Work Text:
“Oh, it’s beautiful...”
Peter’s laugh is sharp and abrupt, he’s nearly doubled over at the sound of her voice. Her words were strained and forced. He couldn’t help but laugh at her attempt of keeping a cool, calm, composure while he held a ring pinched between his fingers.
“Lying isn’t a good look on you, Felicia.” Peter grins like a school boy, brown eyes sparkling and looking her up and down while her face morphs from a fake smile to a quick frown.
“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, Lover.” She glanced back down at his hands and made a face once more, brows scrunching together, “That thing is hideous.”
“I got it from a guy in Central Park.”
She glanced back up to him with wide emerald eyes, “Did he hold you at gunpoint?”
“Wh-a? No. I got it for tonight. You know, for the thing…” He’s horrible at being subtle. Felicia rolls her eyes and steps off the curb as the light changes to walk with the flow of New York traffic. She sipped from her street coffee cup and walked a few steps ahead of him before calling over her shoulder.
“I need you to be my husband, not my pimp.”
Peter laughed again, jogging to catch up with her, “I’ll be the best husband, I think. I wasn’t the worst boyfriend, right?”
“Right.” She draws the word out slowly and leans back into him when he throws an arm over her shoulder as they walk down the sidewalk. “So how did you propose? We will need the cover story.”
Peter slowly lets his arm go from her shoulders and lingers back a few steps. Felicia makes it to the sidewalk before she notices he’s no longer behind her. Instead there’s a loud sound as a cab lays on the horn, jerking her attention behind her where he’s kneeling in the middle of the crosswalk with the light now turning green.
“You idi--”
“Felicia Hardy!” Peter calls over the sound of the horns, “Marry me?”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“I will if you don’t marry me before this cab gets me!”
He’s yelling and the people of New York are slowly turning to look at them, drawing the wrong kind of attention. Felicia finally breaks and tries not to laugh, running back into the crosswalk, tossing her half-filled coffee onto the window of the cab who keeps laying on the horn. The brown liquid splashes across the windshield and trickles to the ground while she holds her hand out of the ugliest ring she’s ever seen.
Peter fits it to her finger and kisses his knuckles. Several people cheer when he stands but traffic is growing and the light is getting ready to change once more.
“Thank you for making me the happiest ma--”
“Let’s go Lover.” She grips a hold of his shirt and drags him out of the crosswalk.
---------------------
“Mummy,” His voice is a little sleepy whisper. Walter struggles to walk forward, his footed pajamas making little scuffling noises against the floor, “would you tell me a story?”
“Of course my love,” Felicia stands in a slow sweeping motion, taking her reading glasses off her nose and setting them down on the settee in front of her couch. The sun has finally gone down and her home is dimly lit with the lights of Paris. Felicia moves for her son, sweeping him up in her arms and pressing a maternal kiss to his forehead before bringing him back into his bedroom. Felicia hits the small lamp by the bed before settling Walter down on his bed. She takes her time to tuck him in, pressing another kiss to his warm forehead.
“Shall I read The Little Prince again? Your favorite.” Walter brings his small hands up and gently holds them out for her to take. Felicia moves her hands into his, squeezing his little fingers gently, “then how about I tell you about your very first adventure with me?”
She smiles, remembering how she strapped him into a little bjorn and robbed the Grecian Embassy of an original painting in mid-transit. Walter had been the perfect partner, snoozing the entire time.
Almost every night was like this, she would set him in bed and a few minutes later he would tumble out and ask for a story, usually of one of her heists, of how they collected the pretty things she would put on display. Everything from the crown in her closet to the Van Gogh hanging in the foyer.
“No, I want to know about this one.” Walter twists the gold ring on her finger. It’s hideous and fake, and turns her finger green some nights when she wears it too long. She only wears it on occasion, it’s already looking beat up and close to ruin.
She tilts her silvery head to one side, looking at him curiously with both brows raising at him in the dim light of his little room, “Why do you want to know about this one?”
“You like it.” He smiles at her sleepily, he has thick lashes like his father and green eyes like his mother.
“I do, very much. Almost as much as I like you.” She playfully taps her index finger to his nose. He looks more and more like Peter every day that passes, even more when he giggles sleepily under her attention.
“Alright, let me tell you about this one.” She slips the ring off of her finger and plants it into his palm gently, “This one is rarer than anything we own. One of a kind, like you my love.”