Identity Within Part I│ Something Borrowed

Chapter 5

Something Borrowed

Cross over, turn back, tuck underneath —

Wait, no.

Turn back, turn over, wrap the narrow end —

Wait, shit, no.

Pull the wide end —

“And then, then Black Widow would be all like ‘oh my god, Peter, you saved me, you saved the day! Marry me!’ or something, I dunno, something really cool, and then Captain America would be all —”

Ned’s voice, as hushed as he may have tried to make it, echoed through the tuxedo shop with an excitement he was very vocal about not being able to contain. He barely gave himself pause for air, and Peter had a feeling if he didn’t need to breathe, he wouldn’t have stopped at all.

“Captain America would be all ‘Great job taking down those aliens, Peter! You really knocked them out of the park!' And then you could say something like — like a pun. A cool pun, or something something badass. Yeah, something badass! Something like —”

Peter made a face as he kept trying to dress the tie around his neck. Another knot formed and he worked it loose with building frustration, all the while listening to his friend babble on and on about nonsensical scenarios with the Avengers — one of which included vampires.

It was that scenario specifically that was mentioned right around the time Peter remembered that he never actually remembered how to tie a tie.

If it counted for anything, he did remember watching the YouTube video. Just not…well, the video itself.

In his defense, it wasn’t like he often had to tie a tie. And there was a lot of other stuff for him to remember, especially these days, all of which was way more important than —

Wait, crap. Cross the wide end, tuck underneath —

“You could be all like, ‘All in a days work, Cap!’ or — wait, no, you could be all like, ‘In a days work, Cap!’ Wait, no, I just said that — anyway, and then Hulk would be all ‘roar!’ and you’d be all ‘best friends forever, Hulk!’ and then —”

Peter furrowed his brows tightly together as he adjusted the fabric around his neck, eyeing the body-length mirror in front of him as he leveled out both ends; pulling the left side a little higher than the right, and then moving the right side higher, and then the left side — eventually settling and crossing the fabric over itself.

He was pretty sure his face held less concentration than when he’d be working in the lab — his lips pursed tightly and a harsh V creased his forehead, making an otherwise simple task look like defusing a bomb.

All the while, Ned kept rambling on. Peter was pretty sure he hadn’t stopped talking about the Avengers since they got here, where he promptly sat down exactly where Happy told him to sit down — on one of the many plush, cushy sofa’s the shop was furnished with.

The very rich and very expensive shop, that was. Peter felt uncomfortable just walking inside, let alone standing in front of the mirror trying to wrap a tie belonging to some expensive brand name he’d never seen before in his young life, made of material he couldn’t pronounce even if he tried.

It was a far cry from the Men’s Warehouse where he rented his homecoming suits.

Peter frowned as he tucked the end piece of the tie inside the loop hole. Mr. Stark really did go all out on some things. And glancing around the tuxedo shop, with Bruce in the far corner having his pants tailored, and Happy on the opposite end having his jacket fitted, Peter could tell this wedding would be no different.

“…and then Hulk would throw you a Frisbee — wait, no, I got it! Hulk would throw you Cap’s shield, and you’d be all —”

“Has Harry texted you back yet?”

Peter’s abrupt question came with the turn of his head, where he craned his neck around to catch a glimpse of Ned — still parked comfortably on the sofa, with one leg tucked under him and his jacket placed half-neatly in his lap.

For a brief moment, he seemed startled by the question. A beat later and Ned dug into the pocket of his jacket, reaching for his phone and swiping up on the screen to unlock it.

He shook his head before answering.

“Ghosted.” Ned placed his cell phone to the side as he dug deeper into his pocket. “Still.”

With hefty a sigh, Peter turned back ahead to the mirror. The sloppily done tie hung loosely around his neck, and without sparing an ounce of his frustration — and nerves — he ripped it loose to start over again.

“Maybe we should send another message?” Peter asked, frantically looking behind him at Ned while also trying to keep one eye on the mirror. “When did we send the last one — the last text, when did we send it?”

This time, Ned didn’t bother picking up his phone. It laid screen-down on the couch, and he kept his attention strictly on rummaging through his jacket.

“Last night, seven thirtyish,” he answered, sitting up a little higher on the sofa as he shook his jacket in front of him, his tongue partially sticking out as he struggled to locate something inside. “It was when I got to May’s and when you told me about the fire and when you promised me the top bunk if I sent him another text —”

“The old dude said they were on vacation. The OsCorp guy, the one they interviewed,” Peter easily interrupted, his hands criss-crossing one another as he tried, for the umpteenth time, to dress his tie. “Maybe Harry’s just got bad cell reception, wherever he is? We should try again, shouldn’t we?”

Peter could see Ned reflected on the full-length mirror in front of him, and it was hard not to notice when his shoulders slumped so dramatically they practically fell off the couch.

“Peter —”

“His place burned down, Ned!” Peter didn’t miss a beat, as if expecting the response all along. Though he didn’t turn around, he made sure to look at the upper-right corner of the mirror where Ned could be seen. “Their whole house caught on fire — that’s crazy, man!”

Ned met that gaze head-on, looking at Peter’s reflection through the mirror — all the while still rummaging through the pockets of his jacket.

“Yeah, and he obviously doesn’t wanna talk about it,” Ned countered, the noise of crinkling plastic mixing in with his words. He tossed his jacket aside the moment he retrieved his belongings. “Just let the guy be, if he decides to come around maybe he’ll come around, maybe he won’t, I dunno. Either way…totally ghosted. Again.”

It wasn’t what Ned said that got Peter’s attention.

It was the obnoxiously loud crunch that followed.

“Dude!” Peter spun around before he even saw Ned. If his eyes had gone any wider, they’d have fallen right out of his skull and rolled all the way to where Bruce Banner was getting the hem of his pants tailored. “You gotta put those away!”

Ned had already stuffed his palm against his mouth, shoving way more cheese curls inside than what could possibly fit.

“What? I’m hungry!” he garbled between bites, using his other hand to gesture the bag Peter’s way. “You sure you don’t want some?”

If the bright orange powder covering Ned’s fingers didn’t do the trick for Peter, the unintentional tangerine lipstick that stained his lips sure did.

“Everything in here costs more than what May’s made in her entire life!” Peter hissed so quietly, it actually echoed the tuxedo shop. He did a quick, very panicked glance around him — the mannequins lining the walls, all decked out in expensive attire, only made him more nervous. “And you have Cheeto dust on your fingers!”

Ned responded by shoving another handful of Cheeto’s into his mouth.

“It can’t be that expensive,” he said, even more garbled than before. Crumbs fell out of his mouth and down onto his jacket, where he carelessly brushed them aside.

Peter threw him a look — so hard pressed it could’ve made a rock feel like a pillow.

Without much hesitation, he reached for the end of his tie, finding the price tag and flipping it around for Ned to see. Ned had to lean off the sofa a bit, but there was no doubt when he saw the numbers.

“Holy macrool!” Ned was frantically wiping the palms of his hands against his jeans before Peter could say another word. “Oh my god, oh my god — wet wipes. Do you have any wet wipes?”

