.
“Tony, you just missed your cue—”
Steve stopped before the doors had even shut behind him.
The amount of people gathered in one space, the confused and panicked look on May Parker’s face — followed by the worried and fearful colors that painted Pepper’s, the bride, standing next to Tony in every way too unconventional to be on purpose…
The doors finally closed shut, sounding like a bomb in the otherwise piercingly silent hallway.
Steve tensed. “What is it?”
Tony looked towards him, suddenly — jarringly.
“Osborne was here.”
Without hesitation, Steve snapped his head towards May. “Where’s Peter?”
“We can't find him,” she said, without skipping a beat — her response faster than even Steve could register.
Even when it did register, Steve wasn’t sure it clicked. Not in the way that it should, not in any way that spurred action. He froze with chilling realization, a familiar feeling of ice paralyzing his every muscle.
Steve looked to Tony, his chest stilled without breath, his eyes momentarily unblinking.
The look was reciprocated.
It was that single look they needed. Never words, never any sounds.
They both knew without ever needing to say it.
“Am I hearing that the boy of spiders has been captured?”
Their silence made Thor’s approaching footsteps all the louder, coming from down the hallway at an impressively somber speed.
“Fear not, my friends!” His voice called out from around the corner, deep and heavy, and full of rousing gallantry.
Not even Natasha’s heels, clicking with hasty speed to catch up from behind him, could be heard over his fast pace.
“Foolish of the those who know not who they mess with!” Only once his steps brought him closer towards the group did he lift his arm high into the air, raising an object above his head as he stood center to them all.
The long, tall stick in his hand pointed towards the ceiling with a powerful enthusiasm that not only lit up Thor’s body, but crackled an energy all throughout his skin — bolts of lighting sparking from his muscles, rising from his toes until it reached the tips of his fingers and lit the object into a bright flash of lightning.
In the blink of an eye, gone was the suit and tie that dressed him in their cultural human standards — lightning struck down and brought to life the red, swaying cape that cuffed at his shoulders along with the metal armor that decked his frame.
Risen high into the air was the infamous hammer that continued to spark bolts of lightning in its wake.
“With the power of my renewed Mjølnir,” Thor pridefully held the hammer above him with a fierce look of determination. “We will leave no stone unturned in the search for the tiny one you call Peter of Parker’s!”
The prideful shout, coated with sparks of electricity that came from within the Asgardian himself, spurred a beat of silence too tense to easily break.
“That explains why you brought an umbrella to a wedding.” Rhodey cocked his head to the side, almost sounding resigned to the chaos that he knew, by now, he should be accustomed to.
“What the hell—!” Clint didn’t respond as apathetically. His hand motioned ahead frantically. “Wait, wait — wait. So what was all that about your sister, and your dad, and-and….that thing being turned into a game of fifty-two pickup? What the hell was that story for?”
“Did I not tell you of Eitri?” Thor looked between the group, catching the bewildered stares of Natasha, Steve, Clint and even a very startled May Parker. Suddenly, he threw his head back with laughter, his cape catching a breeze of wind that somehow emerged from nowhere. “Oh, there’s not enough time on both Asgard and Midgard to tell you about Eitri! A blacksmith more skilled than all of Asgard was put together.” His laughter faded into a soft sigh. “A good friend of mine, that stubborn dwarf…”
“This day cannot get any weirder,” Cooper didn’t hesitate to intervene with a frustrated scowl of adolescent annoyance.
Clint threw his head around, his eyes narrowing tight. “I don’t want another sound, or puff puff, coming out of your mouth. Got it?”
The noise between them only seemed to heightened in not just stress, but with enough volume that the toddler held firmly in Laura’s arms had finally broken his silence.
A loud cry belted from the two-year-old, piercingly high-pitched as he made his distress known.
“Shhh, shhh, honey it’s okay, it’s okay,” Laura took a step away from the group, bouncing the boy against her hip with frantic, anxious movements. “Here — listen, Natty, just listen to me, listen to mommy.”
The contrast of Laura’s troubled look compared to the soft, peaceful lullaby that sounded from her throat couldn’t go overlooked. She held her eyes firmly on Clint, intensely, all while she softly sung,
“Twinkle, twinke, little star…”
While Clint didn’t look anywhere but at his wife, sharing the same tense worry that rattled them both to their core, Tony shot his head over to Pepper — his brown eyes blown wide, and the lines on his face deepening with growing fear.
“How I wonder what you are…”
For once, Pepper exchanged that same look.
“Can somebody please tell me why Norman Osborn being here is a problem?” May’s frantic voice sounded between them, along with the hasty clicks of her high-heels. She didn’t hesitate to breach the gap that kept her away from the group. “What is going on, what has Peter not told me—?”
“May, May,” Rhodey’s voice was heard from the side. Tony never looked away from Pepper to notice his friend reaching for the woman’s arm, the first of them to take control of the situation. “It wasn’t Peter keeping this from you, it was us, this is all us. Listen to me—”
“What is going on—!? Peter used to be friends with Norman’s little boy, since when—”
Rhodey passed by his peripheral vision, walking away without so much giving Tony a second look. He held onto May’s arm the entire time, her footsteps easily mixing in with his.
“Trust me for right now, we’re getting you out of here — May, you need to follow me, now.”
There was commotion — an argument, something Natasha chimed in on from a handful of feet away. Of them all, it was surprising how Thor’s voice was the least boisterous.
Tony couldn't hear any of it.
Not because of distance — they were all in the hallway, they were all congregated to one spot. No, Tony could feel the sudden silence as his hearing went out, almost all at once — like a switch had been violently flipped in his head.
A sharp ringing overtook his senses, vibrating his skull and every hair that laid ontop his skin, carving into his nerves like a thousand razors that cut his composure into shreds.
It wasn’t until a soft hand laid across his cheek that it all came crashing back to him.
“Go.” Pepper’s face was the first thing he saw, her lips moving without sound — only for her voice to hit his ears like shattering glass. “Oh my god, Tony, go!”
Tony could feel the snap in his neck when looking up at Pepper, his eyes connecting with hers like the strength of magnets were between them both. The remorse that drowned his face felt heavy in his chest.
“Honey, I’m so sor—”
Pepper shook her head, frenetically. “It’s fine, we’ll post-pone—”
“Again?” Tony’s lips were loose in his stress. The words came without thought, and it was Pepper’s look of wild disbelief that grounded him back to reality.
She always managed to do that for him.
Her hand gripped his cheek as she leaned forward, settling her lips firmly against his — kissing hard, and holding for a moment long enough to leave them both breathless.
Tony didn’t open his eyes again until she pulled away, leaving him without her touch.
“Go find him.” Pepper gave a firm squeeze of his bicep, and a final look as hard as nails, before she hitched up the train of her wedding dress and took off.
The two double doors burst wide open with a single push of her hand, and Pepper raced inside the chapel, creating a slew of gasps to sound from within.
“Everyone! I need everyone’s attention, please!”
Pepper’s shouts faded away as the chapel doors shut behind her, where Steve stood closest and off to the side, all the while his eyes stayed unwavering in Tony’s direction.
“Up above the world so high…”
Laura’s continued attempt at comforting her child kept on in the background, more prominent now that Rhodey and May had been ushered away by Natasha, leaving less chaos to reign in one place.
If Tony had noticed their absence in the mayhem, he didn’t pay it any attention.
“Like a diamond in the sky…”
He didn’t look anywhere but at Cap.
“We need everyone back at the compound,” Tony abruptly said, his voice rumbling like stones against gravel. “Now.”
Steve tightened his jaw. “It’s a trip back upstate. An hour, at the least.”
Clint shot his head around to them both. “It’ll be triple the time with this kind of traffic. Not a good idea.”
Tony didn’t even need a second to think. The thought erupted in his head that fast.
“Get Strange,” he told Steve, his words clipped and hard. “Go, now.”
Steve gave a singular nod of his head before pushing through both chapel doors, allowing the ruckus from inside to briefly mix in with their own havoc.
Tony turned to Clint before the doors had even closed.
“Barton, lasso everyone tog—”
“On it.” Clint slipped through the closing doors before they sealed shut, moving faster than Tony had time to speak the order.
The corridor cleared out, quickly, with rash urgency splitting them apart. Tony didn't waste another breath before he darted down the hallway, with Thor staying close to his side; their pace fanning out his cape with each bound of his legs.
As they hurried away, Tony whipped out his glasses from within his suit pocket, allowing FRIDAY to work wordlessly through his lenses. There was plenty of space across the sleek frames for her to load everything he needed and then-some; the numbers in the corner of his vision had finally come to a stop, counting down to a standstill of zero.
He was out of the church three minutes after his wedding started.
Only Laura and her children were left behind, standing near the doors of the chapel as she bounced Nathanial in a desperate attempt to calm down not only her son, but also herself.
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star…”
“Twinkle, twinkle…”
The humming didn’t stop.
Not from the back of his neck.
Not from the canals of his ears.
Just like the vibrations, tearing hysterically into his neck, digging into his spinal cord, screaming the tune of danger in sharp contrast to the airy tune of a children’s lullaby —
The humming didn’t stop, and neither did his spider-sense.
“…little…star…”
The buzzing tore into the stem of his brain, each breath burned his nose sweet, pungent — it made his head spin, tingle.
He felt like he was floating, no different than the deep-throated singing floating around him; low in pitch, dry and dusty.
It sounded from afar.
Weakly, he heard it.
His eyelids felt like cement. It took everything he had to gather the will and crack them open — slits, barely giving light to his blown pupils, barely giving him sight to the man standing over his paralyzed body.
The light nearly blinded him. But he saw it.
Halos of white danced with unhinged intensity all around him, blurring the figure that leaned closer to him — closer — hovering until the spots cleared away, and only a bleary, murky face could made out.
“…how I…wonder…”
The pungent air pushed harder into his nose, a rotten gas striking against his mouth with a chill, cold sensation.
Peter’s eyes rolled back into his head, with vibrations against his neck still screaming danger— and the hum of a lullaby never once coming to a stop.
“…what…you…are." Norman smiled at him.
Chapter 12: Wedding Crashers
Summary:
“Field trip, you say? We haven’t opened doors to one of those in quite some time now. The company stopped after an...unfortunate loss of research.” Norman cleared his throat, sitting up straighter in the high back, executive styled chair. “The public relations department decided it’d be best not to increase any likelihood of students getting hurt because of our inventions.”
