#so sorry about that hide away video edith :(

[booger-diaperlips]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY EDITH!!! ♡♡♡♡💕❤️❤️

Uhh silly doodle uhh...

Anyways...

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY AND HAPPY BDAY TO OUR BABYGIRL !! 🗣🗣‼️‼️🔥🔥🔥‼️‼️💥💥💥💥💕💕

[waitimcomingtoo]

25 To Life

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Synopsis: Peter deals with the repercussions of his identity being revealed

Masterlist

It all happened so fast.

That's what Pepper and Tony’s legal team told to say.

That it all happened so fast.

You didn't see it. You didn't hear it. You can't make out a face. You have no idea who would do this, Officer.

It all happened so fast.

For you, it seemed more like slow motion. You weren’t there to witness Mysterio’s death. Peter had told you Mysterio tried to shot him but ended up shooting himself. That’s what you were told and that’s what you believed.

But the video told a different story.

It was all there: Mysterio saying Spiderman had gone crazy, Spiderman ordering everyone to be executed, and Mysterio dying. The video made it seem like the London drone attack was the work of Spiderman, but you knew the truth.

Right?

To the media, Spiderman had gone rogue following Tony’s death and killed Mysterio. To the media, Spiderman was a murderer.

And to the public, Spiderman was Peter Parker.

You watched the screen, paralyzed with shock, as your boyfriends identity was revealed. You dropped the remote, not bothering to look back as the batteries flew out and hit the ground, and ran to Peter’s apartment. 

The cops arrived Peter’s apartment the same time you did, baracading the entrance with their cars. All the flashing lights and sirens made you sick to your stomach. There were officers everywhere, some talking amongst themselves and others turning the nosey public away. Did they really think your Peter did soemthing that warrrented that many officers? You dodged a few officers by the doorway and snuck up the fire escape to climb into Peters window. He and May were already in there, faces pale and haunted. May locked the window behind you and quickly drew the shades. You approached Peter slowly like he was a frightened animal, just in case he was skiddish. As soon as he saw you, Peter ran to you and threw himself into your arms in a desperate search for comfort. You combed your fingers through his hair to soothe him as his body shook with terror. He cried into your shoulder, his tears seeping through your shirt within seconds. You whispered comfort in his ear until his sobs became silent. 

“You have to get out of here. I don’t want you to see this.” Peter sobbed as he cradled your face.

“I’m not going anywhere.” You shook your head. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But the video.” Peter whimpered. “It looks like I killed him. People are going to think I’m a murderer.”

You laid his head back on your chest and shushed him. You didn’t have to heart to tell him that people already thought he was a murderer. He didn’t need to hear that. He just needed comfort. 

“My identity is out. They’re gonna arrest me.” Peter sobbed. Before you could respond, there was a heavy pounding on the door.

“NYPD. We have a warrant. Open up.”

Peter held you tighter and you backed up towards the closet together. You clung to him, hiding his face from view and looked at May for help. 

“It’s all right, kids. I’ll go talk to the police. Stay here.” May said calmly. You shared a sympathetic look before she left the room. You held Peter tightly and kissed every part of him that you could reach as he shook with fear. 

“It’s okay.” You whispered as you fought back tears of your own. “It’s going to be okay.” 

You clamped your hands over his ears, not wanting him to hear what the police were saying and began to sing to him softly.

You knew Peter was innocent, but that video was incredibly convincing.

And incriminating.

How were you going to explain it to the cops? 'No sir, it wasn't Peter. Mysterio pretended to be a warrior soilder from another planet and gained Peters trust so he could pretend London was being attacked by a giant smoke monsters using special sunglasses called EDITH. Peter didn’t kill Mysterio, you see, Mysterio projected a fake version of himself using a drone and shot it on accident when he tried to shoot Peter. No, there’s no evidence of this. Yes, he was invisible when Peter grabbed the gun. He knew he was there because of his Peter Tingle, silly. Can't you tell?'

Is that what you were supposed to say? They would never believe it.

“Please, be gentle. His uncle was shot. He’s scared of guns, please.” May was hanging on the arm of one of the police officers as they burst into Peters room. You and Peter looked up fearfully as three police officers pointed their guns at you, clutching to each other for dear life.

“Peter Parker, you are under arrest for the murder of Quentin Beck.” An Officer stated as she pulled you and Peter apart. You and Peter reached for each other until only your hands could touch, crying out for each other the whole time. Peters hands were brought behind his back as an officer handcuffed him. You  were restrained by an officer and squirmed in the his embrace, kicking and writhing to break free as you screamed Peters name. He was lead out of the room, locking eyes with you the whole time until he was out of sight. May followed them out as she wiped the tears from her face, pleading with them to be gentle. The room fell silent, the only sounds coming from the police sirens, slowing fading as they drove to the station. 

You lost time from being at Peters house to arriving at the station. The car ride with May was silent as you tailed the police car Peter was in. Once inside, you were lead to a winess interrogation room and May was brought to the chief. You bounced your leg up and down as an officer went over the day Mysterio died, barely listening to what she was saying. The florescent lighting of the room made you feel nauseous as she questioned you.

"Can you tell me what happened?" The officer looked up from her notepad to look at you. You came back into yourself and blinked a few times.

“No, I'm sorry.” You said robotically as you smoothed your hand over your leg to keep it from bouncing.  “It all happened so fast."

-

They held Peter in a cell until the day of his court hearing to determine his sentence. You sat next to May in the courtroom and tried to follow what the Judge was saying, a lot of legal jargon was spoken that frustrated you when you couldn’t understand it. Your eyes drifted to Peter, who looked exhausted and frightened in his baggy orange jumpsuit. He made eye contact with you gave you a weak smile, rasing his handcuffed hands to wave. You both jolted out of your gaze when the judge banged his gavel.

"I hereby sentence Peter Parker 25 years to life for the first degree murder of Quentin Beck.” The judge spoke. The silence in the room was so deafening that your ears buzzed and rang. Officers arrived to handcuff Peter and take him away as surprise murmurs emitted from the crowd. You felt paralyzed as Peters terrified eyes met yours.

And then everything happened so fast.

You remembered standing up and screaming.

You remembered saying he was innocent, that he was framed.

You remembered May putting her head in her hands and sobbing as she lost her last family member.

And you remembered Peter looking back at you and mouthing that he loved you before they lead him out of the room.

Everything else was a blur.

-

You visited Peter the first day you could.

“Inmates are allowed two hugs; one on arrival and one when leaving.” Rang over the loudspeaker every five minutes.

It took a few weeks to get your name added to his visitors list. The judge had tried Peter as an adult, so he was put in minimum security federal prison to serve his sentence. You sat and waited at the table for Peter to come, looking around at the other inmates to distract yourselves from your nerves. Everyone was separated by a small table, some people with little kids on their laps and some alone. You smoothed your skirt for the hundredth time and rubbed your lips together.

Peter was lead into the room by a guard, his face lighting up when he saw you. He walked over to you and threw his arms around you and you hugged him tightly. His orange scrubs were rough against your skin as you buried your face in his chest.

"No contact." A guard barked and he jumped out of your arms. You gave Peter a sympathetic smile and sat down.

"How are you?" You asked despite his appearance telling you that the answer wasn’t good. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, with his eyes sunken in and his skin pale. His uniform was ill fitting, unless he had lost a lot of weight.

"I'm getting by." Peter nodded, both of you knowing it was better if he kept the truth to himself.

"Are the people here nice?" You asked hopefully.

"This is a federal prison, darling." He said shortly. You realized it was a dumb question and gave him a tight smile. Your fingers twitched, desperate to hold his hand but not wanting to get him in trouble.

"I know. I just hoped you had found some friends to protect you." You nodded and looked down. Both of you could tell how awkward it was between you. Neither of you were your usual selves, as you were guilt ridden and Peter was exhausted.

"I'll be okay.” He said, and neither of you knew if it was true. An uncomfortable silence returned and you kept your eyes down.A small smile tugged on your lips as you got an idea.

“Excuse me, guard?” You piped up and looked at a correctional officer. “Could you tell me what time it is? I can read the clock from here.”

Peter looked at you in confusion as his eyes darted to the watch on your wrist. As soon as the guard turned around to look at the clock, you leaned across the table and gave Peter a quick kiss. He smiled shyly as you quickly sat back down, pretending nothing had happened.

“12:34.” The officer answered you and you gave her a tight smile. You cocked an eyebrow at Peter and he chuckled for the first time in weeks.

“How are you holding up?" He asked you and you shrugged.

"I haven't been sleeping well.” You answered honestly. “I'm just so worried about you."

"I know." He said simply. He had no way to assuage you, and you knew it.

"We’re doing everything we can to prove your innocence.” You assured him and Peter fake you a fake smile. “All of us. Scott, Rhodey, Sam, Banner, May, everyone. Even Bucky is trying to help. Maybe there's a way to tell the cops about your Peter Tingle without them thinking we're crazy."

You looked so hopeful that it pained Peter. He reached for your hands and took them in his before he did what he came to do.

“No contact.” The guard repeated and Peter stared at him for a long time. He retracted his hands and folded them on his lap, swallowing thickly as he composed himself. 

"You don't have to do that, Y/n.” Peter said quietly. He knew what this was, what he was about to do.

This was the calm before the storm.

"Yes we do.” You blinked in confusion. “You're innocent, Peter. You shouldn't be in here."

"Maybe I should be.” Peters voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “Baby, I killed Beck. I moved the gun. That’s why it hit him. And I’m the one who gave him EDITH in the first place. Who knows what else he could've done. What if he killed you too?” Peter whispered in pain.

“This isn’t your fault, Peter.” You shook your head stubbornly. “And as soon as the police realize that, they’re gonna let you out of here. I promise, the second you’re free we can go right back to the way things were. We can be together and we’ll be happy again.” You smiled hopefully. “But until then, I'll visit you every single day, from the start of visiting hours to the end."

You thought he’d be happy, but Peter looked pained by your statement.

“Whats wrong?” You worried when he didn’t look like your plan.

"That's not a good idea, Y/n.” He said softly. “You can't spend everyday waiting for someone who isn't gonna come home. You need to get on with your life.” He said abruptly. You were taken back by his response and let out a nervous laugh.

"What are you saying?"

Peter looked at you for a moment and his bottom lip began to tremble.

"I'm saying you need to forget about me.” Peter stated as tears came to his eyes. “Go find another boy. Someone who isn't in prison can be there for you when you need him. Marry him and start a family with him. You can't wait for me to get out of here, Y/n. That day might never come." He cried. You looked at him in bewilderment and tried to process what he had said.

"What are you talking about? I don't want another boy. I want you.” You sputtered as you leaned forward on the table to really look at him. “Only you. I'm going to wait as long as I have to."

"I can't ask you to wait 25 years." Peter shook his head sadly.

"You're not asking. I'm making the decision by myself." You snapped.

"That means you'll have to wait 25 years to get married and have children. You probably won't even be able to have children at that time." Peter reasoned.

"So we'll adopt." You shrugged in dismissal.

"Is that really what you want?" Peter asked skeptically.

"No. But I want you.” You said definitively. “That's all that matters. If you can wait 25 years, so can I."

"But I don't have a choice." He reminded you.

"But I do.” You sniffled. “And I choose you.“

"Our only interaction will be these short meetings. I'm not even allowed to touch you.” Peter cried. “Don't you think you'll fall out of love with me?"

You reached out to wipe his face but a guard shook his head. You balled your hand into a fist and slammed it on the table. 

"Of course not. How could I? It's you.” You laughed sadly. “Every single time, it's you. You’re the only one I’m ever gonna want, Peter.”

Peters face scrunched up as he cried and looked away. He couldn’t look at you when he knew he was hurting you.

"Y/n, you're making this impossible." He sobbed and sucked in a sharp breath.

"Please don't do this, Peter.” You begged.

"You know I love you. So much." He said sincerely.

"Then stop breaking me." You whispered.

"I'm so sorry, but I have to do this.” Peter protested as he slammed his fist on the table. “I can't have you wasting away while you wait for me to be free. I got 25 years to life, baby.” He whimpered. “That means I'll only get a chance for parole in 25 years. And even then, they could deny me and keep me in here. Everyone has seen that video of me. That’s enough evidence to keep me in here as long as they want, even if it’s fake. I'm never getting out of here.” He shook his head. “Just because my life is over doesn’t mean yours has to be over too. There’s still a chance for you, angel.”

“I could never be happy without you.” You cried, fingers twitching as you fought the urge to reach for him. 

“Yes you can. And you will.” He decided. “I can’t let you die unloved. You need to forget about me. Guard!”

It all happened so fast.

You were escorted out of the visitation room, kicking and screaming Peter’s name. He was lead away by a correctional officer, mouthing that he loved you before he disappeared behind a wall.

For the next four years, you went to that prison every week.

And every week, Peter refused to see you.

The guards stopped asking for your name eventually and who you were there to see.

They knew why you were there.

It became somewhat of a routine. They'd call the guard outside Peter’s cell and ask if Peter wanted to see you, Peter would say no and you would go home. He thought that by not allowing you to visit him, you’d eventually move on.

He was wrong. 

You never did move on. Even after Peter was killed in prison by Adrian Toomes after four years of being locked up, you didn't move on.

You asked the guard how an inmate could be killed in a prison full of guards. The guard answered simply, "it all happened so fast."

At least he's free now. At least you can visit him.

Even if all you were visiting was a grave.

Tag List 🏷

@maybemona​ @foreverxholland​ @damnyoudameron​ @lavender-writer​ @captainmandeestudent17​ @whatareyouhidingpeter​ @takenbyheartstrings​ @ultrunning​ @imyourliquor-youremypoison​ @theolwebshooter​ @andreasworlsboring101​ @guksmyfav​ @waiting-to-be-myself​ @letsloveimagines​ @peterparkoure​ @a-villain-vying-for-attention​ @justcallmehitgirl​ @averyfosterthoughts​ @jackiehollanderr​ @tiny-friggin-human​ @celestial-skylines​ @mara-twins​ @iamaunicorn4704​ @spideygirl2003​ @the-crazy-fanfictionist​ @maryjanee23​ @spacebitch2 @geeksareunique​ @emmamarshmellow​ @jillanaholland​ @unbelievableholland​ @rebekkah4766​ @flixndchill​ @sovereignparker​ @wendaiii​ @thisisthebiplace​ @spideydobrik​ @every-marveler-ever​ @undiadeestos​ @caelestii-e​ @eridanuswave​​ @itscaminow​​ @fiantomartell​ @solarxmoonchild​ @where-art-thau-romeo​ @canyouevencauseicant​ @illwritetomorrow​ @thehappygrungelife​ @saysomethingspiderman​ @parkerboop​ @smilexcaptainx​ @hes-amarillo​ @quaksonhehe​ @kelieah​ @silteplaittais-toi​ @kickingn-ames​ @purefluff​ @seasidecrowbar​ @lovelessdagger​ @love-sick-blues​ @electraheart-3174​ @lou-la-lou​ @unbelievableholland​ @yourtypicalhotmess​ @ohnothezombies​ @spideyanakin​ @horanxholland​ @thesuitelifeofafangirl​ @anapocalypseinmymind​ @gninwodacrie @quacksonfics @marshxx @themmmelissa

[cagestark]

WinterIronSpider Ch. 2

Read chapter one here. 

Story spurred by this prompt: There's a meme about a poor college student being robbed; the robber, upon learning just h o w poor, stopping and giving the (empty) wallet back and being sincerely concerned. "You... you live like this?" What if the winter soldier/bucky barnes breaks into struggling college student Peter parker's apt and all his pre-serum steve instincts are triggered by the state of the place and how /tiny/ Peter is. 

Chapter warnings: dubcon/noncon discussed, not between any of the OT3. 

A note: In the brief teaser I gave of this fic before I’d written chapter one, Steve had skipped timelines to live his life with Peggy. But that is no longer the case. 

-

Tony stands lounging against the back of the sofa, watching the elevator doors. FRIDAY alerted him moments ago that Bucky and his guest had entered the building—those are the exact words she used. Bucky and his guest. He finds himself drumming his fingers against his legs, filled to the brim with fizzing carbon bubbles of energy. They’ve been dating for two years now, and Bucky has never brought anyone back to the Tower. He’s tempted to ask FRIDAY to bring up video feed, to get a glimpse of whoever Bucky is bringing home, but the elevator is rising, rising.

“Here, boss,” FRIDAY warns, soft, redundant.

“Quiet from here on out, baby girl,” he reminds her. She doesn’t respond.

Then the doors open.

His eyes go to Bucky first. He can’t help that. Tony will never get enough of him, spends an embarrassing amount of time staring out of the corner of his eye (or unashamedly when the other man is sleeping). Bucky’s hair is past his chin, wind-swept and tangled. He’s dressed casually with his dark jeans and t-shirt—Tony’s, it’s Tony’s t-shirt, he notes with a burst of warmth in his chest—his gloves on, the soft leather ones that Tony had custom made. He stance is guarded, from the low eyebrows to the hunched shoulders.

Tony glances down to the figure at his side and sees why.

It’s a boy, man, maybe, anywhere from sixteen to twenty-six, if Tony had to take a guess. The sad, tired eyes belie the youthful features, so it’s difficult to tell a specific age. He’s petite to an extreme (sickness? Tony wonders. Cancer?), dressed in what appears to be the common man’s version of his Sunday best—dress slacks, a collared, long sleeve shirt with cuffs that gape around his tiny wrists. Paleness verges on sallowness, skin tinged faintly green, lips faint white. But he’s handsome: sharp features, if a little too gaunt, dark eyes and dark curls that are still damp from a shower, or maybe the rain on the way over.

Then he spots it: the hero worship. The kid has stars in his eyes. Tony can spot a fan at fifty paces, the slack mouths, the wide eyes, the oh my god, you’re Iron Man! And it gets him, gets him like a knife between the ribs. He loves the praise. It flatters him, it waters his ego (which isn’t ever flourishing the way the press makes it out to be).

Coming from the right person, it makes his cock hard.

Tony knows he cuts quite a figure, even in his sweatpants, socked-feet, and tee. His hair is un-styled, soft the way Bucky likes it. He’s wearing the blue-tinted glasses that contain his latest AI, his latest baby—but he’s always wearing those these days, even when he doesn’t have EDITH active. He must look soft, relaxed, alien, because the kid looks like he’s seeing something from outer space and not upper Manhattan.

“Hey, cupcake,” Tony says, hands in his pockets, watching Bucky nearly carry the kid out of the elevator. His face is white as a sheet, mouth quivering. “Who’s this?”

“This is—” That’s as far as Bucky makes it before the kid swoons. His eyes roll, body going lax, a puppet with the strings cut. Bucky, quicker reflexes, catches him before his head can hit the tiled floor. Kneeling with the boy in his arms, Bucky gives a tentative smile that looks more like a grimace. “—Peter. He’s sick.”

Tony clutches his heart. “And here I thought it was just my influence. FRIDAY, diagnostics please. Give me some biometrics.”

“Scanning, boss.” Peter’s eyelids flutter at the disembodied female voice, but even if he is regaining consciousness, Tony doesn’t think he’ll remember it.

“Send it to E, Fri.”

No response, but the words appear in front of his eyes. Sex: male presenting. BMI: 16. Which is—yeah, that’s too fucking low. Temperature: 102.8 degrees Fahrenheit. His girl manages to narrow the age from 20 to 24, and she has more. The information goes on and on: he’s sick with the flu, it looks like, but now it has blossomed into the beginnings of pneumonia. Evidence of long-term vitamin deficiencies. A heart murmur—probably benign.

Gonorrhea.

