To Love and to Cherish
Tony looked away from his phone, taking in a breath deep enough that he was sure even the cathedral ceilings above him didn’t have any oxygen left to spare for his lungs.
One day.
It was all he asked for — nay, begged for from a universe that was destined to doom him at every corner.
One day away from the chaos, one day away from the terrorism; both of the wordly and alien kind. Just one single day where there wasn ’t a Stane, there wasn’t a Vanko; no Loki, no Zemo. Most certainly not an Ultron — he wasn’t going through that ever again.
No Chameleon, no ridiculous cape-wearing Mysterio’s, or sentient biological poisons that turned into—
Tony let out his breath in a single exhale, hard enough it could’ve touched those same cathedral ceilings he’d taken the air from.
He just wanted one day away from the stress. If not for the purely selfish reasons that ran forefront in his mind, most certainly — and above all else — for Pepper.
After…well, everything, she deserved it.
She more than deserved it.
Tony frowned, his chest growing tight as if he hadn’t even taken that breath after all. The more he thought back on it, the more he realized just how much exactly Pepper had gone through, all in the span of a single decade.
It felt surreal how well he could remember that freckled smile of a ginger-haired woman greet him upon his return home from captivity in Afghanistan, and yet the taste of the desert sands no longer lingered on his tongue the way it used to. Time had its way with him, there was no doubt about it. But Tony knew much of the credit went to her.
That smile, no different than how he remembered it all those years ago, was what got him here today.
And if he couldn’t get one single day to go by smoothly for her — well, at that point, Tony wasn’t sure he even deserved her in the first place.
The non-stop vibrations from his phone was enough of a distraction to shake him out of his own thoughts. Tony’s forehead creased deeply, almost painfully, as he went to look at the screen that lit up with equally non-stop text messages.
Tony was a one of a kind genius to society, but not even he knew how Peter Parker managed to be one of the most highly responsible and equally irresponsible people on the planet.
“You know, Stark,” a voice reached from behind Tony, crawling into his ears right along with the rhythmic clicking of dress shoes against marble flooring. “I can’t say that I ever would’ve pinned you for catholic.”
Tony quirked an eyebrow almost as high as the ceiling, but otherwise stood the same — there was no need for him to turn around and face the person approaching.
Their voice had become a little too familiar to him, as of late.
“Then you can pat yourself on the back for that sharp perception, Doctor,” Tony easily responded, dropping his phone away inside the pocket of his tuxedo pants. Though it kept vibrating against his leg, he ignored it — choosing to keep his focus straight ahead, gesturing his now-free hand in the direction of the many pews that led up to the alter.
“All this — this is all Pepper,” he explained. “They truly mean it when they say this is the bride’s day.”
A quite hum was only heard when the footsteps came to a stop.
“Ah, not quite as surprising, then.” Stephen looked to Tony as he walked up from behind, even as Tony kept his focus straight ahead; his high-tech glasses tinting his eyes behind the light hue of lavender. “Potts is, after all, of English origin. The English were of heavy catholic descent. All and all, it’s not uncommon to see family heritage come into play with weddings like this.”
Tony made a noise from his nose that didn’t go unnoticed.
“The in-law’s are about as old school as anyone can get,” he commented, almost flippantly. “Pepper wasn’t much one way over the other — she’s been ready to have everything signed away at the courthouse for months now. Her own fault, really. She never let the wedding planner handle any of this. I expected nothing less from her, of course.”
Tony decided the distraction of watching guests pour inside the church was easier than making any eye contact with Strange. His eyes never wavered, even as he spoke.
“The amount of stress she’s been under since the first time we postponed…I’d swear she wasn’t even this worked up when taking over Stark Industries.” Tony gave a tiny huff full of humor. “You’d think a world renowned tech conglomerate of a company would be a little more nail biting than the simple, ceremonial I Do’s.”
Standing next to Tony, Stephen joined him in looking straight ahead to the church, sliding both hands deep into his own pant pockets along the way.
“Weddings can be quite the stressful event for the ladies,” he mentioned, casually, while nodding straight ahead at the chapel. “She seems to have handled it well, taken into consideration what you’ve just shared.”
Though the view up ahead scarcely changed, Tony and Stephen shared sights on it regardless — watching as the cathedral church full of pews grew full, with the distant chatter of small talk echoing against the high ceilings; mixing in gently with the soft pipe organ tunes playing up ahead. All the while, guests proceeded to gather in through the entrance of the building, one at a time.
Being one of them, Stephen stayed near that entrance where Tony stood tucked away, standing off to the side and closer to the open hallways that were lined with floor-to-ceiling pillars; giving open access to the chapel up ahead.
Tony cleared his throat, a bit more than once.
“Yeah…can’t say she was too thrilled on the tradition of it all.” A hard swallow was obvious in the way Tony’s throat moved. He tried to clear the dryness away from his voice, with the tune of Pachelbel's Canon becoming distant soundtrack to his awkward pause. “She was raised catholic — me? Never stepped foot into a church until the day my parents died. Never had the reason to.”
Tony wasn’t sure why he was rambling. He knew himself well enough to know he’d only ever ramble when nervous.
Surely, this couldn’t be that.
“Howard was raised in Judaism, never practiced once he left home. Mom was swiss, neither for or against. I never understood why Obie insisted on having their funeral at a church.” Tony let out a shameless, hoarse chuckle. “I like to imagine Howard yelling at his bald head somewhere from the beyond for that one.”
There was another pause that followed, long enough that Tony eventually had to clear his throat again, this time loudly — almost awkwardly. Anything to break the ice that was quickly building over their conversation, so thick that not even Cap would’ve survived it.
“Speaking of from the beyond,” Tony cocked his head to the side, finally giving Strange his attention — looking the man up and down with his eyebrow arched high. “You show up through your magic genie lamp, or…?”
Stephen lifted his arm for display, dangling a set of car keys from his finger and thumb.
“Parking was a bit of a hassle,” he said with a smirk, going on to close his fist and pocket the keys away inside his sleek, black suit jacket — doing it almost too quickly, before the tremble in his fingers could be noticed. “Fortunately, I’m not far from home in my travels today.”
Tony snapped his fingers.
“Ah, so you’re a local, then,” he deduced, grinning almost pretentiously. “That knocks out three digits to your phone number. Wanna go all in, finally share the remaining ten?”
For as conceited and smug as Tony came off, Stephen kept his response as neutral, his attention staying focused instead on the chapel.
“It’s good to see everyone here is well,” he skipped the question entirely, turning just slightly to face Tony. An eyebrow arched into the black and gray of his hairline. “I take it Thor had no issues in receiving my message from you?”
Tony gave him a look that his glasses mostly hid behind purple lenses.
“Yeah, about that,” he stressed, finding himself turning slightly to face Strange, no different than the man had done to him. “New rule — next time you wanna show off? Twenty-fours hour notice. Required. No exceptions.”
His glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose and Tony had to push them up to keep his eyes concealed, looking away in the process; not interested in seeing the equally conceited and smug smirk that Strange had to offer in response.
Damn, the man was a cocky bastard.
“That said…can’t imagine it was easy getting in touch with the literal God of Thunder. Especially considering his recent space tours.”
A pause had Tony working his jaw side-to-side in a way that made it easier to chew his next words and spit them out.
“Thanks, for that. I suppose,” he managed, as painful as it was to get out — and that much he couldn’t hide.
Stephen shook his head, the tiny huff that followed full of noticeable exasperation. His look of disbelief to Tony’s never-ceasing pride was far more humorous now than it had been in the past, but still, it was there; even if the time that passed allowed grace to excuse their flaws.
“It’s as I’ve said to you before, Stark,” Stephen began, tilting his chin low and keeping his eyes focused only on those who began to congregate into the chapel. Neither men bothered to look each other for longer than a few seconds. “I’m not some all powerful, magical being to this universe. I’m learning the restrictions of my abilities every day.” A beat stole what managed to follow. “I believe our most recent encounter speaks to that much.”
Tony almost didn’t hear the unspoken in what Strange said — so consumed in everything that was his wedding the past month, he’d almost forgotten about the events leading up to it.
A tightness gripped at his chest again, forcing him to take in another deep breath. The air went strictly through his nose, his lips pursed tightly together as he stayed quiet for a moment too long.
“Don’t sweat it,” Tony finally said, all in a single exhale of his breath. Tensely, he folded both arms across his chest, knocking into the cuff-links on his wrists as he dug his hands deep into his armpits. “Besides, not even your Vegas Night Show would’ve fixed that monstrosity of a cursed conundrum. Count your blessings you got to skip out on that one.”
