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The California sun beat down on the pavement, radiating a dry, oppressive heat that shimmered over the asphalt. Tom pulled the brim of his wide-brimmed hat lower, the dark fabric absorbing the glare. Oversized sunglasses masked his eyes, turning the world into a muted, sepia-toned version of Los Angeles. To the tourists and locals passing by, he was just another eccentric face in a city of millions. To himself, he was a ghost trying to remember how to breathe without someone else counting his inhalations. The March household was a sanctuary, but it felt like a suit of armor that didn't quite fit. He loved them—the chaotic, protective energy of Colt and his brothers—but the silence of the outdoors was easier. Out here, he didn't have to worry if his posture was too rigid or if the Sokovian lilt in his voice would slip through a sentence and invite questions he wasn't ready to answer.
He stepped into the shade of a sprawling palm tree, leaning his back against the rough bark. He closed his eyes, listening to the distant hum of traffic. He could feel the static electricity in the air, the humming vibration in his marrow that always preceded the urge to move. He didn't let himself succumb to it. Not yet.
His phone vibrated violently in his pocket. He fished it out, the screen displaying Jennifer’s name. He answered on the first ring.
"Jennifer?"
"Tom! Oh god, Tom, I don't know what to do!"
The sound of her voice hit him like a physical blow. Jennifer was the anchor. She was the one who held the line when the world crumbled, the one who navigated the shark-infested waters of Gail’s industry with a frozen smile and a heart of steel. Hearing her voice crack was a siren of genuine crisis.
"Breathe. Talk to me," Tom said, his voice dropping into a low, steady register. "What happened?"
"It's Olivia! Her water just broke! Everything is happening so fast, the house is a disaster, my parents are running in circles, and Olivia... she’s panicking, Tom. She can't get her breathing under control and I can't calm her down!"
A crash sounded in the background, followed by a muffled shout. Jennifer let out a shaky sob.
"I just need you here. Please, just come. I can't do this alone right now."
"I'm coming," Tom replied. "Tell her to sit down. Tell her I'm five minutes away. No, three. Just tell her I'm almost there."
He hung up and immediately dialed Colt. He didn't think about the secrecy; it was a reflex, a scar left by years of Gail demanding to know his every move. The habit of hiding his friendship with Jennifer was a protective instinct he hadn't yet unlearned.
Colt picked up after two rings. "Hey, you still out? Want me to save you some breakfast?"
"Colt, listen. Something came up. I can't make it back to the house tonight."
There was a pause on the other end. Tom could practically hear Colt’s brow furrowing, his protective instincts shifting into high gear.
"What do you mean? Where are you? Do you need a ride? Is everything okay?"
"I'm fine. I just... I have to handle something. I'll call you tomorrow."
"Tom, you can't just 'handle something' and disappear into the night. You know how this city is. Just give me a location, or at least tell me who you're with."
Tom sighed, glancing at the empty street. "I can't, Colt. I just can't. I'm safe. I promise. I’ll be okay."
"You're doing the thing again," Colt said, his voice softening but remaining firm. "The disappearing act. Tom, you aren't in that other life anymore. You don't have to hide your movements from us. We aren't the enemy."
"I know you aren't. That's why I'm telling you I'm safe. I'll call you tomorrow. I have to go."
He ended the call before Colt could argue. He felt a twinge of guilt, a sharp needle of shame for shutting out the man who had spent the last few months trying to shield him from the world. But the panic in Jennifer's voice was a louder command. Tom stepped into a narrow alleyway, ensuring no one was watching. He shifted his weight, feeling the sudden, violent surge of energy in his legs.
The world snapped.
The sounds of the city vanished, replaced by a deafening roar of wind that whipped past his ears. The pavement became a blur of grey and gold, the buildings stretching into long, distorted ribbons of concrete. He didn't run; he sliced through the atmosphere, the friction heating the air around him. To any observer, he would have been nothing more than a sudden gust of wind that knocked over a trash can or ruffled a newspaper.
He skidded to a halt in the driveway of Jennifer’s family home, the momentum nearly throwing him forward. He didn't stop to catch his breath—he didn't need to. He burst through the front door, the smell of floral perfume and sterile cleaning supplies hitting him instantly. The living room was a hurricane of activity. Jennifer’s father was holding a phone to his ear, gesturing wildly to a woman who was frantically searching for a hospital bag. In the center of the room, Olivia sat on the edge of a recliner, her face pale, her chest heaving in shallow, ragged gasps. Jennifer saw him first. Her eyes widened, and she practically collided with him, gripping his arm with a strength born of desperation.
"You're here," she whispered, her voice trembling.
"I'm here," Tom said. He stepped away from her and knelt in front of Olivia.
Olivia looked at him, her eyes wide and glazed with fear. "I can't... I can't breathe, Tom. It's too fast. It's all happening too fast."
Tom took her hand. His grip was firm, grounded. He looked directly into her eyes, ignoring the chaos swirling around them.
"Look at me, Olivia. Just at me," he commanded softly. "Ignore the noise. Ignore everything else. Just follow my breath."
He exaggerated his inhale, his chest rising slowly. Olivia tried to mimic him, but a sob broke through, and she began to hyperventilate again. Tom didn't panic. He reached up and gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his touch a steadying force.