“I got medicine for him,” Bucky says, holding up the pharmacy bag. There’s where Bucky used his card, then. “He took some in the car on the way over, and didn’t cough so much after that.”

“He’s got pneumonia, cupcake. Nothing over the counter will help that. It won’t help his gonorrhea either.”

“He’s got VD?”

Tony hums. “Can I ask what he’s doing on my four-thousand dollar leather sofa?”

“He’s sick,” Bucky says. “I thought you could help.”

“How’d you two know each other?”

“We met today.”

“How?”

“I—don’t want to say.”

Tony softens. Bucky’s skills of deception are honed enough that he could have lied without Tony being the wiser. In the beginning of their relationship, it was a serious problem: Bucky hiding things from Tony that he was worried would upset him. It’s taken a long time for him to know that he can keep secrets if he wants to, that telling Tony I don’t want to say would, under most circumstances, be enough to end the line of questioning.

“Alright. But I feel obliged to say this: there’s no legal way you could have met that I would blink an eye at.”

It’s Bucky who blinks, once, long and slow.

“You met illegally?”

“You’re getting very good at reading me,” Bucky says. Which is nice of him, considering there are still days where his lover seems like a closed book to him. “Could we, like, get him a doctor? Do you have a doctor who makes house calls? Do doctors make those, these days?”

“I’m rich enough to afford one,” Tony says. “And luckily, I have a very discreet one on container. Fri, ask Bruce to come by. Tell him it’s an emergency and to bring whatever he needs to treat pneumonia and gonorrhea—God, I wish I could see the look on his face when you tell him that. FRIDAY, take an image capture of Bruce’s face. Don’t think I didn’t notice you sidestepping the question, either, mister. We talked about your extracurricular activities—”

“I couldn’t leave him there, Tony,” says Bucky, voice tortured. “He’s sick, and he’s got no food, no health insurance. I don’t want him to go back there.”

While they’re waiting for Bruce, Tony wets a rag to put on Peter’s burning forehead. His eyes flutter, and he is looking less pale—no chance he’ll be out much longer. “Here’s a list of things that are acceptable for you to bring home with you: stray dogs, some of those pastries from that cafe we love, a downright egregious number of sex toys–actually, a few of those things I would even encourage you to bring home. But Bucky, baby, a stray human is not on that list.”

“I know that, but he–” Bucky cuts off.

“Yes?” Tony prompts. He lifts a hand, slow, fingers still damp from the washrag to tuck some of Bucky’s hair behind his ear. It’s getting longer and longer these days, and the other man doesn’t trust any professional to cut it. That leaves Tony for the job: Bucky shirtless in their bathroom, hair damp, split ends being carefully trimmed to rain down around their bare feet.

“He reminds me of Steve,” Bucky admits. “Before the serum. Small, and sick, and with a heart bigger than his stomach. I didn’t turn away then, and I can’t turn away now.”

Steve isn’t a name they mention often, not since Thanos. For Bucky to bring it up now shows how serious he is for this. How much it means to him. That’s all Tony needs to hear to be sold. He’d give Bucky the moon, if he could.

“My sugar baby wants a sugar baby,” Tony sighs fondly. “What does that make me?”

Bucky’s lips twitch. “A sugar granddaddy?”

Peter stirs. His eyes open, bloodshot, tender, honey-tinted eyes. They get wide again when they see Tony kneeling by the couch he’s resting on. He holds out a shaking hand, palm down, like he wants Tony to kiss his knuckles. “Mr. Stark,” he breathes, tongue thick and clumsy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Behind him, Bucky snorts, the softest exhalation against his neck. Tony reaches out and takes the burning grip in both of his own hands. Peter is short for a man, certainly underweight, and though he has long fingers, they are thin and spindly, swallowed whole by Tony’s larger, tanned hands. The size difference between them makes him swallow—the size difference between Peter and Bucky? It’s—indecent. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Parker.”

“Oh, call me Peter, please,” he says. The softness, the earnestness charms Tony.

“Peter, then.”

A coughing fit comes on, lasting until the younger man’s face is red and tears are at the corners of his eyes. Tony fetches him some water that he sips at. He blinks like he’s trying to focus his eyes. “Did I faint?”

“Gracefully, if it makes you feel any better. Welcome to Stark Tower, kid. Sorry the experience has been less than ideal.”

The younger man gives a dopey smile—more than likely high off of whatever he took in the car. “The only way it could have been better is if you’d caught me, sir.”

Tony fights to keep his twitching lips from blooming into a downright grin. Bucky’s face is red, the only indication that he’s holding back laughter. “I’m sorry to say that my days of being quick enough to catch damoiseaux in distress are about ten years behind me. Luckily, Bucky was here to act as my hands. Trust me, kid, he’s got nicer biceps to cling to anyway.”

“Oh, I noticed that when he helped me to the car,” Peter says, craning his head back to wave frailly at Bucky behind the couch. Seeing Bucky wave back, stiff and straight faced, is a sight Tony will cherish for many years to come.

The elevator opens. Bruce is there with his bag in hand. He looks like a man who is about to face the gallows—but at the sight of Peter sitting on the couch with the half-empty glass of water in his hands, his eyebrows raise. This could hardly be what he was expecting when FRIDAY told him to come to the penthouse floor.

“Hello,” he says carefully stepping into the room. “Someone rang?”

“Bruce!” Tony rises on creaking joints to greet the man. The warm hug takes the younger man by surprise based on the way he tenses, returning it hesitantly. Tony says under his breath: “He doesn’t know he has the clap, and he wouldn’t understand how I know. Proceed with caution.”

“What have you gotten yourself into?” Bruce mutters, patting Tony awkwardly.

“Oh, you know how it goes. In for a penny, in for a pound.” Then, louder: “Peter, this is Dr. Bruce Banner. Bruce, this is Peter Parker.”

“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Banner,” Peter slurs. He’s looking remarkably like a damsel with the way he’s lounging on the sofa, the back of his hand pressed to the cloth on his forehead. “Call me Pete.”

“You’re not looking well, Pete. Under the weather?”

“Uh-huh. ‘ve got the flu.”

Bucky and Tony stand back while Bruce pokes and prods the kid, taking his temperature, listening to his heart and lungs, interrogating him about his symptoms, medical history, and current medications. He examines the bottle of cold medicine that Peter drank from on the way over, face serious and stern. His diagnosis only backs up FRIDAY’s findings: atypical pneumonia, something most people Peter’s age would have been able to fight off alone.

“I’m prescribing an antibiotic to help you along,” Bruce says.

“Oh, I can’t afford that,” says Peter.

“It’s on the house,” Tony calls from where he and Bucky are setting the table for three. “Consider it complimentary—like the bottles of shampoos at hotels. Bruce, are you joining us? It’s Thai.”

“No, thank you,” Bruce says without offering an excuse. He packs up his back but leaves the antibiotic on the solid fiberglass coffee table. If Peter wonders why Bruce already had the antibiotic on him, he doesn’t question it, just stares at the bottle looking a little glossy-eyed. Bruce gives Tony a pointed glance. “That there is azithromycin, which could clear up a wide range of illnesses. But Peter should still be seen by a doctor who can perform a thorough examination. Understand?”

“Understood.” Tony salutes. He owes the younger man one; actually, a million ones, considering how many sticky situations Bruce has gotten him out of over the years. With nothing but a tense smile, Bruce sees himself to the elevator. Once he is gone, they turn their attention to the young man on the couch who is cradling the bottle of medicine to his chest like a drunkard might the bottle. “Hey Peter. Are you hungry? Do you like Thai?”

“Starving,” Peter says. “And I’m not picky, I’d eat anything. But you don’t have to go through any extra trouble for me, Mr. Stark. I’m just honored to be here.”

“No trouble at all,” Tony insists. “The food is already here. I hope that someone eats it, lest it go to waste. Need help making it to the table, kiddo? Bucky here makes an excellent chariot. Quite the ride.”

The look Bucky gives him might send a lesser man cowering: the perfect mixture of scathing and unamused. But when Peter does nothing but sigh and say, I’ll bet, the former assassin gets distinctly red around the ears. And that is an interesting development, in all of this. It isn’t a stretch that Peter would be attracted to Bucky (anyone with eyes would be), but for the first time, Tony wonders if Bucky’s interest in Peter isn’t entirely platonic.

Peter stumbles on the way to the table, giggles, buzzing off of the cough syrup he drank on the way over. Bucky is nothing short of a gentleman, stiffly helping Peter to a chair, offering him first servings from all of the boxes of takeout. Tony makes a note to himself: no funny business. The kid isn’t in his right mind—even on his best days, he’s obviously vulnerable. As cute as he is, the idea of the kid as prey turns Tony off entirely.

Over dinner, they make small talk. Peter and Tony do, that is. Bucky listens, thoughtful and solemn while he fills and clears his plate twice. A few times, he smiles, when Peter does something absolutely goofy—like missing his mouth with the fork and smearing food on his cheek—and the look he gives Tony is so fond, a shake of his head, like he’s known Peter all his life and is telling Tony, Get a load of this kid, always so silly.

“Bucky tells me money is tight for you,” Tony feels comfortable enough to bring up after the plates are cleared, boxes are emptied, all of them reclining back in their seats, bellies full and sated.

Peter looks sleepy, eyes half-closed. He nods. “It is. I applied to NYU when my aunt and uncle were still alive. They said they’d help me pay for it, since my parents weren’t alive to help themselves. I got a scholarship that was going to do the rest, and everything seemed great my first few semesters. Then they passed away. I tried the work-study program, but there are limits on how many hours they’ll work students. So I worked a few other jobs too—but it just made everything worse. My grades slipped and I lost my scholarship.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters. “You’re one unlucky kid.”

“Look—Peter. It’s no secret that I’ve got more money than I know what to do with. Bucky here has taken a liking to you—” Peter gives a soft aww, looking so tender and touched “—I hope that you’ll let me help you out with some expenses. Get you back on your feet and focusing on your studies. How does that sound?”

Peter hums, one hand resting on his rounded stomach. “Mr. Stark—it sounds like a dream. Honestly. I’ve had like, three different dreams with hot older—uh—wait—what was I saying—”

“No, please, go on.”

“I just mean—I want to say yes.” His face grows serious, the thin, pretty mouth down-turned, a furrow between his eyebrows. “Not having any money—being poor, I guess—it’s really hard. And I know that I’m luckier than a lot of people. At least I’m not sleeping on the street. At least I’ve got, got clothes and stuff, you know. At least Mr. Rumlow lets me suck him off in exchange for rent. But my aunt and uncle, they didn’t raise me to—”

“Sorry, Pete, let’s back up,” Tony says. On his respective side of the table, Bucky has stiffened. He sits, stoic, hands clenched into fists on his lap, staring down at his empty plate. His jaw is a sharp enough weapon without it being clenched tightly enough to grind his teeth. Tony works hard to keep his own expression neutral and unalarmed, even though he feels nothing short of horrified. “Who is Mr. Rumlow?”

“Mr. Rumlow is the super. He runs the Lafayette Hall.”

“And you’ve got an arrangement with him.”

Peter hums, nodding. He coughs a little, and they wait, still like statues for him to continue. “I was late one month with rent. Single room apartments are so expensive. Mr. Rumlow was real understanding, though.”

Bucky gets up, chair screeching against the floor. He mutters some excuse and stalks to the balcony, opening the doors and stepping out into the wind. It’s starting to mist, and Bucky looks like a phantom haunting the building, a handsome gargoyle dressed in black, hair dripping, standing perfectly still with his hands on the railing. No doubt with his enhanced senses, he can still hear their conversation, but at least with his face turned towards the city, he can react however he needs to.

“It sounds like it,” Tony says, heart clenching. “Is that—something you like?”

“What’s not to like?” Peter asks. Something about this must be reaching through his drug induced fog, because his eyes are a little wider and more alert; perhaps, the haze of the cough syrup is fading. He sits up a litter straighter in his chair. “Free rent, Mr. Stark.”

“I mean to ask (and forgive me, kid, tactfulness is not in my DNA) if you’d engage Mr. Rumlow that way without the—ah—benefits.”

“Probably not,” Peter says. He looks down at his dress pants. The knees of his khakis are faded, worn, and he rubs at the spot anxiously. “He’s not really my type. But sometimes it does make me feel less lonely. Is that bad?”

It’s terrible. It’s heartbreaking. It’s illegal in New York. It’s immoral—the nerve of a person to take advantage of another’s financial vulnerability and coax them into prostitution—it makes Tony want to explode. But that’s not going to benefit Peter.

And that’s certainly not how Tony is going to get even with this Mister Rumlow. “No,” Tony says, soft. “I don’t think that’s bad.”

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, blinking slowly. “Could you call me a cab? I’m—I think I’m about to fall asleep on your table. It’s a nice table though. I’m sure it’d be very comfortable.”

“I’m sure that it wouldn’t, kid. I could call you a cab if you want. We’ve also got spare rooms here at the Tower, though. Why don’t you stay here tonight, take your first round of antibiotics and stick around for Bruce to be close by in case you need him?”

Peter turns pink, tickled at the offer. “You’ve already been so nice—I couldn’t—"

“You could. Like the Thai food, kid—if you aren’t enjoying those organic cotton sheets, then no one is. In the morning, we can talk more over breakfast. How do you feel about waffles?”

That sells him. The kid already looks hungry. “Alright. If you insist. Is Mr. Bucky okay? He’s been gone for a minute.”

“Mr.—” Tony laughs long and loud, unable to stop himself even as Peter’s face turns red. Out on the balcony, Bucky hunches over, and Tony thinks that maybe he’s laughing too. Smiling at least. Because the kid really is too fucking cute. “You can just call him Bucky. Formalities make him nervous. How about we check out the meds Bruce set you up with and then find you a room?”

“Sounds great,” Peter says. He’s the picture of contentment. “But I don’t have any way to repay you for all this, Mr. Stark.”

“Tony, kid. And don’t worry about it; I’m not looking for reimbursement.”

“I could suck you off,” Peter says, a little breathless. Coy, looking up at Tony through his eyelashes—only, no, that’s not coyness, it’s shyness. And instead of turning him on, the offer makes his heart break. “It works for Mr. Rumlow.”

“That doesn’t work for me, kid. Thanks, but no thanks.” He helps Peter out the chair, but with food in him, still feeling the benefits of the medicine he took, he is much steadier. Once he’s sure that the kid won’t tip out, Tony gives him space. He feels like a creep, thinking how adorable the kid is when obviously other people have seen it to—and abused it.

“In the morning, can I put peanut butter on my waffles?” Peter asks.

“You can put caviar on your waffles for all I care, kid.”

“I’ll stick with the peanut butter, thanks.”

After Peter has taken his first dose of antibiotics (and spent several long minutes ooo-ing and aww-ing over the guest room), he asks if he could speak to Bucky for a moment. Bucky is still on the balcony, soaked and unmoving. If he hears Peter ask, he doesn’t show it. Tony waves him ahead, standing back far enough that he knows he’ll have no chance at overhearing. Let Pete have his privacy.

Bucky is pale and solemn when he turns, blinking rain out of his eyes. The railing is twisted where he hands have been, but Tony doesn’t think that Peter notices. They exchange brief words, and then Peter hugs Bucky, wrapping thin arms around Bucky’s waist, resting his head against Bucky’s broad chest. They look like yin and yang. It’s art, he thinks. FRIDAY, image capture, please. The tenderness with which Bucky lifts a hand to cradle the back of Peter’s head is—God. Tony loves him.

When Peter comes back in, Bucky is on his heels. Peter’s shirt is wet from where he pressed against Bucky, and his cheeks are flushed, maybe with returning fever. Maybe. “Goodnight, Mr. Stark,” Peter says.

“Goodnight, kid. You need anything, just step out of your room and shout. Bucky here is a light sleeper.”

That makes Peter’s face turn even pinker as he bobs a nod and then disappears into the guest room, closing the door behind him softly.

“Are we, like, fucked over this kid?” Tony asks, jerking a thumb towards the guest room.

Bucky just shakes his head, and that’s all the answer Tony needs.

-

Tips not required but very welcome. Leave behind a prompt and I’ll write you a drabble in exchange. <3 Ko-Fi is here. 

Tag list: @shinycreatoroafbonk @kkomusume @bound-vivisection @sorgmantel @phoenixwench @latenightsintherain @bros-before-ghosts @starkerthanreality @richieleeparker

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[theartoflovingthomashunt]

Dx: Worth the Risk[AU]

[Hollywood U Masterlist] || [Red Carpet Diaries Masterlist]  || [Baby Hunt Masterlist] – – – Characters: Alex, Thomas Hunt, Ethan Ramsey, Ellie Shephard (OH: MC) Notes: secret @choicesaprilchallenge​

Catch up on Love and Scotch

This takes place in my Hollywood U AU... Alex and Hunt are engaged and planning their wedding. Ethan is an old friend who is struggling to keep a professional relationship with the newest member of his diagnostics team *** This is set after OH2 Chapter 8. ***

This takes place after my Ethan companion fic Full Coverage, where Ellie gives Ethan a massage while they’re cooking dinner.  

☆  ☆   ☆   ☆   ☆ 

“Don’t!” Hunt watched Alex fiddled with her phone beneath her fingers. 

“It’s been two days!” Alex groaned. “Two days!”

“Let it be,” he suggested.

“I can’t! You know that!” Alex crossed her arms. “He’s not replying to my texts or calls–and no, before you suggest it, he’s not too busy. What if something happened to them?”

“Nothing happened,” Hunt reassured her. “Maybe, they just stayed in for the weekend. Have you thought of that?”

“Yes! Of course! But, let’s be real. It’s Ethan! If he made it through one night with her that would be huge. Ethan Ramsey is not escalating from ‘I’m Mr. Grumpy Professional and I’m in complete denial’ to ‘I love you, Ellie. Let’s spend the next two days in bed’ overnight. I mean, would you have?”

Hunt cupped her face, his thumb caressing her cheek gently. “No, I don’t suppose he would.”

He sighed taking his own phone out, texting Ethan, “Just answer her. I’m fairly certain she’s about ready to book a flight to Boston to check on you.” 

“Still nothing?” Alex questioned after a couple of hours. “He’s ignored us before, but not like this. What do you think happened?” 

Hunt knew exactly what happened. He knew better than anyone. That feeling of first realizing there’s no way out, that you can’t fight it anymore despite knowing better, admitting to yourself what you want and letting yourself accept it–it’s suffocating. Focusing on enjoying the bliss of new love growing is secondary to the overwhelming what-ifs, ‘what if I screw this up’, ‘what if I’m not good enough for her’, ‘what if I hurt her’, ‘what if this destroys her career’…what if. Soon followed by the ‘she’s better off without me’. Until finally, he realizes that she’s the only thing in this world that does matter. Ethan Ramsey finally admitted to himself he was capable of love, or whatever scientific or medical explanation he will accept to explain away the feelings–that’s what happened. 

Alex never knew the conflict he faced that night. It wasn’t a secret, it just wasn’t something she could ever understand. 

He texted Ethan again: “I understand. I was terrified when I first realized I wanted Alex. That I needed her. That night when it all changed, when she was at my house, I did everything to stay away from her. But there are some things you can’t fight. Love is one of them, my friend. Whatever happened the other night on your date, I suspect something changed. I know the conflict you feel. We don’t have to talk. Just let Alex know you’re okay.” 

Ethan: “It wasn’t a date”

Hunt: “Did you want it to be?”

Ethan: “It was a mistake.”

Hunt: “Call me? You know how I loathe texting.”

Hunt’s phone lit up with a video call request from Ethan. 

Ethan’s eyes were tired and full of worry. “I figured Alex was nearby and would want to listen in.”

“Oh, Ethan!” Alex looked at him with concern. “What happened?”