Peter shook an already shaking finger down the hall. “Go use the bathroom!”

Ned practically fell off the sofa in his haste to get up, landing on one knee as he tried his best to push off the floor without letting his hands touch the floor. They stayed far out in front of him as he frantically skipped down the hall, passing by Tony on the way.

The arch of his eyebrow was nearly hidden behind a sleek pair of purple tinted frames, and Tony gave Ned nothing more than a glance as the kid scampered away — both hands outward as he muttered something about, ‘Tony Stark! So cool!’ and ‘I’m screwed, I’m screwed, I’m screwed, I’m so, so screwed!’

Tony didn’t give it a second thought.

“Here we are, Underoo’s,” he said, jacket in hand as he approached Peter from behind — who had just discarded his tie on the nearby ottoman. “Should fit as snug as your other suit. Less practical, of course — unless you call style practical in which case, you, Mr. Parker, will be passing every test with flying colors.”

Peter looked over his shoulder before he turned around completely, giving the jacket a once over with a smile that only grew at the edges. It may have just been a tuxedo jacket, but he swore there were five different colors of black blended into the fabric, with a shine he wasn’t sure could exist on clothes.

It was something he’d expect to see in Mr. Stark’s closet, and definitely not on him.

And yet Tony spread out both ends of the jacket, nodding as a signal for Peter to turn around — he did, catching onto the implication quickly. Reaching both arms behind him at the same time, Peter shrugged the jacket on easily thanks to Tony’s help.

A few pats to smooth it down, tugging it at the ends and buttoning it in the middle — Peter had to admit; looking ahead of him at the body length mirror, decked out in a very expensive and very fancy black and white tux that was tailored to his every measurement…

He looked good.

Standing behind him, Tony reached over and smoothed out the collar behind his neck, crisping it evenly before giving his back a quick swipe.

“Quite the look on you,” he said, precise and straightforward in each spoken word — and yet, if only for a second, a flicker on his face broke his composure.

In the far background, Tony could make out Bruce finishing with his tailor, using his own mirror to eye his suit, going so far as to twist and turn so he could see it from different angles. A few feet away from him was Happy, and somewhere further away he knew Rhodey was having his final adjustments made — but none of that caught Tony’s eye.

For a moment so frozen in time that it would’ve put the good ‘ol Cap to shame, Tony saw something different in the mirror. It didn’t last long — after all, he was called many things, but nostalgic certainly wasn’t one of them.

Still. For a brief moment, standing in front of him and dressed to impress, Tony swore it may have been the first time he ever saw Peter as something other than just a kid.

Peter fiddled nervously with the button of his jacket, occasionally pulling his shoulders back tautly, lifting his chin a little higher than before — looking at himself so intently he didn’t even realize Tony was doing the same.

It was definitely the first time he saw Peter growing up.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s…” Peter trailed off, turning slightly inward, and then back out again. “It’s something else.”

Tony looked away from the mirror, craning his head to the side to catch Peter with his own two eyes. A smirk tugged at his mouth, soft enough that it didn’t crease any of the lines on his face, and he was millimeters away from saying something in turn when —

“Where’s your tie?” he asked, as abruptly as his expression changed. If his brows knitted any closer together, they’d have fused into one.

Peter immediately dropped both his hands down to his sides. The nodule in his throat noticeably bulged as he swallowed, and swallowed hard.

“Oh, I-I couldn’t —” Peter looked over to the ottoman where the expensive piece of fabric lay forgotten and heavily wrinkled from his many failed attempts at tying it. “It’s right over —”

“Hold that thought,” Tony easily interrupted, whipping out his phone from the back pocket of his dress pants — his own suit tailored and fit, as per the usual for his attire, but definitely not the tux he’d be wearing on the big day. No, his had been taken care long before the first time Pepper postponed the wedding. “I promised Aunt Hottie I’d send her a Kodak moment. Chin up, pull those shoulders back — come on, strike a pose.”

For a split second, Peter’s brain didn’t register what Tony was saying — fast-paced and sharp as a tact, as always, with words flowing together so smoothly Peter found himself still staring at the tie laying on the ottoman when he heard them.

When it suddenly hit him what Tony meant, and by the time he snapped his head around to face the man, Tony had his phone in the air and positioned for a picture.

Peter gave a large smile.

Or at least he thought he gave a large smile.

The hypnotic feedback from Tony’s phone once he took the photo sounded right at he same time he lowered the device; his chin tilted down low enough that the purple-tinted frames covering his eyes slipped to the bridge of his nose, slightly exposing his eyes along the way.

“Are you physically incapable of taking a decent picture? Does it actually cause you harm?” he derisively asked, quickly moving the phone away from Peter when he leaned in for a look — with a tap of his thumb the picture was sent and the phone was pocketed away, earning a genuine look of aggravation from Peter that Tony took great pleasure in.

“Only pictures Pete’s good with are the ones with that mask on,” Rhodey’s voice drew closer as he entered from the far end of the tailor shop, joining the main lounge with the others. While Happy was finishing up the adjustments on his suit jacket, Rhodey’s was all ready to go, and he used the mirror Peter stood in front of to view the final outcome.

Peter stepped aside to give him room, all while reaching frantically for his own phone.

“My homecoming photos were good!” Peter’s argument would’ve landed a lot harder if his voice hadn’t squeaked along the way. Reaching for his backpack that laid on the floor, he quickly snatched the device from the front pocket and stood back up — swiping the screen to unlock it and then hastily swiping to the side as he sorted through his gallery. “I think they came out really —….oh.”

The silence that followed, as short as it was, could’ve been heard all across New York.

Tony quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Rhodey threw him a quick glance as he adjusted his tie, positioning it more center on his chest while being mindful of keeping it deep inside his gold vest. Then he looked over at Tony, the amusement in his expression clear as day.

Once again, Peter gave a large smile. This time he knew it looked more like a grimace than anything else.

“Yeah, actually, never mind.” Peter casually waved them off as he squatted low to reach for his backpack, unzipping the front pocket to stuff his phone back inside. “Ned took blurry pictures and its all dark and—”

“Lemme see those.” Rhodey snatched his phone from behind so swiftly that not even Peter’s spider-sense had time to react.

Peter spun around, his eyes growing as big as Captain America’s shield. “Mr. Rhodes, come on!”

As Peter practically chased Rhodey across the lounge of the tailor shop, Rhodey was quick to stay three steps ahead of him — and even quicker to throw a stern, rigid finger in his direction.

“Rhodey,” he sternly corrected him. “I told you that, I’m tired of telling you that — knock that off.”

Rhodey used that same, no-nonsense finger to swipe across the broken screen of Peter’s cell phone. The cracks along the device did nothing to hide the damage of the homecoming photos taken from last week. No different than Peter’s smiling grimace, his jaw clenched and his mouth twisted into something fierce.

“Ohhhhhh, Pete…” Rhodey swiped and swiped, but the results didn’t get any better. “These are not good.”

Peter knew that.

It was kinda hard not too.