The room fell so quiet that Peter was sure he could hear a pin drop, without his enhanced hearing. His spine stiffened, his face failing to conceal his rising panic.
“What-what research was lost?”
Norman’s eyes flittered up to his, a moment of deliberation etching across his features in the beat that followed. It seemed he was debating on whether or not he should provide an answer, if it was in his best interest to start such a discussion over what Peter knew had to be sensitive information.
With or without an explanation, Peter had the answer.
He knew it sat directly in his DNA.
“Our one and only success with genetic modification,” Norman finally explained. “All the testing was performed on one solitary spider.”
Peter didn’t break eye contact with him.
Notes:
▰Identity Theft — Chapter 17: Smoke and Mirrors▰
Despite his hesitation, Tony flipped through each paper, skimming the crucial words to catch the gist of the reports. Things like clone technology stood out to him, the details horrifying in how they achieved their results.
However, weaponry like flying gliders that contained heat-seeking smart missiles, grenade’s under the code-name Pumpkin Bombs — they, unfortunately, didn’t catch his interest too much. Stark Industries had built their name off of much worse things.
Pushing a couple of Chitauri heads aside, he obtained the last stack of files, brushing off the dust with his metal-gloved hand to better read the information.
“What the fuck.”
Tony had seen enough. He dropped the documents like they'd caught on fire.
He knew for years now that OsCorp was into some shady shit, they had always been on his radar of competitors to keep an eye on. But this? Aggressive AI’s, generic Vibranium, inhumane experiments?
It was light years far beyond his expectation —that comprehension didn’t even exist.
If the building wasn’t making Tony's skin crawl before, it certainly was now.
▰Identity Crisis —Chapter 31: In a Quiet Lagoon, Devils Dwell ▰
“Doctor Murphy and I. We...we went back to formula,” he explained — cautiously. As if each word he spoke was a threat to his well being. “We stripped the Oz serum of its need for the spider DNA — completely restructured it without Arachnid Number 00.” Doctor Frye swallowed, hard, before saying, “It’s finished.”
A beat.
Followed by two more.
“Adler didn’t want me telling you.” Doctor Frye stopped walking towards him, suddenly, leaving enough length that it took time for his words to reach Norman.
When they did, Norman wasn’t hesitant on breaking that distance with three large strides.
“Doctor Adler strictly told me that the Oz formula was my last chance,” he reiterated.
For every step he took forward, Doctor Frye took one back.
“She insists…” Doctor Frye stumbled on his own tongue, and tripped over his own feet. “She insists it’s not suitable for trial.”
Norman came to a halt — and just in time.
“This isn’t a trial, Doctor Frye…” Norman started to say. His chin tilted low and his eyes narrowed, staring intently at the man in front of him. “This is my life.”
Doctor Frye’s only response was a swallow that shook his throat.
Norman tilted his head to the side. “You agree with her?”
It wasn’t so much a question as it was a statement. A realization.
Doctor Frye didn’t let himself blink, barely taking in a breath of air when it was needed.
“The initial trials weren’t...the most promising, sir,” Doctor Frye sounded hesitant to explain,. “Without using the birth host of Arachnid Number 00, you were beginning to show onset signs of schizophrenia, of – of dissociative identity disorder. Split personalities.”
Norman kept his gaze; his shoulders pulling back tautly and his chest puffing out slightly. A face that normally held little to no emotion suddenly grew thick with building, simmering animus.
Doctor Frye took the moment of silence as permission to continue speaking.
“The formula…” he cleared his throat, multiple times, until coming to terms with the fact that the words would need to be forced out. “The formula, as it stands...could very well come at the cost of your sanity.”
▰Identity Within — Chapter 10: To Love and to Cherish ▰
Pepper gave him a look, as hard-pressed as the curlers that pushed into her scalp and kept her red hair hidden beneath pins and rollers.
Tony didn’t notice — having splayed an open palm across his face, purposefully covering his eyes in the process.
“Where are the rings?” Pepper didn’t hesitate to ask, never one to be distracted by Tony’s childish behavior.
In fact, it was only be using that tone did Tony realize how serious she was.
It may have taken a second for the words to register, but once they did, Tony spread his fingers open across his face, peaking through them before dropping his arm entirely.
“Underoo’s has them,” he said, almost too flippantly — it earned a hotter look from Pepper.
She lifted her hand for display, showcasing a ring box sitting in the palm of her hand.
“Oh does he, now?” Pepper’s eyebrow arched so high, it nearly reached one of the curlers that started to slowly loosen from her hair.
Tony stared at the box, only for a second, before immediately snatching it away from Pepper’s hand.
“He will now,” Tony smugly said, tossing the box into the air and catching it just as easily.
Pepper wasn’t amused.
She never was.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“No!”
Peter’s shoes came to a screeching halt against the parking garage pavement. Any harder and he was sure they would’ve caught on fire.
“No, no — c’mon, no!” His index finger tapped repetitively against the device, practically smashing his bone against the already cracked screen — if his outburst caused more damage along the way, he honestly wouldn’t have known. “You had enough juice left to turn on! C’mon, turn on again!”
As many times as Peter tried, the little bit of ghost power he managed to capture was all but gone. It didn’t matter what button he pressed, how long he pressed it for, how many times he smashed his fist against the screen — definitely causing a crack that time.
“Turn on again, please turn on again, please please please just turn on again!”
The parking garage captured his voice in an echo.
It was the only response to his plea.
Peter ran a shaky hand through his hair, careless to how the fidget in his fingers messed up the style he had perfectly created earlier that morning. A large strand fell in front of his eyes; undoing hours of work and almost blocking his view of the black screen.
The reflection of his face against the dead cell phone was almost enough to make him say a very, very bad word.
This was not good.
This was not good at all.
“Great.” Peter threw his head back with a groan that rattled every rib bone in his chest. “Mr. Stark’s going to kill me.” And yet not even that was enough to vocalize how bad things were.
Bad was running late for Mr. Stark’s wedding — a wedding that over a year ago he would’ve never dreamed to be invited to, let alone be a part of the ceremony.
Bad was running even more late because he couldn’t find where the groom’s suite was, and bad was even needing the bride to walk him there, inducing an amount of embarrassment he wasn’t sure he’d ever recover from.
Bad was forgetting how to dress his tie — but this?
Losing Mr. Stark’s wedding rings?
Peter’s face grimaced tight enough that his eyes squeezed shut and his eyelids felt like were starting to rip apart. Mr. Stark had made those wedding rings. He couldn’t believe he lost those rings, the same exact rings he watched Mr. Stark personally handcraft in his workshop — handcraft with material that wasn’t exactly something he could pick up at any store, as if the rings could be easily replaced and remade.
The thought was startling enough that Peter could feel his teeth grind together even harder.
He knew those rings came from the arc reactor that got Mr. Stark home from Afghanistan.
He knew all about how Pepper was the one to insist Mr. Stark keep it, turning it into a memento that stayed with them throughout the duration of their relationship.
During their first lab nights together, Peter would always catch eye of it across Mr. Stark’s workshop, in awe of what he got to see in person — always amazed with the stories Mr. Stark would tell him; the events of a heroic tale that wound up being the very beginning of who and what Iron Man was.
He’d always listen with a deep sense of respect, always noticing how the lights created a shine against the words that were encased safely inside a glass box; ‘Proof That Tony Stark Has A Heart’ always on display for everyone to see.
Up until now, that was.
Peter smacked an open palm against his face.
This was so bad.
“Okay, I have like…twelve minutes. I just need to retrace my steps back to wherever Ms. Potts was, and hopefully find the rings somewhere in that room.” Peter squeezed his phone tightly, while his other hand scratched roughly at his head — any hopes of maintaining his hairstyle long gone by now. “This can’t be too hard, right? I just gotta remember which direction May and I went before we split up, and go from there…”
While the parking garage was barely a minute’s walk to the cathedral, Peter knew once he got back to the church, any direction could lead him just about anywhere. He’d already wound up lost in the building once before, now he didn’t have a single second to waste in finding his way around.
The parking garage went one of two ways. Peter looked left, then right, then left again, before—
—a sharp tingle sent goosebumps throughout his skin—
— Peter spun around, instinctively, impulsively, without thought—
“—sleeeeeeeeeepppp.”
A hand yanked at the back of his head, tugging at his hair, forcing him to stay still as something pressed firmly against his mouth — no, sealed around his mouth — leaving no room for fumes to escape anywhere else but inside the depths of his lungs.
Peter’s eyes rolled to the back of his head as his knees slowly sank to the ground, eventually collapsing onto the pavement; with the hold he had on his cell phone growing weak and lax, until it fell away from him completely.
His vision went as black as the cracked screen of his phone.
The whole room was spinning.
Swaying, tilting, spinning…
So much spinning.
It was all he could feel; the way each wave hit him with a disorienting force, leaving him rasping for air against the weight that held him down, pushing against his chest in a way that paralyzed his every muscle.
A thick fog settled over his head, weaving in and out of his ears, covering his brain in a way that laced everything with a confusing, muddling haze.
The floor was falling and rising, swaying and tilting, an ongoing sickening rhythm that cramped his stomach into knots and brought bile up into his throat.
His throat burned.
His nose burned, his chest burned — the air wasn’t fresh, what little of it he could get wasn’t pure, wasn’t oxygen.
It tasted foul.
Peter tried to loll his head, but even that was asking for too much. It felt like his whole body had been dipped in Novocaine. His fingers could barely twitch, his legs didn’t work — he couldn’t feel his butt.
It was a familiar sensation.
He’d felt this before.
Desperately, Peter focused on it — anything to stay grounded, to stay conscious. He tried to stay awake, reaching for a memory that was sitting on the tip of his dry and heavy tongue, but he couldn’t grasp it.
Thoughts were as slippery as fish, darting away as soon as he got a hold of them.
But he remembered the sensation.
He remembered the smell of sulfur water, ocean life — fish.
He remembered fish.
He remembered being kidnapped; held hostage by a lunatic and psychopath with weapons behind their intellect, lost in a bunker deep in the ocean — helpless against whatever concoction of chemicals they exposed him to that kept him there.
Oh, crap.
Peter knew exactly what this was.
“N’t…cool,” he mumbled, his voice thick with the cotton that coated his tongue. “Pe’ple…gotta sto’p…druggi’n me…”
Two fingers pressed against his eye, separating and pulling his eyelids apart with force.