“I made a mistake.” He shook his head, clearly disappointed in himself. 

“What happened?” Hunt asked. 

Ethan ran his fingers through his hair. “I kissed her, Ellie.” 

“I’m waiting for the mistake,” Alex interrupted the silence. 

“That’s all,” Ethan admitted. “I didn’t want to stop.”

“So, the mistake is that you didn’t go far enough?” Alex questioned with hope.

“No, the kiss itself was the mistake. Letting myself give in was the mistake,” Ethan explained, taking a drink of his scotch, hoping to find answers in the bottle. “Though, I suppose I owe you a thank you, Alex.”

“What do you mean?” She asked. 

“The other night, when you called, there was a–let's call it a mixup,” Ethan tried to hide the smirk playing on his lips at the memory with his glass. “Ellie was giving me a massage. She suggested taking it somewhere more comfortable. If you hadn’t called. I don’t think I would have stopped her.”

“No, no, no!” Alex’s eyes widened. She had tried so hard to get them together, she couldn’t have been what kept them apart. “I didn’t. OMG, I did! She was talking about massaging when I heard her in the background. Ethan, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. I can’t let it happen again,” Ethan insisted. “I need to do better.”

“Alex?” Hunt brushed her hair to the side. “Give us a minute.” 

“Sure.” She nodded and left the room. 

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’m going to say it anyway,” Hunt began. He recounted all the thoughts and feelings that coursed through him that night when he finally realized he couldn’t fight it anymore. Every detail that he had never shared with anyone and had never planned to, but he knew his friend needed to hear it. He was so close to accepting the inevitable. He just needed to know he wasn’t alone and that it is possible for it to work. He and Alex were proof of what can be won, if you’re willing to fight for it.

“What if a patient suffers because of this?” Ethan questioned. 

“They won’t,” Hunt reassured him.

“How can you possibly know? She’s here to learn, how can I push her if I …” His voice trailed away. “I can’t be soft with her. She deserves the best education.”

“And she can still have it. I was afraid being with Alex would affect her education. When the board reviewed our relationship, they found that I was harder on her and pushed her more than the others,” Hunt explained. “You can have her and help her grow, you just have to find that balance and it’s there.” 

“Fuck, Hunt. What has she done to me?” Ethan groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“You already know the answer and when you’re ready, you’ll realize that even you have never been happier,” Hunt smiled. “Trust me. Some things are worth the risk and I’d bet anything, she is.” 

Ethan considered all they had discussed for a moment. “Thanks, Hunt.”

After the call ended, Hunt found Alex sitting on a lounge chair on the terrace. He slid in beside her kissing the crown of her head as he wrapped his arms around her. 

“What was that for?” Alex looked up at him.

His lips brushed against hers softly. “Because I love you.”

“I love you, too.” She curled into him. “Do you think Ethan and Ellie are going to be okay?”

Hunt threaded his fingers through her hair and down her back as he held her close. “I know they are.”

☆  ☆   ☆   ☆   ☆

Perma tags: @lilyofchoices ; @simplymissjulia​ ; @mfackenthal ; @the-soot-sprite ; @virtuallytakenby​ ; @zeniamiii ; @kaavyaethanramsey​

Thomas Tags: @alleksa16  ;    @flyawayboo    ;  @alj4890  ;  @twin-skltns   ;    @ab1901 ;   @riseandshinelittleblossom  ; @hopelessromantic1352  ;   @thearianam  ; @trappedinfandoms​; @zodiacsign1 ; @curiouslittlefreak ; @sharrybh20 ; @awkwardambition ; @jodibo ; @xjustin-ethansgirliex

Ethan Ramsey tags:  @ethandaddyramsey ; @mvalentine; @edith-eggs1 ; 

[buckleyirondad]

 xxix. numb

Beck knew he would win. Even dead, he got the last laugh. He planned this, and Peter hadn’t seen it coming.

Peter was stupidly naive. He let himself believe that he could start leading a somewhat normal life, despite everything that he’d been through. 

New York City and the rest of the world would see the footage. They’d see Spider-Man, a hero they trusted, commence a drone attack on London. They’d witness Beck’s last moments, and believe him to be the hero. It wasn’t real, but the lie was edited seamlessly. It didn’t look fake. Seeing is believing.

Peter narrowed his eyes at the screen, as J. Jonah Jameson kept droning on about Mysterio. Peter hoped this would be his saving grace, the video was released by an untrusted source, perhaps that worked in his favour. However, the world was messed up, and people pretty much believed everything they saw and heard. Peter kept a firm hand wrapped around the lamppost that he was perched on, his knees had already turned to jelly, and he feared the fall. He unconsciously leant back into his defensive position, as his senses spiked. “But that’s not all folks…”  Jameson proclaimed, “Here’s the real blockbuster. Brace yourselves, you might wanna sit down.” Beck flashed back onto the screen, with red-rimmed eyes, and a panicked expression. Peter had to hand it to the illusion, it looked more than real, “Spider-Man’s real…” Beck flinched, looking to the side, adding to the trick that he was hiding from Spider-Man; he turned back to the camera, “Spider-Man’s real name is --” Peter’s heart dropped. This couldn’t happen. If this happened, it was over. Everyone he loved would be in danger. The footage glitched out, and he hoped that was it.  His prayers weren’t answered. Beck came back on, red-faced, with tears in his eyes, sadder than before, as if he were recovering from the betrayal of a friend, “Spider-Man’s name is Peter Parker!”

Peter’s stomach lunged, when the video cut to a picture of him. It was a recent yearbook photo of him smiling. May had a copy at home, so did Pepper. It used to be harmless, and now, it was incriminating.

Peter brought his hands to the side of his head as he exclaimed, “What the fuck?” The sound around him drowned out into a high-pitched squeal. He didn’t panic, scream, or cry. It was too much input. He was feeling so much at once, that he didn’t feel anything at all. His balance faltered, and the next thing he knew,  he toppled off the lamppost, landing with a thump on the concrete below. It should have hurt, but it didn’t; his suit reported three minor fractures in his right leg and a bruised vertebrae, but he didn’t care.  He turned to his side, coughing violently, as air forced its way back into his startled lungs.  He could hear voices, through the continuous ringing in his ears. People were screaming at him, making vile remarks. The words and statements that were said, he would never have the heart to repeat. However, he still didn’t care. “Peter!” Michelle’s panic-stricken voice woke Peter from his dissociation. She was at the epicentre of the forming mob, that meant she was in danger. That, he cared about. He sat up, shuffling away from the crowd, who were attempting to grab him. Michelle broke through, pushing people out of the way, as she chanted his name. She collapsed beside him, taking his arm, “We have to get out of here.”  Peter nodded, as he stood, she quickly secured herself around him.   “Get away from her!” Somebody screamed, dozens of people echoed the same message. Peter ignored them, he made sure Michelle was safe in his grasp and swung away. He flew over the crowd, and charged across rooftops, looking for a space to lay low, for a short while. Michelle buried her face against his shoulder and held onto him for dear life. He landed in an abandoned alleyway. Somewhere they could hide until Happy found them. He’d already sent an alert to Peter’s suit, telling him that he was on his way.   He let go of Michelle, and stumbled to a nearby wall, with an outstretched hand. He clumsily slid down and hugged his knees to his chest. Michelle knelt in front of him, “Hey.” She reached forward and pulled his mask off.  Peter stared at her, as she brushed his loose curls out of his eyes, “It’s not true.”  “Don’t be an idiot.” She nudged his cheek as she sat back, “I know it’s not.” “It looked true.” “The Daily Bugle is shit.” She was rattled by what they’d seen, angry even. Peter couldn’t explain how he felt, and he was starting to think something was wrong with him, “Everyone knows that. It’s fake news.” You’ll see, Peter. People tend to believe…And nowadays…they’ll believe anything. Peter shrugged, as he leaned his head against the wall, “That doesn’t matter.” “If anyone believes that, then they’re dumb….”  “I guess.” The pair sat in silence for a short while; Michelle kept rhythmically drumming her fingers against Peter’s leg, anxiously.  It wasn’t long until Happy’s car swung around the corner, skidding to a sudden halt. He jumped out, panic etched across his face, “Hey!” He bellowed, “Get in!” Michelle helped Peter to his feet, and the pair charged over, clambering into the back of the car.  Michelle, being the responsible person she was, buckled Peter in, and then herself, in the middle seat, so she could hold his hand. If they weren’t in a high-stress situation, she’d probably have some terrifying facts about seat-belt safety.  Happy floored it, getting back onto the main road, as fast as he could, “Are you both okay?” Peter knew Happy meant well, but that question was dumb. “Sorry. Stupid question.”  Michelle leaned forward, “Where are we going?”  “…It’s one of Tony’s old safe houses. Well, apartments. ” He blurted, “May’s already there.” Happy and Michelle kept talking among themselves but Peter drowned them out. All he could think about was the irony of the situation. Edith was an anagram. It was a playful and jokey term that Tony had found amusing, and knew he could use to ease the suffering of whoever used them. Even dead, I’m the hero. It had two meanings now. The second was never Tony’s intention. Tony was dead, and he was a hero. Always would be. Beck was dead, and to the world, he too was a hero. People would be him on the same podium as Tony, and that was truly disturbing.  Peter had cut himself off from reality and he didn’t realise until they were walking.  Michelle’s hand was pressed against his hip, as she helped guide him up the stairs of a crappy dismal apartment complex. 

Happy was a few steps ahead. They stopped outside a high-tec front door, now this was more Tony Stark. He scanned his hand, and as soon as the door clicked open, he ushered them inside.  The apartment was laid out like one of the communal lounges at the Avengers Headquarters. May leapt off the couch, tears in her eyes as she hurried over, “Peter!” She exclaimed, “Michelle.” She pulled the pair into a hug, “Thank God.” She leaned back, pressing a hand against Peter’s cheek, “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” “Um-hm.” Peter pulled away from them, and fell back onto the couch, he mindlessly stared ahead. May caught Michelle’s wrist, “Thank you.” Michelle’s face fell, in confusion,  “For what?” “We saw the footage from …from Times Square….” May stuttered, “Thank you for getting him out of that.” “It’s okay.” Michelle said, “Um, what’s next? What are we gonna do?” “Pepper’s on it.” Happy answered, I’m not sure what that means exactly, but when she says she’s sorting something, she’ll sort it.”  Great, Pepper had been dragged into this. Another two people Peter loved that were now in danger, her and Morgan. Pepper had enough to worry about. She’d lost her husband, not even a year ago, and she had a daughter to look out for.  “Rhodey’s make it priority number one too.” Happy added. Peter brushed a hand over his face, emotions running high. Rhodey was Vice President, surely he had more dire situations to deal with. He was running for office in the new year, and Peter didn’t want to be the reason he lost his chance, “Why?”  Happy’s breath hitched, stumped by Peter’s question, “Huh?” Peter held out his hands, “There’s no point.”  May stepped closer, worry swimming in her eyes, “Peter?” “They know who I am.”  “We’ll deal with this, kid.” Happy said, reassuringly. It was times like this when Peter missed the pessimistic straight-forward Happy, the one who took no shit. He was overly optimistic these days, and Peter didn’t want that. He wanted the truth, and no one was giving it to him. “No, there’s no dealing with it.” Peter argued, “There’s no hiding”.  “We know, honey.” May sympathised, “Hey, Tony did–” “That was his choice.” Peter interrupted, knowing where she was going with her point. Yeah, Tony revealed his identity, but he wasn’t framed for murder on the same day, “This wasn’t mine.” Tony had also confessed to Peter once, that he regretted the choice he made, “It was a secret…for a reason. To keep…” Happy sighed, “We’ll be okay, Pete.” Peter leaned forward, throwing out his arm, “How do you know that?” “I just do.” Peter deflated, folding his arms over his chest, “Well, you’re not the first person who promised me that.. so…I can’t…” Silence fell over the room, they weren’t idiots and realised that he was referring to Tony. Happy stepped into another room when Pepper called.  Michelle kept her eyes locked onto Peter, he could tell she had a thousand things she wanted to say.  She moved her focus onto May, “Is Ned safe?”  Dread shot up Peter’s back, as he slowly became aware of how he was feeling.  “Yeah,” May nodded, “He’s with his parents.”  “Good.” Michelle buried her hand into her pocket and pulled out her phone; Peter could tell it was on silent because it would have blown up with notifications, after the reveal. She scrolled through it as she paced around.  Her mouth twitched in the corner, as a knowing sad smile spread over her face. She walked over to him, “Here.” She held out her phone, wanting him to take it. “What?” She held it closer to his face, “Just look.”  “Okay.” He took it. It was on her Twitter. The trending page to be exact, every single hashtag and headline was about him. Something warm spread across his chest, when he saw what the top results were; #standwithspiderman, #fakenews, #peterparker, #spidermanisinnocent. He ignored the third one, which was #justiceformysterio because it was the only negative trend. The rest were for him. Perhaps people weren’t as terrible as he thought they could be. Beck was wrong about humanity too, it seemed together, humanity can tell truth from fiction. Michelle sat beside him, she took his hand, “I get it, loser.” She said softly, “I do…but you’re wrong. We can fix this.”  Peter nodded, as he squeezed her hand. He kept scrolling through, reading comments. Stories from those who had been saved by Spider-Man; there were multiple video clips, audio recordings and photos. They were testimonies, proof that he was innocent.  He stumbled across a bunch of Twitter threads from his classmates, some from his current year, and some of those who’d survived the blip, and were now in their twenties.  Curiosity got the best of him, and he clicked onto Flash’s profile - ironically, his @ was ‘spideyno1fan.’ There was one tweet that read ‘sPiDeR-MaN’S NaMe iS PeTeR PaRkEr’ and underneath was a picture of the infamous Spongebob meme. The next one was captioned, ‘when you knowingly teased your hero for two years’ attached was a picture of a guy putting on a clown wig.  Peter snorted a quiet laugh, he needed to text Flash when he had the chance, to make sure he wasn’t having a mental breakdown. They were on good terms recently, and he hoped this didn’t taint that. He realised it didn’t when he saw Flash’s most tweet, which was genuinely kind. He had written, ‘parker is a dumbass but he’s no bad guy #standwithspiderman’ and with it, was a photo of the class on the field trip, they were laughing at a joke Peter had made, he couldn’t remember exactly what he’d said, but it was something to do with the crowd of pigeons surrounding them.  Peter moved on to Betty’s profile; her tweet had gained some traction, with almost 100k retweets. It was a picture of them hugging on the field trip, and the caption read, ‘Peter once waited with me, until my parents arrived to pick me up from school. It was dark, and my phone had stopped working. He wanted to make sure I was safe before he left #standwithspiderman' 

Peter’s heart fluttered, when a new notification came through. Liz tweeted, Peter’s first crush and the daughter of his first ‘bad guy.’ She survived the blip and had finished college. Now, she finally knew and understood why Peter ditched her at Homecoming. He clicked on it, afraid that she might resent him for what he did. She didn’t.  Her story was too long for Twitter, so she had typed it on the notes of her phone.  “Back in 2016, Peter Parker was my homecoming date. He is a good friend, and one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. He flaked at the dance, and I thought it was because he was nervous. Now, I know, he left to save the day. He stopped my father, Adrian Toomes, from stealing dangerous high tech weaponry. My dad hurt him, and Peter could have left him to die like other heroes might have, but he didn’t. He saved his life. If that doesn’t tell you what kind of hero Peter is, I don’t know what will.”  Peter brushed tears away with the back of his hand, as his feelings caught up with his mind. He quickly noticed that Rhodey was trending. He feared that Rhodey getting involved might taint his Presidential Campaign but he knew they’d be no stopping him. He clicked on his page, and his heart leapt into his throat when he saw what he’d posted. It was a clip, simply tagged #standwithpeterparker. It was one of their monthly training days, from before the blip; Peter would travel to the Headquarters and spend the day completing tasks set by Tony and Rhodey.

Peter clicked play, and watched, with teary-eyes.  Peter is standing in his suit, without his mask on. He is out of breath, and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, “Are you done?” He asks as he places his hands on his hips. “Incoming!” Tony warns as he tackles Peter in a hug, holding him a few inches off the ground. Rhodey, behind the camera, laughs.  “Ah, Mr. Stark!” Peter chuckles as he taps his hands against his arm. “You’ve gotta stay vigilant, kid.”  Peter rolls his eyes, “A hug is not dangerous.” “Oh, really?” Tony starts to spin him on the spot, they both giggle playfully. “Congrats, Tones!” Rhodey exclaims, “You’re a dad.” Peter noticed, through glazed eyes, that Rhodey had tagged Pepper in the tweet. Peter clicked on her profile, he didn’t expect to see anything. She hadn’t used Twitter in years, and since Tony died, she made an effort to keep a low profile for Morgan’s sake.  To his surprise, she had posted. She hadn’t captioned it or tagged it. The picture itself said a thousand words, no more were needed. It was of Peter and Tony, curled up on the couch. Peter was fast asleep, with his head rested against Tony’s chest, and his knees sprawled across his lap. Tony was twiddling his fingers around Peter’s curls, with the Spider-Man mask draped over his shoulder; Peter remembered the day, it followed one of his toughest patrols where he hadn’t been able to save the life of a young woman. Tony comforted him. He’d seen the picture before, it had been Pepper’s lock screen on her phone. After all these years, it still was. (Her background was Morgan, obviously.) Peter moved, leaning his head against Michelle’s shoulder. She tightened her grasp on his hand, “It’s gonna be alright.”  Peter’s throat cracked, but she was right. They’d find their equilibrium, no matter how crazy their new normal would have to be, “I know.” 

[turning-dreams-into-chaos]

New Beginnings (Part 7)

*Not My Gif*

Post date: 12-16-19

Paring: Peter Parker x Stark!Reader

Word Count: 3K

~New Beginnings~

~Master~

~Series Master~

The flight to Europe was nerve racking to say the least. You tried to busy yourself with anything you could as Peter made his new suit, helping pick out features and advancements until Happy come out.

“Ok, Fury’s got the coded message.” Happy told you as you spun around to face him.

“Think he understood?” You asked the men as Peter, put his hand on you to comfort you. “Well, I guess if he didn’t we’re screwed so…”

“Hey.” Peter whispered as he rubbed your back, making you take a deep breath. “It’ll work.” He assured you, your smile brightened as you ducked your head.

“Your friends are at the tower bridge.” Happy said as he showed you the phone and Flash’s vlog. “We’re close.” You nodded your head, hoping that this all would work out in your favor. “How’s the suit coming?”

“Almost done.” Happy asked Peter to run through what he was going to do. “I know his illusion tech. If I take it down then he’s just a man and I can take EDITH back.”

“Yeah.” You interrupted him, “But last time you got hit by a train.” Happy agreed with you as Peter nodded.

“True, but I have this sort of sixth sense.”

“Your Peter-Tingle.” You sputtered out a laugh, quickly bringing your hand up to hide the smile spread across your face. Peter glared at you, his eyes wide as you buried your face against his arm.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry! It’s just, Peter-Tingle.” You laughed once again as Happy chuckled, Peter finding everything not amusing .

“Can we get back to the bad guy wanting to kill our friends!” His voice cracked as he raised it, making you turn your smile into a forced frown and standing up straighter.

“Right, I’m sorry, continue.”

Peter eyed you one more time before Happy spoke up. “But isn’t your Peter Tingle not working?” You tried hard to keep your laughs in you as Happy kept repeating Peter Tingle before leaving you both in the workspace. Peter saw your expression, the way your mouth was a very clear forced U and your eyes narrowing.

