Chapter Text
-8 hours and 12 minutes until the wedding
This is the moment at which Peter Parker-Stark is hit by a familiar feeling.
For context, Peter can’t remember much from when he was small. Dad says it must be because he said his first words very late in his infancy and began to speak quite a bit later, thus he understood most of his experiences emotionally, early on. To put it simply, Peter had been an emotional child. Perhaps an emotional—and impulsive— teenager as well, like his dad, who thinks fast and acts faster.
He also says this is why he wasn’t terribly surprised when Xavier, Peter’s pediatrician, diagnosed him with ADHD. One plus one equals two, however you add them, and Peter is impulsive and often disorganized, and while he has a good memory, he isn’t a great narrator of his own story.
Must be genetic , his dad comments from time to time, with a cup of coffee in his hands and a furrowed brow, as he concentrates on some project or other. It’s as if he forgets that Peter isn’t his biological son, and that their DNA has nothing to do with the other’s. (Their DNA matches as well with one another’s as with that of a banana, according to science. This is a frequent topic of debate between them.) It isn’t a relevant detail for either of the two, really. No need to say anything aloud about it.
Right, obviously , Peter always responds, it must be genetic , and he and his dad would burst out laughing at this joke that only the two of them could understand. Pepper, for instance, with her folders in hand and a serious expression, initially didn’t get it and would sigh, trying in vain to get his dad to focus: Mr. Stark, listen to me about this project, this corporation, this event. It requires your undivided attention, please concentrate. Neither of them would listen. She didn’t care to get it either, at first. But once she cared, she understood. Furthermore, not even Wade understood at first. But he was always interested, and now Peter didn’t understand him , until he became interested in turn. It… it’s hard to explain.
Anyways.
There are some smells that take him back to that time, back when he was very little. Take butter, for instance. Whenever dad would enter the kitchen, aimless and not knowing where to put his hands, he would always get out the butter and start cooking. The smell would fill the house, even when he only used it to spread onto bread. It reminds him of the snacks that Jarvis always used to prepare for them, even when his hands would tremble. Peter and dad would insist that it wasn’t necessary, insist that Jarvis sit down and see what a responsible adult dad could be. Jarvis, nonetheless, would never listen. Another ever-present smell that threw Peter back in time was that of motor oil, which reminded him of his dad and how every night, for as long as he can remember, he would give Peter a goodnight kiss on the forehead.
Yes. It’s the same way the feeling of a baseball against his hand reminds him of his uncle Rhodey. Though these aren’t quite memories to Peter. They’re sudden feelings that hit him, taking his breath away then returning it with a certain tenderness. That tenderness is the exact reason why they matter so much to him. He’s never been able to tell his story. There are too many holes, too many things left unsaid.
That’s why he tries so desperately to hold onto these feelings.
Since he first found his own apartment, since he said this is the place I want to call home , leaving his dad for the very first time, Peter was still able to feel him with him. Every time he walked past an office, hearing the banter between the people who were working, and everytime he smelled motor oil, he could swear his father was right beside him. And when he left, Wade being stateside for one reason or another, Peter found himself thinking of Wade when he smelled sweet and sour sauce, even when he didn’t quite understand why. Of course, he couldn’t tell Wade all this. He didn’t want to come home one day and find sweet and sour sauce on the floor, the walls, and the windows. Eugh. That would be a very Wade Thing to do, and he’d only do it to prove a point. That, or to win an argument, getting not-so-subtle revenge. Better for Peter to remain silent, for now.
When Peter lifts his head, he notices that dad is holding a paintbrush and painting a tile which was meant to become a nameplate for the wedding reception. He’s hit by the scent of paint and for a moment his breath is taken away. It’s strange that he hadn’t noticed the smell earlier. Dad’s brow is furrowed, determined to do the best job possible at painting this tile. The smell of him is in the air, too. Maybe Peter was just struggling to reconcile the odd combination of scents. Peter shuts his eyes and tries to remember.
The smell of dad and of paint. The smell of paint and of motor oil. There it is. He blinks quickly in realization. It’s a memory from when he was little, very little, but it isn’t a memory of Jarvis, as so many are from that age. It isn’t even a memory of dad—or at least not just of dad. There are arms around him in a gentle, protective embrace, then a kiss on his head and a sweet laugh. Peter smiled at dad, his little cheek pressed against somebody’s chest, and he heard these words. There were three people, and there were these words. Peter tries hard to remember them, but the feeling keeps stringing him along through the memory without letting go. They’re there, they’re on the tip of his tongue, these words spoken to him though not by dad. Peter hears them, and he remembers now, he knows that they’re important:
We could be a family .