"You are stronger than this moment," he whispered. "The baby is coming, and you are the bridge. Just be the bridge. Slow. Steady. In and out."
He kept his voice a low, melodic hum, a cadence he had learned from years of pretending to be someone else, someone calm and collected. Slowly, the frantic rhythm of Olivia's breathing began to synchronize with his. Her grip on his hand loosened, the tension leaving her shoulders.
"There you go," Tom murmured. "Just like that."
The distant wail of a siren grew louder, cutting through the suburban quiet. The ambulance arrived minutes later, the paramedics moving with a synchronized efficiency that Tom recognized from his own fragmented memories of war and wreckage. As they helped Olivia onto the gurney, the house erupted into a fresh wave of panic. Jennifer’s parents began arguing about which route the ambulance should take, and Jennifer stood by the door, her eyes fixed on Tom, her expression a mix of gratitude and exhaustion. Tom’s phone rang. He pulled it out to see Colt calling again. He answered, stepping out onto the porch to avoid the noise.
"Tom! I've been trying to reach you for an hour. Where are you? Are you okay?"
In the background, the ambulance driver slammed the rear doors shut, and the siren let out a sudden, piercing blast as the vehicle accelerated down the street.
The silence on the other end of the line was instantaneous.
"Was that a siren?" Colt’s voice was sharp, stripped of its usual warmth and replaced by a raw, jagged edge of panic. "Tom, why is there an ambulance? Are you hurt? Tell me where you are right now, or I swear to God I will find you."
Tom closed his eyes, leaning his head against the doorframe. He could hear the terror in Colt's voice—the fear of losing someone else, the echo of a childhood spent in a house where sirens usually meant something had been destroyed.
"Colt, calm down," Tom said, his voice flat. "The ambulance wasn't for me."
"Then who the hell was it for? Why are you near an ambulance in the middle of the night?"
"It was for a friend. A family emergency," Tom replied. "I'm fine. I'm completely unhurt."
"A friend? You're hiding a friend? Tom, this is insane. Just come home. Let us help you."
"I can't right now, Colt. I have to stay here for a bit. And listen to me—if I am ever injured, if something actually happens to me, I will call you first. I will call you before I even think about calling an ambulance. Do you understand?"
Colt let out a shaky breath. "You better be telling the truth."
"I am. Now I have to go. I'll contact you later. Bye, Colt."
He hung up and stared at the screen for a long moment. He felt the weight of the secret, the heavy burden of his own invisibility. He didn't want to lie to them, but he didn't know how to be the version of himself that didn't keep secrets. He turned back to the house. The silence that followed the ambulance's departure was heavy and oppressive. Jennifer was sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands. The house was a wreck—discarded clothes, half-packed bags, and a spilled glass of water on the hardwood floor.
"I can't believe she's actually gone to the hospital," Jennifer whispered. "The house feels so empty already."
Tom didn't answer. He simply walked over to the spill and began to clean it. He moved with a precision that bordered on the mechanical, his mind shifting into a mode of productivity to stave off the creeping anxiety of his own displacement.
He spent the next four hours in a state of focused motion. He didn't just clean; he organized. He scrubbed the floors until they gleamed, folded the discarded laundry, and reorganized the nursery, ensuring every blanket was aligned and every diaper was stacked with mathematical precision. He found a loose hinge on a cabinet door and spent twenty minutes tinkering with it, his fingers moving with an intuitive grace as he tightened the screws and aligned the wood. It was the only way he knew how to show care. He couldn't offer emotional platitudes, and he couldn't tell Jennifer that he felt a kinship in her struggle to maintain a facade of strength. So, he gave her a clean house. He gave her a space where the chaos of the birth wouldn't be compounded by the chaos of the environment.
By the time the sun began to hint at a return on the horizon, the house was pristine. Jennifer had long since fallen asleep on the sofa, her breathing deep and rhythmic. Tom draped a blanket over her, his touch light and tentative.
He stepped outside, the cool morning air hitting his face. He looked toward the direction of the March household, feeling a pull in his chest. He knew they would be waiting.
.
.
.
Back at the March house, the atmosphere was thick with a quiet, simmering tension. The living room was occupied by almost everyone. Courtland was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, his eyes scanning the door every time the wind rattled the windowpane. Ryland was perched on the edge of the sofa, his glasses slipping down his nose for the tenth time in an hour.
"He's not answering his texts," Colt said, pacing the length of the rug. His movements were predatory, the restlessness of a man who was used to solving problems with action. "He just... disappeared. Who is this 'friend'?"
"Colt, breathe," Courtland said, his voice the steady anchor of the group. "He's an adult. And more importantly, he's a man who has spent the last few years being told that his every movement belongs to someone else. You can't expect him to just hand over his autonomy because we're nice to him."
"I don't care about autonomy right now," Colt snapped. "I care about the fact that he heard an ambulance and then hung up on me. That's not 'fine' behavior."
Ryland pushed his glasses up and looked at his brother. "Maybe he's just overwhelmed. Think about it. He's living in a house with four brothers, Holly, Jody on occasion, Healy, and an uncle who all basically want to adopt him. That's a lot of pressure, even if it's a supportive kind of pressure."