Still, he defended, “They aren’t that bad —”

Without missing a beat, Rhodey flipped the phone around for Peter to see, displaying the professional photo taken by the school with the colorful backdrop of a 90’s theme standing out against the kid’s otherwise plain dress attire.

As Peter gave the camera a smile that was fully a jaw-clenching grimace, MJ held no expression on her face and held a single, simple finger in the air.

Peter didn’t need to look at it for long. He knew exactly how bad he looked in the picture, and had endured enough of May’s good-hearted jesting all week long because of it.

“You two make a cute couple,” Rhodey tried not to laugh as he handed Peter back his phone — who eagerly took it, with every expression of teenage annoyance he could possibly give. “She gunna be your plus one?”

Peter opened his mouth to answer.

“I was going to be his plus one!” Ned beat him to it, returning to the main lounge with hands that were still slightly damp and partially sudsy. His jeans and shirt took the brunt of his impromptu bathroom visit as he plopped back down on the sofa, crossing both arms against his chest in a full fledged pout. “I still don’t understand why my mom’s making me go to this stupid family reunion—”

“Ned, your Lola’s like, ninety-six,” Peter reminded him, pushing his backpack against the bottom of the sofa so it wasn’t a tripping hazard. “This could be the last time—”

“It’s an Avenger wedding, Peter!” Ned argued, still pouting — somehow managing to pout harder, at that. “And I was invited! Do you know how cool that would’ve made me at school?”

“You wouldn’t be able to tell anyone,” Happy dryly cut in, crossing the length of the tailor shop and taking a seat on the same couch Ned occupied — making sure to take the furthest end, and undoing the button of his jacket once he sat down. “It’s a completely private event, everyone signs an NDA before they even enter the church.”

Ned dramatically tossed both arms into the air. “It’s the idea of it all! Knowing that I, the last son of the Leeds bloodline—”

Peter threw him a look that contorted every muscle on his face.

Ned kept going, “Could’ve been in the same building, breathing the same air as the Mighty Avengers. It would’ve been…” With a sigh hard enough to blow every tuxedo right off the racks, Ned sunk further into the couch cushions, his pout becoming something more akin to a sad self-hug that Peter, once again, threw him a look for. “It would’ve been perfect.”

“Kid, count your blessings that you got an invite to this,” Tony started to say, not even sparing either teenager a glance as he brushed nonexistent lint off Rhodey’s shoulders. Rhodey knocked his hand away in turn, and Tony gave a hearty, cheeky wink in response. Only then did he turn around and face Ned. “All inclusive, as cool as it gets.”

Tony twizzled a lackadaisical finger around the room, as if the point needed to be made.

It didn’t. Ned’s starry-eyed response, especially when Tony’s finger landed on Bruce — who just finished with the tailor, and now made his way to join the center lounge where he promptly took the nearest wingback chair to sit in — proved as much.

“So cool,” Ned didn’t hesitate to drawl out, struggling to sit up on the couch once the plush cushions nearly ate him whole. Once there, he reached for his side pocket and brought his own phone out, though it stayed in his lap. “I just want to thank you, again, Mr. Tony Stark, for letting me be part of your journey into this amazing—”

“I see you taking those photos,” Happy irritably interrupted, reaching across the sofa with a hand that wagged fingers in a gimme motion. “Stop that. Give me that, delete all those—”

“I wasn’t gunna post them anywhere!” Ned scooted further away from Happy, nearly falling off the side of the couch in an attempt to lean as far away as possible.

“Phone, now.” Happy didn’t wait the second time around. He snatched Ned’s phone before the kid had a chance to try and get away. “We had an agreement. I had you sign papers, you know better than this —”

“Okay, but seriously!” Ned’s whine was loud enough to break the sound barrier. “I wasn’t gunna—”

“Keep the theatrics to a minimum, okay, Teddy?” Tony held an open palm out in Ned’s direction as he walked by the couch, seamlessly making his way to where Bruce sat. “Let me at least buy stock in Ibuprofen first if those ragging hormones of yours are going to make you this dramatic.”

Bruce, having dug into his briefcase for an electronic StarkPad that he quickly began to preoccupy himself with, gave a dry huff of a chuckle.

“Surprised you don’t already have stock in those pharmaceuticals, Tony,” he all but mumbled, his attention so focused on the screen of the tablet it was hard to say if he even knew he spoke out loud.

Acting as nonchalant as possible — which wasn’t very nonchalant at all — Tony casually approached the chair where Bruce sat, leaning his hip against the armrest as he tried to make it seem like he wasn’t looking at Bruce’s tablet — while not doing a very good job at making himself seem discreet.

Proving as much, Tony clucked his tongue and said, “Speaking of pharmaceuticals —”

“You were talking about your date, Peter?” Bruce immediately flipped the tablet over so the screen was face-down in his lap, prompting a look from Tony that he easily ignored.

Lost in the moment, Peter twisted around to face Bruce, once again finding himself fiddling nervously with the single button on his suit jacket.

“I — I don’t…have one, actually,” he admitted, giving a tight-lipped smile and a shrug that followed. “I asked MJ. But she’s working that day, so…”

Tony frowned and pulled another face, almost as if he were offended. “Tell her to call out like every other ripe new employee to the workforce.”

Peter forced himself to drop both hands from fiddling with his jacket when he could feel the button begin to loosen against the fabric.

“She likes her job, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, the small smile that came after seeming more apologetic than anything else. “She…doesn’t really like you.”

Tony crossed the length of the lounge, passing by racks of tuxedos that lined the walls before he took his own seat across from Bruce — who purposefully waited until Tony began to walk away before he returned to his tablet, flipping it back over where the glow of the screen reflected brightly against his glasses.

“I concede to that. Can’t win them all,” Tony smoothly relented, taking a seat in a plush tub chair not far from Peter. He craned his head around to look at the kid standing behind him, while absentmindedly unbuttoning his blazer. “The invite stands if she changes her mind. Even if she gives me the cold shoulder all night.” Tony smirked as he crossed his legs, casually letting his ankle rest against his knee. “Tell her I’m more than accustomed to the…fiery type of women.”

Peter rolled his eyes, deciding it was better not to respond to that comment — lest he open the door of all it would bring. After all, Mr. Stark had shown time and time again that he had no problems embarrassing him.

Hell, sometimes Peter swore he found enjoyment in it.

“You know, I’ve actually been thinking,” Peter elected to change the subject instead, turning back to the mirror and smoothing down his sleek, black tux jacket with hands that couldn’t seem to stay still. “With MJ getting a job and all —”

“Watch it, now. Only put on your plate what you can eat,” Tony butted in, not even bothering to look over his shoulder this time when he spoke.

“Nothing major!” Peter stayed looking straight ahead as well, occupying himself with the mirror and the very expensive suit he wore. His fingers once again found the middle button and didn’t let go. “Just like a…side gig. Or something. There’s this junior photographer internship position open at the Daily Bugle —”

“I’m sorry, what?” Tony whipped his head over his shoulder fast enough to dislocate the first three columns in his spin. “Did you just utter the words Daily Bugle while wearing a three piece, Tom Ford—”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter chuckled, only looking at Tony from the mirror — the purple tinted frames covering Tony’s eyes did absolutely nothing to hide the sheer indignance that covered his expression.