“Ok, let it out.” Peter beckoned as you let out your laugh, even making the boy laugh with you a little. “Are you done.” You nodded as you pulled Peter over to his suit, watching as it placed the spider in the chest. “It looks good.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it does.” You turned around to face him, as your body pressed into his, not at all expecting to be that closer. It was almost as if you were frozen, yet you had complete control of your body and didn’t try to move. Not that Peter did either. You stared into his brown eyes, his breathing low and controlled as his hand found its way to your hip.

“Y/N.” His voice was quiet, and your heart sounded in your ears, barely drowning out his words. “Be careful.” He told you as you sucked in a breath and bit your lip.

“Me be careful?” You grabbed his other hand, threading your fingers together. “Pete, I’m not the one who’s fighting a mad man who wants to kill half of London. I need you to be careful. I can’t lose you and swear to god, if you die, I’ll kill you.” Peter chuckled, his eyes closing momentarily as you drank in his smile and laugh, praying to anyone that it wouldn’t be the last time you got to hear it. Peter’s eyes opened and like you, he relished the gentle look on your face and your mouth. But in the closeness of your bodies, Peter’s eyes focused more on your lips and you did the same. Your breath stopped, extending out the seconds you both leaned into each other, eyes closing and just a few more inches.

“London Bridge’s just ahead!” Happy shouted from the cockpit as Peter jumped away, your breath slapping you as it came back, making you cough in the awkwardness as you turned to the suit with wide eyes. Peter turned to look at you, seeing the way your head drooped and your chest was rising and falling faster than normal. He reached a hand towards you but let it fall to his side before reaching you, shaking his head.

“I’ll let you get changed.” You muttered as you pushed past him, avoiding looking in his face as he watched you join Happy.

He grabbed his hair, pulling it slightly as he covered his face. He could believe he possibly just messed everything up in a matter of 5 seconds. He sighed, resting his head in his hands for a few seconds before trying to shake off those remaining feelings as he put on the suit.

You were quiet as you sat down next to Happy, staring out into the sky. Happy saw you out of the corner of his eye. The stoic expression on your face scared him as he fully looked over. “You okay?” he asked as you hummed a yes but didn’t say any more and happy that Happy didn’t push it more.

Peter crawled along on the outside of the plane as you approached the London bridge and the big almost tornado looking thing above it worried you. You pushed yourself off the chair and came closer to the window, peering out of it with worry as Happy and Peter talked.

“Peter are you sure that’s not real?” Happy asked as Peter clung to the plane, looking at the creature.

“Yeah, but it’s a hundred times bigger than we expected.” You said as you fell back into your seat with a heavy sigh. There was no way this could end the way you wanted. “You need to get higher Happy.”

“Y/N’s right! You need to get higher so Beck can’t see me coming!” Peter shouted as you turned to see him. All the worries bubbling in you expressed clearly on your face and all Peter wanted to do was calm your fears, but right now he couldn’t.

“Stay sticky.” Happy told Peter as he pulled the plane up into the air more above the elemental.

“Hey Happy!” Peter yelled towards the man. “When this is over, we need to have a serious conversation about you and my aunt!” Peter flew off the plane, dropping right into the eye of the storm as you watched, grabbing onto your seat to keep you in place.

Happy and you tried to find your friends but Flash’s vlog wasn’t helping much. It was only when the elemental started to break apart and reveal the drones were you able to figure out where they were. You showed the phone to Happy as he smirked.

“Gotcha.” He landed the plane, both of rushing off and out into the streets of London. The moment you saw MJ, you ran into her, both of you wrapping your arms around each other in relief.

“Thank god!” you mumbled into her shoulder before turning to Ned and hugging him.

“Where’s Peter?” He asked, looking around for any glimpse of Peter’s spider suit. All it took was for one look at the elemental for Ned to understand.

“You all need to get on the Jet!” Happy reminded you as you nodded, grabbing your friends before MJ stopped in her tracks.

“Who are you?” She asked, squinting her eyes. You told them he was Happy Hogan and he worked with Spider-Man before Flash’s eyes lit up.

“You work for Spider-Man?!” He screamed as you held back a laugh.

Happy glared at the boy before yelling at him. “I work WITH Spider-Man, not for! And you need to get on the jet!” He repeated himself. You groaned and tried once again to pull them along before a pair of missiles hit the jet and all of a sudden it was gone. You and Happy shared a look before turning to your friends. “Ok, new plan.”

“Y/N! Are you okay?!” Peter spoke over the com you forgot you had in as you sighed, running to the tower right next to MJ.

“Yeah Pete, we’re fine.” You huffed out as you dodged the several people running past you, men and women clutching children or pulling them along and it only fueled you. “Just go get Beck. And be careful!”

“You too!” He shouted back to you. You led the group of your friends through the streets before ending up at the Crown Jewel’s Vault and telling everyone to get in. You were almost there before a drone shot right by your head, making you scream as you clutched MJ’s arm. Both of you frantically ran, holding onto each other as everyone cried out, trying not to get struck by the drone’s fire.

“Take Cover!” You dove to the side at Happy’s word, a suit of armor falling on your wrist as pain shot through your arm. MJ saw you try not to scream as she pushed the thing off you right as the shooting died down. Your backs immediately went against the wall, looking over to see Betty and Ned to you before turning to MJ. Her eyes were wide as she tried to steady her breathing and one slight look past her gave you an idea. You reached for the mace, trying to keep as quiet as possible as you heard a drone slowly make its why down the center of the room. Happy, Flash, and MJ all tried to get you stop but you ignored them, grabbing the weapon and almost letting it clatter on the ground from the weight, but you stopped just in time. The four of you sighed in relief, still very much on edge as you turned around. Betty waved at you, holding a spear in her hand as you smiled and nodded. Ned held her shoulders as she pushed the closest suit of armor over. The drone thought it was a person, shooting at the armor as you swung the mace at it, knocking it over on the first try. You groaned from the strain on your wrist, which definitely was sprained as you dropped the metal weapon on the ground, holding your wrist to your chest. MJ picked up the mace as you all ran into the Vault and Happy tried to get you just a few more seconds as he threw a shield he grabbed at the other drone. Only it fell several feet short.

“How does Cap do that?” He asked rhetorically as he pulled himself into the vault, the doors shutting behind him. Peter was talking to all again, asking if you all were alive as Happy told him you were, and that he bought some extra time. The moment he said those words, the drone fired at the door, it’s laser going right through as you held your wrist tighter in fear.

“Happy what do we do?!” you asked the man when Peter was busy with Beck, leaving the 6 of you to figure out how to save yourself as he saved the world.

“I don’t want to die!” Ned yelled out and You promised Ned he wouldn’t as the room shook. “I’ve wasted most of my life playing video games and we’re gonna die!”

The room shook again.

“I have a fake ID!” Betty admitted. “And I never even used it.

The door banged over and over, everyone screaming their secrets into the room.

“I post stupid video’s daily for people to like.” Happy rebutted Flash’s secret, telling him if it wasn’t for his video’s Spider-Man would’ve never found him. You admired Happy’s ability to make everything better in any situation. Here he was, all of you literally being shot at and Happy was telling Flash he saved them all. “Spider-Man follows me? I-I saved us guys!”

“If you saved us, then why are we going to die?!” MJ cried out as everyone yelled at her, including you as she became more distraught. “I’m Sorry! I’m obsessed with telling the truth even though it hurts other people’s feelings!”

“I’m in love with Spider-Man’s Aunt.” Happy said with one of the calmest faces you’ve ever seen before. “What? We’re sharing secrets, right?”

Your jaw shook as you heard what Happy had admitted and turned to MJ, your eyes wide before you closed them. “I’m in love with Peter Parker!” Everyone turned to you but you just turned to stare straight ahead, your breathing echoing in your ears as the drone kept shooting. The drone busted through the door and all you could think about was Peter. You didn’t want to die without telling him. You held onto your friends, pushing them behind you without thinking as MJ and Ned grabbed your arms. You were ready for the hit, mentally and physically preparing yourself but nothing. The drones stopped.

You didn’t know what to do, but no one moved. You all were too afraid that it would go off and you’d be dead like that. You stared it down, waiting for something to happen before the drones aimed at you left. Happy reached out to take the spear, or as Ned corrected him, the Halberd from Betty. The doors to the vault were pushed open as you stepped out, checking everything was fine before turning to MJ. Your eyes were watery as she nodded and you took off, ignoring Happy shouting at you as you dashed towards the bridge.

You didn’t stop running until you saw Peter. Your tears finally falling from your eyes at the sight of him. The moment Peter had saw you he choked out a sob, his limping becoming worse as he sped up, almost running to you. You threw your arms around his neck, practically crying into his shoulder as he did the same to you. “Are you okay?” you whispered as he tightened his hold, nodding into your shoulder.

“I’m okay. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I mean, I think my wrist is sprained, but I’m fine Pete.” You nodded and Peter relaxed at your touch.

“Is everyone else okay?” You nodded again, refusing to let go of him. “What happened?”

“My dad’s drones, they were just following after us and t-then they just stopped. That was you. Wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“And Beck? Is he-“ You finally let go off Peter, seeing the red rimmed eyes as he looked at you. It was almost too much for you to see as he said yes and you cupped his cheek. “Thank you for not dying Peter. I don’t think I could’ve handled that.”

Peter smiled, the cut on his lip stretching but he didn’t care as he saw you in front of him, safe. “Y/N, I have to tell you something.” You didn’t know what he was going to say but you needed to do something for you. You couldn’t get what you said in the tower out of your head so without much thought, you brought your lips up to Peter’s pressing the quickest kiss you could to them. But the second you pulled away all you wanted was more. “And you kissed me.”

“Look, Peter I don’t know what you were going to say but I need to say something first. I’ve been in love with you for I don’t even know how long. Everything you do just makes me smile and the thought of losing you today, the only time I’ve been more scared was seeing my dad die.” You felt a tear move down your cheek, but you didn’t even try to hide it as Peter’s eyes were wide, locked on your face. “I just- I needed you to know and even though I know I’ll only be your best friend and that you like MJ-“

Peter’s fingers cut your speech as he wiped your tears, bringing you back into a deeper kiss. It was everything you could’ve asked for in a kiss, but really the one thing that made it perfect was that it Peter kissing you. And he started it.

The feeling of his lips lingered on yours as he pulled away, your eyes staying closed, way past embarrassing as Peter held your hands, being mindful of your wrist. “I think... I think I was convincing myself that I liked MJ because I convinced myself you were just my best friend. And for some stupid reason, I believed myself.” You let your eyes finally open, meeting his chocolate ones as you held your breath. “I love you, too.”

His words were practically whispers, but you heard them none the less. “You do?” He nodded and you smiled brighter than you ever had before. He pulled you in for another kiss, lasting much longer than the first two and the moment it was over, you wrapped your arms around his torso, pressing your ear against his chest and hearing his racing heartbeat.

Peter never thought this would’ve happen. Ever. And he wasn’t going to pass it up. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“I should go make sure everyone’s alright.” You told Peter, trying to hide the smile on your face as you pulled away from him.

“Yeah, I should uh-“ He pointed behind him, stuttering on his words as you giggled. “Yeah.”

“Yeah.” You bit your bottom lip, not at all waiting to leave but knowing you needed to make sure everyone’s okay. “See you in little while?” Peter grinned, nodding his head before you both went your separate ways, taking one last look back until you couldn’t see each other anymore but your giddiness never left.

There’s still more to come! Please Like, Comment and Reblogging and tell me what you think of this part!

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[spideyspoods]

Deception

Pairing: Peter Parker X F!Villain!Reader

A/N: Screw tumblr mobile for deleting my fic (again)!!!! You’ll probably notice that this seems similar to @marvelsswansong‘s series Kalopsia (would recommend) and I’m sorry about that, but it happened to be purely coincidental and we came to the conclusion that it was okay to post anyways, but I made sure to add a disclaimer anyways :)

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Manipulation and a bit of angst. Far From Home spoilers!

Masterlist!

The class split up into their own groups, ready to explore everything Venice had to offer. Originally, Peter planned on sightseeing with Ned until he fell for Betty in what seemed like an instant. Unfortunately for Peter, he had no backup plan. He could either walk around aimlessly, pretending to be busy or muster enough courage to join Y/N L/N and her friends. It’s not like the latter was impossible, it was just complicated.

They’ve known each other since the very first day of high school and it seemed to be perfect. From the instant they talked, both of them knew that their friendship was there to last. She had stuck with him through the highs and lows; hell, she even knew about his biggest secret. Turns out hiding the fact that you’re some sort of superhero was hard to keep from your best friend.

So why was he nervous? Why did he feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest? He gripped onto the strap of his backpack hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Peter wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he might have a small crush on her. Sometimes, she would talk or act in a certain way to make it look like she felt the same way as he did. “Hey, Parker!” a melodic voice called out, taking him out of his racing thoughts. His eyes shot up to see the very same girl in the center of a few classmates waving in her direction, “Tell these idiots that I’m not the one who crashed into Flash’s car!” He laughed, inching his way closer towards the small crowd. He had remembered that day all too well. “Seems like I have a video that says otherwise.” Y/N stared him down, disappointed in him not covering for her while he shrugged.

The water trembled and began to form erratic waves that bashed against the wooden docks. Peter felt chills run down his spine and made eye contact with her, to which she understood. A second later, a geyser shot up to take the form of a man made of water. “Come on, let’s move!” Y/N pointed towards a closed in area, pushing people away from the scene. She waited for everyone to follow, before turning to see a green ray blast through the monster. Y/N smiled, shutting the doors.

---

The class was dismissed, heading back to their small hotel rooms for the night. Y/N dried the ends of her hair while chatting with Ned and Peter. “I still don’t understand how you were so calm during that whole Mysterio thing.”

“Hidden talent. I’m just a calm person.” Y/N folded the towel, and looked to Peter who seemed to be somewhere else. “Earth to Parker, you doing okay?” “Hey, give him a break. He just fought a water demon, Y/N.” Peter shook his head, “Yeah, yeah I’m alright. I just can’t believe I’m one day into vacation and this happens.”

“Be proud of yourself, Parker. It was kind of cool,” Y/N trailed off, smirking. Peter’s cheeks flushed, while Ned watched the two of them with a knowing look. Y/N broke off the eye contact and coughed, “Well I need to get going before Mr. Harrington comes for me. See you later.”

Y/N turned around and turned the corner, still hearing Ned’s voice. “Dude she likes you!” While it was true, she couldn’t let her feelings get the best of her. The door to her room creaked open, Betty already sleeping peacefully. The phone in her pocket vibrated and she picked it up.

about to meet him. he ask any questions?

Y/N quickly typed a reply back, none. get him it’s almost showtime.

---

The following day, everyone packed up and found a black charter bus waiting for them. Peter sighed, knowing the reason behind the sudden change. Y/N stopped next to him, looking for him to speak. “I think Nick Fury hijacked our vacation.” Her eyes bulged out of her head, practically whisper yelling. “Wait you met Fury? You better tell me everything, we have nine hours to kill.”

Y/N took the window seat while Peter sat right next to her. “Well I met Mysterio, apparently his name is actually Quentin.” She stifled a laugh which was met with a playful grin. “Sorry, but who names their kid Quentin?”

He continued to explain everything from the elementals to his new mission in Prague. “Also Fury gave me this gift. Well it’s actually from Tony, but he gave it to Fury who gave it to me-” he continued to ramble, before calming himself down. He pulled out a wooden glasses case and he opened it carefully. Y/N’s breath hitched in her throat, realizing what it was. He slipped them on, hearing a computerized voice. “Hello, Peter. My name is EDITH which stands for ‘Even Dead, I’m the Hero. Tony liked his acronyms.”

“Yeah, he did.” his voice faint, sadness panged his face. Y/N looked away, focusing on the real task at hand. She would have to wait for the next pit stop, seeing as if EDITH could look right through her phone if it was on.

“Y/N remember. We’re in it for the long game.”

---

Two hours later, they arrived to their rest stop. Everyone practically ran to the bathrooms, while Y/N turned to the left. She stood in a corner, frantically typing on her phone.

He has EDITH and explained everything.

Y/N pushed open the door, to reveal a small wooden room with a pool table. Her eyes darted to Peter with his pants down, in front of a tall European lady who stood still and intimidating. “Y/N! I promise, this isn’t what it looks like!” Her eyes welled with tears and it took everything in her to keep them from streaming. “Well it seems pretty clear from where I’m standing, Parker.” She turned right around, making sure that the door shut loudly. Y/N wiped the tears away, stomping back to the bus and into a seat as far away from him as possible. She didn’t know why she felt jealous or why she was this angry. Peter was her best friend, and they were in no means together on any term. Yet, it felt like it was an unspoken rule between them. Nothing seems to make sense anymore, she thought to herself. Her phone chimed one more time.

Perfect. Don’t let your feelings get in the way.

But it was too late.

---

Y/N had iced Peter out completely. It was better this way, as she knew what would happen in a matter of days. He had tried so hard to talk to her, only for her to walk away or find someone else to talk to. Ned was too lovesick to offer any genuine advice while MJ could have cared less. He had nowhere else to turn to aside from his Aunt May. She wanted more than anything to see the two together ever since they had met, even going out of her way to drop hints to the two kids. His phone continued to ring, before being sent to voicemail. He had almost forgotten about time zones.

---

They arrived to the empty opera house, a few minutes before curtain. His annoyed classmates found their seats, Peter scanning for Y/N in hopes to apologize. He stopped Ned at the door, “Hey where is she?”

“Oh she’s still not feeling well. You messed up big time.” Peter pinched the bridge of his nose, “I know, I was trying to apologize to her but-”

Parker, are you in position? Fury asked. “No.” Ned furrowed his brows as Peter muted his mic. “I gotta go.”

After a grueling fight with the fire elemental, Peter felt drained. Quentin’s eyes fluttered awake before slowly bringing himself to his feet. “Come on, kid. I need a drink.” He staggered to a bar, detaching his cape. “I’m underage!”

---

“I can tell something’s distracting you, kid. What is it?” Peter sipped on what seemed to be his third lemonade of the night. “It’s just that I had this chance with this girl and I kind of blew it.”

“How so?” Quentin took another sip of his drink, resting a bruised arm on the wooden bar. “I’ve known her for a long time and while I was trying on this suit, she walked in and thought something else was happening. Even though it wasn’t, she wouldn’t listen to me!” He paused, lowering his head “I was going to ask her out tonight, too. She’s been ignoring me and that whole mission thing, it’s kind of a mess.”

“You’re right, you did blow it. Well what’s her name?” He chugged the amber liquid in his glass, waiting for him to speak. “Her name is Y/N.”

Quentin’s brows shot up and he drew back. He swore he could have felt his heart stop for a minute. Damn it. “I’m sorry to hear that, Peter. You’re a nice guy, and I think she’ll come around. Just give her some time.” He stated, hoping that he didn’t hear the shakiness in his voice. At that moment, a bartender handed Peter back the glasses which he didn’t even notice were gone.

“Those were just sitting on the ground?”

“Yeah, seems like it.”

“Well try them on!” Peter reluctantly put the glasses on his face, looking back with a little smile. He tried to gage an emotion from the man sitting across from him, but his face was unreadable. “Can I be honest?” Peter nodded. “They look a little dumb.” With a frown, he took them off and handed them to Quentin. “Try them on.”

“I can’t.”

“Try them!” He pushed them up on the bridge of his nose, raising one eyebrow. Peter began to see Tony in him; someone he could trust. “For the next Tony Stark, I trust you.” he muttered.

“What?”

He repeated the same thing, a bit more confident. “Maybe Mr. Stark gave them to me so I can choose who to give it to.”

“Peter, come on. Be serious.” Peter took back the glasses and tapped the side, “Hey, EDITH. Transfer all control to Quentin Beck.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m doing the right thing.”