"He's not just overwhelmed, Ryland. He's haunted," Colt replied, stopping his pace. "He's got these gaps in his life. These secrets. I just... I hate that he feels he has to hide from us."
Holland March sat in his armchair, his eyes closed, a quiet presence in the center of the storm. He had lived through his own share of fires and losses, and he knew that some wounds couldn't be healed by simply asking someone to open up.
"He'll come back," Holland said, his voice gravelly but certain. "The boy is searching for a place where he belongs. He just doesn't realize yet that he's already found it."
"But why the secrecy?" Holly asked, leaning against the doorframe. "He's been here for months. We've given him everything. Why does he still feel the need to sneak around like he's committing a crime?"
"Because for Gail, everything was a crime," Courtland answered. "Privacy was a luxury she didn't allow him. He's not hiding from us; he's hiding from the habit of being controlled."
The room fell silent. The realization settled over them, a cold weight of empathy. They had all grown up in the shadow of abuse—the bruises, the screaming, the fear of the front door opening. They knew the feeling of wanting to vanish into the walls.
"We stay up," Colt decided, his voice softer now. "We don't grill him when he walks through that door. We don't demand a list of names and addresses. We just... we let him know we were here."
"Agreed," Ryland said. "Though I might ask him if he wants a sandwich. I'm starving."
As the hours ticked by, the family remained in the living room. They didn't talk much, but the proximity was its own form of communication. They shared a bowl of snacks, played a low-stakes game of cards, and spoke in hushed tones about mundane things. They were creating a perimeter of safety, a silent promise that the door would always be unlocked and the lights would always be on.
When the first light of dawn filtered through the curtains, the sound of footsteps on the weathered porch echoed through the doorway.
The tension in the room snapped instantly, though they fought to keep their expressions neutral. Tom walked through the door, his shoulders slumped, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion. He looked smaller than usual, his frame weighed down by the psychic toll of the night. He stopped in the entryway, staring at the gathered family in the living room.
He blinked, a look of genuine surprise crossing his face.
"You're all still awake," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Colt stood up, but he didn't rush over. He stayed in his own space, giving Tom the room to breathe.
"We had a feeling you might need a place to crash," Colt said, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips. "And Ryland was convinced he could beat me at Gin Rummy, so we figured we'd stay up to witness the defeat."
Tom looked around the room. He saw Courtland’s nod of approval, Holly’s soft smile, and Holland’s steady gaze. He saw the lack of judgment, the absence of the interrogation he had expected.
For the first time in years, the invisible wires didn't feel like they were pulling him.
"I'm sorry," Tom said, the words sounding clumsy and foreign. "I didn't... I didn't think you'd wait."
"We're the March family, Pietro," Ryland said, using his real name with a casualness that made Tom’s heart ache. "Waiting is kind of our thing. Now, seriously, do you want a sandwich? Or maybe some coffee? You look like you've been through a war."
Tom let out a breath he felt he had been holding since he first woke up in this universe. He stepped further into the room, the warmth of the house wrapping around him like a shroud.
"Coffee," Tom replied. "Please."
As Ryland headed toward the kitchen, Colt stepped forward and placed a hand on Tom’s shoulder. He didn't squeeze; he just let the weight of his hand be known.
"You don't have to tell us everything," Colt whispered. "Not today, not tomorrow. But just know that you don't have to do the 'disappearing' thing anymore. You're not alone in this house."
Tom looked up at him, his eyes shimmering with a sudden, sharp emotion. He didn't have the words to explain the speed, the alternate life, or the crushing grief for a sister who didn't exist in this world. He couldn't explain the secret bond he shared with Jennifer.
But as he looked at the people surrounding him, he realized that for the first time, he didn't need to explain.
"Thank you," Tom murmured.
He walked toward the kitchen, the sound of Soko's paws drumming against the hardwood as the puppy bounded toward him, tail wagging in a blur of golden fur. Tom knelt down, letting the dog lick his face, and for a moment, the ghost of Pietro Maximoff felt like he was finally becoming a man again.
.
.
.
The morning light filtered through the curtains of the guest room, casting long, pale stripes across the hardwood floor. Tom didn't wake up slowly; he snapped awake, his mind already racing at a frequency that would have left a normal man breathless. Beside the bed, his phone buzzed with a relentless, rhythmic vibration that rattled the nightstand.
*Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.*
He lunged for the device. The screen was a waterfall of notifications.
Jennifer: She’s here! Tom, she’s finally here!
Olivia: Look at her, Tom. Look at those cheeks!
Josh: Welcome to the world, Marlene. She’s perfect. Thanks for the calm, man.
Tom stared at the photos. A tiny, wrinkled face, skin the color of a sunset peach, wrapped in a hospital blanket with blue and pink stripes. Olivia looked exhausted, her hair damp and clinging to her forehead, but her eyes shone with a fierce, primal light. Beside her, Josh looked like he had just won a marathon he hadn't trained for, his expression one of pure, bewildered awe.
A sudden, sharp surge of heat bloomed in Tom’s chest. It wasn't the friction of his speed, but something heavier and warmer. He didn't think. He didn't calculate the social risks or the lingering suspicion in the house. He stood up, the movement a blur, and bolted for the stairs.