Though Stephen didn’t seem very convinced, he seemed to take the answer for what it was; sparing Tony of any further details that, to this day, still caused phantom pains to ache up and down the length of his once mangled arm.
“I’m glad, in spite of my failure to help, Peter still saw a positive outcome to his troubles. However that may have been,” Stephen quietly said, looking around the church for the first time in their conversation. “Is the boy here today?”
“He will be,” Tony answered, looking off to the side but not at anything in particular. His foot began to tap on the ground, giving his chaotic energy its own noise. “Running late. He tends to do that.”
The thought spurred his next action — almost quick enough to pull a muscle, Tony whipped his hands out from underneath his arms, pushing back the sleeve of his white button down to catch the time from his the watch.
He didn’t like what he was seeing.
The only thing he disliked even more was the accent of red that caught his eye when looking back over at Stephen, the pocket square that sat firmly in his jacket making him forget all about Parker’s current tardiness.
Tony arched an eyebrow.
And higher after that.
“Just do me a favor,” he started to say, wagging a finger lackadaisically at Strange — circling specifically on the pop of red that colored his attire. “Keep the rabbits in your hat for the big day, will you?”
Stephen knew immediately what Tony was implying, seeing as the man wasn’t trying to be discreet in his gestures.
And yet, still,
“What ever could you be insinuating,” he dryly, sarcastically, drawled out.
Tony rolled his eyes so hard, they found their way to the other side of the chapel — where he motioned his head in the direction of the pale-skinned woman wearing a comically large fashion hat to cover the antennas he knew were hidden underneath, sitting next to a heavily muscular man dressed in a suit that was clearly causing him discomfort, as he tugged relentlessly at the collar of his button down shirt.
“Just saying,” Tony said, averting his eyes from the impromptu guests that had his lawyers scrambling to add additional wording to their wedding’s NDA’s. “Having Thor’s company here is all the strange we need. Don’t need another Strange ontop of it.”
Stephen shook his head, just as exasperated as before, while Tony found himself tugging at the collar to his own shirt; still bare of a jacket, but suddenly finding himself warmer than minutes prior.
“But yeah,” he cleared his throat as he undid the top button of his shirt, “thanks for coming.”
As Tony’s hands worked around the button near his neck, he realized it wasn’t just his jacket he was missing. Bare of any tie, he suddenly remembered it was laying in the room within the church being utilized as a groom’s suite. His outfit was far from fully put together.
Time was suddenly seeming a thin as the air he breathed, which was odd, considering no one else in the chapel seemed to be having the same issue as him with getting enough oxygen.
Tony’s thumb pressed against the sternum of his chest in old habit of soothing a wound that was no longer there; too busy fiddling with the open space of his button down to notice that Stephen was looking his way.
“Wanda is quite the reserved type, you know,” Stephen suddenly mentioned, without preamble — looking around the church in a way that distracted Tony from his fit of discomfort. “I’ve seen that she tends to keep many things close to her chest. She’s not one to rely on others — her history puts her at arms length with most. It’s obvious. As well, expected.”
Stephen lifted his chin a little higher, as if to catch sight of someone far away. Tony threw him a look, watching as the man seemed to subtly take attendance of the faces he recognized, and those he didn’t.
“Even after the time we have spent together this past year, she still remains distant to my teachings — she prefers much of her own solitude to the exposure of asking others for help. I can truly say it’s only been in times she’s meant it that she’s reached out to me, contacting me with the use of her magic.”
However many people Strange silently counted could’ve been one to a hundred, Tony wasn’t entirely sure. All he knew was it was a solid minute before the man eventually looked back at him.
“I appreciate the invite,” Stephen said, not free of any force to his words; but the genuine smile that pulled at the corner of his lip making up for that.
Tony knew that much, because — as unfortunate as it was, he knew Strange and himself were far too alike for their own good.
He should’ve figured it out back when they first met, but even a genius to society like himself couldn’t figure everything out on his own.
It was actually Pepper who eventually pointed it out to him. The arrogance, the cockiness, the pride—
Tony dropped his gaze, unintentionally eyeing the two hands that Strange had firmly pocketed away in his pants; dressed to the occasion, including magical outerwear that Tony swore was making movement in the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
No different than the slight trembles of movement from Strange’s hands inside his pant pockets.
There was far too much of about them that was alike.
Though Tony never had high hopes they’d find themselves tea-time buddies on a Sunday afternoon, it was hard to deny that with all Strange had done for him this past year…
Well, magical superiority or not, Tony figured he could put his differences aside for that much.
“You know what I’d appreciate it?” he started to say, whipping out his cell phone with one fluid motion and swiping up on the device with only the tip of his index finger. “An easier way to contact you instead of having to use a magical equivalent of a messenger pigeon. Area code 212…?”
Strange arched an eyebrow, looking down at the screen of Tony’s phone. All the while, Tony’s finger hovered over the device, his eyebrow climbing further up his forehead in the silence that followed.
Stephen kept his smile, but eventually looked away, turning back to the chapel ahead even if the sight hadn’t changed.
“You’re really gunna do this? Keep making me go through Maximoff to get to you?” Tony made a face. “It really wouldn’t kill you to give me your phone number.”
Still looking ahead, Stephen easily answered, “I really don’t want to give you my phone number.”
Vibrations began to tingle in the palm of Tony’s hand. With his face still twisted up in insult, he looked down at his phone, watching as string after string of messages began to light up his screen.
Willing himself the patience not to crush the phone in his grip — Iron Man repulsor not needed — Tony instead shoved the device back into his pocket, blissfully ignoring the remaining string of vibrations felt against his thigh.
One day.
All he asked for was one day.
“Thanks again for checking yes,” Tony airly brought the conversation to an end, giving Strange a friendly pat on the shoulder as he went to walk away — stopping only to gesture a finger lackadaisically at one side of pews. “You can sit on the groom’s side, find a spot next to Ant Amelia and Wrestle Mania — they’ll welcome you right on in.”
Strange had to do a double take to the individuals in question. Even he couldn’t hide the face of his that followed.
In that quick moment, he failed to notice Tony walk away; the man quickly turning at hip as he tapped twice on the temple of his glasses, with FRIDAY already working quickly on his wordless command.
“Mazel tov, Tony,” Stephen called out in departure, the linger of his voice following him as he and Tony went in opposite directions.
While Strange found his seat in the church, Tony quickly passed down the hallways that lined the building, all while accessing a digital clock from his AI.
The numbers pinned themselves right to the corner of his glasses, counting down in sync with the quick hammering of his footsteps.
Fifty-nine minutes.
He felt as his jaw began to tighten in place; there was no ignoring it now.
As Tony took quick and large strides down the hallway, that very count down kept him from noticing the group of people he hastily passed on by — crying toddler and all.
“I’m just saying,” Clint’s voice was second in line to the chest-heaving sobs of a young child that bounced frantically on his hip. His one arm kept the toddler near his chest while the other moved about frantically. “The more I think about this, the more I think it isn’t such a good idea after all. You really haven’t thought this through. Scotland? I mean, Scotland? You made this decision, what, three weeks ago?”
Standing in front of him, with her hair tousled in waves as elegant as the simple, maroon dress that fell down to her ankles, Wanda simply smiled.
“Clint—” she softly tried.
“Wakanda was barely a month ago, Wanda,” Clint was on a roll, and it showed, not only in his tangent but in the frantic bouncing of the boy that sat on his hip. At this point, his cries were more from his father’s erratic motions than anything else. “Let’s give this some time. Just stay home, or come to my home — you can take a break with me, on the farm. Let’s not go running away because—”’
Wanda bit back a sigh. “Clint, that is not—”
“How’s Vis even going to get through airport security, hm?” Clint didn’t let up. “What’s he going to do, sit in a tray with your laptop?”
As the boy began to slip from his grip, Clint readjusted his hold, his frustration only growing with the look Wanda proceeded to give him.
“I have told you, Stark has that handled. I have told you this many times,” Wanda was slow and deliberate with each word she said, her impatience showing in her tone but her affection evident in the smile that tugged at her lips. “You know this.”
If Clint’s jaw tightened anymore than it already had, it would’ve very well locked in place.
“I know it, I just don’t trust it,” he said, matter-of-factly.
The hiccup that proceeded to sound from the toddler jerked his attention away, and Clint threw Nathanial an apologetic look as he immediately slowed his bouncing.