Any transfer will require confirmation.

“Stark gave you the glasses!”

“Stark gave me a choice, it’s my choice to make and I’m going to make it. Look, you’re a soldier! You stopped the elementals, you saved my life, you saved the world! He’d want you to have them.”

Awaiting confirmation.

“Confirm.”

Knowing that the kid was already too stubborn, Quentin reluctantly took them into his hands. “Thank you, it’s an honor. Now go and enjoy your vacation.” With one last smile, Peter collected his things and went out the door.

---

Y/N neatly folded her clothes back into her suitcase, zipping it up and setting it near the door. She huffed, just wanting to get this whole ordeal over with. The ornate hotel room filled with glimmering decorations and beautiful furniture felt empty, but she shook it off. She knew that she shouldn’t have gotten attached, everyone warned her but she did anyways. The silk curtains billowed in the wind and as Y/N went to close the window, she noticed two familiar figures with a projector piece. Peter and MJ. Shit.

Her phone chimed, a message coming from exactly who she thought it would be.

Got EDITH, meet me at the base. you and i have a lot to talk about.

Y/N bolted down the marble stairs and practically burst through the doors. She started to run, only seeing the faint light of the streetlamps. Minutes later, she heard someone call out her name. “Y/N!” Peter. He stopped her by holding her shoulders, making her face him. His brown eyes were filled with guilt and worry. “I’m so sorry, but you have to listen to me. Wait, I thought you were sick?” A part of her wanted to forgive him; to make everything go back to normal. Distancing herself seemed like the easiest way, but no one told her that it was the most painful way too.

“You’re right, I am sick” she snapped, wriggling out of his grasp. “Sick of you. I have to go.” Her words laced with venom unlike any other rang through his mind as she walked away without looking back.

---

Y/N took a deep breath before opening the doors. She had walked in the midst of their test run. Cloaked drones hovered, playing out a sequence. Quentin had taken notice of her entrance, making them pause. “Sweetheart.”

“Dad,” a bitter tone to her voice, “what do you need this time?”

“I thought we were on the same page. What was the one thing I told you not to do?” He crossed his arms, mirroring his daughter’s movements.

“Let my feelings get in the way.”

“Now imagine hearing that your target is head over heels for your own daughter. Crazy, right?” He looked down to her, eye contact unwavering.

“You don’t have to worry about that anymore.” Her mind drifting to the fight not even moments ago. “He told me everything that happened between the both of you. You’re making this harder for all of us, Y/N. You know, you’re just like your mother. You both let your feelings get the best of you.”

“Sure that I didn’t get it from you?” She stepped past him, only for him to grip onto her forearm. “Y/N you have to understand, I didn’t want to hurt him. Now you’ve left me no choice.”

“What do you mean? We agreed to leave him out of this!” Her voice rising.

He let out a wry laugh, turning away just to look back at her. “Were you not going to tell me that he knew? A projector is missing and both know who has it.” Of course he knew, she never managed to get anything past him.

“Dad, please” she pleaded. Deep down, she felt like a fool. This would have been avoidable, after all. Quentin’s eyes softened, and he pulled her in for a hug. “You know that I only want what’s best for you, right? In fact, I’ve got a brilliant idea and I can’t do it without you.” Her father’s demeanor changed under a split second, and she never knew what was going on in his head. An illusion of his own, she would tell herself. It looked like he was so wrapped up in fooling others with disguises and holograms that he forgot who he truly was. Her father wasn’t always like this, it only started to show years back when he let jealousy dictate his every move.

“What are we making this time?”

“Something tailored for the kid. Maybe these emotions had a silver lining, you know everything that he’s terrified of, right?”

Y/N hated that she continued to fight for him, knowing how many lives he had thrown away, but early on she realized there was no other way out. Quentin’s assistants followed him into the lab to get started on Peter’s nightmare. Y/N lagged behind, looking to the surveillance of Peter finding the drone.

I’m sorry.

--

thank you for reading! feedback is greatly appreciated, but not required! my requests and taglist are open, both links are in my desc!

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[aquaquadrant]

Title: it wears a mask Chapter Warnings: language, death mention. Summary: Beck has a change of heart at the trainyard and takes Peter captive instead. In many ways, it turns out much, much worse. (NOT SLASH)

Chapter Six Preview

It’s good to be back.

Beck greets his friends with smiles and nods as he makes his way through the headquarters. He’s glad to finally let himself relax and fully drop the Mysterio act. There haven’t been many moments completely to himself since London. And that costume really doesn’t breathe well.

Hill offered him a place at the old Avengers compound, and Beck had to play the ‘tortured loner’ role to decline and take off without sounding suspicious. He has his whole team to think of, not to mention Peter. And besides, what’s the fun of being a superhero if you’re living in a government sanctioned compound with constant surveillance? Stark had the right idea, living it up in his own private mansion.

The event has started Beck thinking about a more permanent settlement. This temporary headquarters isn’t too shabby, but he didn’t really want to settle in Europe. Staging his attacks in America will get him more attention; American news always does. And he can be a bit pickier about exactly where he sets up shop. This base is a bit too public for his liking. Their security is tight, but all it takes it one accidental glimpse through a door as it opens, one troublesome teenager sneaking around where they aren’t supposed to, and the whole thing is blown.

He might take some notes from the Avengers and get himself a nice, secluded compound. Sturdy, well protected, with plenty of room to breathe. And he can take notes from Wakanda and set up a perimeter of drones to hide the entire thing under cloaking technology. No shame in stealing from the best.

But he doesn’t have to think about that now. He’ll have plenty of time once the buzz from the London attack ebbs- it’s already dropped down the list of trending topics, so it won’t be long. It’s been a busy three days, but the world moves on quickly. He’ll have to get his next planned attacks rolling to stay relevant, just a few little disturbances to put him in back the headlines.

At least Beck has the time for this; checking in with his favorite web-crawling do-gooder. He’s tapped into the video feed a few times since the last time, but he hasn’t actually spoken to Peter in person since making that call to his friends. And seeing as he’s due for a check-in with everyone at home base anyways, it’s a good time as any.

Beck pauses just outside the door to Peter’s room, briefly pulling up the video feed. Peter’s sitting on his bed, finishing a sandwich while trying to look like he’s not watching the news report playing on the wall. Beck closes the projection with a grin and lets himself into the room.

Peter jumps at his entrance, and the initial surprise on his face quickly turns to alarm as he realizes who it is. The sandwich falls from Peter’s hand onto the bed as he scrambles away from Beck, his back hitting the wall.

The wound on Peter’s face looks a lot worse up close. Angry red skin borders the tiny stitches along his cheek, making it look even more out of place than the bare gash itself. His right hand in its splint is held close to his chest, his left hand pressed back against the wall.

Beck chuckles. “Aw, what’s the matter, not happy to see me?”

Peter doesn’t reply, instead continuing to study him with that distrustful, wide-eyed gaze.

Beck puts his hands on his hips. “Oh, what, what’s that look for? I’m just here to talk.”

Peter hesitates. “I don’t know if you’re real,” he says, wary.

“You’re still on this?” Beck asks incredulously. “What reason would I have for appearing as an illusion now instead of just talking to you through Herod’s intercom?”

Instead of an answer, Peter blinks at him. “Herod?”

Ah shit, right. “Oh, that’s what I’ve named your drone,” Beck explains, waving a hand. He grins. “It’s a biblical reference, get it? Peter and Herod?”

Peter’s face is blank. “We don’t really, uh… go to church so, yknow…”

Beck raises his eyebrows. “Really? You’ve never heard of- forget it.” He shakes his head, mildly disappointed. “Now, even if I was an illusion, what would be the harm? Clearly I’m not going to kill you, otherwise I would’ve done it already. You’re a prisoner in a secure cell. Why would I use an illusion to attack you now?”

Peter’s expression grows guarded, and it’s immediately clear to Beck that an answer has come to Peter’s mind and he doesn’t like it. “You tell me,” he snaps.

“Ooh, getting feisty, are we?” Beck taunts, unfazed by the insult. “It’s amazing what a hot shower, a change of clothes, a good meal, and medical treatment will do for the spirit, huh?”

“Stop it,” Peter says, his voice low. His shoulders hunch by his ears defensively. “I just… need to know if you’re real.”

It comes out a lot more wobbly than Peter probably intended. Beck puts his hands on his hips, nonplussed. He genuinely didn’t expect the illusions to have such a lasting effect on the kid’s head- but in hindsight, Beck shouldn’t be surprised. He’s won Peter’s trust only to tear it all down, throw him into a nightmare, almost kill him, and then take him captive. Even if there wouldn’t be any danger involved this time, Peter doesn’t want to be tricked again. It’s only natural.

“Well, I already know you won’t take my word for it,” Beck says eventually. He stretches an arm out, almost as if for a handshake. “Go ahead, see for yourself.”

Peter gives a start, like he hadn’t expected Beck to go along with it. Then he’s wary again, eyes narrowing in on Beck’s hand like it might shoot lasers at him. After a moment, he eases off the bed and onto his feet, moving in that same slow, tense way from earlier. He approaches Beck by walking sideways- protecting his most vital organs, smart- and the bend in his knees puts him closer to the ground, ready to spring away in an instant.

Beck is abruptly reminded of his attempts to befriend alley cats outside his childhood home. Sitting still with an outstretched hand as they slunk towards him, those slitted eyes roving over him as their ears twitched curiously. They got close enough to sniff his hand before darting away, tails bristling, and the process would repeat. It was a miraculous lesson in patience for ten-year-old Beck, and his efforts were rewarded within just a few weeks; the cats would come when he called.

Amusement quirks at Beck’s lips with the memory, but he doesn’t let himself smile. Peter might take it as a warning.

Finally, Peter stops before him. When his hand darts out to make contact, he doesn’t take Beck’s offered hand. Instead, he ends up sort of poking the back of Beck’s hand, just for an instant. Another calculated move, Beck suspects, because if Peter had taken his hand, it would’ve given Beck the opportunity to grab him.

As soon as Peter’s hand falls away, he retreats to the bed. Like he can’t get away from Beck fast enough. His expression is hard to read- not from any effort on Peter’s part to conceal his emotions, but because they’re so conflicted. He settles cross-legged again, meeting Beck’s gaze evenly.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

“Just checking up on you,” Beck says, folding his arms. “I heard about your hand. Feel like telling me why you’re punching walls?”

Peter bristles, his hand curling to his chest. “No.”

Beck hums noncommittally. “Well, I know you definitely weren’t trying to escape, because doing so would kill your best friends in the whole wide world, and we don’t want that.” His smile is a bit too wide to be friendly. “So what gives?”

Peter glares at him, but Beck can tell the reminder has its desired effect from the way Peter sets his jaw. “I got angry,” he says finally, glancing away. “Lost my temper.”

Beck knows it’s a lie right away. Peter Parker is many things, but he’s not the kind of person who is prone to anger issues. Beck’s research told him as much. So he reads between the lines, searching for the half-truth. Maybe Peter did lose control of himself, but it wasn’t out of anger. That’d be something he’d want to keep to himself, especially after the trainyard.

“Alright.” Beck doesn’t press it, filing the info away for later. “Next time, count to ten.”

Peter ignores the comment. “You can’t keep this up forever, you know.”

Beck tilts his head. “Keep what up?”

“This… fake hero thing.” Peter’s voice is layered with thinly-veiled disgust. His eyes trace the projection of the news report still playing on the wall. “What are you going to do when the real villains show up? The real monsters? You keep establishing yourself, and it’ll only be a matter of time before someone challenges you.” He frowns, thoughtful. “It’s like, you’re trying to make a game, right, but there are already real players out there. And they play by their rules.”

Beck nods slowly. “Interesting point,” he says, humoring Peter. “What would you suggest I do?”

Peter studies him for a moment, hesitating. “Quit while you’re ahead,” he offers finally. “If you stop now, you could get away. Disappear before anyone knows what’s happening. But if you wait for someone or something else to expose you, your chances are a lot worse.”

It’d be a good answer, if Beck was a man of less nerve. He’s come too far to have doubt now. “I’m sorry, what about this situation has made you think you can try to bargain with me?” he asks.

Surprise flares in Peter’s eyes, and he holds his hands up. “I’m just saying, this isn’t sustainable.”

“Maybe you weren’t paying attention.” Beck lets the slightest edge come into his voice, feeling satisfied by the way Peter tenses. “I have Edith now- thanks, by the way- and Edith has access to Stark’s entire satellite surveillance network. If it’s online, Edith has access to it, and that means any potential threats can be identified and neutralized before they happen.”

“You…” Peter knits his brows together. “Wait, you’re talking about using Edith to-”

Beck interrupts with a question. “Were you old enough to pay attention to the whole SHIELD shitstorm? With Hydra and the helicarriers and Project Insight?” At Peter’s hesitant nod, Beck continues, “they might’ve been onto something. But while they used an algorithm to predict who could potentially cause problems, I’ll be using Edith to locate them and take them out before any damage can be done.”

Horror dawns on Peter’s face. “This is… you’re going to use a worldwide surveillance network to eliminate threats, and then create fake ones to fight? That’s-”

“Changing the game, I know,” Beck amends. “If we’re going with your little metaphor.”

Peter stares at him. “You’re killing all the players before they enter the stage, and replacing them with CPUs.”

Beck chuckles. “Sure, that’s a way to put it. Might be cheating, but at least I know I’ll always win.”

“But not without cost,” Peter says, his words slow with realization. “You’re… going to keep killing people for it, aren’t you? Innocent people?”

“Collateral damage,” Beck agrees. “It’s necessary.”

Sure, if Beck were more of a humanitarian, he could just use Edith to keep the world safe and not even bother with all the theatrics. But he’s got a couple reasons for going about it this way. One; many people would disagree with persecution coming before the crime, and his actions have a much better chance of going unnoticed if he gives the world something else to look at.

And two; Beck is tired of working in the shadows.

Peter’s expression hardens. “It won’t work forever,” he says quietly. “Someone or something is gonna get through the cracks, and- and what do you do then? What if you get attacked in public, no illusions prepared, with the whole world watching?”

Despite himself, Beck feels a small sliver of unease trickle down his spine. As good as Edith is, he’s not the only person who can play things close to the vest. If someone was cautious and clever enough, they could hide their intentions until it was too late. Plus, people and plans could change in an instant. Accidents happen. In this world where mild-mannered scientists could Hulk out at the drop of a hat, it’s nearly impossible to be certain you’re truly safe, at any moment.

Maybe Beck hasn’t prepared for everything as thoroughly as he believed.

But he doesn’t let his newfound doubt show. “How about I worry about the hero stuff, and you worry about keeping your friends alive by being a good little spider, alright?”

Peter’s expression clouds with disappointment and bitterness, and that alone tells Beck that Peter was really hoping to get through to him. Hoping to convince him to abandon this path. But Beck has a perspective Peter can never understand; living in a world where half the population vanished without a trace, and the other half was abandoned by the heroes sworn to protect them. Or, at the very least, avenge them. He remembers the chaos in the days immediately following, his own fear after watching the world crumble around him.

Since the snap was reversed, Beck has often wondered if it would have been easier, had he been blipped. But he’s glad to have experienced those five years. It’s made him stronger, and only solidified his resolve. There’s not enough control in the world, he realized, and the control they have is in incapable hands. It won’t be willingly handed over to the right ones, it has to be taken.

So while some people fell into despair, Beck got to work putting together his own team and fine-tuning the projection technology that would one day power his illusions. Stark’s development of Edith was the last piece to the puzzle, and everything from there fell into place.

Peter is the one outlier Beck didn’t account for, but he’s good at improvising.

“I’ll let you get back to your show now,” Beck says with a grin, nodding at the ongoing news reports. “The lights are gonna go off in a couple hours, and someone will be in to patch up the shower tomorrow morning. You have a good night-”

“Wait.”

Peter’s voice makes Beck pause, his hand on the doorknob. Looking over his shoulder, he sees Peter staring hard at the floor, his good hand clenched into a fist as if he’s steeling himself.

“The guy who was in here earlier, Virgil…” Peter takes a deep breath and meets Beck’s eyes. “He said that you didn’t show any of them what happened at the trainyard.”

Oh, interesting. “That’s correct,” Beck admits.

Peter actually looks a little upset at that. “Why?”

It’s surprising that something like this would matter to Peter, but Beck takes it in stride. “There are some things that I keep to myself,” he says mildly.

Sure, he’s not keen for the others to see the way he hesitated. He’d much rather them believe that his decision to spare Peter was well-thought out instead of the result of a… sudden weakness. But it’s more than that, it’s not wanting the others to see what Peter went through.

And not out of any concern for the kid’s privacy, no. There’s something appealing about keeping that knowledge to himself. About being the only one to have seen Peter like that- aside from William, who only heard it through the mic. It gives Beck a sort of power, he thinks. The power of knowing just how far he successfully pushed Peter, how effective his methods had been.

He’s earned it, in a manner of speaking. Earned the right to see Peter fall apart. No one else has.

Despite saying none of this out loud, the look Peter’s giving Beck makes him think the kid has worked it out on his own. Sharp as a whip, this one. The clash of emotion across Peter’s face is so startling, it’s like he’s inventing new ways to look horrified and betrayed.

Beck rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic. It’ll be our little secret, yeah? Now finish your dinner and get some sleep tonight. I’ll be checking in soon.”

Peter looks like he’s going to say something but cuts himself off, glancing away.

Beck takes that as his cue to leave, locking the door behind him. Once outside, he quickly pulls up Herod’s projection again, just to double check.

Peter’s sitting right where Beck left him, absently scratching at his wrist splint. As Beck watches, he gives a barely noticeable sigh and picks up the sub sandwich he’d dropped. He looks like he’s fully lost his appetite, but he starts eating anyways, and he pointedly avoids looking at Herod or the projection of the news reports.

Beck closes the feed again, nodding to himself. Looks like everything’s settling down for now. All things considered, Peter’s taken this pretty well. He’s been logical enough to not try and escape, and been on his best behavior where Herod can see him.

But even the strongest wills break given time, and Beck can’t wait to watch.

[magic-multicolored-miracle]

Nancy Drew: The Curse of the Dark Storm

So, I really liked this episode. It was atmospheric and exciting, moved the mystery along while still giving us new questions, and had some moments that showed off character cleverness.

I also really like that the show is making it so that her friends are just as clever as Nancy is and really able to share the mystery-solving equally depending on the situation/circumstances. In fact, so far we’ve seen more puzzle-solving from Ned, sorry Nick, than we have from Nancy. Get on your game Drew. 

As usual, context-less commentary there below:

What is with your accent right now Ace? You got all…southern

Ah good. George is being practical about it and does not believe she’s marked for death. 10/10 appreciate you’re logical

I mean because we saw him pull something out, we as the audience know the text is referring to Nancy’s mom’s car. But he’s a MECHANIC, that text could have meant ANY CAR

If he were a murderer, this confrontation would be an excellent way to get yourself killed girl

Ok, I liked her attitude at first, but it’s starting to get one-not and annoying

Do you not have an office building Carson? Or at least a room where your confidential client conversations can’t be eavesdropped on?

What natural causes could have killed her suddenly?! She was a young, healthy woman in her 20s/30s who randomly dropped dead in a diner parking lot. Really?!

Is there anything you people don’t have a ghost story attached to?

I swear, Yelp! must sponsor the show or something

Rat on your boyfriend or go to prison. Thanks for those great options, Karen… Also her felony charges are unrelated to the murder so they shouldn’t be dropped because you find someone more likely to be guilty of that (legally) unrelated crime.

Congrats Nancy, you made things worse!