Soko, the golden retriever puppy, had been dozing by the door. The dog's head snapped up, his nostrils twitching as he caught the scent of Tom’s sudden adrenaline. Soko let out a sharp, happy yelp—Yip!—and bounded after him, his oversized paws skidding on the floor, his tail whipping the air like a golden pendulum.
Tom burst into the kitchen. The scent of sizzling bacon and strong coffee hung heavy in the air. The March family was already gathered around the long oak table, a chaotic assembly of mismatched mugs and half-eaten plates.
"Whoa, slow down!" Ryland exclaimed, his glasses sliding down his nose as he leaned back in his chair. "You look like you just saw a ghost, or an alien. Which is it?"
Tom didn't stop. He skidded to a halt beside Colt, nearly knocking over a glass of orange juice. He thrust the phone forward, the screen glowing with a picture of the newborn.
"Look! Look at her!" Tom’s voice lacked its usual guarded cadence. The Sokovian lilt danced through the words, uncontrolled and bright. "She’s here. Marlene. She is... she is absolutely perfect."
Colt blinked, staring at the phone and then back at Tom, completely bewildered. "Who... who is this? Tom, who is the baby?"
Courtland leaned over, squinting at the image. "Is this the 'friend' you mentioned last night? The one with the ambulance?"
Tom beamed, his chest puffing out slightly. "Yes! This is Olivia. She is the sister-in-law of my friend, Jennifer. They just had their daughter. Look at her tiny fingers!"
The table went silent. The March siblings exchanged looks of genuine surprise.
"Wait," Holly said, pausing with a piece of toast halfway to her mouth. "You have a friend? Like... a secret friend? Since when do you have people you can call in the middle of the night?"
"Since a long time," Tom admitted, unsure if he should feel offended or not, his voice softening. "Jennifer and I... we have been friends for years. We had to keep it a secret because of Gail. If Gail knew I had anyone I actually cared about, she would have used them to control me even more. Jennifer is... she is like a sister to me."
Colt’s expression shifted from confusion to a raw, protective empathy. He set his coffee mug down with a heavy thunk. "You've been carrying that all this time? You have people out there who actually give a damn about you?"
"Yes," Tom whispered. "And I wanted to be there for her. Olivia was panicking, and the house was... it was a disaster."
"A disaster?" Ryland asked, tilting his head. "What do you mean by that?"
Tom shrugged, a bit bashfully. "Well, Jennifer fell asleep on the sofa because she was so exhausted. And the house was a mess. There were clothes everywhere, and the nursery was not finished. I could not let them come home to a hurricane. So, while they were at the hospital, I just... I fixed it."
Ryland pushed his glasses up. "Fixed it? Define 'fixed,' Pietro. Did you tidy up some laundry, or are we talking professional grade?"
"I scrubbed the floors," Tom explained. "I organized the diapers. I fixed a loose hinge on the baby's dresser, and in the kitchen. I spent about four hours deep-cleaning everything so it would be pristine for the baby."
The silence that followed was absolute. Then, Ryland let out a loud, barking laugh.
"Hah! You disappeared into the night, gave us all a heart attack with a siren, and it turns out you were playing Cinderella for a secret friend!"
"I just wanted it to be nice for them," Tom murmured, his cheeks flushing.
Holland March, who had been quietly observing, smiled over the rim of his mug. "A man who cleans a house for a friend in the middle of the night is a man with a very good heart. I think it's good that you have whatever this 'Jennifer' is to you."
Soko seized the moment to launch himself at Tom’s legs, his wet nose pressing firmly into Tom’s calf. Tom laughed—a real, melodic sound—and knelt to wrestle with the puppy.
The next three days were a blur of digital updates and restless energy. Tom became a human notification center for the March household. He didn't just check his phone; he hovered over it, waiting for the vibration that signaled a new photo or a voice memo. On the second day, Tom cornered Ryland in the living room. Ryland was surrounded by textbooks, attempting to grade a stack of middle school essays.
"Ryland! Look!" Tom practically shouted, shoving the phone inches from Ryland’s nose. "She is holding her thumb! Look at the grip! Do you think she is going to be a scientist? She has a very determined grip."
Ryland blinked, squinting at the screen. "The palmar grasp reflex, Pietro. It's a survival instinct from the womb. But yes, she looks like she’s ready to seize the means of production. Or perhaps a very small toy."
"She is a warrior," Tom declared.
"You're remarkably invested in this child," Ryland noted, a small smile playing on his lips. "It's a good look on you. The 'doting uncle' vibe suits you better than the 'haunted movie star' aesthetic."
Tom smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I just... I like that she is new. Everything about her is new. She does not know about... anything. She is just here."
Ryland's expression shifted, the humor fading. He knew about the gaps in Tom's life. He knew the feeling of wanting to start over.
"Well," Ryland said softly, "if she needs a tutor in three years who can explain the laws of thermodynamics using only LEGOs, I'm her guy."
Later that afternoon, Tom found Courtland in the garage, cleaning a set of tactical gear. The smell of gun oil and leather filled the space.