“Ackgk — d’de!” Peter squawked as his vision was blinded by a piercing white light, the sensitivity of his overblown pupils burning with what felt like the strength of the sun. “G’t off!”
His mumbled words barely got through his lips, caught by the croak that splintered his voice in half.
The fingers pulled away right as the light blinked out.
“Stop resisting,” a voice rasped from nearby, dry and husky — guttural and deep. It took with it the light that shined into Peter’s eyes, leaving halos to dance erratically on the ceiling tiles above him. “You’re only expending energy that further skews my calculations and disrupts the entire analytical balance. Stay still, I can’t afford a single error in this process.”
Peter blinked rapidly, fighting to clear his vision from the blobs of color that fluttered across the ceiling; the tiles lining the roof were already a blur, with his pupils failing to shrink even a centimeter against the bright lights surrounding him.
The effects of chemicals in his system showed as intensely as he felt them.
Seconds passed as he failed to understand at first who it was that spoke; unable to hear anyone beneath the vocal cords that sounded as if fire had scorched them dry. The fog felt thick in his head. His pupils, black dots that were enlarged and impaired, took in the bright light with delayed senses.
It came to him a minute later.
Oh, shi—
“—mr’…’sborn?”
Peter’s eyes widened, frantically, as the realization pulled him into lucidity.
Oh shit, shit , shit—
“—Mr. Osborn…is ‘at ‘ou?”
Coherency came to him in fleeting flashes, pulling his thoughts into one and grounding him when his body otherwise wanted to drift away.
He couldn’t move, there was no way to look around — his butt was numb . He couldn’t see anyone, he couldn’t see anything past the ceiling tiles above him; and yet, he heard him.
There was no denying what he heard.
Peter tried to swallow. But he could barely get his throat to budge.
He was screwed.
He was so, so screwed.
“Heyyyy, man….” Peter made a weak attempt at sounding casual. The gulp that lodged in his throat didn’t help. It bounced against his larynx, pressing hard against the band that fastened flush against his neck — he hadn’t noticed there was a strap against his neck. Not until his Adam’s Apple jumped against it, making it even harder to swallow. “How’s it going?”
The waver in his voice did a bit too much to reveal his nerves. Peter figured it was kinda hard not to be anxious — what little strength he could build up in his arms jerked at his sides, weakly, finding that the same straps that were bound against his neck were also wrapped firmly around his shoulders and forearms, restraining his limbs where they were.
Though he still couldn’t feel his butt, he figured his legs were done no differently.
There was definitely a good reason to be nervous.
The only response he heard were footsteps, each stride of shoe clanking against metal floors, echoing the room in a way that spoke to its nature. Peter’s eyeballs danced around, looking to every corner of ceiling that he could glance his eyes over.
It was hard to turn his head and see any further — what little he could make out were lights, nothing but lights, forcing his eyes to squint against the large, dome-like lamps that burned with intensity. The heat from each light bulb was only amplified by the metal dome surrounding it.
They reminded him far too much of the ridiculously over-sized type of lamps he’d find in hospitals; the kind used for examinations and operations.
If Peter’s eyes could focus, he could’ve sworn that he was able to see his reflection in one.
And yet it burned out his vision, forcing him to rely on his ears to do what his sight couldn’t; listening intently as footsteps crossed the room, waiting for a vocal response that never came.
Each step clanked against metal. What noise Norman ’s feet didn’t make against the floors, his hands did — messing with something, many things, the tiny echo's of clings and clatters bringing a flutter to Peter’s heart.
He could practically feel how hard his pulse was in his chest. Peter swallowed again, squeezing his eyes shut as the gulp pushed against the strap across his neck.
He had to remain calm. Even kidnapped, even restrained, even with the burning gas that came through plastic tubes fitted snugly inside his nose, with each nasal canal stinging against the chemicals that traveled into his lungs, causing his head to spin a thousand times over—
Even with all that, Peter knew he had to remain calm.
It was his only chance at escaping.
“Is this, one of those… fancy, modern…rich-people steakhouses?” Peter did what he did best when he was nervous. He talked. “Cause, you know, you wanted to take me and Harry out for steak…that one night…a while ago…”
His eyes may have very well been loose ping-pong balls with how fast Peter bounced them corner to corner, using the time he spoke to take in his surroundings with as much haste as his lethargic, sluggish brain could muster up.
The room felt clinical, technical.
It felt clean. Too clean.
If Peter didn’t know better, he’d say it felt like a lab.
“It’s a little, you know…sterile. For the aesthetic. Not really my thing.” Peter really didn’t want to entertain that idea. So, forcing himself to stay calm, he didn’t. “But hey…I’m still good for steak, if you want steak.”
Even with the feeling slowly returning to his body, Peter could barely give a tug of his arms — restraints kept him bound, and he had no strength to fight them. His eyes followed the direction that he heard footsteps take off to, his head painfully still and aligned with the rest of his body; weighed down by a led in his veins.
The table he laid on suddenly sent a chill through his core. There was a spinning that took him in all sort of directions — up and down, back and forth. Only once it slowed into a steady wobble did he feel the gradual return of sensation to his limbs, sending warning signals all across the back of his neck.
His spider-sense had grown loud enough to cause him pain.
“Speaking of Harry…is he here…by any chance, Ms. Osborn?” Peter kept on rambling. It bought him time as he started to get feeling back in his finger tips. “It’s cool if he’s not. I just haven’t heard from him in a while, and I-I saw what happened…on the news, you know…with your place, catching on fire and all, and I just thought—”
“Can it, Spider-Man.”
Norman held little to no volume in his voice, and yet the words crashed through the room with force.
Peter’s heart stopped.
It hitched in his chest, audible in his ears — not just his pulse, not just in the way his veins throbbed against the temples of his forehead.
The panic that struck him echoed back in sound, signaling life to a heart monitor that spoke every hammering beat of his heart-rate.
A cast of his eyes downward and Peter understood the how to the noises he heard — pads pressed against his chest, glued there, his bare skin exposed through a dress shirt that was unbuttoned and spread wide open.
It explained the stickiness he felt, an odd sensation that mixed with the tingle of numbed nerves slowly waking back up; no different than he was. The sounds he heard came from his own pulse — his own heart.
Discomfort left him entirely for fear.
He couldn’t speak, even if he wanted to.
The heart monitor spoke for him.
“Do us both a favor…don’t play stupid.” Norman sounded far away when he broke the silence, his voice barely reaching over the erratic beeping that whined from the nearby machines. “A boy of your intellect is sure to deduce the discernible by now. And talking only wastes your energy. Even the slightest increase to your heart-rate will disrupt the process of speed to the venesection drainage. I need this all to be very precise.”
With each word, his voice drew closer — so painfully dry and hoarse, Peter was sure he had to be imagining it. It sounded as if charcoal suddenly had a means to speak.
Laying rigid on his back, it was hard for him to see his surroundings — his neck could barely move against the strap, the same kind wrapped around his shoulders, around his waist, his thighs — he couldn’t see far ahead of him, but he didn’t need to see Norman approaching him to feel the heat from his body, so strong it sent goosebumps across his skin.
“Besides,” Norman started, his feet taking one final clank against the metal floors as leaned closer to the table — and closer after that. “As intrepid as your act of innocence may be, by now I’ve long since run any tests needed to confirm my suspicions.”
A light shinned against his face. Peter squinted one eye shut, the other blearily able to make out a scialytic lamp that was pulled closer to him, so close that the bulb should’ve left a burn mark against his skin.
Peter didn’t realize how cold he was until the heat from the lamp soaked into him, sending a tremble down to the tips of his toes.
He was freezing.
A moist air suddenly hit against the side of his cheek, the strong waft of breath striking near his ear as Norman violated what little space remained between them.
“Did you know that your bone marrow brine's with arachnid DNA?” he whispered, close to Peter’s face, taking in a breath so deep that it tickled the hairs inside Peter’s ear. “I can smєll it on you…”
The silence that passed felt all consuming, searing into every rapid beat of his heart, publicly announced by the machine that captured his pulse.
Peter couldn’t move his eyes anywhere but straight ahead, caught onto Norman’s face as the man hovered over him — for a moment staying quiet, before he finally moved the scialytic lamp away, tilting it around and casting shadows into the crevices of his face; digging the darkness into the lines on his skin.
When the light was gone, Peter had to blink erratically to get his vision back. The loss of blinding heat against his eyes left him fighting for focus, and the sudden change in lighting sent his senses array.
Even without his vision, even with his hearing delayed, the vibrations against his neck wouldn’t stop. It was the only sense that stayed stable, stayed the same — piercing, painful — warning him of danger.
His senses kept warning him of danger, of an immediate threat that he couldn’t escape from.
Peter tugged at his arms again.
They barely twitched.
“H-...how’d you find out?” he forced through a clenched jaw, too disoriented to open his mouth any further; each word pressing hard into his throat, bouncing against the strap flush against his neck.
The surface he laid on was far from providing any comfort in his horizontal position. It had the same warmth and mercy as the slabs of metal they’d use in his chemistry classes.
It reminded Peter a little too much of the experiments they’d do in those same classes.
“I always had my suspicions — for years, ever since the day my spider perished.” Norman spoke as he walked, his legs taking him somewhere off in the distance. The size of the room proved itself in the way his voice went from one of Peter’s ears to the other, all while his shoes clanked repetitively against metal floors. “Years of studies, my sweat, my soul poured into that creation. My best brilliance, the world’s next watershed for humanity, the cure for any human ailment — bred into the DNA of a spider, a single spider — suddenly, gone.”
Peter’s eyes kept following the way the voice went. The more he managed to look around, the more he could make out of his surroundings; lifting his neck just enough that his chin could make contact against his chest to give him a better view of things.
Norman wasn’t looking at him when he spoke. His back was turned, and his hands messed with something Peter couldn’t make out —
Peter’s head suddenly collapsed back against the metal table, hitting with a thud that vibrated harder than his spider-sense.
He was still weak, and still freezing cold.
“Before we all would know it, Spider-Man shows up. In New York City…months after that devastating day I endured — the same that day you, supposedly, had presence in my labs.” Norman was oblivious to Peter’s discomfort. Or, if he wasn’t, Peter figured he didn’t care. The many utensil's he messed with were the background noise to his discourse. “For years, I kept asking myself — why else would any vigilante stay so close to one localized territory…unless, of course, that was the territory he called home.”