Kate’s a social worker now instead of a journalist? Interesting. I wonder how much it’s going to matter ultimately

I mean that’s what you get for heating a completely empty coffee pot…and having dangerous decorations precariously hung…and…dammit please don’t let curses be real

Also, Rita is a new person several episodes in. Tragic, or suspicious. Only time will tell which.

Will solving the clock lead to Josiah Crowley’s real will?!

A salt circle stops demons not curses usually. And why did you need a how-to video for making one?!

I felt that way about Edith Wharton in my English class too. Although we were reading Ethan Frome.

Not going to lie, but the way Nick is talking about her and the one quote he read, calling books their “secret language,” it all adds up to a very romantic-feeling picture of their relationship and I hate it because it would be the second weird, creepy adult-child relationship in the show, or alternately I hate it because the CW’s subliminal messaging is getting to me

That thing does not look like a B&B at all. Certainly not one I would ever want to stay at…

Why are you so obsessed with money? 

Even if this was not a terrible clichéd idea, you are in a professional meeting and should not have wandered out of it, dumbass

Under the influence can also explain away ghosts…I can work with that

Snerk. Dad car.

Oh no, poor Bess…

She was going to make this into some sort of library or reading-centered community center, wasn’t she?

Again, confrontations that can lead to major problems, so maybe don’t have them in creepy buildings in the middle of a storm. Know your tropes.

I feel like we could appreciate this whole “Nick solves an important puzzle” thing more if we had the context and information to be thinking about it ourselves too, or if he and Nancy were starting from the same basic info and he’s working it out faster/better.

Glad you figured its in the kitchen, whatever “it” is, but hiding would be an excellent idea right about now, not getting caught sneaking about on a dead woman’s property, especially since you’re a major suspect in said death.

He already told you it’s being made a public landmark. That means you can’t strip it for parts to sell, idiot.

Carson, asking the smart questions, but much like your daughter, wrong place wrong time is how people DIE

Hell yeah! Cask of Amontillado!

So all this was for or because of Nick? That’s…concerning…

Shit, they’re gonna get caught…

Has Nick been wearing gloves? Or are his fingerprints all over everything now?

Well shit. Poor timing Karen.

I really like how each character has a color associated with them. Nancy is blue, George is green, Bess is yellow, Karen seems to be purple.

Aren’t your legs cold Nancy?

That speech was sweet. Melodramatic, but sweet.

I do not like Karen.

Who the hell are you Rita?! And why are you so creepy af? Oh good, so she was never really there. Awesome. Goddammit.

Nick, you don’t need to open these wounds just to build trust. Although I did kinda suspect it was something along the lines of protecting someone else, or that the person was abusing him somehow, or maybe just racist and trying to kill Nick, but the first is the plainest/surface “what  good guy” justification, almost cliché at this point, to be honest.

Thank you for that levity Ace. It’s part of why I’ve quickly come to love you.

Perfectly timed dramatic sunlight after the storm is perfectly timed and dramatic.

There’s no hole in the floor where she pulled that out…

$5mil in Bearer Bonds is exactly the kind of thing Ryan Hudson would have been looking for, and might have killed to get… Don’t do anything stupid Nick…

Oh, we’re intervening in the Bess situation, good. Or at least as much as she’ll let you.

Jut…forget what you know Carson. It’s for the best.

Creepy ghost, maybe, I don’t know, fuck off?

So I was technically right that Rita was tragic, just in a creepy/sus. Way

If you did, it seems like you’re just consolidating killers under one roof. Since we’re still being expected to believe that Carson is responsible for “Dead” Lucy

Trailer: Alright, so it looks like it might be a Bess-centric episode, which is cool since we don’t know much about her. But also, I’m just going to have to accept that ghosts are real in this version of things, aren’t I? I refuse and intend my denial to last at least the first 5 episodes. Fight me.

[girlslikeguyswhosmoke]

There’s Something About Mrs. Kendall, Part 2

Justin Feldman nervously fidgeted for his fork, which he dropped in his lap. Embarassed, he picked it up and began eating. His mother took notice.

“Been eating long, Son?”

Justin became angry.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He shot back at her.

“Watch your mouth,” another woman said to him.

“Sorry, Mama,” Justin said to his mother.

He then to the second woman across the table.

“Mom,” he said. “I’m sorry too.”

“What is it with you lately?”

“Nothing,” Justin said. “Just forget about it.”

The rest of the family dinner was rather uneventful. The three of them ate silently: Justin and his two mothers, LuAnn and Lorraine.

After dinner, LuAnn picked up the plates from the table and joined her wife in the kitchen. Justin, once again wildly fidgeting with his hands, put on his coat.

“Hey,” LuAnn said. “Don’t forget to take the trash out.”

Justin rolled his eyes at her.

“You want to try that again, young man!” Lorraine yelled.

“Don’t think for one minute you ain’t too old for a whoopin!”

Justin sighed, walked over to the sink, and grabbed the garbage bag from the trash can...his hands still fidgeting.

“I’ll be back later,” he said as he began to walk out the kitchen door.

“Where are you going?” LuAnn asked.

Justin, trying to control his facial expression, forced a smile.

“Over to Mrs. Kendall’s place,” he said.

LuAnn and Lorraine looked at each other, disgusted.

“Justin,” LuAnn said, “You’ve been going over to Mrs. Kendall��s house every night after dinner for the last week. Don’t you think you should...I don’t know...give her a break?”

“It’s fine,” Justin said.

He continued out the door, but LuAnn stopped him.

“What do you do over there?” she asked.

“She gives me a few chores to do, I play some video games, then I come home.”

“Uh-huh...”

Justin grew impatient and angry.

“What!”

“Watch your tone or your ass is staying right here in this house!” Lorraine scolded.

“What does she pay you to do these...chores?” LuAnn asked.

“She gives me rides,” Justin said.

“Isn’t that what we bought you a motorcycle for?” Lorraine asked.

“Look,” Justin said. “Do you mind?”

LuAnn and Lorraine finally gave in.

“Be back no later than ten,” Lorraine said.

“Alright,” Justin said, before finally making his way out the door.

LuAnn turned to Lorraine.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” she said.

“LuAnn, honey,” Lorraine said, placing her hand on her wife’s shoulder, “It’s called a nicotine fit.”

A short while later, Mrs. Kendall heard the all-too-familiar sound of a motorcycle steadily increasing in volume, before coming to a stop in her driveway. She looked at her clock and noticed it was 7.

“Yep,” she said. “It’s about that time.”

She walked to the door, only to be hit in the face as it burst open.

“Oh my God!” Justin said. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

Mrs. Kendall was angry.

“Do you ever knock?” she said.

“Sorry,” Justin said. “Next time I promise.”

He stood there, smiling at her while wearing his black leather motorcycle jacket. He had grown a little bit of facial hair since that first day they met. And he was looking more like a man with each passing day. Mrs. Kendall was always disarmed by his smile. No matter how irritated she got with him, seeing his face made her feel good.

It made her day.

Mrs. Kendall was a lonely woman. Until she met Justin, nobody ever paid her any visits. For the last week, however, she had company. And as annoying as Justin was, he made her feel good.

She smiled back at him as if to say I’m so glad to see you. I feel like it’s been years. But she said nothing.

“What?” Justin said, taking note of this.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Make yourself at home I guess,” she said, returning to her annoyed demeanor. She did not want him to see that he had become her weakness. Unfortunately, it was too late. Justin was already well aware, and had been for a while.

He walked into her living room and put his helmet and jacket down on the table next to his Playstation-- this had become his home away from home.  Next to the playstation was his ashtray and his fresh pack of Newport 100s.

That was why he came here.

Justin had taken over her sofa. That was his place in her home. She sat down in the recliner, which required her to turn her head 90 degrees to watch TV. Meanwhile, Justin had the perfect spot to watch TV and play games.

Justin reached for the cigarettes and packed them against his hand. He wasn’t even really sure why smokers did that. It was just part of the ritual. Then he opened it up, and took one out.  He put it up to his nose and sniffed it, taking in the beautiful aroma of fresh tobacco.

“I’ve been waiting for this all day,” he said.

He put the cigarette to his lips and reached for his lighter. The jitters grew uncontrollable. He had gone nearly 18 hours without a cigarette and all that was about to end in just a few seconds. To Justin, everything went by in slow motion as he put the lighter to his cigarette and sparked it up.

That first pull was absolute heaven.

A stream of heavy toxic smoke burst forth from his 16 year old lips.

Mrs. Kendall, a lifelong non-smoker, found herself strangely enjoying the smell of that first puff. For some reason, the first one after lighting up always smelled good, while progressively getting less enjoyable to her nose as he continued to smoke. She could not figure out why that was the case.

“Thank you,” Justin said, finally calming down from his painful nicotine fit. “I really appreciate everything you do for me, Mrs. Kendall.”

“So do you think maybe I can take these with me tonight?” he asked, holding up his pack of cigarettes.

“No,” Mrs. Kendall said, “We talked about that, remember? If I’m gonna commit a felony, it’s not leaving this house.”

Justin blew a stream of cigarette smoke her way and smiled at her.

“It’s a misdemeanor,” he said.

“Besides,” he said, “My moms are cool with it. They know you buy my cigarettes.”

“Well they’re not that cool with it if you have to come over here to have a smoke,” Mrs. Kendall said.

Of course, they both knew that wasn’t the only reason she didn’t want him taking his cigarettes home with him. But that elephant in the room wasn’t going to be discussed.

Justin definitely took note of her watching him as he smoked. He slowly took a deep drag and then exhaled in her direction, flashing a smile that told her Yeah, I see you.

Mrs. Kendall smiled as his stream of smoke penetrated her space. He had found the window to her soul and her ability to hide what was going on in her mind was being eaten away by every chemical that moved from his lungs to hers. Finally, her darkest thoughts condensed into a complete sentence: I really do like it when you smoke.

Yes, he read it loud and clear. Even though not a word was said.

“Oh I almost forgot,” he said, quickly reaching for his jacket.

He pulled out a small clay ornament that was shaped like a yin-yang. He gave her the white half.

“I made this for you in ceramics,” he said.

Her face lit up.

“Justin this is so sweet,” she said. “Thank you.”

“I keep the other half,” he said. “It’s a token of our friendship.”

This was the first time he had made any kind of gesture that she meant more to him than an ID to buy smokes and a place to smoke them.

“This means a lot to me, Justin,” she said, holding back tears.

“I know,” he said. “It’s supposed to.”

“I don’t have a lot of friends,” he confessed. “And I know you don’t either.”

She wanted to hug him, but she would not allow herself to.

“You can come here and give me a hug if you want,” Justin said.

This stopped her cold.

“I don’t think that would be very appropriate,” she said. “But thank you so much.”

“Can I ask you something?” Justin asked.

“Okay?”

“What’s your first name?”

It suddenly occurred to her that her new best friend had been addressing her as Mrs. Kendall-- a misnomer, considering she had never been married.

“It’s Jasmine,” she said.

“Wow!” Justin said, “That’s a pretty name.”

She laughed.

“What did you expect? Something like Mildred or Edith?”

“Yeah, actually,” he said.

They both laughed together before he took one final deep drag from his cigarette. He then put it out in the freshly cleaned ashtray. Jasmine had made sure that every night he came over, he had a clean ashtray and a fresh pack of Newports waiting on the table for him. It was not a one-way street, however. Justin did in fact do lots of chores around the house for her.

“Justin,” Jasmine asked, “Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah right,” he laughed.

“It’s not an unreasonable question,” she said.

“Don’t you have a husband?” Justin asked. “I mean everybody calls you Mrs. Kendall.”

“No,” Jasmine said, “I’ve never been a Mrs. I just figured once I got past 50 years old, I was too old to be called Miss.”

“And I’m not likely to ever be a Mrs. But that���s okay. I don’t need a husband.”

“Can I tell you something,” Justin asked.”

“Okay,”

He reached for another cigarette, put it to his mouth, and fired it up.

He pulled it from his lips, allowing his words to flow with the smoke that poured out of his mouth.

“I’m a virgin,” he admitted.

“Justin, you’re 16 years old,” Jasmine said, “There’s plenty of time, believe me.”

“I know,” he said. “I just don’t like to tell people that.”

“Are you a virgin,” he asked.

“I’m not having this conversation with a 16 year old boy,” she said. “Sorry dude.”

Justin settled in and spent the next few hours playing video games and smoking cigarettes. Jasmine retired to her sewing room and and reached into a drawer, where she pulled out several quilt patches she had sewn together. One of them betrayed her secret. She turned around to make sure Justin hadn’t got up to use the bathroom. Then from the stack of quilt patches, she pulled out the one with a name on it: Justin.

A few hours later, she had a complete quilt. A few steps down the hall was the intended recipient, but she could not bring herself to give it to him. She heard his footsteps coming down the hall and folded it up.

“It’s almost ten and my moms want me back home,” Justin said.

“Okay, honey,” she said.

“Honey?” Justin said.

“It’s a term of endearment,” Jasmine said. “Don’t read anything into it.”

“What would I read into it?” Justin asked.

He walked into her sewing room and noticed the quilt.

“This is pretty,” he said, reaching for it. She stopped him.

“Don’t touch that!” she said.

“Sorry,” he said with a smile.

Their eyes locked for a moment as he pulled out one last cigarette and put it to his lips. She watched, anticipating him lighting up. He hesitated deliberately so he could search her eyes. She looked down and then back up, as if to say Aren’t you gonna light that thing?

But this time he wanted to make sure she knew he was on to her. He moved closer to her and maintained eye contact with her as he put the lighter to the end of the cigarette, locking eyes with her as the flame gently touched the tobacco and ignited it into a cherry.

Following the bright orange glow as it began to burn, a strong whiff of smoke flew from his mouth. He reached for his cigarette and took a long drag.

Then he moved closer to her and placed his hand on the back of her neck.

He gently met her lips with his and kissed her, filling her mouth with the full exhale of his first puff.

Jasmine invited his smoke into her mouth and savored it as their tongues bathed each other.

Then she shoved him back.

“What are you doing!” She shreiked.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a few days now,” he said matter-of-factly.

“I’m gonna go take a shower,” she said. “Alone!”

“And when I get back, you better not be here!”

She grabbed the quilt and stormed out of the room.

“Jasmine,” he said, “What’s wrong? What did I do?

What she heard in his voice was the desperate cry of a little boy. And this sickened her. She hated herself.

“It’s not you, Justin,” she said. “It’s me.”

She stormed down the hall toward her bedroom.

“But wait!” Justin said.

“Justin,” she hollered. “Just go!”

And so he did.

[mariequitecontrarie]

All of Me: Chapter 16

The Fic: Belle French is a pudgy librarian who’s in love from afar with “town monster” and ace reporter, Mr. Gold. Little does she know, he’s head-over-heels in love with her, too. Chapter Summary: Belle and Emma go shopping in Portland to prepare for a big night out with Gold and Neal at the Storybrooke Winter Gala. Emma runs into an old high school rival and shares a secret. Rating: T A/N: Guys, it’s been 84 years! Much love to @galactic-pirates and @magnoliatattoo for putting up with me. Artwork by the talented @wizzygold @a-monthly-rumbelling: “I’m not dressed for this.”

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | 

Stay with Me (bet. Ch 9&10) | Spiked Chocolate (bet. Ch 16&17) | Pieces of Me (Q&A)

ON AO3

“The quickest way to know a woman is to go shopping with her.” - Marcelene Cox

***Three weeks after Belle has moved out of her parents’ house and into Marco’ s.***

Belle picked up the telephone to call Gold at the newspaper, her day planner spread open on the desk.

Yes, it was old-fashioned, writing things down on a calendar and lugging the thick planner around in her bag, but she liked old-fashioned. She liked books, and fountain pens, and the rustle of paper—both crisply new and faded with age. Besides, she didn’t trust iPhone calendar apps.

She’d forgotten Daddy and Edith’s anniversary one too many times thanks to those finicky electronic calendars. Whenever it happened, she rushed to write a card at the last minute but instead of being grateful, Edith seemed to enjoy shaming her for “neglecting her family.” Personally, Belle felt anniversaries were about the couple celebrating each other…but her thoughts were veering way off course. If she ventured down the dark road of worrying over Edith, she could end up in bed with a box of snowball cakes for the rest of the day.

But falling into depression was less likely now that she no longer called her father and Edith’s house home. After three weeks of living with Marco, there was no denying how much better she felt; the freedom of coming and going as she pleased was a heady sensation. Sometimes Gold joined her at Marco’s house in the evening and the three of them played Scrabble together. Once, she had insisted Marco not cook dinner after cooking at the restaurant all day long and dragged him to Emma’s house for a family dinner where Henry chattered about school and his friends and made everyone laugh until their sides ached. 

But most often, Marco would come home from the restaurant and the two of them would eat a pasta and salad dinner, and then spend the evening in the comfortable quiet of his small, cozy living room. His overstuffed couch and chairs were such a contrast to the hard, slick leather furniture Edith filled her house with, and Belle loved sinking into the corner of Marco’s huge couch and covering up with a fluffy throw blanket.

Sometimes they would make small talk about their days but on most evenings, Marco would be bent over a notebook making notes for the next day’s specials at the restaurant, and she would pull out her laptop to research books to add to the library. Usually, either the Cooking Channel or HGTV played in the background. She’d had an older television in her bedroom at her parents’ but no cable connection. Marco, however, had a new flatscreen and Belle indulged in her love of watching House Hunters International, which combined two of her favorite pastimes: seeing home interiors and a peek at exotic destinations.

Gone were the days of being chased into her bedroom, hiding her diary, and hoarding snacks. Some days, the years spent in Edith and her dad’s frosty household seemed like a bad dream. 

At least twice a week, Belle offered to pay Marco rent. It didn’t seem right to eat his food and live in his space and offer nothing in return. But he refused every time she asked. “No,” he had said this morning over breakfast, flipping eggs with a stubborn twist of his lips. “We are family, Bella. La famiglia. And when life is hard, family is a soft place to land.” Her eyes had burned with grateful tears, but she kissed his cheek and ate her breakfast and let him fuss over her until they went their separate ways—he to the restaurant and her to the library.

Besides, she thought as she punched in Gold’s number, she didn’t have time for wallowing.

She needed to talk to Gold about the annual Storybrooke Winter Gala today. On impulse, Neal had bought four tickets and insisted he and Emma and Belle and Gold make a double date of the occasion. He’d even arranged for their next-door neighbor, Ana, to watch Henry.

Every December, the Mayor’s Office hosted the gala to benefit the city schools. This year, all proceeds would go toward school Arts programs—music, theatre, writing, and art workshops. Emma and Gold usually attended every year, Gold to cover the event for the Times and Emma to capture photographs to accompany the story. Belle had never been invited to the ball before, though, and she wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Part of her didn’t want to be seen in public with so many shiny glossy people she couldn’t measure up to, but another side of her was excited to play princess for an evening.

She glanced again at the date and punched in Gold’s phone number. Today was Friday, November 16th. Thanksgiving was next week, which meant the gala was only three weeks away. There wasn’t much time to get ready. Finding a dress could be difficult and she would probably need to take it to a tailor, too. The thought of shopping for formalwear made her palms begin to sweat.

“Gold,” he answered on the first ring.

“What are you wearing?” she asked in a rush, followed by a breathless pause.

He answered with a laugh, the deep, rich sound making her spine tingle. She imagined him setting down the newspaper proof he was holding to turn in his chair to peer out the window toward the library. Since her office was in the back of the building he couldn’t actually see her, but she felt the admiring burn of his eyes all the same.

She heard a rustling sound as he set down the pages. When they talked or spent time together, he always gave her his full attention. It was certainly a refreshing change from Sean distractedly glancing at her during one of his marathon video game sessions and asking her to repeat what she’d said for the third time.