All the while, Wanda smile.
“You trust so little,” she teased him, even at the cost of his SHIELD-days-originated ‘don’t mess with me’ look.
“There’s no better way to describe him.”
Laura’s voice came from behind, her footsteps accompanied with others — the mother leading the way for her two other older children to follow behind. As she neared, she tossed her baby-bag down onto the pew that Clint and Wanda stood next to.
Not a second later and she had the bag zipped open, digging inside and bringing out a packet of sanitizer wipes.
Clint was reaching for those wipes before she’d even had them out, taking one to clean up the mess that came from Nathanial’s mouth.
“Cooper snuck out of the house last month,” Clint shot back in rebuttal, making sure to throw the teenager a hot glare along the way — who, expectedly, shrugged when his dad gave him the type of look that could kill. Clint turned back to Laura, perturbed, as he handed off the dirty wipe. “I have valid reasons for my trust issues, and you know it.”
Laura threw the wipe away and pushed the baby bag to the side. As she stood up straight, she reached around to Wanda, laying an arm around her shoulder with a sympathetic smile directed at her husband.
“Trust her,” Laura insisted, patting her hand against Wanda’s arm. “She’ll be fine. You’ll be fine, Wanda, right?”
Though Laura looked to Wanda, the same wasn’t done for her.
“I will be fine,” Wanda insisted, looking nowhere but at Clint as she spoke.
Clint kept bouncing Nathanial against his hip, though the speed was slower now than before. His attention had gone elsewhere, with the tight lines across his forehead speaking to the defeat that showed in his face.
“See?” Laura gave a smile, looking between her husband and the young girl at her side. “She’ll be fine.”
Nathanial’s crying was far and few in between now, and the only thing that kept the silence at bay. There was a hard pause as Clint kept bouncing him against his hip, staring at Wanda all the while.
“I know you’ll be fine,” Clint said — reluctantly, but sincerely.
Despite his dismay, Wanda’s smile only grew.
“I will miss you,” she said, just as sincerely. And far from reluctant.
If Clint had anything to say in turn, the chance was quickly stolen away by the upset boy in his arms, who suddenly belted out with a cry that had the oldest of the bunch, Cooper, groaning with annoyance.
“Natty, little dude — you have been a cranky pants all morning.” Clint began bouncing him fast again, using both arms to hold the two-year-old against his chest. “What? What is it? What’s got your diaper so far up your butt?”
Wanda stifled a chuckle as Laura swung her arm off her shoulder, approaching her husband and youngest son with a frustrated laugh.
“Sing him Twinkle Twinkle, he’s been on a Twinkle Twinkle kick lately,” Laura insisted, reaching both arms outward to switch off the child.
“Twinkle Twinkle?” Clint frowned as he freed his arms from the crying toddler. “What happened to Old McDonald?”
Though Laura’s hold on Nathanial wasn’t doing much better than Clint’s, it at least got him to stop belting his cries out louder than the pipe organ playing Pachelbel's Canon.
“I don’t know, he stopped liking that one so much after we watched Lassie.” Laura bounced him gently, up and down, as she started to hum the aforementioned lullaby.
Clint’s forehead noticeably creased with confusion. “Why would have a two-year-old watch Lassie?”
Laura stopped humming, looking at Clint as she shrugged, innocently. “It’s a classic.”
Clint shook his head, rapidly. “That’s exactly why he’s cranky — he’s traumatized . You had our toddler watch Lassie, Laura!”
“He didn’t know what was happening!” She defended, raising her voice over Nathanial’s crying. “He just saw some fun farm animals and then a sad boy at the end. It’s not a big deal!”
Clint pointed a harsh, stern finger her way. “I don’t want any lip on how I raised Cooper.”
Laura threw him a look, half amused, half indignant. “Cooper snuck out of the house last month.”
“Will you guys just let that go?!”
Wanda couldn’t keep her amusement in anymore, a chuckle seeping through the hand that covered her mouth, with her palm failing at hiding the smile that followed.
So busy bickering, neither Clint or Laura noticed when an arm suddenly reached between them.
“Sleep,” Mantis softly encouraged, standing off to the side as she leaned over towards the child in Laura’s arms.
An open hand laid gently across his forehead. So quickly, so out-of-nowhere, neither Clint or Laura had a second to react.
The hat that covered Mantis’s head began to glow, and her eyes grew with complete darkness; the black of her pupils overtaking every inch like a dot of ink on paper.
Not a second later and the crying petered out, right alongside Nathanial quietly drifting off to sleep in Laura’s arms.
There was a long moment before Mantis finally pulled away from the toddler’s forehead.
When she finally did, she offered Laura a smile that appeared too awkward for her own good.
Laura — expectedly — remained speechless, though not for the same reasons as her husband.
Without any words, Clint’s eyes followed — silently — as a tiny tree waddled on by. Each small leg of his tripped over the scattered rose petals that covered the floor.
One by one, Groot began to pick up the rose petals that were in his path.
“I am Groot,” he grumbled, collecting petal after petal in his walk down the aisle.
They littered the floor with soft, romantic decor; and Groot busied himself to clean them up, huffing and puffing with each step he took — carrying in his arms more rose petals than his small body could withstand.
Cross over, tuck underneath, turn back—
Wait, no.
Untuck, cross under, now cross over, turn back, tuck—
Wait. Crap, no. That wasn’t right either.
Cross—
“Ugh!”
Peter dropped both hands away from his tie, throwing his head back with enough exasperation that it should’ve snapped the very bones in his neck.
It was dramatic — but he was feeling that way, gosh darn it.
He’d done this before. Peter gripped both ends of his tie with clenched fists — it wasn ’t like he hadn’t dressed a tie before. Why now, after not just one but two homecoming dances, was this suddenly giving him so much trouble?
“C’mon, Parker,” Peter hyped himself up, forcibly untangling the tie to start over again. He huffed in a deep breath that pulled his shoulders back before giving it another go. “You can do this.”
Cross over — Peter stuck his tongue out, concentrating hard.
Tuck under — he gnawed away at his bottom lip, crossing the tie only to cross it back over with confusion.
Wait — shit, no.
“Damn it!” Peter cursed with a muttered hush that was somehow both low and quiet, but obnoxiously loud all at the same time.
He couldn’t do this. For some ridiculous reason, he just couldn’t do it.
And looking to the clock hanging in the corner of the room, he quickly realized he didn’t have the time to waste for a hold up like this.
Crap.
He definitely should’ve gotten here sooner.
The sound of a door opening caught his attention, but Peter didn’t look around to the source. Instead, he watched through the reflection of the body length mirror in front of him, staying quiet as Steve walked out from a connecting room; dressed and groomed for the occasion.
Defeated, Peter craned his head around with his hands still criss-crossed on the tie hanging around his neck.
“Hey, Steve?” Peter cringed when his voice cracked in pitch. Talk about salt in the wound.
If Steve noticed, he didn’t let it show. Rather, he arched an innocent and open-minded eyebrow, as if to welcome in any question, all while simultaneously buttoning the cuff-links to his dress shirt.
Peter gestured to his tie with a face coated in embarrassment. “You think you can—?”
“Rogers,” the voice came butting in before any individual was ever seen. Even when she was finally seen, Natasha only stood halfway in the doorway, somehow already halfway down the hall as she told him, “Come with me. Now.”
If there was any hesitance on Steve’s part, it was merely a blip of a second — long enough that both he and Peter expressed the same amount of confusion and curiosity to what was going on.
Steve was out the door in six solid steps, throwing Peter a quick glance on his way out.
“Be back,” he simply, sternly, said.
Peter frowned as he left, stepping high on the toes of his shoes as if he could see further down the hallway.
Natasha and Steve were long gone around the corner that took them away, but another figure rounded that corner at the same time — breathless with each step he took.
Peter grinned. “Dr. B—!”
“Oh, no, no, no, no,” Bruce muttered, frantically, peaking his head into the groom’s suit as he clenched the door frame hard enough to leave imprint marks on his palms. “Did I bring it with me? I don’t see it. I don’t know if I brought it with me. Not good — not good at all — no, no. No, no…”
Peter didn’t holler after Doctor Banner when he took off.
It seemed he had his own problems to figure out.
With a deep breath that was definitely not a whine on its way out, Peter turned back around to the mirror ahead of him, evening out the tie on both sides of his neck before pulling one end lower than the other.
“It’s just physics, dude,” he mumbled, with his mouth pursed to the side in deep concentration. One hand crossed over another, and then reversed, and then hesitantly crossed again. “Don’t over think this. You can do this.”