His footsteps went back and forth, left and right. Peter could hear him cross one side of the room to the next, with his voice following the same path.
“It was in front of my face, the whole time. But without the knowledge, without evidence — facts.” Norman dropped something. Peter couldn’t tell if it was intentional or not. “Without everything that came from your very mouth to confirm it…”
The pause that proceeded was tainted by the sound of Peter’s own uncontrolled stress. No matter how calm he fought to keep himself, his pulse spoke a different story. The speed that he felt each thrum against his chest almost made him feel nauseous; he couldn’t tell if it was the panic that pummeled inside of him, or something else entirely.
All he knew was the ache that settled deep in his ribcage, the bones in his chest throbbing from the pressure of each beat that rattled within him.
His heart was beating hard. And fast.
Peter knew, even with the haze that delayed his senses, something wasn’t right about that.
It wasn’t until a minute too late that he realized Norman was back at his side, the chemicals messing with his head still lingering in a way that made it hard to stay focused. His eyes flickered off to the right, watching as the man loomed over the top of his head.
“Stark Internship,” Norman scoffed, his back rattling in a way Peter noticed would rustle the lab coat that covered his frame. At least he was pretty sure that was a lab coat — his vision went in and out of focus, but the white Norman wore stood out among the other colors in the room. “It was all right in front of me…”
Norman’s voice stayed dry, no matter how many words he spoke; no amount of his own saliva moistened the vocal cords in his throat. He stood hovering over Peter, messing with wires and tubes — Peter watched, blearily, noticeably looking at the exposed hands that the lab coat didn’t cover.
His skin was dirty. Ashy. Covered in dark smudges of soot that stood out among the clean, sterile room.
“My wife, she’d always say…coincidences mean you're on the right path. Simon Van Booy. Her favorite book, before she…” Norman paused, detaching a wire only to replace it with another. He scantly looked down to Peter, briefly, just for a glance.
Peter noticed.
As his words trailed off into an otherwise quiet room, the unspoken was consumed by erratic beeps that sung from overworked machines, capturing every sign of life that came from Peter’s body.
“Queens one and only Spider-Man…none other than a Peter Benjamin Parker. Just a good ‘ol boy from Queens himself, ” Norman’s voice felt as hot as it sounded, striking close against Peter’s cheeks when he leaned forward, callous and dirty fingers readjusting the nasal cannula that kept the burn flowing through his nose. “Not a single soul would suspect it…not even myself. Had you not so foolishly left me the evidence I needed. Coincidences, after all…mean you're on the right path.”
Peter blinked, rapidly, insistent to keep his eyes focused. The fog only felt heavier the more that the fumes reached into his chest, building a strong haze that took away his coherence.
“That spider — my spider…it bit you.” Norman’s face blurred in front of him, in and out of focus, with the patches of black filth and dirt caked into his skin standing out amongst the crazed look in his eyes. “And now, you’re…you’re going to fix me.”
The beeping from machines sped up.
Elevators doors split apart the moment it reached the R&D level of the compound, each side practically pushed open by both Tony and Steve — both already stepping out of the elevator before it had even come to a full stop.
“Okay, people! Get me answers, pronto!” Tony’s shout reached across the length of the room as he quickly passed by the multitude of monitors and advanced equipment lining the way; yet his fast strides weren’t fast enough to keep Steve from staying close at his side the entire time. “I want to know everything, from everyone — let’s go, go, go!”
Tony’s mere presence brought up an array of holograms from each monitor, projecting the different screens in a way that made it easier to multi-task; something he wasted no time in doing.
His hands swiped meticulously fast at the images that greeted him, the tight furrow between his brow squinting his eyes harshly with the stress that he wore outwardly on his sleeve.
He wasn’t the first to react. Across the room, Clint bounced from computer to computer, hunching over the keyboards as he frantically typed away with a laser-sharp focus.
“I’m on surveillance recon,” Clint answered, stoically, and yet unable to hide the strain that laced subtly into his voice. He hurriedly passed by Steve on his way across the room, quickly yanking at a chair with wheels and dropping himself down onto it. “Every camera surrounding New York is about to be at my finger tips—”
“We have technology that can find him!” Quill’s voice shouted not far from where Clint wheeled himself off to, rounding the staircase that led up to the room, bounding two steps at a time until he reached the top. “But we need at least four ounces of his spit, six strands of hair, and ideally an eyelash. The eyelash has be fresh. No bueno without the eyelash.”
The sudden interruption took most of everyone’s focus — everyone but Tony, who kept his eyes locked on what he was doing.
Steve had a good feeling not even an asteroid crashing down could break that focus of his.
Drax suddenly pushed through the crowd of his own team, nearly toppling Quill to the ground with his haste.
“Nonsense! These computers will get you nowhere!” Drax leaped up the staircase with his hand closed into a fist and pressed firmly against his chest — exposed and bare, with the shirt he wore being unbuttoned down the middle — and he looked Steve head-on, unblinking. “When it doubt, one must follow the stench of death.”
Steve arched an eyebrow, high.
And said nothing.
Next to him, Tony didn’t pay them any attention — none of them, too busy absorbing the slew of different information that flooded his eyes, each page populated through his own technology bombarding his mind at a pace not even he could keep up with.
So focused on finding something, anything, he never noticed the glow of orange that sparkled from the corner of his eyes. The room sizzled with vivid cinders that lit and dissipated no sooner than it all materialized.
By the time Tony faced the magic portal, it had already fallen into embers, littering the ground that Strange walked on.
His feet weren’t alone; each step he took matched that of both Romanoff and Barnes, standing not far behind him.
“Maybe not the smell of death,” Bucky was the first of the three to speak up, his one hand going to to loosen the dress tie that he still wore around his neck. “But we did follow something.”
Tony twisted on the heels of his feet, so fast that his own tie — already undone and slung around his neck — nearly flew right off.
Natasha held that same kind of pace, wasting no time as her high-heels made swift steps towards him.
“We retraced his footsteps based off Quill’s lasting sighting of him, and where he said he was going to next.” Natasha’s tightly controlled energy showed in the hair that fell against her face, victim to the rushed speed that took away her neatly styled bun. She wasn’t the only one to see some dishevelment to her formal wear — no one even knew where Clint’s tie went off to. “He made it to the parking garage. But I don’t think he left on his own.”
If Tony’s brows furrowed together any tighter, he figured they’d have left a dent in his skull. The blue glow emitting from surrounding computers and holograms was harsh enough to color the skin of his face, otherwise having gone as pale as the white lights that struck down from the above.
Those same ceiling lights made the object in Natasha’s hand all the more discernible.
“We found his phone on the fifth level, laying underneath a Honda Accord,” she explained, tensely; the rectangle device that she held suddenly making more sense.
Bucky slid off his tie and tossed it against the nearest workbench.
“It wasn’t far from where the kid’s aunt was parked,” he followed up with, already undoing a button on his shirt as he made his way to one of the computers Clint was working at — the writhe in his hands speaking to his need to do something.
Clint saw it without even looking at him. His chair slid to the side, giving Bucky access to work.
Bucky was already typing at a keyboard before Clint had moved away.
“May was right, his phone had died.” Natasha looked to both men before turning back to Tony, a harsh frown pulling at her lips as she did. “We got a charge to it a few minutes ago. This was the last thing on it — but he never hit send.”
With her hand reached outward, Natasha offered Tony the phone, with the screen lit to life and ready for view.
He didn’t usually take well to things being handed to him, but for once, Tony couldn’t have snatched up the device any faster if he tried.
A beat later, and he was more than happy to stuff it deep inside his pant pocket — out of sight, out of mind, and out of his ever growing frustrations.
“If he kid would just learn to get to the point,” Tony muttered under his breath, pushing the sleeves of his dress shirt further up his elbows as he turned back to the many holograms — each containing data that moved too fast for anyone to see, each holding an inkling of possibility that he could end this nightmare before it spun out of his control.
The growing pit in his stomach was starting to tell him that this was all way out of his control.
“Speaking of getting to the point,” Stephen’s voice approached him from behind — Tony didn’t turn around to face it. “I trust there’s something to this matter that I’m not aware of?”
Tony’s eyes darted the screens frantically fast.
“It’s bad, that’s what you need to be aware of,” he said, swiping and pushing at static images, his wrist flicking up, down, left and right. “If Osborn is anywhere near Peter, it could, unmistakably, cost him his life.”
Stephen didn’t seem satisfied with that answer.
“I take it there’s not enough time to explain why that is?” And he vocalized as much.
Tony twisted at his hips, one hand still mid-air and working with various different 3D components that were translucent to his touch.
“You get me a location on him, and I’ll tell you everything and anything your heart has ever desired to know,” he answered, firmly, sternly. Desperately.
Stephen had seen that desperation before. Even he couldn’t stay hardened to it.
“Locator spells aren’t that easy,” Stephen began to explain, in a tone that sounded as if he’d already explained it once before. “They only work best on family — like Thor, and his father. Even a single strand of hair between blood is the foundation to that spell. Without that connection, I need something physical, tangible, and strong enough to fill that missing link.”
Tony found himself looking at Strange, and the man stared right back at him — his eyes strained, but his face speaking to his growing concern.
“Remember that it took half a day to find Dimitri through Natasha’s past encounters with him.” Stephen looked to the woman in question when he spoke, before his eyes found their way back to Tony. His expression almost said it all.
Tony had absolutely no stamina in his tired body to engage with that possibility.
Unfortunately for him, his mind had already taken off full speed some time ago.
It was impossible for him not to run down the list of likelihoods, knowing full well what he knew about Osborn; what the crazed scientist had done to people, what he did to people — knowing the vivid details of documents he found laying to waste in an abandoned bunker, all the way down in the depths of the ocean, hidden away in the Bermuda Triangle.
Tony suddenly felt cripplingly sick with reality.
They didn’t have half a day to waste.
He needed to find his kid, now.
“Wanda, take him to Peter’s quarters,” Tony didn’t waste an ounce of urgency from his voice as he spun around, locating the younger girl amidst the crowd of many others. His arm held firm as a rod when he pointed to Strange, and he snapped his fingers, fast. “Find something, anything. Find him, now!”