“A naughty call in the middle of the workday?” Gold drawled into the phone. “Sweetheart, men dream of these sorts of calls from their girlfriends. It’s not even my birthday.”

Belle blushed. She hadn’t stopped to think how awkward the question would sound out of context, but now that it was out, she teased him right back. “Mmmm nothing naughty to say today but just wait till it is your birthday,” she said. “Now that you mention it…”

“Yes?” He drew out the word, filling it with expectation and making her giggle.

She could almost see him leaning forward across the desk, a mischievous gleam in those caramel eyes.

“When is your birthday?”

“January 14th,” he answered promptly. “And tell Marco I prefer ice cream cake.”

“You prefer every cake,” she shot back, smiling into the phone. When it came to baked goods, Gold had an enormous sweet tooth. “But I think it can be arranged.”

“That’s excellent news. Just don’t tell Marco how many candles to put on it because the thing will be melted before we have a chance to slice it.”

Belle knew he was still self-conscious about the difference in their ages. She also knew exactly how to soothe him when he worried. “Then it’s a good thing I prefer mature men.”

“Indeed,” he said, sounding pleased.

She flipped her planner forward and marked his birthday on the calendar in bold, red ink, surrounding the date with fat, bright hearts. The birthday of the man she loved was an important day—far more worth remembering than the wedding date of her stuffy stepmother and emotionally unavailable father. At least she knew Marco wouldn’t snoop through her things and read her planner or her diary. But she was digressing again.

“Now, back to my question,” she ordered, feigning sternness. 

“You have my full attention, General French.”

She laughed and rubbed the thick holiday gala invitation between her fingers. Its embossed gold lettering and sprigs of holly in metallic ink screamed expensive. Everyone knew the Storybrooke Winter Gala was the social event of the season. From the chilled seafood towers bursting with crab claws and lobster tails to the elegant champagne cocktails, no expense would be spared.

Belle fanned her warm cheeks with the cardstock, her clammy fingers leaving damp smudges at the top of the matte stationery. “The invite says formal attire, but you’re almost always formal. Were you thinking suit or tuxedo?”

 “At the moment, I’m in my usual. I did opt for the socks with the turkeys today as a nod to next Thursday.”

Belle giggled and dragged her teeth over her lower lip. His Thanksgiving socks were adorable and he was being terribly sweet in his attempts to put her at ease. She wanted to go to the gala, but she didn’t want to look like a country bumpkin who had never been anywhere. Gold had attended fancy dinners and parties all over the world. He’d been to a State Dinner with the President, for goodness sake, while Belle had never ventured beyond the Portland city limits. “You know what I mean. It’s not like we can show up in sweatpants and be all ‘sorry, I’m not dressed for this.’” Oh, how she wished.

“Sweetheart, you can wear anything you like. You’re gorgeous no matter what you have on. That said, I’m not really the proper person to offer advice on evening gown selections. Why don’t you talk to Emma?”

She sighed. “Honey, I have talked to Emma. We’re both going shopping and we both need to know. It’s not like we can ask Neal for guidance.” Exasperated, she pushed a curl off her forehead, wondering why she had to explain this. “You know what he’s like. Emma said, ‘Neal would dust corn chips off his construction clothes, zip a hoodie sweatshirt over it, and head out the door.’ That’s a direct quote, by the way.”

Gold burst out laughing. “Sounds like my boy. I’ll make sure he’s dressed appropriately.”

“Anyway,” she continued, “there’s not much of a boutique circuit here in Storybrooke and I’m not exactly a candidate for Rent the Runway.” She sucked in the inside of her cheek as soon as those last words were out. Since they’d started dating, she’d been making a concerted effort not to say self-deprecating things about herself. At least not out loud.

Gold hadn’t seemed to notice her negativity, though.

“Which would you prefer I wear? Tux or suit?”

The image of whirling on the dance floor with Gold in a sleek black tuxedo was doing crazy things to her insides. “Tux,” she said in a breathless whisper. “Tux sounds good.”

“Tux it shall be then. And Belle?”

“Yes?” She was still picturing Gold in black tie and her stomach was doing gymnastics.

“Love,  I meant what I said: you’re gorgeous no matter what you wear. We’re going to the gala so we can dance and eat shrimp cocktail and support the Arts, not so you’ll worry over competing with silly girls and stupid women who wouldn’t know true beauty if it ran over them with a sleigh.”

“I wish you and Emma and Neal were going to be the only ones there,” she murmured, feeling silly. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t known about the gala and been given every opportunity to decide against going. The event had been on the calendar for weeks, yet the closer it came the more she fretted about fitting in. An inexplicable craving for belonging tightened her chest.

Gold hummed into the phone. “This is about more than a dress, isn’t it, sweetheart?”

She closed her eyes and took a deep, slow breath, letting the weight of his understanding settle over her like a comforting mantle. Her head lolled forward until her forehead rested upon the top of her desk. The smooth, cool grain of the wood felt good against her flushed skin and she forced out another lungful of air. Gold didn’t deserve to be at the wrong end of her short fuse. She tried to tell herself she belonged at the gala because he’d invited her, but the heart didn’t always believe the head—no matter how sensible the head was being.

“It matters to me that I at least look like I belong, even if it isn’t true,” she admitted.

Gold was quiet for a long moment. “It is true, sweetheart. For as long as I draw breath, you will always have a place to belong. If Marco, Emma, Neal, and Henry were here, I know each of them would say the same. I also know it’s going to take more than hearing the words to make you believe it. You have to know the truth deep down. I love you so much, and I only hope and pray that one day you’ll see yourself the way we see you.”

Belle pressed her lips together, muffling a sob. “Thank you for understanding,” she whispered tearfully. “I love you.”

“It’s nearly five. I’m coming over to the library.” Through the phone, she heard the distinctive click of his pocket watch as he snapped it closed. “When I get there, I’m going to kiss you till you’re breathless, then take you out for a nice, quiet dinner, just the two of us. How does that sound?”

Belle smiled and wiped her tears and her worries away with a tissue from the box on her desk. “It sounds perfect.”

“So we’re here.” Emma sucked down the dregs of her iced latte in a noisy slurp and wiped her hands on her black jeans. “Portland. Boutique Row. What do we do now?” She tossed the cup in the trash can inside the door.

Like aliens on a foreign planet, they hovered inside the doorway of Posh, the largest formal boutique in the city.

Belle eyed Emma suspiciously. “I thought you said you knew about shopping.”

“Yeah, for denim and dry fit. Where to get the best doughnuts. And the occasional piece of leather. Not evening gowns.”

“But you’ve been to this gala before?” she pressed.

“Yeah, as the photographer. No one pays attention to what you’re wearing when you’re behind the camera. I got away with black pants and a dress shirt three years running.”

Belle looked her friend up and down. Perspiration was dotting Emma’s temples. Her cheeks, ruddy from the winter air outside just moments ago, were ashen. She knew that deer-in-headlights look: Emma was on the verge of an anxiety attack.

Belle ran her teeth over her lower lip, discouragement slithering around her and squeezing the air from her lungs. “Are we in trouble?”

“It’s possible,” Emma acknowledged, then shook her head hard enough to cause her ponytail to sway. “No. No! We’re two grown women. We can handle one small town formal.”

“You make it sound like war,” Belle said wryly.

“It’s worse. Other women. Rich, polished, cold as ice.” She rolled her eyes at a chic blonde dripping in Chanel and carrying a Louis Vuitton handbag bigger than Belle’s suitcase. “Maybe we should invest in suits of armor.”

“Or maybe we should eat them for supper.”

Emma snorted, their laughter breaking the tension. It was rare for Emma to be intimidated, and Belle patted her shoulder. Misery loved company, and somehow knowing she wasn’t alone in her insecurity gave her hope for more than the hunt for an evening gown. “We can do this, as long as we do it together.”

Emma’s reached for Belle’s hand and squeezed. “Right. Together is better.”

”Exactly.”

Emma gave a long, slow whistle and they moved into the store like two people tied together in a three-legged race. “Where should we start?” Belle stared at the array of gowns and began to shuffle through the racks, heading in the direction of the plus sizes. She’d come here expecting to have maybe two choices in style but after a few minutes of browsing, to her surprise, there were many gowns in her size—short and long, tight and flowing, beaded and glittery. And though she hadn’t tried on a solitary dress, she was still convinced there wasn’t one in all of Portland designed to flatter her physique. In one fell swoop, she’d gone from zero choices to too many. So many dresses, so little time, and so much Belle.

Even the eggnog lattes and cream-stuffed doughnuts she and Emma had feasted on in the car on the way here left her feeling hollow. She was at her worst at formal events—the last one she’d been to was her high school senior prom and not one person had asked her to dance. She’d gone stag simply so she didn’t have to sit in the house with her father and Edith. With the exception of going to the refreshment table to sneak brownies, she had sat in the corner the entire time.

But she wasn’t in high school any longer. She had a handsome escort in Gold and friends to spend the evening with. The steeply priced gala tickets had already been purchased and paid for and supporting the Arts in their schools? She couldn’t think of a more excellent cause. Besides, backing out three weeks before the event was paramount to announcing you had no interest in seeing Hamilton. It simply wasn’t done.

She squinted in the direction of the lingerie. Spanx were what she needed—something to suck her in and smooth her out—injected with industrial-strength elastic.

“Black. Black is the slimming choice,” Belle decided aloud, pushing through the rack toward a plain A-line silk sheath gown.

At least if she stuck to basic black, she and Gold would match. Like two penguins. One sleek and sophisticated, the other round and plump, carrying a lot of blubber around to make it through the hard, cold, South Pole winter.

“No black! Black is the safe choice,” Emma countered, smacking Belle’s hand when she reached for the hanger on another simple, nondescript black gown with clean lines.

“And that’s bad why?”

“Because it’s drab and washes you out. Go for color. Like gold.”

“Suddenly you’re a Pantone expert?” Belle winced. “A gold dress? Isn’t that a touch…cliché?”

“Alright. We’ll keep looking.”

Belle nudged Emma in the direction of a tall, willow-thin woman with striking black and grey hair and the pointiest red stilettos she’d ever seen. “Maybe we should ask someone. I think she works here.”

Emma squinted and slid more dresses down the rack. “The one with the scarf on?”

“It’s a poncho.” She knew that much.

“Wait! Wait! Try this emerald one! Gold will go crazy when he sees you in this!” Emma whipped a dazzling, jewel-toned gown with a daring thigh-high slit off the rack. Belle stared at the stunning gown then glanced back at the saleswoman. “Five minutes ago you didn’t know anything about dresses.” “You’re right, I don’t. But I know my father-in-law and he’s going to love that dress. Well, he’d love you in a life-sized paper bag, but this dress will make even Mr. Smart Ass Newspaper Dude speechless. God, I can picture him drooling already!” She thrust the dress into Belle’s arms and gave her a playful shove. “Go try it on. And remember, the only person who has to know how beautiful you are…”

“Is me,” Belle finished. They’d had this conversation often during their walks over the past few months, and Emma had reminded her yet again on the two-hour drive here. She fingered the rich velvet skirt with trembling fingers. Now she had to walk the walk. “I’ll try it. What color are you looking for?” she asked, backing into the fitting room.

“Black.” “Emma!” she whined.

Emma yanked the fitting room curtain closed with a laugh. The dress was crushed velvet with full-length sleeves, hard to find, even in the middle of a brutal Maine winter. She slid into the gown, the silk-lined velvet feeling decadent against her skin. Even without the back completely zipped, she liked the look. Emma was right, she realized, turning this way and that in the three-way mirror.

The scoop neck hugged her shoulder blades, emphasizing her thinnest feature—her shoulders—and the color made her blue eyes sparkle and skin creamy even under the garish fluorescent fitting room lights. It was a few inches too long for her 5-foot, 1-inch frame, but the skirt length was easily remedied at a tailor. Not hating it, she took a deep breath, lifted the skirt so she wouldn’t trip, and opened the curtain. She hoped Emma was nearby because she didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself. Those stupid little fitting room closets were designed to thrust you back out onto the floor where commission-hungry salespeople could tell you how good you looked and convince you to buy.

“Em,” she called out, “could you zip—” She swallowed the rest of her words. Emma was face-to-face with a dark-haired woman, and looking even more nervous than she had when they walked into the boutique. “Emma? Emma Nolan?” The stranger wore a smart navy pantsuit and a light blue silk blouse, and her blood-red lips spread in a wide smile. Everything about her, from her perfectly coifed hair to her buffed, nude pumps, screamed suave and important.

“Yeah, who’s asking?” “It’s me, Regina Mills. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. We graduated together from Storybrooke High! I sat next to you in Mr. Walsh’s English class.” “Oh, hey.” Emma kicked the carpet with her boot, looking anything but thrilled to meet an old high school friend. “Good to see you. You remember Belle French, I’m sure. She graduated the year after us.” Regina frowned at Belle, making a small scar on her upper lip stand out. “Sorry, doesn’t ring a...bell.” “It’s fine. We didn’t really travel in the same social circles anyway,” Belle said.  Regina pouted, as if trying to decide if Belle’s remark was a put-down.

Well, she could interpret the comment however she wished. Belle didn’t care for the change that had come over Emma since Regina had appeared or the barely-veiled insult that she wasn’t worth remembering. Now that she’d had a good look at her, she remembered Regina well enough. Then again, it was hard to forget the most popular girl to ever come out of Storybrooke High School. Student body president, prom queen, and girlfriend of Daniel Colter, captain of the football team. Belle would have called her a high school cliché, except that Regina had carried her smooth, flawless reputation into adulthood. She was still the most beautiful woman Belle had ever seen close-up.  “I’m just in town for meetings today. I’m an attorney and planning to run for office next term.” Regina’s frozen smile was back in business. “I’m thinking start small with state Senate and work up from there. So, Emma, what have you been up to since graduation? I haven’t seen you since we walked across the stage.” “Um, well.” Emma shoved her hands in her pockets and looked toward the racks of dresses. “Emma is a gifted photographer,” Belle said, sliding to her friend’s side. If Emma wasn’t going to boast about her accomplishments, she sure as hell was going to do it for her. “How exciting!” Regina’s grin was wolfish, her dark eyes sparkling. “Are you exhibiting your portraits at any galleries?” “Uh…” Emma looked at the floor. “No time,” Belle put in. “Right, Em? You’re much too busy with your son, Henry and your husband, Neal.” “Oooh, a husband.” Regina’s eyes flashed again, reminding Belle of a shark circling its prey. “Is he a doctor?” “Nope.” “Hmmm.” She tapped a red nail against her jaw. “A lawyer then?” “He’s in construction,” Emma said, looking to Belle for help. “For your information, he runs his own construction company. He’s built most of Storybrooke’s new buildings in the last ten years.” Belle glared at Regina, daring her to make another cutting remark. “So he’s a working man,” she said, managing to make the term sound neither positive nor negative. “Yeah. Yeah. He’s great.” Emma’s laugh was feeble and she ducked her head.  Regina clapped her hands. “This has been fun, catching up. We should do this again sometime.” She flashed another gorgeous, winning smile, and moved in the direction of the lingerie. “Best of luck on the campaign trail,” Belle called after her. Waiting until Regina was out of earshot, Belle whirled on Emma. “Excuse me, but what the hell was that?”

“Never mind. We have shopping to do.” Emma cleared her throat and tried to slide past her, but Belle held her ground.

“The shopping can wait. Who died and crowned Regina Mills queen?”

Belle had zero patience for people who clambered for social standing and pronounced themselves better than others. Having been so often on the receiving end of other people’s sarcasm, Belle rarely talked down to people. But standing up to bullies didn’t count. Something about watching Emma cower in front of Regina caused an angry fire to blaze in her belly. Maybe she was lousy at defending herself, but she’d be damned if she’d let anyone walk all over her friend. Emma shrugged and studied the dresses. She was pretending not to care about the awkward encounter, but Belle knew better. “I don’t like small talk. ‘Hi. How are you?’ she parroted. ‘Oh, I’m fine, how are you?’ News flash: nobody’s fine.”

“Em…”

“No matter how she makes it sound, Regina and I weren’t friends in high school, we were competitors.” She rolled her eyes. “She reminisces about Mr. Walsh’s English class like that was the only time we saw each other. I guess she forgot about the four years we spent one-upping each other on the cheerleading squad, softball team, and the debate team. Always trying to be smarter, stronger, and skinnier than the other. We were out for blood.”

“Then why are you letting her get under your skin?”

Emma sighed and pulled on her ponytail. “You know Cora Mills?”

“Cora Mills, the mayor? Of course.” Belle suppressed a shudder.

Regina’s mother, Cora, had been mayor of Storybrooke for as long as Belle could remember. Cora was a cold, calculating woman, but what she lacked in lovable qualities, she made up for in efficiency. She ran Storybrooke like a machine and no one could argue with her methods, not even Gold, who was paid to search out everything. From the few times Belle had met her, she realized Cora wasn’t mean so much as devoid of emotion.  Beyond a perfunctory review of the library budget once a year, Belle was fortunate to rarely communicate with the Mayor’s Office and even when she did, it was strictly emails between Belle and Cora’s assistant. The library and its services were beneath Cora’s notice; so long as Belle didn’t ask for too much money, she stayed under her radar—which was exactly the way she liked it.

Emma wandered to a bench next to the row of fitting rooms and plopped down. “My mom always wanted to be like her, you know.”

“Really?” Belle would never have expected sweet, kind Mary Margaret Nolan to want to emulate Cora Mills.

Emma smirked. “Once, a long time ago, Mom even tried bidding against her for Mayor but she was too nice. She was laughed out of the first debate, and it’s a good thing because the town would have walked all over her. Since Mom couldn’t be like Cora, she decided the next best thing would be for me to be like Cora’s daughter, Regina. I spent every day of high school trying to beat Regina for one reason: because my mom couldn’t beat hers.”

“Wow,” Belle said. “I would never have known. Your mom is such a great teacher and your parents are like a fairytale marriage. Talk about relationship goals.”

“Exactly. The thing with my mom is she’s incredible just as she is,” she said. “Former prom queen, straight-A student, a born teacher. She’s smart and pretty and married to the perfect, charming husband. And she loves Storybrooke—but not for me.”

“But your parents live in Storybrooke.” Confused, Belle furrowed her brow. “That seems like a bit of a double-standard.”

“Yeah.” Emma shook her head. “’Why do you want to take pictures of engaged couples and local pet adoptions?’ she said, mimicking her mother’s innocent tone. “She would rather I was out on the front lines of some war documenting the dying.” “Like Gold used to?” Belle nodded in sympathy and claimed the empty side of the bench. She knew all too well the feeling of being expected to be someone you couldn’t be and dashing parental hopes in the process. “She feels like you shouldn’t be satisfied with a simple life.” “Bingo! And she resents the hell out of Gold for telling me what it’s really like out there. I think that’s why I’m closer to him now than I am my own parents. He understands weakness and failure in a way I don’t think they can. I’m not some conceited little bitch who’s hiding in the bathroom to throw up everything she eats to fit in anymore, but sometimes that really sucks, you know?”

“Yeah, I do.” Belle’s heart clenched in sympathy. Sometimes she still got sucked into the vortex of her own self-pity and forgot that everyone—even gorgeous, wonderful Emma—was fighting a battle. Trying to be yourself was hard work. It was so much easier to toe the line of people’s expectations, to do and say what made others feel comfortable and safe. “So there’s Regina, first conquering the state of Maine, then the world.” Emma put her head in her hands. “And here I am...not running for a spot even on the PTO. Married with a kid and pregnant again.” “You’re pregnant?” Belle slung an arm around Emma and dragged her against her side in an awkward hug. “Oh, sweetie, that’s amazing!” “Ya think? Emma sniffled but looked hopeful for the first time since they had entered the boutique. “Really? I wasn’t expecting another baby. It just happened.”