Cross over. Got it.
Turn back. Yeah, makes sense.
Wrap and pull — that’s a knot.
Peter sighed as he began to untangle the knot to the very expensive tie Mr. Stark had gotten for him, that he still couldn’t dress no matter how hard he tried.
“No, Johnson — no. We need the authorization papers specifically, not anything else. You’re risking far too much leeway here, this man has lawyers as corrupt as Bulgaria.”
Rhodey’s voice came sharply from the hallway, quick to stampede right into the groom’s suit; his frustration evident in each fast footstep that led him to his luggage bag.
Peter nearly spun around, startled at the man’s abrupt presence.
“I want the documents, the documents, that disclose this agreement with the D.O.D for the merger of—”
Rhodey dug furiously into his bag until he found what he needed, tucking his laptop underneath his arm and taking it with him in quick strides out the room.
Peter was far too late when he tried to call out, “Hey, Rho—”
He was long gone.
Leaving Peter by himself, standing in front of a mirror that showed him head to toe, with both ends of his tie held in each of his hands.
Without anyone in the room, it got quiet.
Peter turned back around, his shoulders slumping as heavy as his sigh.
This was Parker Luck. Everything about this screamed Parker Luck — Peter tried crossing, tucking, looping; his hands worked in fidgety motions to get the job done, but ultimately he only wound up with a tangled mess.
“Damn it!”
His sigh, one that was definitely a wine that time around, wasn’t heard over the noise of a toilet flushing.
A long whistle followed, only getting louder once the bathroom door swung up and allowed for the sound inside to escape.
“Whew!” Quill made sure to shut the door behind him on his way out, all while his other hand flapped around in the air, acting as if it could clear away the stench he’d created. “I would not go in there for a while!”
Peter shot his head around, one eyebrow arching high up his forehead as he watched Quill exit the bathroom.
“Admittedly, I may have gone a little too hard on the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet this morning.” With his white button down only halfway tucked in, Quill made sure to work the back and sides back into his pants as he walked across the room. “What can I say, I forgot just how good Earth food can be. There ain’t nothing like a good gravy biscuit with bacon to get you moving in the morning, if you know what I mean.”
There was a single armchair across from Peter, one that Quill was quick to settle down into. He could’ve very well been boneless with how easily he plopped down, practically bouncing onto the cushion.
As he did, a single button to his shirt popped open, failing to keep in place where his stomach expanded the most.
Peter decided the best thing he could do was go back to working on his tie.
“Rocket might be right,” Quill half-muttered, half mused aloud as he worked the button back into the place. He sat up a little higher on the armchair, not slouching nearly as much as before. “I’m gunna get myself a Bowflex while we’re here, find some space on the Benatar to do some lifts.” It was in the mirror that Peter watched Quill lift his arms up and down, exaggerating each flex of his muscles along the way. “You know, get some post-vacation love handles back where they belong.”
Peter gave a tiny shake of his head, not quite rolling his eyes but not quite paying much attention either.
He couldn’t afford the distraction at this point, any distraction, even if the distraction was Space-Man Peter Quill. Peter knew it was already bad enough that he showed up late today — which was totally not his fault for once.
But not being able to dress his tie?
“When this thing start, anyway?” Quill asked, carelessly messing with the sleeves of his shirt by rolling them up to his elbows.
Peter made a face as he ripped open the tie to start over again.
“Soon,” he curtly answered, dry-swallowing against the tightness that sudden found its way to his throat. “Could you be quiet? I’m trying to focus.”
The struggle wasn’t just obvious in his words, it was evident in his every move. Peter’s face was starting to glisten with sheen as the stress got underneath his skin, all as his hands fought to dress the fabric around his neck — failing once more, and grumbling as he worked to untangle it loose.
“I never learned how to tie a tie either,” Quill spoke up, leaning forward in the armchair. “Not like I had a dad to teach me. Not a dad dad. You know.”
Peter threw him a glance, but otherwise kept his focus on the mirror.
That didn’t stop Quill from going on.
“Anyway, never needed to, otherwise I woulda figured it out. Wasn’t like I was gunna join the Nova Corps or nothing. Space pirates don’t typically need to get all dressed up.” Quill gestured forward with an empty hand. “Now that I’m talking about it, I’m not sure Drax has ever worn a tie before. Pretty sure today’s a first. Man, what I wouldn’t do to get that on video. It’s probably driving him crazy!”
With his hands still working in many different directions, Peter insisted, “I know how to tie a tie.”
Watching Peter from the short distance between them, Quill gave a slow nod of his head, leaning back into the armchair with just as much speed.
“Oh, right, yeah, I can see that,” he drawled out.
Peter was drowning in the sarcasm.
“I’ve done it before!” he snapped, frustrated as he once again knotted his tie. The sweat on his palms was starting to make it hard to untangle the knot loose. “I’ve watched YouTube tutorials and everything — I’ve totally done this before. There’s no reason I can’t tie a tie.”
The knot fought to come loose, and Peter nearly gave up all together, huffing a sigh as he took a break.
It was either that, or rip the damn thing into pieces.
“I just…I can’t do it, right now,” he admitted, quietly — almost too quietly.
For a moment, Peter wasn’t even sure if Quill heard him.
For a even shorter moment, he hoped he hadn’t.
The shame was starting to sit heavy on his chest. Every single time he tried to dress the fabric, he was messing it up. Every single time — it didn’t matter that he learned how to do it last year, it didn’t matter that he’d done it before.
He couldn’t do it now .
And it was just him to do it, no one else.
It was suddenly more pressure than Peter could stand. With the high expectations everyone had for him, with all that he was expected to do…
Peter swallowed hard enough to shake the fabric around his neck.
There was a lot of pressure on him.
Yet Quill dismissively waved his hand in a way that said otherwise.
“Skip it,” he casually suggested. “You look better without it anyway.”
Peter definitely rolled his eyes that time.
“I can’t skip it,” he justifiably insisted, drying his hands against the front of his thighs before pushing his hair away from his forehead — fidgeting with insecurity. “This is Mr. Stark’s wedding. I have to wear it all. That’s just…that’s just how these things work, you know?”
It was stating the obvious, but Peter tried to give Quill credit; he figured a guy who had spent ninety-five percent of his in life outer space wasn’t exactly up to date on the standard cultures of human life.
Outer space — Peter’s lips twitched with a smile.
So cool.
“Your call.” Quill shrugged, somewhat indifferently. “What about this Stark fella, why not have him help you?”
Peter’s eyes grew wide enough to fall straight out of his head.
“Are you kidding me?” Peter twisted around, hard enough that his hair swung against his forehead. “No way, I’m not bothering Mr. Stark with this! I can’t have him know I can’t tie—“ He shook his head, fast enough to make himself dizzy. “No. Absolutely not.”
Peter turned back to the mirror in an instant, heaving out a heavy breath as he once again worked his hands left and right, under and down — trying for the dozenth time to get it right.
Quill watched from where he sat, at first wordlessly.
“You know, just my opinion—” It’d become obvious to them all that Quill didn’t have it in him to stay quiet for long. “Outside looking in and all that good stuff, just a different perspective and all. But I don’t think your old man is gunna think of you any less for needing help with something.”
Peter twisted his jaw to the side, hard, as he concentrated on his tie.
“That’s not what this is,” he said, half-distantly, half-irritatedly.
Quill quirked an eyebrow. “Sure looks that way.”
Peter was definitely getting annoyed now.
“It’s not,” he insisted, his hands moving with harsh tugs and pulls as he untangled the fabric. “I know how to ask for help. Trust me, I learned all about that lesson. This isn’t about—” Peter suddenly flapped one hand around with wild exasperation. “No one’s here to ask for help, dude! I’ve tried asking for help, I can ask for help, it’s not about being embarrassed to ask for—!”
A harsh sigh deflated whatever frustrated argument Peter tried to have. With it, his anger blew away, dragging his shoulders down until they felt dislocated from his body.
“It’s just…” he trailed off, slowly but surely pulling away the fabric that hung loosely around his neck. One hand gripped it tightly as his arm dropped listlessly to his side. “Mr. Stark’s always treated me like a kid, you know? He’s never trusted me, not really — not like he does everyone else.”
The words came out on their own accord, and Peter was far too agitated to stop them.
It didn’t help that Quill, for once, was keeping quiet.
It allowed a moment for his thoughts to form on their own.