"Courtland," Tom said, stepping into the dim light. "Look at this one. Jennifer sent it. Marlene is sleeping. She looks like a little angel. Do you think... Do you think babies know they are loved?"
Courtland stopped scrubbing. He looked at the photo, then at Tom. He thought of Claire, the girl he had pulled from the wreckage of a mission.
"I think they feel it," Courtland replied. "They don't need the words. They just feel the heartbeat. The presence. The fact that someone is there when they wake up."
Tom leaned against the workbench. "I wish... I wish I had that. When I was small."
Courtland didn't offer a platitude. He simply reached out and squeezed the back of Tom’s neck, a grounding weight. "You have it now, Pietro. We're here."
By the third day, the tension in the March house had shifted. The focus had moved from Tom’s secrets to the anticipation of the baby’s arrival home. Tom was no longer the ghost in the hallway; he was the herald of the new arrival. He spent the morning pacing the living room, his speed manifesting in small, twitchy movements—a sudden blur of a hand reaching for a glass, a flicker of movement as he adjusted the curtains.
"If you pace any faster, you're going to create a localized tornado," Holly joked, leaning against the doorframe. "Relax, Tom. They'll be home soon."
"I just want to know if they need anything else," Tom said, his voice humming with anxiety. "Maybe the diapers weren't the right brand? Maybe the crib is too cold? I should have checked the temperature of the room."
"Tom," Holly said, stepping forward and placing her hands on his shoulders. "You cleaned the entire house. You fixed the furniture. I think the baby will be just fine."
"I just... I want it to be perfect for them," Tom replied.
"It is perfect," Holly replied. "Because you cared."
Around four in the afternoon, Tom's phone erupted.
*Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.*
It was a flood of messages.
Jennifer: TOM. I GOT THE GOODS. WE ARE PULLING INTO THE DRIVEWAY!
Olivia: THE HOUSE LOOKS INCREDIBLE, TOM! WE JUST WALKED IN AND I ALMOST CRIED.
Josh: Seriously, man, the nursery is a sanctuary. You're a legend.
Josh: Jen, don't call my wife and child “Goods”.
Tom stared at the messages, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt a sudden, overwhelming sense of completion. For years, his life had been a series of performances and lies. But this—the scrubbing of floors, the fixing of hinges, the desperate hope for a newborn's comfort—that was real. He walked out onto the porch just as Soko began to dance, his paws drumming a frantic beat on the porch boards. Colt stepped out behind him, leaning against the railing. He looked at Tom, seeing the way the younger man was clutching his phone, his expression one of raw, unfiltered relief.
"You did a good thing, Pietro," Colt said quietly.
Tom looked up at him, his eyes shimmering. "I just wanted her to have a good place to start."
"I think she will," Colt replied.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, Tom sat on the porch steps with Soko curled up against his leg. He scrolled through the photos of Marlene in her new nursery—the one he had painstakingly prepared.
The evening had settled over the March household in a rare, comfortable lull. After a dinner of hearty lasagna and a chaotic argument between Ryland and Colt over the correct way to load a dishwasher, the group had drifted into the living room. The air was thick with the scent of garlic and the low hum of a baseball game playing on the television.
Tom sat on the edge of the armchair, his legs bouncing with a restless, rhythmic energy. Soko was sprawled across his feet, snoring softly, his small chest rising and falling in a peaceful cadence. Tom wasn't watching the game; he was staring at his phone, scrolling through a series of photos Jennifer had sent of Marlene sleeping in the crib he had meticulously aligned.
*Bzzz. Bzzz.*
The phone vibrated in his palm, the screen lighting up with Josh’s name. Tom jumped, nearly waking the puppy. He pressed the phone to his ear, his voice a hurried whisper.
"Hello?"
"Hey, man," Josh’s voice came through, sounding exhausted but remarkably light. There was a soft, muffled sound in the background—a tiny, rhythmic whimpering that made Tom’s heart skip a beat. "Listen, Olivia and I were just talking. We’re finally settled in, and looking at this house... man, we really can't thank you enough. You didn't just clean a room; you gave us a place to actually breathe."
Tom smiled, his eyes closing. "It was nothing, Josh. I just... I wanted it to be right."
"Well, it is right. More than right," Josh said. There was a pause, and Tom could hear the shift of fabric, as if Josh were leaning in. "Look, we’d really like to talk to you. Properly. And, well, we want you to come over. We want you to meet Marlene in person. You've been the MVP of this whole ordeal from a distance—it's time you actually held the kid."
The breath left Tom’s lungs in a sudden rush. "I... I would love to. I can be there. I can be there right now."
"No need to rush, Tom. We're just hanging out. Whenever you can make it work, just let us know."
"I'll be there soon," Tom replied, his voice humming with a sudden, electric excitement.
He lowered the phone and looked up. The room had gone quiet. The March brothers were all staring at him. Colt, in particular, had a look of keen interest, his arms crossed over his chest.
"Who was that?" Colt asked, his voice neutral but curious.
"Josh," Tom said, standing up so abruptly that Soko let out a startled *woof!* and scrambled to his feet. "He... he wants me to come over. To see Marlene. To meet the baby."
The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. A few days ago, a sudden request to leave the house would have triggered Colt's protective instincts, sparking a flurry of questions and worries. But now, the context has changed.