Though they stood on opposite ends of the room, it was Stephen who decided to make his way to Wanda — hurriedly, pushing through the others with a sense of impatience that almost masked the subtle sense of worry even Tony could hear play into his voice.
“We can walk. You can explain to me on the way.” Stephen met Wanda where she stood, and kept his pace after the that, forcing her to catch up from behind.
Wanda’s heels stumbled as she picked up the bottom of the maroon dress she wore, hasty to match his pace, with only a few glances thrown behind her before she and Stephen left the room through closing elevator doors.
Tony tried not to let his frustrations with Strange get under his skin.
“Make it quick!” His shout reached across the walls, his voice cracking at the final word — he wasn’t doing a good job at controlling his frustrations.
It didn’t matter to him, he kept working. His hands moved about the air, sloppily in some regards, steady in others.
A hand laid firmly on his shoulder, but Tony barely gave Bruce a look of acknowledgment at the touch.
“I’m going to get FRIDAY to run a few algorithms, try to enhance the specifications on them myself,” Bruce told him, with a single nod of his head speaking to his dedication. He went to pat Tony’s shoulder again, only to take off across the room instead — his steps awkward, but urgent.
Tony looked that way, following him and finding Clint still bouncing from monitor to monitor — using the aid of his chair to wheel flawlessly across the floors.
Barnes stayed stationed at one computer while he saw Natasha at another; turning his head, he could see Wilson across the room, working with two different computers all by himself.
Not far from them all, Vision watched them silently, absorbing information in his own way.
They were all working on the same goal, and yet Tony felt like it wasn’t enough.
“You need eyes beyond these machines,” Thor’s bold voice overtook every keystroke in the room as he approached them, quickly. The sound of his hammer swinging at his hip sounded like wind rushing alongside his footsteps. “I will take to the skies, and seek out the child from there.”
Steve lifted his chin slightly, watching the Asgardian tower over them both, looking to Thor with a squint in his eye.
“You really think you can find him that way?” he asked, curious — but hopeful.
Tony kept working, though the slightest pause to the wave of his hands was noticeable by them both; his own hope showing in his stuttering movements.
Thor saw that look of hope cross across Tony’s face. The soft upturn of his lip spoke to it.
“I am no Heimdall, but it would be a shame if I did not try.” Thor didn’t waste any time with consoling gestures — wasting time with social cues wasn’t much to his nature, anyway.
He was out of the room before the flow of his red cape could catch up with him.
“Bam!” Clint’s cheer broke from across the way, sounding with the harsh clap of his hands. “I got surveillance recon!”
“So do I,” Natasha chimed in, her back facing Clint as they both stationed themselves on opposite ends of the room.
Not far from where Clint sat, Bucky straightened his posture from the hunch he had over the keyboards, giving one final clack of a key that lit up his monitors one by one.
“Make that three,” he announced, standing straight with arms crossing firmly over his chest — the line in his brow spoke to his focus, and not even the young girl walking up behind him could change that.
“Make that four!” Mantis’s cheerful cry, however, did get Bucky’s attention.
Tony shot his head around, turning away from holograms as Mantis all but plopped down to the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of the dozen or so monitors that filled the room — swaying side-to-side with a smile that stretched her lips wide, all while the footage played in front of her.
“This is a nightmare,” Tony couldn’t keep his thoughts in any longer. His will was breaking, and the way Mantis proceeded to watch the camera’s with glee — well, that was becoming his final straw.
Give her a bucket of popcorn, and he figured she’d be good to go.
He was about to lose it. And standing so close to him, it was impossible for Steve not to notice.
“Hey.” Steve looked at him, earnestly. A firm hand on his bicep kept Tony from returning to the holograms. “It’s going to be oka—”
Tony harshly shrugged that hand away.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you couldn’t find Peter in the church?”
The abrupt bite in his tone almost took Steve aback. Tony’s anger, though, while quick to heat up, was far from the genuine rage he had dealt with in the past.
“Because I didn’t want to make a big deal out of things,” Steve explained, patiently; knowing better than to respond to an anger that was hiding something far more profound. He’d learned from that mistake once already. “You’re right, I didn’t tell you that he wasn’t in the groom’s suite. I got back from looking for Pepper, he was gone, and the ceremony was about to start. So I held onto the rings—”
“—you didn’t think it was a big deal that the ring bearer went missing?” Tony wasn’t cooling off, not easily, not this time. In fact, each word stressed harder than the last, with the tightness in his voice adding more tension to a room that was already breaking at the seams.
Quick to feel that tension, Steve did all he could to defuse the bomb.
“Tony,” he said again, firmly, but still patiently. “I could see how stressed you were getting. I wasn’t going to make things worse by—”
“This isn’t worse!?”
It may have been too late for Steve to defuse that bomb.
As Tony’s eyes blew wide open with a raw indignation that looked unfamiliar on him, Steve's face suddenly softened with an empathy that eased every line the last five years had etched into his skin.
He didn't need to be a genius like some of the others in the room to tell Tony wasn't angry. He may have appeared that way, that much was obvious — but after so long, Steve had finally gotten a good read on the billionaire, in a way most others didn’t.
The way he worked frantically against the holograms, his fingers shaking on every swipe, missing images the first time and needing to run his hand through them again —
Steve could tell this wasn’t anger. It was unbridled panic.
And if left unchecked, he knew it could do far worse damage than even a nuke to New York.
“I figured…knowing Peter, knowing that we’re in the city…” Steve trailed off, trying to put together the words that could easily come off the wrong way. “I thought he may have run off to some kind of trouble, that he got caught up with something…Spider-Man related. I know how he can get.” Steve dipped his chin, sincerely. “He means well. But sometimes, he acts without thinking. Especially when he means well.”
Steve had never curbed his thoughts on Peter before — from the day he watched Spider-Man unmask and reveal himself as a fifteen-year-old boy from Queens, he’d always been vocal about Peter’s involvement in things, he’d always been upfront on his stance about someone so young getting involved in something so dangerous.
He’d never withheld his opinions before, and of all times to start, Tony knew it certainly wasn’t going to be now.
So as angry as he wanted to be, he knew the man was right.
God, he hated it when Cap was right.
“I had the rings on me, I wasn’t going to let anything go wrong with your wedding,” Steve insisted, as placatingly as possible. “And clearly Peter felt bad for thinking he lost them—”
“So you were going to cover for the kid, without even knowing what he did?” Tony resisted a huff of humor for something that wasn’t all that funny to him.
The lines against Steve’s cheeks drew tight with a flush that just barely tinted his skin.
For a moment, he looked away.
“I was going to have his back,” he clarified, purposefully driving his voice down low. When he looked back at Tony, his face was harder, more serious. “Peter’s come a long way, but don’t forget that he’s still just a kid. He doesn’t need pressure.” There was a beat that held his next words. “He needs support.”
Tony craned his head over to look at Steve — really look at him, the kind of piercing stare that would intimidate most anyone who was unfortunate enough to receive it.
It didn’t matter how badly he wanted to be mad at Rogers.
He knew the man was right.
Tony really, really hated it when Cap was right.
“Damn it!” he cursed, swiping away the images in a fit of hysteria. The holograms all spread out at once. “He had one job — one! Why couldn’t he hold onto the damn—”
The elevator doors split open no sooner than the holographic images dissipated into a fit of static.
"That woman’s temper should be considered a danger to society, Tony!"
Rhodey’s voice sounded above all other noise in the room — he didn’t even give Mantis a passing glance as he quickly marched past her, oblivious to her happy-go-lucky mood while she watched a dozen security camera’s play from around the city.
He went straight for Tony; who spun to face him, his jaw unhinged to the floor.
"You don’t think I already know that?” Tony all but shouted — the panic was starting to show now. “How do you think I felt after the ruggrat exposed himself to her in all his leotard glory!?"
Steve grabbed Tony’s bicep — he didn’t just lay a hand there, he squeezed hard, ensuring Tony had some sort of grounding contact that kept him from going over the edge.
A quick glance to the man was all he needed to see the frenzy that pooled in his eyes. The panic was only getting worse.
“How’s May doing?” Steve gave Tony one more look, clearly concerned, before he kept focus on Rhodey; who approached them both with heavy strides of his leg braces.
“Pissed,” Rhodey bluntly answered, turning to look Tony dead in the eyes. “But mostly at you.”
“At me—!?” Tony balked. “You don’t think it’s bad enough that we couldn’t keep Peter out of this—!”
Rhodey dropped his shoulders. “I didn’t say —”
“Now we’ve dragged in his aunt of all people—!” Tony went off.
“I know, I know!” Rhodey held one hand into the open. “I don’t disagree—”
“The more people involved, the worse this gets!” Tony’s voice no longer kept tone, his words breaking and his throat scratching the louder he shouted.
It was too much — he turned around, rubbing both hands down the length of his face with force. Any harder and he’d go blind from the pressure he put against his eyes.
Steve furrowed his brows when he looked back at Tony. He watched as the man paced away, just a few steps away — enough distance to keep anyone from seeing him fray at the edges.
Steve certainty didn’t discourage it.
“Where is she now?” Steve turned back ahead to ask Rhodey, a firm sense of leadership clinging to his voice.
For what it was worth, Rhodey could read a room, let alone hear the command in Rogers words. He calmed himself down, if only by a bit, just enough that he and Tony didn’t wind up going at it at the worst possible time — it wouldn’t be the first time either of them did.
“She’s with Pepper, in Tony’s Manhattan safe-house,” Rhodey answered, lowering his voice enough that the camera footage playing throughout the room almost had more volume than he did. “Happy’s got them both under his watch, he’s not letting either one of them out of his sights. They know to stay there, indefinitely.”
“Good.” Steve gave a firm nod, swiveling his head left and right to keep an eye on the activity happening around him. Each monitor played something different, keeping everyone’s attention in some way, shape or form. “That’s good. Their safety is less we have to worry about.”
Steve found his focus diverting to the computers while Rhodey cocked an eyebrow when he turned back to Tony — who was now at a computer of his own, each smack of his fingers threatening to break the very structure of the keyboard beneath him.
“You should know May’s never going to let this one go,” Rhodey told him, matter-of-factly.
Tony didn’t seem the least bit surprised.
“First we need to give her something to let go,” he stressed, subtly acknowledging his friends rough encounter with the side of May Parker no one should mess with — the side Tony unfortunately had all too much experience with. All the while, he kept typing away on the keyboard, his focus steadfast on the screens. “We have no idea where the kid is, satellites aren’t finding anything, the only traceable technology is now in my hands — Osborn could have him underground by now, for all we know.”