“But ever since…”
Looking down at the hand that clung onto the tie, Peter found himself noticing the wrinkles he was creating with each attempt at tying the fabric.
“I dunno, things are different. Good different, but…different,” he admitted, mindlessly trying to smooth out the wrinkles that crumbled the silk. “It’s like…it’s like Mr. Stark’s not treating me like a little kid anymore. It’s like he’s…trusting me with stuff now.”
Sometimes, Peter had to remember that just earlier this year, Mr. Stark didn’t even want the Avengers knowing who he was. Sometimes, Peter forgot just how intimidated he was back then, all at the idea of being anything more than a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.
Now, here he was — not only the ring bearer for the Mr. Stark’s wedding, but finding himself involved in the day-to-day lives of the heroes he once admired from TV screens and newspaper pages.
Sometimes, when Peter remembered that…well, it certainly didn’t help ease the pressure he was feeling.
“I’m not going to undo all that just because I can’t figure out how to tie this stupid thing.” Peter frowned, swinging the fabric around his neck with a strong pull of his shoulders straightening his back. “He’ll see me like a kid again, and everything will go back to the way it was. I can’t have that.” His hands worked quickly, but diligently, to cross and tuck the fabric into its dressed design. “I mean, c’mon, I’m almost seventeen. I can tie a—”
“You’re almost seventeen?” Quill practically shot up from the armchair, so close to falling off that he needed to re-balance himself right again. “That’s it! I got it!”
His hand dug deep into his back pocket, searching quickly and eagerly. When his one side resulted in nothing, he switched for the other; only to find both pockets were flat and empty, much to his discontent.
“Hey, where’s my—!” Suddenly, Quill groaned, flopping back down into the chair with a greatly exaggerated groan. “Damn it, Rocket! I swear, if you took my player again—!”
Peter’s eyebrow quirked, just slightly, as he watched Quill come to the realization he was sans his music player. Along with that, the leather jacket he’d religiously wear was long gone in favor of a hastily thrown together suit and jacket for the wedding.
Wherever his music player was, it wasn’t in any proximity to help him.
“Stevie Nicks? Edge of Seventeen?” Still, Quill tried — his voice increasing in pitch as Peter proceeded to show no signs of recognizing anything he said. “White Wing Dove? The classic?”
Peter, at least, gave a smile when he shrugged — as tight lipped and thin as it was.
Quill, expectedly, didn’t let it go.
“Come on! Everyone knows Stevie Nicks!” Quill barely took in another breath before belting out, in the deepest-throated voices Peter was sure he’d ever heard before, “Just like a white wing dove, sing a song, sounds like she’s singing,” he sang, a little too loudly — “I said ooh, baby ooh, said ooh!”
The only noise that followed Quill’s impromptu melody was the echo of his singing — unwarranted, unwanted, and a bit off pitch, causing Peter to narrow an eye with an uncomfortable wince pinching his face tight.
“Your song?” Quill reminded Peter, gesturing enthusiastically. “C’mon, this is totally your song!”
For as passionate as Quill seemed in his music selection, Peter didn’t share the same enthusiasm.
Instead, Peter — very politely — shook his head.
“I’ll find it. Just you wait and see, I’ll find it.” Quill made a face, but accepted the defeat; stubborn and adamant, and momentarily confused as he once again reached for both of his back pockets in vain. “And whoever took my player. Can’t take my eyes off that thing, I swear…”
As Quill grumbled under his breath about thieves on his ship and something about the dirty paws of a raccoon, Peter turned back to the mirror, quickly and abruptly deciding to ditch the tie around his neck.
“I’ll do this last, maybe I just need a break from it,” he told himself, slinging the tie over the chair that also held his jacket, going to instead readjust his focus to his wrists; messing with the sleeves that still needed cuff-links to keep them together.
Peter retrieved both from inside his pant pockets, placing one between his teeth as he fiddled to work the other into the slit of fabric.
As he tried to cuff the fabric around both his wrists, strapped onto his forearms were also black devices adding bulk to him that otherwise wouldn’t be there.
Peter worked meticulously to get his shirt buttoned around his web-shooters. The distant, low-throated signing from Quill chattered on in the background along the way.
“Just like a white wing dove,” he hum-sang, if only for his own entertainment, “sings a song sounds like she’s singing!”
Frowning, Peter struggled to get his sleeves buttoned. It was strictly out of precaution, but he’d kept his web-shooters on for the drive over in anticipation that slim design of the devices would’ve easily fit underneath the sleeves of his shirt.
“Darn it!”
Turns out, he was wrong.
“I can’t get this to close!” Peter bit down harder on the cuff-link between his teeth, frustrated as his fingers failed to close the loop over-top his web-shooter.
That much got Quill’s attention, who stopped his signing so he could look towards Peter, with a frown pulling his mouth down harshly.
“Aren’t those the super-duper webby things that you shoot gunk out of?” Quill asked, noticeably confused. “Take ‘em off — it’s not like you’re gunna need ‘em anyway.”
Peter was tempted to tell Quill that May had said the same exact thing before they left the apartment this morning.
But a part of him knew that would also be admitting that May was right.
And gosh darn it, he’d been insistent about this one. He did the measurements and everything!
“Yeah…yeah, I know, I just — I just like wearing them,” Peter admitted, with a tone of disappointment; pulling the one cuff-link out from between his teeth so Quill could understand what he was saying. “You never know, you know? And these are actually a lot slimmer than Mr. Stark’s original design, so I was really hoping they’d fit under the shirt. Just…you know, just in case.”
No matter which way Peter tried to button his sleeves, they simply wouldn’t stretch over the thin design of his web-shooters. And he certainly wasn’t about to ruin one of Mr. Stark’s very expensive purchases on him so he could make it happen.
“It just feels…weird. Without them on.”
Peter pressed down on both sides of his wrist, the web-shooter that was strapped and braced around his arm immediately shrinking into itself until it was nothing but a small black square, no bigger than the size of a stick of gum.
Quill, mildly impressed, nodded up ahead to Peter.
“You said Stark has special tech down here on Earth.” Quill lifted an eyebrow, watching as Peter repeated the motions with his other wrist. “That all that?”
It went without saying what Quill was talking about. The way the web-shooters retracted into themselves was far too advanced to be anything average by human standards, even with the time that had passed since his stay on Earth.
“Nanites! Isn’t it so cool?” Peter confirmed as much, lifting a black rectangle for view before pocketing them both away. “This pair’s new, Mr. Stark helped me create it with the leftover nanites from one of his Iron Man suits.”
Somehow, Peter didn’t even need to take a breath before rambling on,
“You see, he was building this super cool nanite suit for himself but completed disassembled it so he could save me from this really creepy underwater lab bunker thing that this crazy Russian guy was using, and that guy kidnapped me, and that’s where he was keeping me, and there was all this high tech fog that was down there that like, canceled out any technology, so instead of using nanites Mr. Stark had to use magnets to keep his suit together but then he got into this really tough fight with the Wannabe Bond villain Russian guy and lost a lot of pieces to the suit during all that.”
Peter had both cuff-links in place once removing his web-shooters. By the time he kept rambling on, he was already working on his tie again.
“Anyway, the creepy crazy Russian spy dude body slammed me into this pipe sticking out of a wall — he was a super soldier from Russia, like Captain America but a really bad guy. And really strong. I was totally shish-keabobed.” Peter momentarily stuck out his tongue with concentration as he crossed his tie and began tucking it underneath a loop. “The nanites that were left over went to a new invention of Mr. Stark’s that heals broken bones really quickly, and then he let me use what was left for these new web-shooters.”
Suddenly, and without much thought, Peter dropped the tie that was barely half-dressed and crooked around his neck, all so he could quickly and abruptly pull the rectangle stick out from within his pant pocket.
“Watch this!”
Just like that, Peter slapped the device against his wrist — the impact creating a burst of tiny metal particulars that began to form against one another, quickly building a strap that eventually took shape as the web-shooter he was familiar with.
Quill simply smiled.
“Yeah?” He cocked an eyebrow as a single finger reached behind his ear. “Try this on for size.”
It was hard to tell if Quill had even put any pressure on the contact point behind his ear. The moment his skin touched down, the bright lights belonging to billions of nanites began to flash across his face, forming a helmet around his skull no different than the device that sat strapped around Peter’s wrist.
“Space,” Peter awed, watching with a child-like expression as Quill retracted the high-tech helmet from around his head. Without it, his boastful smile was as visible as the sun on a clear day, and the colors of a broken rainbow dissipated entirely until his face could be seen again. “So cool.”