"The baby!" Ryland exclaimed, pushing his glasses up. "The legendary Marlene. Are you actually going to meet her?"
"Yes," Tom said, his eyes shimmering. "They want to thank me. They want me to... to see her."
Colt stood up, stepping toward Tom. He didn't block the door, but his presence was a steady, grounding force. He searched Tom's face, seeing the raw hope there.
"You're good to go," Colt said, a small, supportive smile tugging at his lips. "But don't do the 'disappearing' thing again. If you're going, tell us how you're getting there so we aren't staring at the clock wondering if you've been snatched by a rogue agent."
Tom hesitated. He couldn't exactly explain that he planned to slice through the air at Mach 1, arriving in a fraction of a second.
"I'll... I'll take a car," Tom lied, though it felt less like a deception and more like a necessary boundary. "I will be back before you know it. I promise."
"Safe travels, Pietro," Holland called out from his armchair, his voice a warm, gravelly rumble. "Enjoy the little one."
Tom nodded, a surge of gratitude hitting him so hard it almost made him dizzy. He walked toward the door, Soko trotting excitedly beside him, sensing the shift in energy. As he stepped out onto the porch and the cool night air hit his face, Tom felt the familiar, humming vibration in his marrow. He looked back at the house—at the warm, yellow light spilling from the windows and the silhouettes of the men who had become his unexpected sanctuary.
He didn't need to hide anymore. Not from them. But as he stepped into the shadows of the driveway, far from the rest of the world's eyes, the world snapped.
Whoosh
The sound of the wind was a deafening roar for a split second, and then the March house was a distant memory, replaced by the suburban silence of Jennifer’s street. He skidded to a halt in front of the house, his chest heaving slightly, a wide, genuine smile on his face.
He wasn't just going to see a baby; he was stepping back into a world where he was known, loved, and needed. For the first time in a long time, Pietro Maximoff felt like he was running toward something, rather than away. Tom skidded to a halt a block away from the house, his heart drumming against his ribs. He took a moment to slow his breathing, smoothing his shirt and shaking out the static electricity that always clung to his skin after a long sprint. By the time he walked up the driveway and reached the front door, he looked like a man who had just stepped out of a car, though his eyes were wide with a frantic, joyful energy.
He didn't even have time to knock. The door swung open, and Jennifer was there, her face lighting up the moment she saw him.
"You're here!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him in a fierce, grounding hug.
Tom let out a shaky laugh, hugging her back. "I couldn't stay away. I think I might have broken a few speed limits on the way here."
Jennifer pulled back, grinning, her eyes scanning his face. "You look like you're about to vibrate right out of your skin. Come on, let's get you inside."
As she guided him through the living room—the space now smelling of fresh laundry and vanilla candles—Tom couldn't help but glance around. It was exactly as he had left it: pristine, organized, and calm. The sight of his own handiwork gave him a small, quiet sense of pride, but his focus quickly shifted as they approached the hallway leading to the nursery.
Jennifer stopped him just outside the door, her hand resting on his forearm.
"Wait a second," she whispered, her voice soft. "Josh and Olivia asked me to wait for you. They wanted us both to walk in together. They said they wanted the 'team' that made this place a home to see her at the same time."
Tom felt a lump form in his throat. He wasn't used to being on the "team." He was used to being the tool, the asset, the secret. To be recognized as someone who had contributed something meaningful to another person's happiness felt overwhelming.
"Okay," he murmured, his voice thick. "Okay."
Together, they pushed the door open.
The nursery was bathed in a soft, amber glow from a dim lamp in the corner. The walls were a muted sage green, and the air was warm and heavy with the scent of baby powder. In the center of the room, Josh and Olivia were huddled together by the crib. Olivia was leaning against Josh, her face pale but wearing a look of absolute serenity.
"Look who finally made it," Josh whispered, a wide, tired smile on his face.
Olivia looked up, her eyes shimmering. "Tom. Thank you for coming."
Tom didn't speak. He couldn't. He stepped forward, his movements tentative, as if he were afraid the entire scene was a fragile hallucination that would shatter if he breathed too hard. He stopped beside the crib and looked down. Marlene was awake, her tiny, dark eyes blinking slowly, her small mouth opening and closing in a silent, rhythmic yawn. She was so small. So impossibly, delicately small.
"Do you want to hold her?" Olivia asked softly.
Tom recoiled slightly, his hands twitching. "I... I do not want to break her. I am not... I have not held a baby."
Josh chuckled, a low, warm sound. "You're not going to break her, man. Just support the head, er and wash your hands first. Here, let me help."
Tom rushes to the bathroom across the hail and scrubs his hands, taking the time to get under his nails before coming back to where Josh stood waiting for him. With careful coordination, Josh lifted the infant and gently placed her into Tom's arms.