Across the room, Sam craned his head around to face the group from afar.
“Or underwater,” he chimed in.
Tony threw him a look hot as the sun.
Even Natasha, closest to Wilson, broke away from her screens to ensure he caught wind of her bewildered expression.
“So, what’s the plan from here?” Rhodey once again kept the tension from building too high, quickly intervening before any arguments could distract them from the actual problem at hand.
For once, Tony didn’t speak up — usually quick to devise an idea, always the one to lead charge, he stayed painfully quiet as he worked with intense focus on the multitude of his own technology.
They all focused in on the same goal, quietly, wordlessly. Even when Rhodey turned to Steve, the one who always gave orders suddenly had nothing to say.
It was Quill who stepped forward, with one hand raised outwardly in the air.
“I may be able to make it work with an ounce of spit,” he offered. “But it’s gotta be at least an ounce.”
There was noise.
It kept Peter awake, kept him focused — wheels moved, screeches sounded, there were clicks and clanks — the noises gave him answers, and he tried to focus on them the best he could.
He needed answers.
He needed an escape.
And to escape, he needed to stay awake.
“Mr. Osborn, you haven’t-you haven’t mentioned what’s, uh…what’s-what’s wrong with you…yet. You haven’t mentioned that yet,” Peter stammered, listening with a painful cringe as his words echoed in the room. For as calm as he tried to stay, there was no denying the waver of panic that sat in his throat. He could hear it bounce off the walls. “I just-I just figured, you know, if I’m going to fix you…I should know…you know. Know what’s wrong with you. And stuff. I should get to know what it is I’m fixing…right? I think so, anyway.”
There was little of his surroundings Peter could make out. Even as coherency fought through the drugs that clouded his mind, he could only see so much of what confined him.
No matter how many times he tried to fight against his restraints, his muscles were too heavy, too leaden. The straps were only leather, he could feel it against his skin — it wasn’t some sort of special, experimental metal that would take all his strength to escape from. It was nothing but run of the mil, medical grade restraints that all tied back to the metal table he laid on.
It was downright embarrassing to know he ’d broken through far worse than just leather before.
But the drugs still coursed through him, burning against his nose, zapping any strength that gave him the ability to do more than bend a couple fingers.
Even that was a laborious task.
Still, he tried.
“It’s only fair,” Peter kept on, even as he didn’t get an answer in return. He used the time to keep bending his fingers, pulling his arms every so often to make some kind of freedom against his binds. “Don’t you think?”
There were clicks and clanks that sounded, but nothing in response
Peter tried to lift his head again, but his chin rolled against his chest and his neck lolled to the side, bouncing back with the strap that held him in place.
He couldn’t keep his head up, he couldn’t break away from the straps around his shoulders, the ones that wrapped around his thighs, his ankles — the feeling was returning to his body, but there was a lingering, bone-deep weakness that weighed heavy against him.
He couldn’t move.
He couldn’t escape.
Still, he needed to stay awake.
With as much strength as he could muster up, Peter rolled his neck, pushing against the strap and digging the back of his skull against the cold slab of metal he laid on. He didn’t stop until his ear pressed flush to the table and he could look off to the side.
His vision was still blurry, almost fuzzy. Like a dirty, murky film had sat over his eyes. But slowly, he could make out the machines that packed the room, the multitude of equipment that filled the space around him — surrounded him.
He noticed the numerous different lights, lamps that shined bright, many different glass beakers, trays that glimmered with the utensils of all sharpness, centrifuges, more centrifuges, walls of refrigerators and incubators—
—it was a lab.
Pete heard his own realization from the very machines around him. There was no doubt about it, everything he saw, everything that surrounded him. It was the kind of room he’d had only ever seen educationally. Like Stark Industries, or—
—Peter swallowed, hard, as he remembered his school field trip to OsCorp.
He was definitely in a lab.
He just didn’t know what kind. Or where.
Or why.
“Is this about…that spider…that was supposed to cure cancer, and stuff?” Peter tried to buy time for distraction; it was the best he could do in his situation. What he was seeing around him certainty didn’t look promising, and his arms could only give weak spasms when he desperately tried to tug at them. “Because, you know…if I had known that….about the spider. I mean, it still probably would’ve bitten me…but it’s not like I made that happen on purpose—”
“Stop resisting!”
Norman’s shout echoed across the lab.
It froze Peter in his place.
He didn’t need to be told twice.
“The more energy you expend, the further off my calculations become,” Norman’s voice stayed deep and low, even at a distance. “This process is assiduous, it’s methodic. Each microgram of anesthetic is carefully being measured out to balance every millilitre of bloo— yes, I ҜnꝊᙡ! I’m ᙡꝊɌҜĬᙁǤ on it!”
Peter squinted against the blurry haze that coated his eyes, finding it hard to focus as he watched Norman grab his head — clutch at his hair, pull at his scalp with pale white knuckles that were caked with ash and dirt.
“This has to work,” Norman’s harsh muttering nearly sent a shock wave through Peter’s spine, creating a buzz against the back of his neck that could’ve been an electric shock. His spider-sense intensified as he watched as the man paced back and forth, crossing the same path multiple times. “It needs to work, it needs to work…”
Even with an unshakable fog of incoherent confusion, Peter could tell something wasn’t right with Norman.
The frantic footsteps, the repetitive tinkering with equipment, the black dirt that coated his skin, dried out his voice —
“Mr. Osborn…what happened to you?” Peter swallowed, more times than once, to get the weakness out of his voice. It weighed as heavy in his throat as it did against the rest of his body. “Why do you need that spider all of a sudden?”
Footsteps quickly hammered against the metal floor.
“It was mine to begin with!” Norman snarled as he hastily stomped over to where Peter laid, grabbing the edge of the table until it rattled with his strength. “I’m finally taking it back from you.”
The heat returned in a way that reminded Peter of the ice buried deep beneath his skin, causing a chatter of his teeth that loudly trembled his jaw. He took a few swallows to control the cold that cascaded through his every muscle.
The silence that filled the moment brought attention to the racing beat of his heart, audible by the heart monitor nearby.
Then, suddenly,
“Shut ЦP̃!”
A shout that bordered the power of a scream had Peter at a loss for breath. The hissing of the air flowing through his nose became louder than his own pulse; the burn started to sting against his nostrils as he refused to breathe in through anything other than his mouth.
Even still, the bitter taste of drugs singed the inner linings of his lungs.
He closed his jaw, opened to speak — closed again, and gulped.
“This isn’t usually the case, but…” Peter’s eyes followed the sound of footsteps as Norman paced away. “I didn’t say anything.”
More clicks and clacks filled the space of any response.
Peter wanted to open his mouth and say something — anything to fill the unnerving silence that ate away at his ears, clawed at his chest like razor sharp claws — but a wave of dizziness quickly enshrouded his entire awareness, stripping him of his voice and suddenly spinning his head in circles.
The lightheadedness was as strong as the vibrations that stung against his neck, as strong as the prickling that coursed through the muscles in his arms. It was like he'd accidentally caused a climb to fall asleep. Only instead of just sitting on his leg for too long, it was everything — his whole body.
Static ran through his nerves, enough to clench his eyes tight, with pins and needles ripping through his limbs as the feeling came back with deliberate slowness.
Peter didn't like that feeling.
He tried tugging at his arms again — something tugged back.
This time, it wasn’t just the restraints.
A grimace pinched his face right as a sharpness dug deep into the crook of his elbows, stinging with a pain that ran up both his arms.
He may not have been able to see far around the room, but with as must strength as he could muster up, Peter managed to look down at himself — his neck lolling halfway there, his chin tucking deep against his chest, nearly getting caught up in the multitude of wires from the pads that littered his sternum.
The sleeves of his white button down were pushed all the way up, exposing the inner bend of his arms, where on both sides he could see a glimmer of silver from the metal embedded into his flesh.
Huh.
Those were definitely needles.
Needles that were definitely connected to tubes.
Needles in his arms.
Wait a minute. Did that mean he had a leak?
Peter tried to shake his head.
That wasn’t right.
The drugs were messing with him, they had to be.
“You, uh, you clearly knew a lot about the spider that…the one that bit me,” Peter smacked his lips to get some kind of moisture back on them. He couldn’t fight past the stupor that shrouded his focus, positive now that the chemicals he inhaled were also apart of the chemicals being pumped into his veins. “Is that how you’re able to drug me right now?”
Peter rolled his head to follow Norman while the man paced, watching when his lab coat swung behind him.
“I drugged you.”
And yet Norman provided a different answer, barely heard across the lab.
Peter frowned, squeezing his eyes tight to use every bit of effort on concentrating. Looking down at his arms — the best he that could look — it was clear that there were needles inside him. Needles in his body almost always indicated one thing, and usually one thing only.
It felt just like the drugs Mr. Stark had created for him, months ago, unbeknownst to even Peter that painkillers were something the spider-bite had forever changed for him — something that he unfortunately had to discover the hard way, with the always helpful aid of Parker Luck.
Only this felt ten times worse, somehow. Like a bad version — a version that made him sick with dizziness, an extreme vertigo that sent his body askew, created a never-ending cycle of motions that turned his body into a carousel running on a broken axis.
Mr. Stark’s drugs felt calming, controllable — like a warm blanket that eased every ache and pain he’d ever endured.
This wasn’t that.
This wasn’t that at all.
Peter swallowed as his stomach twisted into a tight knot. The bile that burned his throat left a sting like the chemicals that stung against his nostrils.
“The anesthetic has mostly left your system, right as I timed it to. This was all about timing,” Norman explained as if he heard Peter’s thoughts out loud. His footsteps went with his voice. “There’s only thirteen percent inhalant being released through your nasal canal at this present moment. It’s barely enough to produce even the most mild of fugue state’s. I drugged you, yes. But you’re currently the most sober you’ve been since I brought you here — a bit problematic, to be frank, seeing as you’re also the most coherent during this transitional period.”
Peter could feel the crease that furrowed his brow. There was no denying that his head felt full of cobwebs — very, very dusty cobwebs, taking his train of thought before he could find a good grip on it.
Surely, he wasn’t understanding what he was being told.
He almost hoped he didn’t understand what he was being told.