When they slipped down the bridge of his nose, Tony was quick to push them back up.

“Your other internship’s got you tied up, Pete,” he said, turning back around and bringing his phone out from the interior pocket of his blazer. He was already typing up a quick message — far faster than Happy, who was still deleting the photo’s from Ned’s phone at the pace of a snail. “You want an allowance, maybe we can strike a compromise on something—”

“I don’t want an allowance!” Peter laughed more than he did speak, the words easily falling into a fit of amusement.

“I’ll take his allowance,” Happy chided from the side, still painstakingly going through Ned’s phone — much to Ned’s discontent.

“No, I don’t — I don’t want an allowance,” Peter kept laughing, gesturing a shaking hand at Tony — who sat in the chair in front of him, head facing forward and down low as he typed away on his phone. Peter walked closer until he rounded the tub chair to face Tony head-on. “I don’t want an allowance. C’mon, Mr. Stark, what’s the big deal?”

Just like that, Tony looked up, using one hand to whisk off his glasses so smoothly, it was like spreading butter.

He looked Peter straight in the eye. “You wanna go work for the same borderline tabloid that’s spread more lies about you than the entirety of Enquirer’s run?”

Confusion wasn’t an expression Tony Stark wore well. He understood things — he understood a lot of things. So when Tony was confused, there was a problem to be had.

Peter swallowed, hard, finding it difficult to see that confusion in Tony’s face.

He wasn’t wrong; The Daily Bugle didn’t exactly take…kindly to all things Spider-Man related. ‘Spider-Man thwarted by local street magician’ still rang painfully loud in his ears, and nothing he’d done since then managed to make up for it.

Vigilantism — the word was hand-in-hand with Spider-Man. A good portion of the city certainly wasn’t keen on the new reality of superheroes taking over city law, and some press like the Daily Bugle jumped right to taking advantage of that negative perspective.

Peter knew their opinions ultimately didn’t matter. He did what he did for a reason — he did what he did because it was the right thing to do, it was what people like Uncle Ben taught him to do.

But it didn’t make their articles and newspaper headlines any easier to ignore.

“Maybe I could…I could, you know, take pictures. Of…of, you know…Spider-Man,” Peter began to speak his thoughts out loud before even realizing it. Nervously, he rubbed an open palm at the nape of his neck, pushing away the collar of the jacket as he fought for his words. “And they could be good pictures, of-of me — him — Spider-Man doing…good things, you know, and-and I could get the Bugle to stop saying I’m..I’m a criminal, or a vigilante —”

“Kiddo, I already told you —” Tony sat up from the chair, tucking his glasses into his jacket as he approached Peter from behind, clasping two firm hands against his shoulders — rocking him firmly on his heels as he worked the tension loose in his muscles. “Don’t let some outdated, old fart of a journalist who’s a couple years away from retiring and starting a podcast get under your skin.”

Peter blew a hefty sigh through his cheeks, puffing them out wider than a Chipmunk. “It’d just be nice to be recognized…and not made out to be, you know…terrorizing New York City all the time.”

Bruce gave a dry chuckle as he finally looked up from his tablet.

“It’s a love-hate relationship,” he said, the smile that followed more empathic than anything else. “I’m a little familiar with that myself.”

No sooner than Tony had started massaging Peter’s shoulder’s, he quickly took a few large steps away and over to Bruce’s chair, standing behind him before the physicist could even register what had happened.

“You must also be familiar with,” Tony swooped down and grabbed the tablet out of Bruce’s hands. “Phenol, cresol, xylenol, guaiacol—”

“Tony —” Bruce stressed, reaching behind him for the tablet in vain.

“Meta-cresol, eugenol, oh, look, methylbutanal?” Tony kept walking away, though he stayed facing Bruce the entire time, gesturing the tablet in the air with curiosity. “Two or three? Or both?”

Bruce didn’t look amused. “Tony —”

“I’m sticking to my guess of pharmaceuticals,” Tony held the tablet straight up, looking to it briefly in the sharp pause that lingered. “But only if the subject weighs about…a zillion tons.”

Cocking his head to the side, Bruce heaved a frustrated sigh. “Will you give me that back?”

Tony loudly clucked his tongue.

“No can do, I’m invested now,” he said, looking down at the screen of the tablet and scrolling his index finger through the pages of research. “I have to be included, this is never going to leave my mind, it’ll haunt me for months, years—”

“Tones, didn’t you tell the kids not to be dramatic?” Rhodey leaned his hip against the armrest of the sofa Ned sat on — the metal of his braces whirred and whined and Ned’s enthusiastic mutterings about ‘I’m sitting next to War Machine’ could be heard loud and clear.

Tony ignored it, wagging the tablet right at Bruce.

“What is it?” he asked, the spark of interest undeniable in his eyes — visible for all to see. “If it’s pharmaceuticals than it’s some weird tasting medicine—”

“It’s alcohol,” Bruce yielded, his frustration coating every syllable. “Specifically a…super alcohol. For…super-serum recipients.”

Tony let out the most dramatic gasp Peter had ever heard from the man — hand to the chest included. Theatrics at max level.

“You’re trying to get Rogers drunk.”

It wasn’t a question. And Bruce’s lack of immediate defense only broadened the smile on Tony’s face. A kid in a candy shop for the very first time couldn’t even compare to his excitement.

“I’m-I’m just curious if it can be done. The intent isn’t to — it’s-it’s not that I want to…my goal isn’t —” Bruce started to say, stammering halfway through when the words didn’t seem to do his idea justice. He noticeably clenched his jaw before continuing. ”After creating Peter’s painkiller with Moira MacTaggert, I began to wonder what else we can enhance to suit the metabolism of…of, you know — the enhanced. And this idea has been on my mind for a while, you know, ever since Thor brought that Asgardian Ale to Earth with him — and you know how it goes, sometimes you just gotta…gotta get the idea out on paper and give it a shot —”

Tony lithely handed the tablet back to Bruce. “Not that I don’t fully support this idea, one-hundred-percent, in fact — I’d happily throw down a few mil just to see Captain Handsome three sheets to the wind — but if you’re bored, write a memoir.”

Bruce gladly took his tablet back, his annoyance evident all through-out his face.

“I really loved your last two memoir’s, Doctor Banner,” Ned spoke up, every bit in awe as he was the first time he shook hands with the physicist.

Bruce noticed. He gave a timid wave and an even more awkward smile.

“Uh, yeah, thanks.” Bruce used the hand that waved to scratch nervously behind his ear. “They, uh, those were ghost writers...who wrote them. But thanks.”

“You know, speaking of Thor —” Tony didn’t give Ned so much as a millisecond to express any disappointment. His voice was drowned out as Bruce audibly groaned from where he sat.