The moment the baby touched his chest, something inside Tom snapped. The walls he had built—the armor of "Tom Ryder," the grief of Pietro Maximoff, the fear of Gail—all of it crumbled in a sudden, violent rush of emotion. He sank slowly into the wooden rocking chair beside the crib, clutching Marlene to his chest as if she were the only solid thing in a swirling universe. Marlene let out a tiny, soft sound—a little mew—and curled her small head against his heartbeat. Tom closed his eyes, and the first tear escaped, trailing hot and fast down his cheek. He didn't try to stop it. He leaned his head back against the chair, his shoulders shaking with silent, racking sobs. He wasn't crying for the baby; he was crying for the child he had once been, for the sister he had lost, and for the terrifying, beautiful realization that he was allowed to feel this.
"She likes you," Olivia whispered, her own voice cracking.
Tom looked down at Marlene, a soft, broken smile touching his lips. His eyes were red and brimming with tears, but the expression in them was one of pure, unfiltered devotion.
"She is... she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," Tom choked out, his Sokovian accent thick and heavy.
Was this how their parents felt the day Wanda and him were born?
*Click.*
The sound of the camera shutter was barely audible, but Tom didn't move. Jennifer had stepped back, her phone capturing the moment.
In the photo, Tom was bathed in the amber light of the nursery, sitting in the old wooden rocker. He looked fragile and strong all at once, his eyes teary and shimmering, his gaze locked onto the tiny life curled against his chest. He looked less like a famous actor and more like a man who had finally found a piece of the peace he had been searching for across two different worlds.
"I got it," Jennifer whispered, looking at the screen with a smile. "That's the real Tom. Or the real Pietro."
Tom didn't mind the name. For the first time, it didn't feel like a secret. It felt like the truth. Tom remained in the rocking chair for a long time, the rhythmic *creak-creak* of the wood is the only sound in the room besides Marlene’s soft, rhythmic breathing. As he looked down at the tiny person in his arms, a sudden, cold void opened up in his chest, swallowing the warmth of the moment. He could almost see her. He could almost feel Wanda standing right beside him, her head tilted, a knowing, gentle smile on her lips. She would have reached out with one finger to let the baby grab hold. She would have whispered something in Sokovian about how the little one had a spirit as bright as a summer morning.
A sharp, jagged ache pulsed behind his ribs. It was the cruelty of joy; the happier he became, the more he realized exactly who was missing from the picture. He closed his eyes tight, pressing his forehead against the baby’s soft blanket. ‘I wish you were here, sister,’ he thought, the words a silent scream in the sanctuary of his mind. ‘I wish you could see this.’
"You're doing great, Tom," Jennifer whispered. She stepped closer, her voice a warm anchor that pulled him back from the edge of his memories.
Tom blinked, clearing the blur from his vision. He looked up at Jennifer and gave a small, shaky nod. "She is... so light," he murmured. "Like a bird."
"My turn," Jennifer said softly.
Tom carefully transitioned the baby, their arms overlapping for a moment. As Jennifer took Marlene, she settled into the chair, beginning to hum a low, melodic tune. Tom didn't move away. He stood beside her, his hand resting on Jennifer’s shoulder, watching as the baby shifted in her sleep, a tiny, contented *coo* escaping her lips.
For the next hour, the two of them operated like a well-oiled machine. They took turns cuddling the baby, swapping roles whenever Marlene stirred or whimpered. When the time came to actually put her down for the night, it became a high-stakes mission.
"Okay, on three," Josh whispered from the doorway, watching with a mixture of amusement and exhaustion.
Tom and Jennifer worked in tandem. Tom held the baby’s small hand to keep her calm, while Jennifer slowly, millimeter by millimeter, lowered her into the crib. They froze every time Marlene let out a tiny *huff*, holding their breath in a synchronized silence.
"Shhh... shhh..." Tom breathed, his voice a low, vibrating hum that seemed to soothe the infant.
Finally, with one last gentle pat on the back, Marlene settled. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she sank deep into the mattress. Tom and Jennifer stepped back simultaneously, both letting out a long, synchronized exhale of relief.
"Mission accomplished," Jennifer whispered, grinning at Tom.
As they finally turned to leave the nursery, stepping back into the soft light of the hallway, Josh and Olivia were waiting for them. They weren't just standing there; there was a weight to their expressions, a seriousness that made Tom stop in his tracks. Olivia stepped forward, her hand entwined with Josh’s. She looked at Tom, then at Jennifer, her eyes shimmering with genuine emotion.
"We've been talking," Olivia began, her voice trembling slightly. "About the kind of people we want surrounding Marlene. About who we trust to protect her, to guide her, and to love her when we can't be everything she needs."
Josh stepped up beside her, his gaze steady. "Tom, you spent your own time and energy making sure this house was a sanctuary for us before we even stepped through the door. And Jenny... you've been the rock through all of this."
He paused, looking between the two of them. "We don't want you to just be 'the friends.' We want you to be a permanent part of her life. We want to know if... if you both would do us the honor of being Marlene’s godparents."
The silence that followed was heavy, but it wasn't oppressive. For Tom, it felt like a bridge being built over the void in his heart. He looked at Jennifer, who looked equally stunned, her lips parted in a small 'o' of surprise. Tom felt the tears returning, but this time, they didn't feel like grief. They felt like a beginning. He looked at Olivia and Josh, his chest swelling with a sense of belonging he had never known in any universe.
"I..." Tom's voice cracked. He cleared his throat, a small, radiant smile breaking through. "I would be honored. I would be more than honored. I will protect her with everything I have."