Norman’s footsteps paced in complete disregard to his anxiety, heard clearly through heart monitors surrounding them.
“Your recent resistance has been a hindrance, to say the least. The balance between sedation and slow controlled hemorrhaging has to be precise, and with each outburst you have, it only increases the speed to the output of your blood,” he rasped, each word dryer than the last. “A single oversight to my calculations could ruin everything for me — you could easily return to full strength with the sedation being tampered off, and then your healing factor, already a pestering nuisance, will disrupt the entire process I’ve worked so carefully to achieve.”
Listening to Norman talk, Peter found each that each breath he took in was harder than the last. There may have well been no oxygen in the room whatsoever.
With his eyes fixed on the ceiling above him, he didn’t see Norman again until the man hovered over his head, with a glass vial hanging between his finger and thumb — the same vial that he hung over Peter’s face, as if for show.
“It’s take some time, but you’ve finally held steady at twenty-four percent hemorrhea, after about five different spikes occurring in your hematorcrit levels — truly, one pestering healing factor.”
Norman looked to the tube in his grip, eyeing it studiously, twisting it around in a way that caused the scialytic lamp from above to catch a shine of crimson.
It wasn’t until a beat too late that Peter realized the man was holding a tube of blood.
“I must say, though, it’s fascinating to see your body replenish its own blood loss. While the average person person falls into hypovolemic shock around fifteen to twenty percent loss, you’ve bounced between those levels for hours now. Every single sample of your blood I’ve tested, your cell counts continued to fluctuate — they repair themselves.” Norman twisted the tube until it blocked the light entirely. “Finally, with some patience and much repetitive drainage, your mutation has finally weakened to the point it can no longer rebound what you’ve lost. I can slowly tamper off the drugs that were required to keep you subdued, and collect what I need from there.”
It took effort to focus on the glass tube Norman held in his hands.
Peter blinked, a handful of times.
By the time he realized it was his blood, Norman had turned away — taking it with him.
“It’s not the drugs you’re feeling, though I’m sure the sensation is quite similar.” His voice carried on with his footsteps. “What you’re feeling now are the effects of exsanguination start to take place, producing a sedation effect of its own.”
Each word Peter heard almost sounded as if Norman had been talking underwater; garbled and distant, hushed but still loud. It was as if his ears were stuffed with cotton, his mouth too dry to fix — no matter how many times he swallowed, his throat burned.
It took a moment for Peter to find his voice.
“Exsang-what?”
Even then, it broke in pitch — cracking with either the dryness of drugs or the pain of puberty — Peter had a gut feeling it was both. It was the only other thing he could feel in his gut beside the twisting knot that screamed panic, right alongside the hum in his neck that desperately warned him of danger.
Norman paid no mind to the response that sounded from distressed machines. His pacing continued.
“Of course, knowing what I know about you now, you are right to question how my drugs had an effect on you in the beginning,” Norman kept talking as if Peter’s shock wasn’t still echoing through the lab. His words boomeranged against the beeps that screeched from surrounding heart monitors. “And that’s how, but of course — they’re mine.”
Peter felt like his muscles had been replaced with cement, and yet he dug for any ounce of strength that allowed him to twist and pull at the straps on his arm. His shoulder buckled and his wrist kept turning, but it was nothing compared to the energy in Norman’s erratic, chaotic footsteps.
He paced, but went nowhere.
“You see, we knew A.00 would have a higher resistance to any nerve-deadening drugs. We knew, because I saw it all in the initial transmutation trials.” Norman turned to look at Peter when he spoke. He gestured the vial of blood as if it were nothing more than a pen; nothing but a tool that aided him in his scientific findings. “So of course, someone had to create a kill switch to settle those eight feisty little legs when they got too worked up. And who else would that someone be, but myself? If you want something done right, you do it yourself, as I’ve always said.”
Peter’s jaw began to tremble at the tightness that clenched his mouth shut. The ache in his chin was still nothing compared to the thrashing beat of his heart inside his chest. He could feel the desperation for each pump of blood — it hurt.
And yet still, careless to any of it, Norman kept pacing; throwing him an occasional glance, while still gesturing the vial of blood along the way.
“The anesthetic was simple, a basic formula, I had scribbled it down on the back of a napkin in a hotel room before a chairman’s meeting with the board of OsCorp. Created it while at my Manhattan penthouse the very next day — everything I ever need is there, all the essentials a man needs for innovation.”
Norman finally discarded the tube, setting it down into a rack that held many others — each slot filled with a deep crimson container, each tube shinning bright underneath the harsh lights in the lab.
“All it took was extracting the liver from a puffer fish, and creating a soluble compound that would produce a vapor mixed with the toxins found inside that liver, causing long term effects through the lungs that would paralyze even the most drug-resistant blood-brain barrier's. It’s all about the capillaries in the lungs, the most sensitiveness capillaries in the body. By inducing the subject with an inhalant instead of anything intravenous, the toxins of the puffer fish will successfully paralyze them. Which is how I’ve gotten you here. That — that part was easy.”
A heat drew closer to Peter. He slowly found his arms lessening each tug that buckled his shoulders in an attempt to escape. By the time Norman’s aimless pace had brought him closer, Peter had stopped moving entirely.
He hovered, messing with the machine nearest to him, handling tubes that connected to slots that all tied back to Peter.
“The paralysis from the drugs seems to be wearing off, now,” Norman explained, far too nonchalant for Peter’s liking. “And yet as you fall into hypovolemic shock, you stay subdued. Just as I timed it to be. Methodical, precise…but achievable.”
There was a heat from the man that no lamp or light bulb could replicate. Peter felt a cold sweat rise against his skin as Norman leaned in close, the burn from his very body temperature sending Peter’s body rocking with vertigo.
His brow stay hardened as he looked up at Norman — his vision unfocused, but still not daring to take his eyes off him for even a second.
It was only when Norman paced off to the side, and Peter’s head lethargically followed, that he caught sight of the other side of the room — and everything else that surrounded him.
His brows furrowed even harder, the side of his cheek pressed firmly into his shoulder; it was hard to see over the cuff wrapped snugly around his bicep, squeezing his arm even as he tried to jerked it away — as if he could break away from the tubes that connected back into him, attached to needles that dug delicately into the soft tissue of his inner arms, all leading back to the bag that hung low to gravity, dangling to the floor, just scarcely out of sight.
Only once Peter saw it was he unable to look away.
Each drop of red pooled inside the bag, collecting in size as the seconds passed on, matching the same beat a hand would on a clock. They made ripples against the liquid, like pebbles thrown into in a river, one drop at a time.
The tubes that led into his arms led right to the bags below him.
“Are you…are you taking my blood?”
Peter didn’t think it was too silly of a question to ask out loud. He kinda figured it was a fair question; watching silently while another drop created ripples in the bag down below. And another after that.
“Every last ounce,” Norman wasn’t shy to answer. Clinks and clacks followed — he stayed busy, preoccupied. And Peter stayed staring at the bags of blood. “I told you that you were an intelligent boy. You figured this out on your own just fine.”
For the subject at hand, Norman didn’t seem the least bit bothered by what he spoke of.
Peter, however, was stuck spinning the wheels on the same word that kept playing back in his head, over and over again—
Exsanguination.
Not even a ton of falling bricks came close to the crushing realization Peter had.
Exsanguination.
“Dude!” Peter’s squawk wasn’t all at the reigns of puberty — the distress in his voice broke through his foggy haze with an abrupt speed. “You’re…you’re stealing my blood!?”
Hearing it aloud, Peter was almost sure it was too absurd to be true.
Surely the drugs had to be messing with him.
“How else would I retrieve my spider’s DNA?”
And yet once again, Norman provided a different answer.
Peter’s jaw slacked open, half-enraged, half-strengthless to keep it shut. “What—!?”
“You see, that DNA — what’s in your DNA, in your blood….” Norman crept up on him in just a few quick footsteps. Peter was watching him hover the table before he’d even blinked. “That’s what’s going to fix me. And I’ve been working quite diligently to execute this procedure, so be assured that you will not take that from me as well, is that clear!?”
Norman’s voice finally broke with a shout that echoed the lab.
For a moment, it was the only thing that sounded in the lab.
Even the machines briefly went quiet.
No sooner than Peter could blink again, Norman turned his back; and so torpid, Peter nearly couldn’t open his eyes once they closed shut. The strength to keep watching Norman nearly fled him, with a rush of stupor pulling him downward in a spiral that sent his senses array.
Against it all, the vibrations on the back of his neck never let up.
Peter was ready to rip his head off from it.
“You told me…” Peter didn’t recognize his voice when he first spoke up again. His words were starting to mumble. His tongue was getting too heavy to talk. “You said that spider was meant for…meant for some kind of formula. One that…could cure cancer.” He had to take a breath to keep speaking. His chest felt heavy, the air felt thin. “When you said that…you were talking…about the Oz Formula, weren’t you?”
Norman’s face was blurry when Peter finally locked eyes on him. There were two of him, at that. And they both looked pissed off.
Something told Peter he was better off keeping his mouth shut.
“Oz…” Norman’s words came in a single breath, with slow, steady footsteps bringing him back to the table. He stood hovering over Peter for a minute, his head tilting far to the side. “How do you know of my Oz?”
Peter never did know when to keep his mouth shut.
His shoulder buckled, but it wasn’t from an attempt at pulling on his restraints. The chill that iced his bones sent a tremble through his awakening muscles, curling his toes until he could feel them bend into his feet; pushing against the dress shoes that had already been too uncomfortable to wear.
Norman was right — this wasn’t the drugs he was feeling. Peter remembered the feeling of shock a little too well to mistake it for drugs.
He almost preferred it when he couldn’t feel his butt.
“A cure..a cure for any human illness, a-a super solider, that’s what you were trying to make—” Peter gulped past the pulse that blocked his airway. It beat harder by the second. “That was Oz, wasn’t it? That-that was the thing you said you needed the spider for, the thing..the thing that was supposed to cure cancer — make people invulnerable. Make them dangerous. You called it Oz.”
There was a crystal clear echo to his words, ringing against the machine’s that continued to sound with noises; even after Peter had kept quiet.
Norman stared back at him.
Peter knew he didn’t look very intimidating laying exposed and restrained to a table he was pretty sure also handled the bodies of corpses — but for what it was worth, his unfocused and glassy eyes met Norman’s with a firm line drawing his lips tight.