Peter catches his breath, gently shaking his head. The echo of the memory remains. We could be a family.
Dad turns the nameplate around on the table, grimacing and shrugging his shoulders. The red and yellow splotches against the white background are meant to be a phoenix. Peter rests his head in his hand, sighing. It’s an atrocious-looking phoenix.
“The best move is probably to have a professional do it,” dad advises, rotating the tile back and forth on the table out of boredom.
“No, no, no, don’t even try it,” Peter replies, raising a finger in warning. “The nameplates are going to get made, and they’re going to be made by the three of us.” He gestures between himself, dad, and Wade, who’s holding his paintbrush in his mouth as if it were a cigar. The brush falls out of his mouth when Wade realizes he’s been made part of a conversation, but he soon recovers, breaking into a fake, easy smile. Peter shakes his head and covers his face with his hand again.
It’s fine. They still have plenty of time.
-24 hours until the wedding
“We’re running out of time,” Peter whispers to himself, fingers pressed against his temples. He forces himself to take a deep, calming breath before picking back up his controller and giving Ned a shove, who looks at him seriously, gravely, before nodding slowly and pressing “play,” starting the game back up. Peter laser-focuses. I know the pattern, I can do this! Circle, square, circle. Circle, square, circle. Thumbs, don’t betray me now…
“You’re not gonna make it,” Michelle mutters, feet on the nightstand and gum in her mouth. She lets a lazy smirk creep across her lips, showing just how much she meant what she’d just said. She takes a look at the screen in front of them and her irritating smile only grows bigger. Peter lets out a small growl in his frustration. Circle, square, circle.
“Five,” Michelle begins, counting down just to stress Peter out. She’s just trying to distract me , Peter tells himself, circle, square, circle, go, go, go! I can do this!
“Four,” she continues. Come on, Peter. She’s doing this on purpose. Circle, square, triangle—… what? He glances down at the controller and loses a fraction of a second. The character onscreen is losing time and hitpoints. Dammit!
Michelle just laughs. “Three.” Circle squ—
Ned looks desperate, hands pulling at his hair and shoulders hunched forward. Peter watches him out of the corner of his eye. Does he really have that little faith in me? Having faith in me is his whole job! I need to find a new best friend… Circle, square, circle.
“You’re not—” Ned starts.
“Two!”
“—gonna—”
“One!”
“—make it!”
Time runs out. Peter buries his face in his hands and shuts his eyes.
“What’s my score?” he whispers to Ned, and for a moment Ned says nothing. Peter reaches his hand out to grab Ned’s arm. Ned holds his hand, as if to transfer Peter some of his strength. “Did she do better than me?”
He doesn’t yet open his eyes. Ned is still quiet, but squeezes Peter’s hand. Michelle, on the other hand, bursts into laughter, and that’s an answer enough. Peter sighs and finally looks at the television. The scores on the screen are clear: including the bonus, Michelle finished the level 0.02 seconds ahead of him. He tosses the controller on the coffee table and falls back into the couch cushions. Michelle keeps laughing and Ned gives him a commiserate pat on the shoulder before hugging him.
“It could have been worse,” Ned tries to kindly console Peter.
“Seriously,” Michelle supplies. “You could be about to marry an old idiot—and not even for his money.” She turns herself 90° in the armchair she’s currently half-seated at and stretches out her neck so that she’s looking at the boys upside down. She smiles widely at her own jab, and Peter breaks eye contact, looking down at the floor.
He can handle these teasing kinds of jokes when they come from dad. He could handle them when they came from Michelle, too. It’s not worth the argument it’d start.
“Oh, lighten up,” Michelle mutters, turning herself in the chair again, this time to sit properly and lean back into the cushions. “Along with this game, I just won the right to say ‘I object’ at your wedding. I’ll probably leave it for your dad to say, though. Or maybe I’ll do it for him, just shout ‘I object!’, y’know? You two are just too sentimental.”