Peter turned back to the mirror for focus while Quill leaned back into his chair, his arms crossing slowly but surely over his chest.
“Shish-keobbed, huh?” he asked, barely hiding the wince that pinched at his face. “Who’d you piss off, man.”
Peter shrugged a little too nonchalantly as he reached for his suit jacket, draped across the back of a chair and quickly whipped away with one fluid motion of his hand.
“That’s nothing,” he casually answered, pocketing away both his webshooter’s once retracted into the small, rectangle devices that sheathed them from anyone’s attention. They dropped into the suit pocket with ease. “Couple months ago, I accidentally came in contact with this experimental plasma slime that’s supposed to cure cancer, but it actually created some kind of sentient monster by using my DNA to feed off my body and give itself life.”
Peter slipped his suit jacket on, his tie half-dressed and hanging zig-zagged across his chest, with his attention glued strictly to the mirror in front of him
“It killed me,” he swallowed, hard, as he repeatedly straightened his jacket in place. “I died.”
The words left a quiet echo in its place. Even Quill, one never to stay quiet for long, couldn’t find anything to say that would fill a moment too heavy for a day of celebration.
And yet still,
“Died?” Quill repeated, his eyes growing wider with each passing beat. “Legitimately?”
Peter nodded, tightly.
“I was dead, dude.”
The tie hung crooked around his neck, and Peter fidgeted to get it into place. It was the only place he put his attention.
Quill blinked, and then again.
“Dude.” And again.
“Mr. Stark brought me back to life,” Peter kept on, without any preamble guiding his way — or any intent behind the actions of his hands, both working without thought as he de-knotted and re-dressed his tie. “Well this, uh, this magical herb thing from Wakanda did, anyway. But they all decided to use it on me. The last of it. They have no more. It’s gone.”
Peter could see his entire body in the mirror, but the only place he found himself looking was the brown eyes that stared back at him — wide and bright, and full of life.
“And I’m here,” he said, by rote, barely hearing his own words over the pumping of his anxiously driven heart.
He hadn’t been hiding anything from Quill. Things were definitely different now, it was painfully true — Peter knew that much. Good different, but still different. And there was no denying Wakanda had been what spurred that change on.
But no different than that change, Peter felt the increasing pressure that sat on his chest suffocate him more and more each day. The same pressure that had come back with him from Wakanda.
“Okay so now that I’m really thinking about it, those Hellhounds on Seknarf Nine were super rabid and super dangerous after all,” Quill rambled on in the distant foreground of Peter’s hearing, only a few feet from where he stood but sounding thousands of miles away. “I think that it was such a, you know, heroically tragic event that I-I, you know, blocked some of it out of my memory—”
Peter could feel his hands work in different motions, tying and tucking the fabric that hung around his neck. But it was only at his eyes he looked, reflected back to him in the mirror that showed him everything he was — standing, breathing, talking.
Alive.
Brought back to life, and he couldn’t even dress a tie.
He couldn’t disappoint the Avenger’s, they thought so highly of him.
He couldn’t let Mr. Stark down like that.
Peter’s thoughts wandered off as his hands moved beyond his concentration.
“—and some nights I lay awake and think about that smelly breath and ragged teeth coming after me—”
It was only when Peter realized he’d run out of fabric to maneuver that he looked down, mildly surprised at what he saw.
“Wait, I think I got it.” Peter suddenly spun on his heels, adjusting his suit jacket to rest under the collar of his shirt. “What do you think?”
If Quill had anything to say — and knowing Quill, there was always something to say — there wouldn’t have been any time.
“Hey. Punk.”
Bucky’s words were heard before his appearance was seen.
Peter had to turn on the heels of his shoes once more to face the entryway where the man stood; mildly surprised at the sight that greeted him.
Bucky, per usual, remained neutral.
“Try answering your phone every now and then. Your aunt’s been callin’ you.” Bucky noticeably furrowed his brows as he looked Peter up and then down, pausing hard before deadpanning, “Your tie looks like shit.”
Offended, Peter shot his head down to his chest — only to quickly forget about the uneven and crooked tie, realizing instead what Bucky had said.
“May’s been calling me?” he repeated, confused; reaching for his back pockets, front pockets, and eventually the inner pockets of his suit jacket. “I haven't heard—”
Peter retrieved his phone with a frown. No matter what button he hit or how hard he tapped it, only a blank screen greeted him in return.
“Oh, crap.” He threw his head back with enough exasperation that it hurt his neck. “I musta forgot to charge my phone last night!”
Alright, so May was right.
And not just this morning when it came to his web-shooters.
He really did need to get better about charging his phone.
“Where is she?” Peter was quick to ask, and just as eager to distract himself from the lecture he knew was waiting for him once he found his aunt.
Bucky’s shrug of indifference only prolonged that lecture further into his future.
“Looking for you,” he dryly answered.
Peter made a face.
“Did you tell her I’m here?” he was, again, quick to ask.
Bucky, again, responded with a shrug.
“Didn’t know you were here.”
“How’d you find me, then?”
“Went looking for you.”
Peter bit back everything that rose up from his chest, and then some.
He didn’t have time for this.
“I need a charger—” Peter moved in one direction only to jump to the next, finding his bag in the nearest corner and digging around inside while asking, “What’s going on, what does May need?”
Bucky leaned against the doorway, one hand gripping tightly to the wooden frame, with the ceiling lights overhead catching a gleam of black and gold from what laid underneath his jacket.
“Something about a photographer and rings,” he answered, plainly, watching with a slowly arching eyebrow as Peter frantically dug through his bag.
“Okay?” Peter looked behind him at Bucky with a frown, all while his other hand kept digging inside his travel bag. “What’s the problem, she has the rings.”
Bucky gave one sharp shake of his head. “No, she says you have the rings.”
Peter shot up straight, disregarding his search for a phone charger with sudden and harsh confusion.
“I don’t have the —” Realization hit him, fast. “Oh, crap.”
Bucky cocked his head to the side. “You say that a lot.”
Peter wasn’t paying any attention to Bucky. His eyes closed shut, tightly — wondering just how much more worse his day could possibly get.
“I forgot that May gave me the rings in the parking garbage,” he lamented, with an open palm rubbing harshly at his forehead. “She said the place was too big and that she might not be able to find me again. She didn’t trust me with the rings, she didn’t want —”
If Peter pressed any harder against his skull, he was afraid he might leave an indentation.
This was just his luck.
When May had first told him that she didn’t trust him to hold onto the rings, Peter was infuriated. But, in May’s words, seeing as the very expensive rings cost more numbers than he had fingers across both his two hands, Peter couldn’t blame her for wanting to hold onto them until the processional started.
That changed when they arrived, and May was more worried about not finding Peter in a building that was impressively large for being in the middle of New York City.
Peter had forgotten all about the exchange. And seeing as May was already having trouble finding him, she was right to pass off the rings after all. It was a big building.
Peter rubbed harder at his temple in hopes to spur the memory. “I put them in my jacket pocket and…”
Just like that, Peter dug both hands into his jacket pockets. The inner silk material was almost enough to have him come up empty handed, with his fingers slipping on the items tucked inside.
His one hand came out empty, with nothing to hold. While the other gripped the devices that were his web-shooter’s. The two black rectangles were the only objects he had on his possession.
Crap.
He lost the rings.
“You lost the rings?” Bucky read his mind like a book, and accurately enough that Peter couldn’t even be mad.
He shot his head up, wanting to argue, but finding no ground to stand on. His face fell as flat as his heart sank down to his feet.
Turns out, May was going to be right about a lot of things today.
“May’s car,” Peter didn’t say it, he prayed it. “Maybe it slipped out of my pocket when I got out of May’s car?”
Bucky gave Peter a wild look.
“Why are you asking me — I don’t know where they are.”
Peter didn’t waste half a second. His shoes practically burned against the floors as he took off, stuffing his web-shooters back into his jacket pocket as he sped out of the room; brushing past Bucky to get through the doorway.
“Tell May I’m gunna check her car!” Peter hollered down the hallway, the back of his suit jacket flapping in the air from his haste. “I’ll be back — I’m going to check her car, I’ll be back!”
Bucky watched, wordlessly, as Peter ran down corridors of the chapel; rounding a corner so fast it nearly took him sideways.
Even long out of sight, the plethoras of “excuse me!” and “sorry’s!” were heard for some time to come.
It was only when a low, deep-throated chuckle sounded that it brought his attention back into the room. Bucky twisted at the hip, catching Quill sitting in an armchair off to the side, laughing quietly to himself.