“Henry is going to be a big brother!” Belle squealed, excited enough for both of them. “Does your mom know yet?”

“Are you kidding?” “What did Neal say?”

Emma shook her head and touched her belly. “You’re the first soul I’ve told.”

“Me?” Belle crowded closer to Emma and drew her head down on her shoulder. She smoothed Emma’s hair back from her temples, soothing her the way her mother used to when she was little while she tried to process the news. To think she was the first to know about the new addition coming to the Cassidy household. She hummed thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’ve ever been first in someone else’s confidence. At least not...well there’s Gold, of course.” She felt Emma nod against her shoulder. “I know what you mean. I’ve had friends. Acquaintances. Then when I met Neal he satisfied any need I had for friends. He’s a great husband and I love him to pieces, but it’s not like this. Like us. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, Belle.”

“Me too,” she said, tears scalding her eyes. She’d known it was true—had felt the stirrings of their bond deep in her spirit ever since their first real conversation at Henry’s birthday clambake. Between family dinners, walks, and girls nights out, the invisible force between them only grown stronger. Somehow acknowledging their friendship out loud made it seem more solid. Precious. As important to her as her love for Gold, but in a different way.

“Now stand up,” Emma said, fishing into her pocket for a crumpled tissue. “I wanna see this dress!”

Belle shot to her feet and smoothed the skirt, her fingers fluttering around the waist and hips while Emma zipped up the back.

“I love it,” she said, motioning for Belle to twirl around.

“Really? You don’t think it makes me look like a medieval strumpet?”

“Hell no!” Emma whistled as Belle turned around again. “You’re stunning. All we need now are Spanx and shoes. And maybe some lingerie for the after-party?” She wiggled her eyebrows.

“Maybe.” Belle’s face flamed at the thought of wearing a negligee for Gold. “What about you?”

“We’ll get to me after lunch.” She patted her still-flat tummy. “There’s a place down the street serving yummy cheese-covered waffle fries and this kid wants some now.”

Belle’s stomach growled in answer. “Lead the way.”

Their waiter was clearing the lunch plates at the café when Belle heard a knock on the window. She did a double-take as her father waved through the glass with a sheepish smile. Her turkey club sandwich, which had tasted so delicious a few minutes ago, now lodged in her stomach. What was he doing here in the city?

“I’ll grab the check, Belle. You go talk to him,” Emma urged. “If I see things are getting bad I’ll come outside and rescue you.”

Nodding, she gathered her coat and made her way outside, wondering what would bring her father looking for her in Portland of all places, when she hadn’t seen him once on the streets of Storybrooke in the three weeks since she’d moved out.

The air was frigid even in the sunshine, and she seemed to grow colder with every step she took toward her father.

“Daddy?” She wrapped her arms around herself to keep from reaching for a hug. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s the Portland flower show.” He brushed a bit of pollen off the sleeve of his coat. “I was in the neighborhood and saw you having lunch in the window.” “Ah.” Her dad attended the vendor-focused flower exhibition every year. She should have prepared for the possibility of running into him in town, but she’d completely forgotten it was this weekend.

“We haven’t heard from you in weeks, darling. Edith was devastated when you collected your things and left us.”

Belle gave a noncommittal grunt and thrust her cold hands in her pockets. Edith was devastated? Perish the thought her own father actually missed her.

“Marco treating you well?”  he asked gruffly.

“Like family,” she retorted, her voice carrying a sharpness she hadn’t intended.

Her father’s face paled and she instantly regretted her tone. There was no call to be so mean-spirited, especially when it somehow succeeded in making her feel worse instead of better.

He sniffed. “Will we see you for Thanksgiving?“

Belle looked into the clear blue sky, distancing herself from his hopeful gaze. "Marco’s cooking a huge feast, so I’ll be eating with him and Gold and the Cassidys.“

“Christmas?“

She blew out an exasperated breath and hugged herself again. “Let’s push through one nightmare holiday at a time, okay?“

He huffed. “I didn’t realize things had gotten so bad.”

“Are we still talking about holidays, or are you referring to other bad situations?” She thought back to the horrible family dinner she’d put Gold through when she’d tossed a roll at Edith’s head and stormed out. “I can’t live like that anymore. I won’t.”

“You’ve changed, Belle. Is this…is this Gold’s influence on you, then?” He seemed to deflate before her eyes, this giant of a man shriveling down to a pathetic shell. “When did you become this way? So stubborn. So willful.” His lips shook as he spoke. “If your mother were alive, she…”

“But she’s not, Daddy,” Belle interrupted. “Mother hasn’t been with us for years. She’s not here to tell you what to do and what to say, and for that matter neither is Edith. You’re the one who changed. It’s as Erskine said, you don’t even see me. Maybe you never did.”

“Belle!” Emma jogged over to the rescue, her breath a white cloud in the cold afternoon air. “Hey, Mister French. We really gotta get going if we’re going to finish shopping and I promised Henry I’d be home in time to tuck him in.”

“Great. I’m freezing anyway.” She looped her arm through Emma’s and mustered a sad, parting smile for her father. After years of trying to gain his attention and approval, she wasn’t sure when she would see him again and at the moment, she didn’t care. “Take care of yourself, Dad.”

###

[crytill5am-blog]

All That Remains of Lance McClain Part 3

hey all, sorry i wasn’t as active recently, I had to study for an exam that i really really needed to pass! Anyway, here’s part 3 of my what remains of edith finch au 

i had some trouble coming up with a way to connect lance to the game in a way that would make sense, considering how the game actually plays out in the end and i think i’ve come up with a good alternative?? anyway, please enjoy! I did cut it off at a cliff hanger, bc i felt like it was getting a bit too long. I will be continuing it soon, so don’t worry abt that!

Preview:

Keith looked up to see Hunk rooting through several cassettes before pulling one labeled ‘McClain House and family history, by Alexa McClain for Lance McClain.’ Pidge, who’s eye had been caught by an innocuous looking cassette player, grabbed it and handed it to Hunk, who put the cassette into it.

Lance had been in the pod for all of a week, and the tension was mounting within the castle of lions.

Everyone was trying to occupy themselves. Hunk spent a majority of the time working on repairing Blue or cluttering around in the kitchen or just chilling next to Lance’s pod, chattering softly to his comatose best friend. Pidge was hell bent on coding, taking very brief breaks for food and water, eyes red rimmed and dry every time they wandered into the kitchen. Keith isolated himself to the training deck, the bridge, his own room, he just generally avoided the others best he could. 

Shiro and Allura were too busy forming alternate plans for Galra attacks, and Coran spent much time either monitoring Lance’s progress or obsessively cleaning every inch of the castle. He was still cheery, greeting everyone and starting conversations, but everyone could tell his heart wasn’t truly in it. 

Everyone tried to avoid one another in some way. The elephant in the room was too big to truly confront at this moment in time while Lance was still in the pod. They wanted to talk about the vision, the last glimpse they’d gotten into Lance’s head before the electric blast had cut off his connection fully from them. They didn’t know how to approach it, the mystery of Lance’s origins starting to crack, laying waste to the comfortable foundation the blue paladin had laid for the team, helping to bring them together. That familiarity and comfort was gone now, shattered and leaving the paladins floundering for answers to questions they didn’t know who to ask.

So they waited. And as one week passed into two, then three, the team came together in a clash of hurtful accusations and floundering panic. They hadn’t truly realised the extent to which Lance helped to keep them together, the glue that helped the paladins form the bonds of friendship and camaraderie. Keith looked like he was about to throttle Pidge, who stood next to Hunk defensively, Shiro holding Keith back by his right arm. Allura and Coran could only watch helplessly as the paladins crumbled, lack of sleep and the gaping hole of their missing Blue leaving jagged, open and undefended minds and hearts laid bare.

Blue roared in her hangar, and brought the fighting to a stop. Images flashed within the paladins’ minds, their Lions connecting together to help Blue reach the paladins. Images of Lance in the cockpit, taking out and hiding stacks of notebooks, cassettes, letters, reading them, looking at Polaroid photos in the comfort and security of his Lion. 

Blue beckoned them, invited them in, showed them the hidden compartment within her flight deck. She was tired of the tension, the bickering, the uncertainty. She knew her paladin’s team mates needed answers, and she would give them. Perhaps then her cub would heal, the mind wounds festering and growing inside him as the team fell apart. She needed to bring them together, to tether Lance to this plane of existence. She refused to let him slip quietly, without a fight, from this world, into the claws of the darkness that hungered for him.

Hunk was the first to reach the hangars, marching over to Blue and scrambling into her cockpit, immediately reaching for the hidden stash of secrets that Lance had kept from them. He needed to know, felt the itch of unknown knowledge claw at his fingertips as he grabbed everything hidden within. Hearing the others rush into the hangar, Hunk gingerly came back out, holding the stack of ancient looking information gently, carefully, afraid of damaging his friend’s property.

“Hunk, I really think we should wait for Lance to come to us with this! We’re betraying his trust by snooping into his past, I know you’re upset but-”

Hunk glared at Shiro, holding the stack tightly to his chest, away from his leader’s reaching grip, “No. We need to find out what’s happening to Lance. We need to know what’s been bothering him so much that he didn’t feel comfortable with telling us in the first place. We-” Hunk broke off, taking in a sharp breath as he tried to keep himself from crying, “I need to know, Shiro.”

The older paladin faltered, eyes shutting. Shiro just, felt so tired. Lance’s continued stay within the healing pods was taking so much emotional energy from the team. Opening his dark eyes and looking at the anxious group before him, he breathed deeply. His own intrinsic need to know what had been bothering Lance washing over him as he saw the pleading look in Hunk’s and Pidge’s expressions, Keith’s fierce worry, Allura and Coran’s bone deep exhaustion and found himself nodding, “Alright. Let’s go to the living room and... take a look at this.”

The group shuffled out of the hangars, calmly walking into the living area and spreading themselves out over the floor. Pillows were stripped from the couches for comfortable seating as Pidge helped Hunk spread the collection of notebooks, letters, photos, cassettes, cassette player and paintings over the floor between everyone.

The group faltered. There was just... so much here. Where would they start? How would they know what to read to truly understand what and why Lance had hidden this from them. 

As always when it came to impulsive decisions, Keith snatched up the newest looking notebook. “’Property of Alexa McClain, for-” He faltered, shoulders slumping, “-for Lance McClain.’” Looking up from the cover of the book, he met the eyes of everyone in the circle, a flash of uncertainty marring his features. After all, he knew he and Lance weren’t the closest of the paladins, and this felt too personal for Keith to read. However, the want to know Lance, to understand him better as a friend and team mate, drove Keith to continue.

Opening the notebook, he was slightly disappointed to see one short written note. He could see the crossed out beginnings of earlier notes, the hesitance of the writer clear, as if they didn’t know how to begin, “A lot of this isn’t going to make sense to you, and I’m sorry about that. I was hoping to one day tell you about the wonders of our family, but just in case, I’ve left a video recording for you to try and help you understand why this happened to you.”

Keith looked up to see Hunk rooting through several cassettes before pulling one labeled ‘McClain House and family history, by Alexa McClain for Lance McClain.’ Pidge, who’s eye had been caught by an innocuous looking cassette player, grabbed it and handed it to Hunk, who put the cassette into it. 

A video recording flickered to life on the small screen, which led to Allura standing up, hunting for something to hopefully enlarge the image so they could all see it clearly. After having found it, they connected it with some difficulty to the cassette player before starting the video again. There were a few moments of shaky fiddling with the camera before a young woman appeared on the screen, a bright-if a little sad-smile stretching her full lips and freckled cheeks beautifully. Brown skin seemed to glow healthily in the sunlight as she waved to the video camera, blue eyes sparkling. 

The team were entranced by the young woman, who tucked a loose lock of curly brown hair behind her ear. She seemed to be standing on the edge of a forest, a warm jacket-Shiro was struck with the knowledge that it was Lance’s jacket- covering her shoulders, well worn gloves wrapped her hands and fingers comfortably. The camera dipped slightly and the team’s breath caught as they saw the glimpse of a slightly rounded belly under a faded gray shirt spattered with glittery stars and planets, the words ‘Nasa, show me the aliens’ written in a bold silver across what was clearly a pregnancy bump. 

The woman seemed to lift it up again, camera still shaking as she muttered lowly before clearing her throat, bright smile firmly in place once more, “Hello Lance,” She started, voice soft and sweet, “Oh, God, that sounded awfully formal, I’m giving you the wrong impression of me.” She giggled, blue eyes bright with happiness as she adjusted the camera once again, “Let’s start over. Hey there Lance, it’s me, your mom, Alexa, which you probably already know,” She giggled again, “This is gonna be a long video, so you might wanna grab something to eat, drink and find somewhere to sit comfortably. You can pause the video, don’t worry, I’ll still be here when you get back.”

There was a short pause before Alexa shuffled slightly, a soft look in her eyes, “You comfy? Yeah? Okay, let’s begin,” her smile faltered slightly as she sighed, the team settling back comfortably as they watched this woman, Lance’s mom, on the screen. Pidge lay on their belly, Hunk leaned back on his hands, eyes never leaving the screen, in awe of how much Lance and Alexa looked similar. Keith seemed to lay back, using a couple of pillows to prop himself up, Shiro sitting cross-legged next to him. Coran and Allura were curled up together, the mice taking up residence within Allura’s long hair. 

“So,” Alexa began, the movement in the background of the film suggesting that she’d started walking, “I guess I should start at the beginning, with the house.”

Alexa’s eyes drifted away from the camera briefly as she stepped over a fallen branch, careful to keep her footing and the camera as steady as possible. She knew, logically, that she probably shouldn’t have come here while four months pregnant, but something about the time had seemed right when she’d found the letter her mother had left for her. Recently 18, the young woman felt that, considering her family history, that she should leave something behind for her son should anything happen to her. 

“I lived here till I was eleven, but I wasn’t allowed inside half of the rooms,” She continued from where she’d left off, moving the camera to catch sight of the family house looming in the distance. It looked just as she and her mother had left it all those years ago, tall and imposing against the sky line, a hodge-podge of built in rooms and areas of the house stacked crookedly atop one another. A tower rose from one side of the room in counterpoint to the relatively tree-house looking other side of the roof. Alexa thought she could perhaps hear the creaking of the buildings as a gust of wind swept past her, sending her hair batting into her face.

Spitting hair from out of her mouth, her eyes locked onto a tree nearby. The washed out, moldy image of a missing persons poster left a stab of pain in her heart; the camera was pointed to the slightly blurry image of a happily smiling boy, a paper crown resting atop his curly hair. She could almost feel the mischief pouring out from his grayed our eyes before she locked eyes with the camera once more, “My brother Cameron went missing when I was four,” She said seriously, a frown pursing her lips up sadly, “It was like the house had swallowed him up. I hadn’t been back since my brother Joseph’s funeral.” 

She paused as she walked comfortably for a while longer, taking in the sights of the forest around her with a small, barely there smile. She turned her attention back to the camera as she rounded the curved edge of the road. A mailbox came into view, and Alexa found herself grinning at the sight of the miniature family house that played the mailbox. Opening it, she grimaced at the mail left inside, the smell of mold and wet paper making her feel slightly nauseous. “Looks like there’s still bills in here from seven years ago...” Alexa muttered, pulling them out after opening the mailbox, flitting through them, snickering at the ‘urgent, open immediately’ that was stamped on the envelopes. Putting them back inside the mailbox, she shut it before turning the camera back to her face.

“In her will, my mother left me a key, but didn’t tell me what it unlocked,” Alexa huffed, walking down the winding path, coming closer and closer to the old house. There was a sense of discomfort, a feeling that the house was waking up, waiting for her, “Maybe she thought I’d know... Or maybe she thought the mystery would be enough to bring me back .” Alexa knew she was probably just talking to fill in the silence, but she felt that she needed to distract herself from where she was going. Through muscle memory, she turned into the small, narrow and steep path to the side of the road, where the sign ‘The McClains’ pointed her to. 

“The truth is,” she murmured, “even after I inherited the house, I never thought I’d come back to it.” She paused, looking down the path and felt an overwhelming wave of nostalgia wash over her, “But I knew I had questions about my, our family that only the house knew the answers to.”

Alexa felt determination fill her, despite the discomforting feeling she got from both the house and the woods surrounding her, “The woods around the house have always been uncomfortably silent, as if they’re about to say something but never... do...” She trailed off, allowing the silence of the forest to permeate the video for a moment, before she continued her trek.

It wasn’t long before she came across the house. Standing in the shadow of the family house, Alexa felt as if she had gone back to being that small, helpless eleven year old again. The thought squeezed her heart as she tipped her head back, the hand not holding the camera coming to rest on her rounded belly protectively. Here, in the stillness of the woods, the house looming above her, she could clearly remember that old fear from her childhood, the fear that the house would just swallow her up and never let her go. She shuddered, partly from the cooling Autumn air and partly from the uneasy feeling she got from staring at the house. “It looks exactly like it did when we left... looks exactly like how I’ve dreamt about it these past seven years...” She murmured softly, shoulders tensing as she looked away from the house.

Breathing deep, she started walking up to the house, hands shaking slightly as she did. “You know, as a kid, I used to be really scared of the house,” Alexa hummed, letting her hand gently trail over the overgrown garden fences, “I couldn’t ever really explain why.” She mumbled, walking up the porch, spotting the old pots and potting earth left behind by her family oh so long ago. 

Coming up to the door, she held up the small key left to her by her mother, frowning when she inserted it into the lock and it didn’t open. “Damn, I thought this would unlock the front door.” She huffed, kneeling down to look through the mail slot and into the house. A chill rushed down her spine as she did so. It felt like the house had been... waiting for her to come back. Swallowing thickly, Alexa stood back up, looking around for a moment. Softly, she could hear the chiming of wind bells coming from the side of the house, and chuckled softly before turning to go past the front of the house and towards the side. 

Coming up to the side door, she paused to tap on the wind chime, sending a soft tinkling over the silent forest. Inserting the key into the door, she frowned as it, too, didn’t unlock. Glancing down, Alexa saw the old, cracked doggy-door and frowned, before groaning. “Looks like this is the only way inside, huh, Lancey?” She cooed to her belly, kneeling in front of the doggy door and moving the flap to the side. Pushing the camera through the doggy-door, she crawled into the house, bracing her hand against the door behind her to help herself get up. Alexa pat her hands clean on her jeans, before bending and picking the camera back up from the floor, “Used to be a lot easier when I was just eleven.” She grumbled, sending an unamused look into the camera before pointing it to look into the garage. 

Turning back to the door, she tried to flip on the lights, groaning when it didn’t turn on, “Right, the power was turned off the night mom and I left...” Alexa sighed, turning to walk around the old, abandoned car and towards the door she knew would lead into the kitchen area. She allowed the camera to trail over the wood working spaces, catching the soft rays of sunlight that filtered in through the upper windows of the garage, remembering days where she and her brothers, great-grandmother Emma and mom would work on various house projects that had to be done.

 Opening the door to the kitchen, Alexa breathed out a soft sound, a wave of welcoming, dread, and wistfulness coming over her. The kitchen, messy and unorganized, left the way it had been that last night in the house, greeted her and the camera. Dishes were still piled up in the sink, unopened cans of salmon sat on the counter tops, and she could barely, but just about, see the opened and abandoned boxes of Chinese food on the dining table from where she stood.

She was silent for a moment, taking in the dilapidated, dirty old kitchen. Turning the camera to her face, ignoring her own watery eyes and sadder smile, she cleared her throat, “Welcome home, Lance and Alexa.”