Ned sighs, but shrugs in reluctant agreement. Peter frowns. “You could just, I don’t know, not go?” he suggests. Michelle quirks an eyebrow and defensively puts a hand on her chest, as if Peter’s words had wounded her. Then, they both smile. “Want a rematch?”
“Come on, is this really how you wanna spend the day?” asks Ned, despite having the controller in his hand and looking ready to play another round. “Maybe if MJ had let you win….”
“What should we do instead, then? Maybe a board game?” Peter jokes, picking his feet up onto the couch to sit cross-legged, facing both his friends. Michelle keeps her mouth shut, but her disapproval is clear. Ned grimaces. “Sorry. You guys know Wade’s the fun, crazy one. But I’m happy just doing this. Isn’t it kind of a nice way to say ‘goodbye’ to.... I don’t know, to bachelordom?” He shrugs and looks down, feeling a little guilty. Not for the games, but for something entirely different.
“But….” He clears his throat. “But there may be something kind of… crazy… that I did, and I’m gonna tell you guys but you have to swear on your lives not to tell dad. Or Wade. And I wanted to tell you as soon as you got here, but you guys were just…. I know that we love judging people and stuff, but I really…. Please promise that you won’t judge me about this. And afterwards we can go back to being like normal. MJ and Ned, who judge alongside Peter. The three musketeers, Peter, MJ, and Ned. Who don’t judge each other.”
Ned and Michelle exchange a quick glance. She raises an eyebrow while he just looks concerned. Peter waits for either of them to say anything, and realizes that they’re probably waiting for him to say anything. So the three sit in silence, looking at one another. Michelle sighs and crosses her arms. If anyone were to speak first, of course it would be her. Peter presses his lips together into a line and waits for the blow. If she’s speaking first, her words aren’t going to be kind. But that’s Michelle.
“Peter,” she begins sternly. “Did you cheat on Wade?” She articulates clearly, speaking slowly, but for a moment Peter doesn’t understand a word she said. It takes him a few seconds to rewind and comprehend, and Michelle looks ready to both repeat herself, and to knock Peter’s lights out. “Did you—”
Peter bursts into laughter. “ What? ” he asks, slapping a hand to his forehead and laughing harder, his head falling back against the couch. “God, no… no. No, no, no.” He waves his hand through the air, as if to dispel the very thought from the room. “No,” he repeats, bringing his hand to his lips. He shakes his head. “No.”
Michelle looks down, but says nothing. She casts a glance over at Ned, and Peter stops laughing, finally. Peter rubs his eyes, looking for the right words to say. They have to be in there, somewhere.
“Not Wade. It’s my dad,” he confesses, rubbing anxiously at his forehead before shutting his mouth quickly, having realized that maybe he didn’t quite find the right words, after all.
Ned stares at Peter confusedly. He hunches forward, elbows on his thighs, and his jaw drops. “You… cheated on your dad?” he asks slowly. Unable to process the words, Ned sits and stares into nowhere with an empty look on his face. Peter thinks he may have broken him. “Like, did you…?” He makes vague gestures, like he can’t put his thoughts into words. Peter’s eyes widen and he straightens up in his seat. What the hell?
“Woah, Ned. Get your mind out of the gutter!” Michelle chides, though she’s clearly enjoying herself. She lives in the limbo of miscommunication and double entendres. Peter glares sharply at her, but she keeps on smiling.
“No!” Peter is once again shouting. “Are you serious? Why would you even joke about something like that?” Peter has his mouth half-open in a look of disgust. “Obviously that’s not what I meant. I just mean it has to do with my dad. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Michelle repeats under her breath.
“Obviously!” Peter repeats with more emphasis. “I didn’t cheat on anyone. But I did something that could have really hurt my dad, and I did it anyway. And that makes me a bad person. And I asked you guys not to judge me, but I can hear you guys silently judging me! It’s very loud!”
“Hold on a second. So you didn’t…?”
“Ned!” Peter shouts, covering his ears. “Enough!”
Michelle frowns and huffs. She puts her feet up on the couch, too. She rests her cheek on her fist and turns her other palm upward in a shrug-adjacent gesture. “But you knew that this thing could hurt your dad, and you still chose to do it…. That, like, automatically makes you a bad person. That’s Ethics 101.” She shrugs, and Peter looks down shamefully.
“But, like…” Ned begins, tilting his head. “What did you do, Peter?”