“I’ll be back!” Quill kept on chuckling, even when Bucky didn’t seem to catch on to his joke. His smile only dampened a bit when that became clear to him. “You know, ‘cause of the arm and all. Terminator. Arnold Schwarzenegger. I’ll be back!”
The only response Quill received from Bucky was a look dryer than the atmosphere between them.
Quill quickly stopped laughing.
Tony wasn’t sure what had become the most aggravating to him — the constant hallways of the chapel that were leading him absolutely nowhere , or the changing numbers in the corner of his eyes, counting down the time into the double digits.
Forty-eight minutes, and dwindling.
The timer had been put there to help him stay on track of things. Now, he felt like it was starting to taunt him.
It had Tony reaching for his tie, suddenly feeling as if it had been tightened too tight. When he went to tug it loose, he was met with thin air — reminded that had yet to be put on, right along with his tux jacket.
And yet his throat felt too tight and his body too warm.
“FRIDAY,” he managed through a harsh breath of air, taking a sharp and fast turn that not even his designer oxford dress shoes could handle. The material of his white button down and black vest could’ve morphed into wool with how warm things had gotten. “This maze goes on for miles. Get me a shortcut to the grooms suite, fastest route you got.”
Like the excellent AI programing she was — Tony expected nothing less from his own inventions — FRIDAY lit up a path via his glasses, with a bright line spreading out in front of his visuals.
“Sure thing, Boss,” her smooth Irish accent sounded through his frames in a way only he could hear. “Before the turn up ahead, take a right after the second left, where you can proceed into—”
Tony was far too concentrated on where his steps were taking him — not to mention each second that counted down in the corner of his vision — for him to notice the open door of the room he quickly walked past.
Not even his fast pace was enough to keep a hand from reaching out and yanking on the back of his vest, pulling him away from the hallway so abruptly that Tony wasn’t proud of the sound that came out of his mouth.
“Ac-ck!” he just barely managed to swallow down the embarrassing noise of his surprise once face-to-face with —
“Bad luck! Bad luck!”
Pepper gave him a look, as hard-pressed as the curlers that pushed into her scalp and kept her red hair hidden beneath pins and rollers.
Tony didn’t notice — having splayed an open palm across his face, purposefully covering his eyes in the process.
“Where are the rings?” Pepper didn’t hesitate to ask, never one to be distracted by Tony’s childish behavior.
In fact, it was only be using that tone did Tony realize how serious she was.
It may have taken a second for the words to register, but once they did, Tony spread his fingers open across his face, peaking through them before dropping his arm entirely.
“Underoo’s has them,” he said, almost too flippantly — it earned a hotter look from Pepper, the all-too-casual attire of her sweats and a t-shirt enough to make that expression stand out all the more.
She lifted her hand for display, showcasing a ring box sitting in the palm of her hand.
“Oh does he, now?” Pepper’s eyebrow arched so high, it nearly reached one of the curlers that started to slowly loosen from her hair.
Tony stared at the box, only for a second, before immediately snatching it away from Pepper’s hand.
“He will now,” Tony smugly said, tossing the box into the air and catching it just as easily.
Pepper wasn’t amused.
She never was.
Not even when Tony tried to give his best Stark Charm grin, wide enough to reach all the way to the other end of the cathedral.
“Tony, I just found our wedding rings laying on the floor!” Pepper all but snapped, her voice hissing in a low volume that somehow also managed to yell at the same time. Her arm shot out and a finger wagged relentlessly around the room. “I found our wedding rings, laying on the floor, in the corner of the lady’s chapel! Do not act like this is okay, if I hadn’t found those rings — if I don’t do everything, then everything falls apart and—!”
“Pepper, Pepper,” Tony knew better than to let her go on — once wound up, there was no coming back down. Both arms reached for her shoulders, laying them there firmly to keep her grounded. “Relax. You gotta relax.”
Pepper looked down to where Tony touched her, eyeing the hand that sunk into the crevice of her collarbone, bare of the t-shirt that was one size too large and slipping down her shoulder.
When she looked back up at Tony, her head swung so fast that a curler fell out of place and dropped down to the floor.
“Don’t you dare tell me to—”
“You gotta take a breath,” Tony, as always, didn’t back down. He moved closer to her, even when he swore she growled at his nearing presence. “Humor me — do it for me.”
Pepper reached over and grabbed his one arm, gripping it tightly.
“I’m going to kill you,” she calmly said instead.
The stress that emitted from Pepper wasn’t just palpable in tension — Tony swore he could feel it in her touch, where her fingers dug into his forearm with nails that cut deep into his skin.
Strange had assumed she was handling the big day with grace and ease, but Tony had known better for weeks now. After all, it was the infamous Pepper Potts — he wasn’t the only one who could put on a good show.
“Do it after this, I give you full permission, total carte blanche.” Tony didn’t let her respond this time, immediately going for the hand that held his forearm, and instead switching it into the cusp of his own. He squeezed tight. “Deep breath in.”
It noticeably took a minute — Pepper’s fire never did burn out easily. Tony knew that about her no different than any other detail he’d come to know about her, memorizing them right alongside the periodic table. She was just that important to him.
In holding onto her hand, Tony didn’t look anywhere but straight ahead — captivated by the freckles on her face that stood out even amongst the traces of makeup that accentuated her features.
It was then he frowned.
“You really decided to go with curls for this?” Tony asked, his head cocking to the side. “It’s fine, I just thought you’d go for the—”
Pepper’s look could’ve killed. “You’re an absolute—”
“Sorry, distracted — c’mon.” Tony gripped her hand and pulled her closer, much to her annoyance. “Deep breath in.”
The numbers laid out in the corner of his vision were far more than just a disturbance now, they were quickly becoming the source to his own nerves. Tony used his free hand to whip off the glasses, tucking them in his pant pocket without much care.
He gave Pepper his lead — lifting his chest with an inhale she shortly followed suit with, though the annoyance on her face barely fled.
“There you go,” Tony said nonetheless. “Deep breath out.”
With the exhale that blew across his face, Tony swore Pepper’s tension lessened just a bit; enough that it showed in the V across her forehead, dissipating until it was gone entirely.
Tony smiled softly, encouraging an even softer,
“Relax.”
Her grip on Tony’s hand loosened, and Tony loosened his in exchange. He let the moment be, just for a second, before moving his palm to the nape of her neck.
“I’m going to handle this,” he promised.
At hearing his words, Pepper opened her eyes.
“Really?” she tossed back, her one eye practically narrowing shut. “You’re gunna handle this?”
The skepticism in her voice was as noticeable as the pink in her cheeks, none of it caused by her makeup.
Tony smirked. He loved it when she blushed.
“You bet your ass I’m going to handle it,” he responded, confidence oozing through his every word. His hand moved from her neck down to her waist, even when she rolled her eyes at him. “Lecturing Parker has become a past time. I can practically do it in my sleep. I got this, give me some credit.”
Tony neared closer to Pepper, holding her at the hip and bringing her mouth dangerously close to his lips.
She didn’t seem to resist.
“Credit. You. Sure. I’ll give you some credit.” Pepper lifted to her tippy-toes, bare of any heels on her feet as she reached up to Tony’s ear. “Twelve percent credit, how does that sound?”
Tony’s grin broke the skin around his eyes, lining them with crows-feet that spoke all too well of his joy.
Before he could lean in for a kiss, a figure quickly turned into the doorway, only coming to a sudden stop at the sight that greeted him.
“Ah,” Steve gave an easy smile as he froze in place. “So that’s what Natasha meant when she said Pepper was on the loose.”
Both turned to look at him at the same time; Tony with a look of greatly exaggerated annoyance, Pepper with one that started as humored — only to quickly turn horrified.
“Did I just see a raccoon walk by?”
She pushed Tony away from her, bare feet taking her closer to the doorway, her question hard to hear over the crass, indignant shouts that echoed down the hallway.
“I told you, I ain’t wearing it!”
“Rocket!” Another voice, far more feminine, was heard whisper-shouting alongside him. “It’s modesty, you can’t be walking around—”
“I ain’t going out there if I gotta wear that stupid outfit! You tell them they can kiss my furry—”
Pepper spun around with a very stressed out, “Tony!”
Steve, still in the doorway, couldn’t help but throw Tony a look.
“You haven’t told her yet?”
Tony threw him a look right back.
“I told her about them,” he defended himself.