Jennifer let out a small, happy sob and threw her arms around both of them. "Yes! Oh my god, yes! We would love to!"
As they stood there in the quiet hallway, huddled together in a messy, emotional embrace, Tom felt a strange, fleeting sensation—like a warm breeze brushing against his cheek, even though the windows were closed. He smiled, leaning into the hug, knowing that somewhere, in a place beyond the stars and the speed of light, Wanda was smiling back.
.
.
.
The night air was cool and crisp as Tom walked up the driveway of the March household. He had spent the last two hours in a state of floating, his mind replaying the weight of Marlene in his arms and the softness of her breath against his skin. He hoped none of the family would notice that he hadn't taken a car or taxi. He didn't use his speed this time; he wanted to savor the feeling of the pavement beneath his feet, the slow, steady rhythm of a man who finally had something to come home to.
As he pushed open the front door, the familiar scent of the house—old wood, coffee, and the faint metallic tang of gun oil from the garage—wrapped around him.
Soko was waiting. The puppy’s paws hammered against the hardwood—clatter, clatter, clatter—as he raced toward Tom, letting out a series of high-pitched, excited yips. Tom knelt down, letting the golden retriever practically tackle him, laughing as he buried his face in the puppy's soft fur.
"I know, I know! I missed you too, buddy," Tom murmured, his voice still sounding a bit thick.
"Look who decided to rejoin the living," Ryland called out from the sofa. He was leaning back with a book in one hand and a bowl of popcorn in the other. He looked over his glasses, his expression curious. "You've got a look on your face, Pietro. It’s either extreme enlightenment or you’ve just discovered a new species of butterfly. Which is it?"
Tom stood up, his eyes shimmering. He didn't just walk into the living room; he practically drifted. The rest of the family was there—Colt and Courtland were debating something in low voices by the fireplace, and Holland was reading a file in his armchair.
"I held her," Tom breathed, the words escaping him in a rush. "I actually held her."
The room went quiet. Colt stood up, a genuine, warm smile spreading across his face. "Really? How was it?"
"She is... she is so small," Tom said, his voice trembling slightly. He stepped into the center of the room, gesturing with his hands as if trying to describe the scale of a miracle. "She felt like a little bird. She curled up right against my chest, and she made this tiny little sound—*mew*—just like a kitten. I thought my heart was going to stop."
Courtland leaned back, a soft look in his eyes. "You look like you've been crying, Tom."
Tom didn't deny it. He gave a small, watery laugh and wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. "I think I did. A lot. It was... it was a lot."
"Well, don't just stand there sounding like a poet," Ryland joked, though his voice was kind. "Where's the evidence? Tell me Jennifer didn't document this historical event."
"She did!" Tom exclaimed, his excitement finally overriding his exhaustion. He whipped out his phone, his fingers flying across the screen. "Look! Look at this one!"
The family crowded around him, a tight-knit circle of the brothers, Holly, and Holland, all leaning in to see the glowing screen. Tom swiped through the gallery with an eager, proud energy.
"Oh, man," Colt chuckled, pointing at the screen. "Look at your face. You look absolutely terrified and obsessed at the same time."
"I was terrified!" Tom defended, though he was beaming. "I thought I would break her! But look at this one—she's actually sleeping. See? Her little hand is curled right here."
"She's precious," Holly said, leaning in. "And you look... peaceful, Tom. I've never seen you look that relaxed."
Tom paused, the weight of the evening settling on him. He looked up at the faces surrounding him—men who had seen the worst of the world and had chosen to create a sanctuary for him anyway. He took a deep breath.
"There is something else," Tom said, his voice dropping to a more serious, emotional register. "Josh and Olivia... they asked me and Jennifer... they asked us to be Marlene's godparents."
The silence that followed wasn't the kind of silence Tom had grown used to under Gail—the heavy, oppressive kind. This was a silence of shared understanding. The March brothers knew exactly what it meant to be chosen. They knew what it meant to be given a title that promised protection and lifelong loyalty.
"Godfather, huh?" Colt said softly. He reached out, clapping Tom on the shoulder with a firm, grounding squeeze. "That’s a big deal, Pietro. They really trust you."
"I will not let them down," Tom whispered, his gaze returning to the photo of himself and the baby. "I will be everything she needs. I promise."
"I think you'll be great," Holland said from his chair, his gravelly voice filled with a rare, tender warmth. "You've already proven you've got the heart for it."
Tom leaned back against the wall, the phone still clutched in his hand. He looked at the pictures again—the teary eyes, the soft smile, the tiny baby. For the first time, the gap in his life where Wanda should have been didn't feel like a bottomless pit. It felt like a space that was slowly being filled with new, precious things.
"Alright, alright," Ryland announced, breaking the tension with a grin. "Now that the emotional climax of the evening is over, who's helping me finish this popcorn? I feel like we should celebrate the new godfather with a small amount of salted corn."
Tom laughed, a genuine, light-hearted sound that echoed through the house. He slid into the sofa beside Ryland, the warmth of the family wrapping around him like a blanket. He was no longer just a ghost or a puppet; he was a godfather, a friend, and a brother. And as he looked at the people around him, he could feel the tension fading from his shoulders.