“I told you, Tony,” Bruce stressed, rubbing two fingers firmly against the temple of his forehead. “There’s nowhere for me to even start—”

“That mean you haven’t tried?” Tony never did take no for an answer — not easily, anyway. When Bruce didn’t answer, he kicked the toes of his shoe straight ahead at the man’s leg — Bruce shot to attention, jolting straight up in the chair with an exasperated sigh.

“That means there’s nowhere for me to even start—” Bruce tried to say.

Tony pulled a face. “You were the last person to see him—”

“In space!” Bruce argued, loudly at first — and then quickly lowering his voice when he realized he was starting to shout. “Hulk saw him, Hulk last saw him in space, Tony. With — with the green lady, and the talking raccoon—”

“You came back from space, buddy,” Tony interrupted, rounding the chair until he could give a few soft pats against Bruce’s shoulder. “A few hallucinations are expected along the way.”

Bruce apathetically slapped that hand away.

“They were there,” he stressed, meeting Tony’s expression of incredulity with his own genuineness. “I’m not mental, they were there. Doctor Strange came, zapped me back here, and for all Thor knows I died on Sakaar before he made his way back to Asgard. I have no way to get in touch with him. No clue where to even start.”

The string of Bruce’s desperation ebbed away into a still quiescence, the tailor shop falling quite — sans the hypnotic feedback as Happy continued to delete photos in Ned’s phone; earning a genuine look of concern from Peter, who was beginning to wonder just how many pictures he was taking without anyone noticing.

In the midst of the silence, a muttered drawl of, “That’s so cool, ” came from Ned, but for a minute that felt like an hour, that was the only sound.

Finally, Bruce gestured an apologetic arm out towards Tony.

“I’m sorry…” he said, earnestly. “You know if I could do something, I would.”

Logically, Tony knew that. Disappointment aside, he knew full well that after all Bruce had done for him and the team — before everything with Ultron, and then after his return — he’d stick his neck out if he was asked to.

Hell, Tony remembered exactly how long it took Bruce and Moira MacTaggert to create that specialized painkiller of Peter’s. Sleep was nothing but forgotten for days on end, and once the task was completed, Bruce simply moved on — having provided the help they needed, and treating it no different than any other average assignment he’d been handed.

A humanitarian, that man — through and through.

He wasn’t just a reliable member of the team — no, just like the others, Bruce had quickly found his way into being a reliable friend above all else. Tony couldn’t fault him for knowing his limitations.

Looking down at the tablet Bruce placed in his lap, Tony wagged a finger at the screen with one hand while the other pulled his glasses out from his jacket, slipping them back on with ease.

“Make that my wedding present instead,” Tony said, indicating to the data on Bruce’s tablet before walking back the tub chair across the way, plopping down with a hearty and heavy sigh. “Just would’ve been nice to have the whole gang in town for this, you know?”

The disappointment in Tony’s sigh didn’t go unheard. They’d come a long way in the past few years. A long, long way since that odd encounter in the woods; where the realm of possibilities was no longer just pushing the boundaries of science and technology, or bringing a man out of time to the present. It now included Gods from other worlds, marking the foundation created for a team that would far exceed Tony’s greatest expectations.

Yet, Thor had always been the solo team member Tony had initially tried so hard to be. It turned out the role just wasn’t meant for him, as much as he gravitated towards it. No, that mantle belonged to Thor — who held a great deal of responsibility, far beyond what any of them could even fathom to have. He had proved to be quite the loyal member himself, no different than Bruce. Always there when needed, and no hesitation to help.

But on the day-to-day, the God of Thunder had bigger problems to take on.

It was a shame. Roughly two years had passed since Ultron. It was the longest they’d gone without seeing the Asgardian.

“I mean…Doctor Strange did bring me back from space, Tony,” Bruce’s voice brought him out from his own thoughts, and Tony’s head snapped towards the scientist at full attention — purple tinted frames or not, the hope in his eyes caught the reflection of the lights from above. “Maybe he’s who you should be going to if you wanna get in touch with Thor.”

Tony really, really hated it when Bruce was right.

Especially when he was right about certain magical Sorcerer that happened to grate Tony’s every nerve.

“I’ll ask Wanda to what she can do,” Tony muttered, working his jaw left and right — finding a spot in the corner of the ceiling to look at, though nothing was there that gained his attention. “That man still won’t give me his phone number.”

A scoff pulled his eyes away and in the direction of Rhodey, who was close to giving Ned a juvenile stroke with how excited the kid still was at his presence.

“He’s probably doesn’t have one,” Rhodey easily mentioned. “Monk life and all.”

If Tony had any witty or sarcastic quip to throw in return, it was taken away by the sound of the front door bells ringing — the door opening and closing, with sounding footsteps along the way.

“Sorry I’m late fella’s,” the voice came from the front of the tuxedo shop, drawing closer with each word spoken. “Couldn’t seem to make my way through traffic — lunch hour is insane out there.”

Though Peter had been hanging around the Avengers for what he’d say felt like a good while now — and that was still a wildly bizarre thought to have, let alone realize was very much so real, and very much so his life — there had still only been a handful of times he’d seen some members out of basic civilian attire.

Steve, in particular, always seemed to be working around the clock. Always dressed in a pair of khaki’s free of wrinkles, some sort of pressed button down or color only t-shirt. The most casual Peter had probably ever seen him, recovering in Wakanda aside, was likely their training sessions together. Even then, it was just sweats and a sleeveless tank.

“Did you ride your motorcycle here?” Peter asked, walking away from the mirror for the first time — taking a few steps forward as if he needed to verify what he saw.

It was definitely Steve, and Steve was definitely in motorcycle gear. Far less than Happy, of course, who seemed to go a bit gun-ho on his shopping spree once purchasing his first bike.

Though Steve didn’t have the gloves or boots Happy had insisted on buying, he still wore a brown leather jacket that nearly concealed the hard-shelled, half-helmet tucked underneath his arm.

“That’s what the helmet’s for, son,” Steve chuckled lightly, as if noticing Peter staring.

He’d barely entered the lounge, just a few feet in, when Ned clumsily jumped off the couch — falling to his one knee before frantically scampering over towards Peter.

“Ohhhh, dude dude dude dude dude,” Ned chanted, half-hissed, half-loudly.

Peter shook his head back just as frantically. “No way—”

“Dude, dude, dude—”

“No way, no way—!”

Ned shot around to Steve, his finger pointing like a rigid stick across from him, straight against Peter’s chest.

“Peter can ride a motorcycle, Mr. Captain America, sir!” Ned all but shouted.

Peter spun on his heels to face Ned, making a sound that was one-hundred-percent indistinguishable.

Rhodey’s restrained chuckle was met with Steve’s look of growing perplexity.

“That’s…” Steve looked to Ned, over to Peter, and ultimately landed on Tony. “That’s a new development.”

Even had he felt the bore of Steve’s stare, Tony strictly paid attention to only his phone, allowing his scoff to say what his focus didn’t.

“You’re telling me,” Tony chided, nodding his head to the side. “Happy’s going through a mid-life crisis—”

“It’s not a mid-life crisis—” Happy bit back, doing the same thing as Tony and not looking from his phone — Ned's phone — as he spoke.