It was safe to say that wasn’t a winning argument for Pepper, who proceeded to stare Tony down with triple — nay, quadruple the tension he saw in her before.
Well, so much for that.
“Thor brought a plus one,” Tony answered, honestly — but as casually as possible. Almost as if it could quell the storm brewing by brushing off the whole situation as no big deal. “And that plus one brought their own plus one. And so on and so forth.” He knew it was a little bit more than a big deal. “This one’s on Rhodey, really, SHIELD’s making him Priority Number One Babysitter — he didn’t have a choice. Go easy on him, he’s been prisoner to these stragglers for a week now. It’s actually impressive he hasn’t committed himself yet. God knows I would’ve.”
With a sigh sharp enough to cut through glass, Pepper reached for her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose until it looked like she might break the bone beneath.
“Press?” she asked, with her eyes firmly closed shut.
“None,” Tony quickly answered. “Private event, invite only. Guaranteed.”
“NDA’s?” Pepper still didn’t open her eyes. Tony had to wonder how many times she’d counted to ten already.
“All signed,” he easily answered. “Almost positive Happy made some guest sign two, just for the hell of it. Not even TMZ will know what goes on in these four walls today.”
The silence that followed stretched on for a minute too long. And the longer Pepper went without saying something, the more Tony began to worry — he knew once she was wound up, there was little chance at getting her back down.
Pepper was strong-headed like that, always had been.
And Tony, well — so was he, in many ways. Especially when it came to remembering to include others in on things.
What could he say; he’d seen through the show she was putting on, and he knew how stressed the entire wedding had made her. He wasn’t exactly keen on letting her know Rhodey’s plus one was a group of aliens Thor had tagged along with.
In the doorway, Steve watched them both, uncomfortably at a loss of what to say or do. His eyes darted left to right, Tony to Pepper, before ultimately he cleared his throat and bowed his head to the floor.
His dress shoes had suddenly become the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.
Pepper redirected her fingers from the bridge of her nose to straight at Tony — pointing sharply, but apathetically all at the same time.
“They need to sit on your side,” she said, almost immediately pointing that same finger to the doorway where Steve stood; implying one thing and one thing only.
Tony took the hint, immediately making his way out.
“You’re looking lovely, by the way!” he made sure to holler as he departed through the doorway, but not before making sure he could blow a kiss her way.
He was halfway down the hall when he heard Pepper’s distant but audible voice call out,
“The rings, Tony!”
And then a door closed shut, sounding from beyond the corner Steve and Tony had already taken.
Steve looked over his shoulder at the sound, a tight smirk pulling at the edge of his lip as he walked alongside Tony.
“She seems stressed out,” he mentioned, slightly concerned, slightly amused.
“What could’ve possibly given off that impression?” Tony reached for the cuff links that kept his sleeve tied together, fiddling with it for no purpose other than to entertain the bout of nerves that made his fingers jittery.
Steve noticed, even if it was just by the briefest glance he threw Tony’s way before they turned another corner.
“Everything will be fine,” he said with a strong layer of assurance, almost as if to subtly tell Tony — ‘you’re stressed out, too.’
If Tony heard that, he opted not to acknowledge it.
Steve smiled kindly as he went on to say, “Besides, what’s the worst that could happen today?”
That much, Tony did acknowledge — throwing Steve a look hot as coal.
“Alright. Maybe not the best choice of words for us,” Steve admitted, putting both his hands open-palmed in the air with enough humility to take that one in stride. They kept walking, nonetheless. “But it’s nice to see you were able to keep this away from the public eye. It’s a good change. I like it.”
The hallways they walked were large and quiet, causing their voices to bounce off the walls and fade away into the high cathedral ceilings. The distant chatter of friendly voices slowly began to grow closer as they eventually took a turn that brought them along the outskirts off the chapel.
They kept walking, occasionally looking to their right where they could see family and friends gather into the pews that lined both sides of the building. The distant tunes from a pipe organ drew nearer with each step they took.
Tony was pretty sure he was walking in circles at this point. He didn’t mind so much now; it was a way to exert the building nerves that had started to eat away at his composure.
Still, he wouldn’t say he was nervous.
“Pep’s grown tired of the the big song and dances. I grew bored of them years ago,” Tony began to ramble, his hands digging deep into his pant pockets as his stride turned casual with Rogers. “We tried it with the press for this, twice. But we never got further than sending out the invitations.” A deep breath brought Tony’s shoulder’s high. He let them drop with the exhale of his words. “We never even sent them the invitations, this time around. Only those who know, know.”
As Tony’s steps came to a slow pace, so did Steve’s.
“It’s nice,” Steve admitted, softly, pocketing his hands away no different than Tony. He turned to look at the chapel, watching as the many different faces quickly filled the pews. “It feels more…personable.”
Though Steve didn’t recognize half the folks who were attending, he knew most of them were Pepper’s family and friends. Considering what they both did for a living, and the publicity that came with their names, Steve expected far more uncomfortable notoriety to be tied in with the day.
Though he may not have recognized most who attended, it still felt just as great to see those he did. Not far away and off to the right were Clint and his family, with Wanda and Vision close to them — a quick double-take and Steve had to remember the pale, blonde-haired man with Wanda was Vision. That was taking some getting used to.
Sam sat off to the side, and even further than him were Natasha and Bucky, having taken the pew closest to the back and tucked away to the corner.
“Speaking of personable,” Tony gestured his nod up ahead, somehow managing to land sights on the same thing Steve had. “Not that the hatchet isn’t buried, but — of all people for your plus one?”
It took a second for Steve to realize who Tony spoke of. Even then, it didn’t register right away.
When it did, a heat tinted his cheeks and he just barely resisted an eye-roll.
“Who else was I going to invite?” he relented, always finding a way to sound serious even when he wasn’t.
Tony shot his head over at Steve with lightning speed.
“A date?” he stressed.
Steve couldn’t resist a smirk, even as he folded both arms tightly across his chest — sans a jacket, no different than Tony, having been in the middle of getting dressed when he’d been called away by Natasha.
“I haven’t exactly had the time to get out there and talk with the ladies,” he reluctantly defended, the slight undertone in his voice captured by the echoing walls around them.
Tony cocked his head to the side.
“Too shy, or too scared?”
Steve threw him a glance, but only once. His eyes stayed firmly ahead when he answered.
“Too busy.”
Tony couldn’t argue that one — not fairly, anyway. He chuckled, turning his attention back to the chapel; not realizing he and Rogers had come to a complete stop at some point.
It was only when the jitters in his fingers started to act up again that he directed the energy straight ahead, pointing lackadaisically to the pew in the furthest corner.
“Seems like Barnes has found the time,” Tony mentioned, done pointing and instead going to fiddle with his cuff-links once more.
It wasn’t that they were giving him trouble. But it wasn’t that he was nervous, either.
Still, he fiddled with them.
Steve furrowed his brows, tight at first — tighter after that. He looked to where Bucky sat, but his confusion only grew with the passing beat.
“What do you mean?” he eventually asked, too serious to be anything but serious that time.
Tony noticed.
The face he made was indescribable.
“Really?” he drawled out, almost sounding impressed — either at Roger’s inability to notice the truly obvious, or his own talented ability to perceive what others couldn’t. “You truly are Captain Oblivious, now aren’t you?” He settled on the former.
Steve’s ever growing expression of confusion only kept on.
Without any words, Tony’s point was proven.
“Do me a favor — get these to Peter. Pronto.” Tony didn’t waste a beat, handing off the ring box to Steve with a casual undertoss. He easily caught it, but looked at it with an even deeper sense of confusion. “Give him that ‘I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed’ Cap face that you always give me.”
Steve’s face fell flat, and he looked Tony head-on.
“Tony—”
“That’s the one!” Tony snapped his fingers before reaching into his pant pocket, retrieving his frames and slipping them over his face with just one hand. Once that hand was free, he patted Steve on the shoulder in passing. “Get a move on, now, it’s almost show-time.”
Though they were supposedly headed the same way, only Steve followed the digital path that was laid out against Tony’s high-tech frames.
The directions to the groom’s suit was still mapped out inside his glasses, but so was the clock that greeted him upon viewing — still in the corner of his eyes, still counting down with dwindling numbers.
Thirty-six minutes.
He may not have been wearing his jacket, but Tony was suddenly far too warm for comfort.
There was no denying it anymore.
He was nervous.
“FRIDAY,” Tony curtly began, turning on his heels and ducking out of sight. “Re-route directions. Get me some fresh air. Now.”