“Stark, right?”
It was Norman who addressed the elephant in the room.
Peter wasn’t able to hide the way his composure responded. It sounded from the machines.
It also answered the question without him needing to.
Norman shook his head, disgusted — a snarl puling at his upper lip.
“Of course, it was Stark…σf cσЦrŞє,” his voice was tremulous against his teeth, his head leaning to the other side as he stared down at Peter, unblinking. “How pathetic…for a grown man to involve a child in his never-ending woes against weaponry.” Norman arched an eyebrow, high into the dust and soot that coated his hairline. “And yet poetic…that he’d inadvertently lose his favorite one — to me.”
When Norman’s feet took off, Peter didn’t try to keep him in his sights.
What little energy he had, and with muscles that were still far too heavy to maneuver, he pulled at the strap around his forearm, frantically — one tug at a time.
Tug.
His panicked eyes flittered between the floor and his restraints.
Tug.
The strap was trying to loosen.
Tug.
The bags of blood were filling fast.
His arms were pinned to his sides, his shoulder was growing numb from each buckle as he tried to break free. The skin around his wrist was turning red; he could see it, chafing with from each twist and turn he frantically made trying to get his arm free.
He just needed to get his arm free.
TUG.
He just needed to get Mr. Stark.
“Why can’t you just make another spider?” Peter had hoped his voice would hide the sound of the metal table rattling underneath each jerk of his arm. He wasn’t too sure how successful he was in that. “That way you can-you can just use that spider, and, you know, you don’t…you don’t gotta do all this.” If Norman had noticed his frantic fighting against the restraints, he failed to show that he cared. “Besides, that way it would be-it would be better, you know? It wouldn’t just be whatever there is left over in my blood, like…like bad leftovers. There’d be a whole…you know, a whole fresh spider. Why not do that?”
Norman’s back was facing him, Peter could tell — he looked frantically between the man and then down at his own arm, each tug loosening the leather just a smidgen. He was losing strength with each attempt made.
“It’s as I’ve said before—” Norman affixed his voice to the sounds his hands made, working with glass vials and pressing buttons that sounded sharp beeps. “There were only one set of documents for the Arachnid Number 00 formula. The bunker they were kept in…it sank to the bottom of the ocean.”
Holding a pause on his resistance, Peter briefly looked over at Norman. He couldn’t see clearly the chemicals the man was working with, his vision growing too blurry to make out the beakers in his hands, each letting off a vapor that poured to the floor beneath him.
But Peter could still see an outline of him.
And looking back down at his arm, it was no different than how he could see the outline of a black bracelet strapped around his wrist, underneath the leather strap that tied him down.
TUG.
“Right. Bummer.” Peter pulled at his arm until he was sure it would break. “You should really…” he tugged, “…work on…” and tugged, “…keeping backups of those kinda things.” He only stopped to take a breath. And then another after that. “I had this school essay once, and I forgot to save it, and the power at my apartment does this weird thing sometimes where all the electricity will cut out but the breaker switches won’t flip, so one night there was this really bad storm—”
“I said, ŞӇЦŤ ЦP!”̪͙͎̖̲
It wasn’t a shout that tore through the lab. It wasn’t even a scream.
Peter froze in place, his muscles turning rigid, his chest not daring to take another breath.
The guttural voice hit every corner in the room, bouncing off the walls until slowly, eventually, it ebbed away.
Even then, watching as the outline of Norman’s figure bend at the knees, clench at his head, squeeze his temples with muscles that were starting to bulge at the seams of his lab coat — Peter wasn’t entirely sure if what he heard came from him.
It didn't sound like it came from him.
“You’re not talking to me…are you, Mr. Osborn?” he forced out the question through a throat too tight to speak.
Norman held his head, tightly. “I’ll GΣƬ it for him — I’ll ƒίx̛ this!”
Peter didn’t need an answer to his question. Though there wasn’t a single object in the room he could see with focus, he didn’t need to see anything other than Norman’s blurred outline to understand something was terribly wrong with the man.
“Yes, I Kꞥσ₩! Yes, I —!”
Back and forth, back and forth — Peter’s eyes darted as Norman went left to right, discarding a beaker on one table only to pick it up again on his way back, suddenly losing sense of each step he desultorily took.
Watching him pace the lab only intensified the sickness in Peter stomach. He tried to close his eyes to keep what liquids inside of him that he could, but just a blink too long and he was fighting for consciousness again.
Not good. He needed to stay awake.
If he couldn’t escape, he needed to stay awake.
“Harris-he’s…Harr-ƒίx̛-ƒίx̛-he’s—quiet, be quiet, will you just be—fix ₣ЇЖ—”
“Wait, wha’?” Peter forced his eyes to clench shut, as tight as possible, before forcing them wide open. It took all the effort he had. He thought he jerked at his arms again, but they barely twitched at his side. “Did you—‘id you say—what’d ‘ou…” Peter cleared his throat, harshly. It felt like his windpipe was starting to close shut. “What’d you say about Harry?”
It was hard to determine if Norman heard Peter or not. He spoke softly, and Norman spoke to himself, erratically.
While Peter had assumed his subtle attempts at escaping were simply overlooked, now he wasn’t too sure that Norman was ever fully present to begin with.
The way he paced the floors, muttered words aloud, spoke in unison to a voice not heard—
“₣łӾ—₲Ɇ₮ it—Ʉ₴Ɇ it—ƒίx̛—” Norman’s feet burned a hole through the floors as he rambled, his hands searching the surfaces of tables around him, his movements suddenly a frenzied rush, “—quiet—quiet—quiet—₣iӾ—”
A chill shot through his spine at the same time Peter heard Norman approach him, the many layers of cadence in his voice reverberating off the walls as he started to mess with equipment nearby.
“Mr. Osborn…did something happen to Harry?” Peter raised his voice as loud as he could. It barely broke the surface above him. “Mr. Osborn!”
The only answer was shattering glass. Vapors spread out across the floor, the glass of the beaker shattering near Norman’s feet.
He quickly disregarded it for another.
Peter couldn’t get his throat to swallow again. He figured that was a good thing; had there been moisture in his mouth, he would’ve choked on his own spit.
Instead, he stuttered on his next breath.
He watched, for once quietly, as Norman rummaged desperately through drawers of cabinets, quickly sweeping the surfaces of the tables that surrounded him.
All the while, talking to himself.
“₣ł₦Đ Ⱨł₥—пѳ, нёяё—Ʉ₴Ɇ ł₮—пѳ, fїж—₦Ø, ₵Ø₦₮ⱤØⱠ—!”
Peter couldn’t tell if the blood loss was making him hear things. There was certainly a ringing in his ears that he couldn’t shake, but he was also pretty positive that belonged to another monitor sounding his vitals; all of them were starting to sound more angry by the minute.
It was easy to tell why. He had enough sense left to know his lungs weren't supposed to feel this heavy in his chest. Each breath was a fight for the next, and then the next after that.
Still, even as he felt his hold on consciousness begin to slip, Peter had an unsettling feeling that the different voices he heard sound into one, the layers that clung to Norman’s words, spoken from one mouth with a chorus of many overlaying in a chaotic, corrupt harmony—
—Peter had an unsettling feeling he'd heard something similar before.
Just like the sensation of shock working its way through his body; a familiar feeling, one that he didn't need his spider-sense to warn him of.
Not when Mr. Stark had already warned him about this.
“You don’t…you don’t need my DNA to make Oz work…do you, Mr. Osborn?” Peter couldn’t get any volume to his voice. His vocal cords spasmed in his throat as he forced out each word through weak and numb lips. “That’s not…why you brought me here, is it?”
Norman kept his back to him, a blurred outline that only grew more hazy with time. “₣ł₦Đ—₣łӾ—₦Ø, ₣łӾ—₵Ø₦₮ⱤØⱠ—₣łӾ—quiet—QɄłɆ₮—quiet—quiet—͙͙̫̲̥̝̃͘͟͡F̝͍̼͔̫̽I̴͎͚͘Ӿ."
There was very little acknowledgment from Norman, if any at all.
Peter didn’t expect any to begin with.
Not with another voice in his head.
“You were…sick, wer’t ‘ou?” Peter lolled his head, forcing himself to shake off the gray that started to eat away at the edges of his vision. He could barely stare at the ceiling, the task of keeping his eyes open suddenly far too overwhelming. “You…you took Oz…to cure…you.”
The hold on his consciousness was waning; he tried to tug at his arm again — nothing happened.
His eyes closed shut, and nearly couldn’t open them back up.
“But, it…” Peter slurred through a jaw too heavy to move, rolling his head to the side until he could blearily see the bags that hung underneath the table; all quickly filling to the brim, expanding with the rich, thick crimson of his blood. “It turned you…into a monster…didn’t it? Oz, it…created…a monster."
It had grown painful just to stay awake. Each blink lasted longer than the last, until Peter closed his eyes and thought for sure he wouldn’t be able to open them again.
"Th'ts…that’s what's wrong w'th 'ou.”
Eyes that were already half-mast and closing into tiny slits began to squint even further, dropping with the weight of his eyelashes, falling shut against the heat that suddenly neared him — making the comfort of sleep all the more tempting, replacing the warmth that was quickly being drained out of his body.
It washed over him like an inferno, searing into his mind as everything else faded into darkness.
The last thing he remembered was seeing Norman staring down at him, the same blazing heat that cascaded off his body simmering in the molten flames coiling from his eyes.
If he hadn't blacked out, Peter would've said a very, very bad word.
Notes:
A massive, enamored, overwhelming thank you to spiderwoman-14 for their beautiful, creative, and overall super freaking cool piece of art called: “It’s Over Isn’t It” | Identity Saga Animation
You guys are so freaking cool. I can't believe I've been slowly been pluggging away at this nonsensical fanfiction of mine for so long, with people as awesome as this who've tagged along for the journey, who care about it as much as I do. Because I really do care about seeing the end of this journey 😅 My life has taken me so many places since I started this series, but I won't lie, I'm definitely in the hardest phase of things right now. I know we have moments of ups and downs with age, but boy and boy am I seeing the downs right about now. I'm hopeful, but also going through it.
😭
So, scream at your author and we'll scream together. Our screams will fuel this universe until we see its happy ending finally arrive ❤️
Stay tuned, everyone. The adventure starts now.
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