“— and now Peter’s hung-ho to join the biker gang life,” Tony finished, putting his phone aside with an exasperation that needed no explanation. It could be seen in the streaks of gray that began to highlight the hair against his temples.

Standing at the entryway of the lounge, Steve slowly found his eyes drifting away from Tony and back over towards the two teenagers in front of him — one of whom seemed more excited than Steve was sure he’d ever felt in his entire life, pre and post freezing.

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he caught hold of Peter’s gaze.

“You liked riding?” Steve asked, curiously.

It had to be a good, solid five seconds that Peter stammered sounds completely unrecognizable to the English dictionary.

“It’s not as cool as web-swinging,” he eventually got out, shrugging his shoulders so heftily they nearly touched his earlobes. “But…yeah, it’s-it’s really cool.”

Just like Tony’s exasperation, Peter’s simmering excitement needed no explanation. And no matter how much he restrained himself on expressing it — Steve could see a mile away the strength he used to stay composed — it twinkled in his eye no different than the star against Steve’s shield.

Which meant it came as no surprise when Ned began to push both his open palms erratically against Peter’s shoulder.

“Ask him, ask him, ask him—” Ned badgered on.

“Dude, no,” Peter hissed, sharply, “I’m not gunna — dude, no—!”

Ned spun on his heels so fast, he stumbled to the side before exclaiming, “Peter wants to ride your bike!”

“I do not!” Peter’s voice squeaked, and he glared a hot stare at Ned before whipping his head over to Steve. “I mean, I do, but —!”

“Ibuprofen,” Tony snapped his fingers, once and then twice, with his other palm spread across half of his face. “Ibuprofen, somebody, now.”

“He knows how!” Ned failed to be quick on the uptake with Tony’s complaints. In fact, his voice only grew louder as he grabbed Peter’s arm and shook him back and forth. “Peter, you totally know how, you did so good last night — I couldn’t even get the bike started and you like, you totally took off in streets —”

Peter could feel his complexion growing whiter. “Ned, I’m not going to ride Captain America’s motorcycle —”

Ned gasped, so loudly — so dramatically — it heaved his entire back outward.

“Oh my god, you need to ride Captain America’s motorcycle —!”

“Guys, guys, guys,” Steve laughed as he gently interrupted them both, his hands outward in a friendly, placating manner. “It’s Steve. Out here I’m just…a kid from Brooklyn.”

A beat passed. Ned increased his grip on Peter’s arm, this time not out of excitement, but rather to keep himself standing on both feet.

“I’m going to pass out,” he faintly, happily, murmured.

Peter rolled his eyes and pushed him off, where he stumbled back to the sofa and plopped down next to Happy — too close for comfort, as the man noticeably edged further away.

With a swallow hard enough to dislodge his vocal cords, Peter turned back to Steve — his smile twitching in an attempt not to look too excited.

“I don’t…not want to ride your bike,” Peter began to say, gesturing a timid hand over to the sofa. “I mean, I did…kinda good on Happy’s, so…”

Happy kept his attention solely on Ned’s phone as he huffed, “If by kinda good you mean didn’t crash it, then sure.”

“Means he’s crashed more cars than he has motorcycles,” Rhodey joked, shooting a friendly wink Peter’s way.

Tony’s bark of laughter made that friendly wink as effective as a chocolate teapot.

“That was once!” Peter hastily defended, gesturing a rigid arm out towards Steve. “And nobody would’ve known about that if it didn’t end up on YouTube!”

Tony shook his head, never once looking at Peter as he said, “Not helping your case, kid.”

Peter barely bit back a sigh, forcing it to stay between a tightly-clenched jaw as he spared Ned an irritated glance — one that Ned failed to notice, too busy staring ahead at Steve with a star-struck wonderment stealing his capability to speak.

He may have been hanging around the Avengers for what he’d say felt like a good while now — still a wildly bizarre thought to have — but the idea of Captain America letting him ride his motorcycle…

That was a absurd as things could get.

“Where’s the throttle?”

So when Steve first asked the question, Peter didn’t initially hear it.

“Huh?” he sounded, all in one breath.

Steve leveled him a look, all while delicately setting his motorcycle helmet off to the side, placing it down on the nearest empty table in his vicinity.

“The throttle,” Steve repeated, “where is it?”

Peter blinked. And then again, letting his brain catch up with his ears.

When it hit him, he couldn’t help the grin that followed.

“Right side,” Peter easily answered.

Steve cocked his head. “How do you shift gears?”

“Clutch the lever with your left hand,” Peter mimicked the movements, “and use your left foot to shift.”

Steve arched an eyebrow. “Then?”

“Release the clutch while applying throttle with your other hand,” Peter answered, quickly and smoothly.

“What’s the purpose of the choke?” Steve wasn’t letting up — firing off questions before Peter’s answer had finished sounding.

Peter didn’t hesitate on that one. “Provide extra fuel to the engine when starting a cold bike. Makes it easier to start.”

And Steve didn’t hesitate to ask the next one. “What’s the best way to brake?”

“Use both the front and rear brakes together,” Peter, once again, mimicked the movements with his hands. “Apply gradual but consistent pressure to avoid locking up the wheels.”

“What would you do if the wheels locked up?” Steve rattled off, his voice staying firm through-and-through.

“Release the brakes,” Peter answered with a resounding duh lifting his tone. “Shift your weight the opposite direction, don’t twist the handlebar too suddenly when re-engaging, and play it cool.”

The groovy, chill, no-stress accent that finished out Peter’s string of answers, easily highlighting the best of his Academic Decathlon abilities, was enough to get Rhodey laughing. It was hard to say if Tony would’ve done the same, had his exasperation not reach headache levels.

And Happy was still occupied with Ned’s phone.

With his index finger pressing heavily against his temple, Tony saw his Head of Security through the corner of his eye, and he leaned forward to whip the phone out of his hands.

Happy looked aggravated, but otherwise relented.

Ned barely noticed when Tony tossed his phone back into his possession.

“Peter stayed up like, all last night learning about motorcycles,” Ned dreamily drawled out, the phone plopping into his lap and remaining untouched — his attention was far too focused on Steve Rogers to notice anything else happening around him.

Off to the side, Rhodey gave a dry, humorous huff. “Hyper-fixation, now why does that sound familiar.”

Tony tried to throw Rhodey a look of offense, but it was clear that would have to wait until his headache receded.

“Not all last night,” Peter quickly defended, waving a frantic and dismissive hand over in Ned’s direction. “I slept. I’m well-rested, I could totally and very safely ride your bike…if, you know, you’d let me. Of course. I wouldn’t just take it. I’d never just take it—”

“Still waiting for that Ibuprofen,” Tony said out loud to no one in particular, and everyone all at the same time.

Bruce noticeably rolled his eyes and returned to his tablet.

The silence, as brief as it was, lasted long enough to touch every corner of the tuxedo shop. It gave Steve the time to look Peter head-on, catching his gaze and holding onto it, just long enough that he could get the answers from questions that couldn’t be spoken.

With an arch of his eyebrow and twitch of his lip, Steve turned inwards towards the lounge, facing Tony from a distance.

“Tony?” he asked, gesturing his head wordlessly over at Peter. “You okay with this?”

The way Tony actively rubbed at his temple with two fingers pressed so hard into his skin they left dent marks, Peter was sure the answer had already been made.

“Happy’s got his helmet in the back of his car, I can wear that. It’s full-faced, no one will know it’s me,” Peter hastily jumped to a counter argument that had yet to even begin. “And like Steve said, no one recognizes him outside of his uniform. He’s just Steve here, a nobody!”

Steve frowned, turning to Peter with an expression laced in confusion and insult.

Peter’s eyes widened immediately.

“I mean, not that I mean — you’re not a nobody, you’re Captain America—” Peter’s arms moved around in frantic gestures, creating a draft of wind inside the tuxedo shop. “I just mean that you’re not like Mr. Stark, who, you know, can’t go—”

Peter came to a grinding halt when a gentle hand laid across his shoulder.

“Learn when to stop,” Steve simply said, giving Peter’s shoulder three firm taps before letting go.

Peter nodded, bowed his head, and nodded some more with a sigh that blew the laces across his shoes. “I’m trying.”

The next lull that followed was enough to eat away at Peter’s nerves. He swore the button of his jacket wouldn’t make it to the wedding in one piece, not with how much anxiety bled through his fiddling fingers.

He really wished Ned had never mentioned the idea — even if Steve seemed cool with the idea, Mr. Stark would never go for it. Heck, he only let Peter drive a few miles up from a gas station to their hotel when on their road trip this past summer.

Riding Steve’s motorcycle?

Captain America's motorcycle?

Peter may as well ask for the baby monitor to be removed from his suit.

He looked to Tony, waiting for the sharp but simple ‘no’ that would eventually sound.

“I blame you for this,” Tony said instead, twisting in the tub chair to better face Happy — with a stern finger pointed his way.

Happy met that finger with his own, and then pointed his finger at himself. “What? Me?”

Tony nodded. “Yes, you.”

Peter very eagerly realized that no one had yet to say that two letter word he’d been waiting for.

“Is that a yes?” Peter couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out. He steered into the skid, turning towards Tony with bouncing, excited heels. “Is that a yes?”

Happy twisted his face up tight. “Why me!”

Tony wagged his finger. “You know full well why you—”

“Oh my god, oh my god, I’m going to pass out,” Ned’s voice hiked up pitch as he waved both hands frantically in front of him, desperate for a breeze that the tuxedo shop didn’t have to offer. “I’m going to pass out, I’m going to — Peter, you’re going to ride Captain America’s motorcycle!”

Peter whipped his head around towards Ned, back around to Steve — stayed there for a moment, and then finally landed on Mr. Stark.

The breezy, floppy motion of Tony’s hand was all Peter needed to see.

Permission granted.

“Steve, thank you so much,” Peter stressed, both his hands outward towards Steve as if he was about to go in for a hug — hesitating before drawing back, turning on his heels and running to the entrance of the tuxedo shop. “Holy cow, I can’t believe this!”

Tony shot his head around as he called out, “Not in the tux, Parker!”

Footsteps that had dwindled away quickly began to draw closer again as Peter came trampling back into the lounge, quickly jogging to the private dressing rooms down the hall.

“Right! Yes, of course, dumb — yes, right!” Peter hollered over his shoulder, “Give me five! I’ll be there in five!”

Steve laughed, caught sight of Ned’s enamoured stare, and laughed again. Not far away he saw Rhodey, acknowledging his friend with a nod that was returned, all the while Tony returned his wagging finger to Happy’s direction.

“Your mid-life crisis is so stereotypical,” Tony kept on, whipping his glasses out from his blazer and gesturing them Happy’s way. “You could’ve done anything and you went with the motorcycle. Could’ve grown the mullet back, that would’ve been better. More creative, more original—”

Happy loudly groaned. “It is not a mid-life —”

“Might not have suited your goatee, but everyone’s gotta make compromises,” Tony didn’t let up, steamrolling Happy as if he never spoke in the first place. The same glasses that wagged Happy’s way made their way back on his face. “Now you got the kid starting a biker gang with Uncle Sam, how’s that make you feel? You proud about that?”

Bruce loudly chuckled from where he sat. Though all eyes turned to look at him, he never looked away from his tablet.

“Boys and bikes? Probably the most normal thing you’ll get out of him,” Bruce mentioned, once again speaking so quietly it were as if he never meant to speak out loud at all.

The pause that followed brought a glimmer of curiosity to his expression, and Bruce suddenly turned around in his chair, facing Steve head-on with the tablet still in his hand.

“Steve, question,” Bruce started to ask, looking down at the screen as he cleared his throat a few times. “If you could have any cocktail…”

The smell struck him first — and with a fierce force.

“Oeugh-ckouhhh,” Norman coughed harshly into the balled fist of his hand, instinctively pressing the back of his forearm against his nose to cover the stench. It wasn’t enough; he leaned over, bending at the waist to bury his face into the soot-stained fabric of his coat.

It was rancid. Everything all at once; every drop of sweat from every body in the building, every odor that seeped out their glands — body fluids combined with cooking food, mixing with dusty old clothes, melding together with the outside’s breath and the street pavements slick with car oil —

So powerful, so concentrated, that the very hairs inside his nose singed at contact.

“Sorry ‘bout that, my dude — it’s not normally this rank.”

A hand found his back, clapping down on him with casual pats; right at the same time the front door of the shelter slammed behind them. Norman didn’t turn to look at the young man touching him, but he did swing his head around to that door — his brows furrowed tightly as it closed shut.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, FEAST can get pretty funky some days. Ofph, especially in the summer — eck. New York City is hella dope, but there ain’t any smell like 5th Avenue in August back in Cali.”

The young man — Dylan, he faintly remembered — spoke without any realization that his words were falling on deaf ears.

Norman stood up a little straighter as he kept eyeing the front door of the shelter, closed and blocking his view of the outside. The purple wool of his coat stayed over his face, tugged there with one hand while the other hung limply at his side.

He was supposed to move.

Keep moving.

Don’t stop.

He couldn’t do that here.

Norman twisted back around, the crease on his forehead deepening, creating lines of soot that embedded into the wrinkles of his skin.

The shelter, while no means small, held a great deal of space for a large sum of people. The entire ground floor was open space gymnasium; filled with cots, lockers lining the walls, and a few tables and metal chairs scattered about — keeping some folks entertained with card games and things like Chess.

The second floor was visible from the bottom, a staircase on the far end leading all the way up, where glass windows showcased the offices and other rooms beyond the balcony.

Once his eyes gravitated there, Norman didn’t look away.

Not even as Dylan gave him another friendly pat against his shoulder, encouraging him to walk forward — he did, but only out of instinct.

His movements were long since past his control.

“…so then my girlfriend — well, ex-girlfriend, now — she decided after a few months after working that new hot-shot job we moved for, suddenly she was too good for me. We broke up, but it’s whatever. Life’s a bitch and then you move on. So that’s how I ended up in the city, which is kinda cool, cause New York ain’t nothing like California. Been here for a few years now, making due, all that jazz. This gig has really helped me out a lot. Without Mrs. P, I would’ve never been able to afford rent. Coulda wound up homeless myself. Oh, hey — follow me, let’s get you some fresh clothes.”

Norman let himself be guided away, hearing the words that were spoken but barely making sense of it all. The voice hit one ear and slipped out the other, discernible by nature yet his mind couldn’t make sense of them.

There was too much distraction for coherency. The noise vibrated his skull, enveloping every corner with a painful buzz. Each sound they encountered was eleven times louder than what his eardrums could handle — double that, triple. The casual chit-chat that echoed the shelter could’ve very well been detonating bomb, clangs and bangs from the kitchen staff cooking far away and out of sight causing him to twitch and jolt with aggravation.

The smells only made it worse. His nostrils burned with smells he’d never encountered, tangling his stomach into a tight, aggressive coil. If an ant crawled across the shelter, he swore he could pick up on their scent.

Every nerve, every sense his body was capable of — it was heightened beyond human limitations, surpassing even the most feral of animals.

It was too much. And with each step they took further into the building, Norman’s irritation only grew.

“…anyway, nah, this is ‘cause the city totally botched a water line replacement a few days ago. They shut off our pipes for a while — Mrs. P said it should be back by the weekend. We can get you a shower then. I think we got some of those, like — those wet wipes somewhere, though. Maybe we can get some of that, uh…dirt…off of you.”

While Dylan seemed to know exactly where he was going, weaving in and around cots like it was second nature, Norman stumbled behind his every step — bumping into beds and nearly tripping on strangers feet along the way.

“Fire,” he managed to croak, each forward step an ordeal for his weak and buckling knees. The people he passed met him with scowls and muttered curses, their outstretched legs and broad shoulders obstacles he could scarcely avoid, adding to the discordant rhythm of his steps.

And yet, if he had a mirror, Norman would’ve seen that he blended right in with them. Ash and soot darkened his Caucasian skin into a messy canvas of black, and the tattered, oversize clothes that hung off his frame were more fibers of fabric than they were actual attire.

The heat of his own body had done too much damage to even the thickest of wool coats he could find.

“Yeah, yeah, right, man. You said there was a fire,” Dylan recalled, every bit of his tone coated in casualness. He bent down to pick up a discarded blanket that had fallen off a cot, genially tossing it onto the nearest empty bed as they kept walking. “Do you have anyone we could call for you? Friends, maybe family?”

Norman kept looking as they kept walking, never once letting his head rest in one place as he took in his surroundings.

The people were nameless, most of their faces blended together as one. And though he knew he’d been walking for some time, his legs still ached tremendously, as if the distance across the shelter outmatched the hundreds of miles he’d already trekked.

It wasn’t until he saw a young kid sitting off to the side that his eyes finally locked in place. His head no longer swiveled or turned, but rather slightly cocked to the side — looking at the boy straight ahead with glaze of confusion overlapping his green irises.

The longer he stared, and Norman deduced the kid couldn’t be out of his teens — early twenty at the utmost best. A lost child compared to the much older folks that filled the shelter, most holding triple the amount of wrinkles that etched deep into Norman’s face.

This boy was far too young for even a single crowsfeet to dent his skin. The bags underneath his young eyes were only due to the hardships he’d encountered, and with a heavy cotton blanket wrapped around his shoulders, he sat quietly in the corner. Watching wordlessly as the people moved all around him.

For a moment — just a split second that came with the blink of his eyes — Norman saw the flames of blazing fire dance before him. They twisted and twirled like ethereal ballet dancers on an otherworldly stage, swallowing the young boy in front of him. Crimson and orange swirls flickered with each capricious pirouette, hiding the figure from view — burning him whole.

Another blink, and the fire was gone.

“My son.”

The words didn’t sound like they came from him. It wouldn’t be the first time, but the burn in his throat — no different than the burn that throbbed the heels of his feet — spoke his reality long before he registered it.

And still, Dylan spoke with a casualness that fell out of place.

“Ah, cool, so you got family. That’s more than most these people.” Dylan kicked a wad of trash to the side as they approached the far end of the shelter. “Let’s get you out of these smokey duds, then we can make some calls. Sound sick?”

Norman shot his head around, his neck whipping so fast the crack was audible against the meaningless chit-chat occurring around them. Dylan had walked a few feet ahead, but not far enough that they couldn’t regard each others gaze.

“Yes.” Norman nodded, firmly. “Sick. Fix it.”

That’s what he was supposed to do.

Right?

Yes. Right, because something wasn’t right.

He needed…

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ᶠᴵᴺᴰ...

He couldn’t hear his thoughts — not his thoughts, never his thoughts — not over the noise, the abundance of talking and doors slamming, furniture moving, footsteps pounding, too loud, too noisy, too overwhelming —

“Nah man, I meant, like — sound cool?” Dylan clarified, gesturing a nonchalant hand forward without any attempt at actually reaching Norman.

A lingering pause followed. Long enough that Norman’s gaze fell empty, and Dylan’s quickly fell confused.

“Yeah, okay, cool,” Dylan ultimately decided to say, using that same hand to gesture in a motion over his shoulder. “C’mon, follow me.”

The ground floor gymnasium had come to an end, but an open threshold brought them both into a long corridor with a few doors paving their path, and the sound of kitchen staff growing louder as they trudged onward.

“Hey!”

A gruff voice yelled from straight ahead and down the hallway, sourced from the much older black man who came walking towards them; bowl of soup in his one hand with the other holding a bunch of crackers.

“You’re late again, Angeleno!” he yelled, despite the distance between them being minimal.

Norman visibly clenched his jaw at the loud shout, both his hands unknowingly tightening into fists as the noise penetrated his ears. His bones felt the aftershocks, vibrating through his ear canals, running down his spine.

The enhancement of his senses was too much.

The discomfort fueled his aggravation.

Dylan, however, wasn’t so much as perturbed.

“Aw, come on, Mr. Lewis!” he shouted right back, grinning ear-to-ear. “Why you gotta always give me a hard time like that?”

As Mr. Lewis made his way down the hall, and Dylan kept on his path walking forward, they stopped somewhere in the middle — Dylan smiling as Mr. Lewis took a large bite out of his saltine cracker.

“Cause you’re a screw up!” Mr. Lewis all but spit cracker dust in Dylan’s face, using the spoon that had been inside his bowl to wag it at the young man. “Your shift started at ten—”

Dylan harmlessly pushed that spoon aside. “Didn’t Mrs. P tell you to stop being so noisy with the staff schedule?”

Mr. Lewis met his charismatic expression with one of pure, adulterated, no-nonsense attitude.

“Didn’t she tell you not to be late anymore?” he fired back, every age of his elderly life showing on his face.

And still, Dylan kept his grin.

“I’m working off the clock!” he defended, tossing back words like it was playful banter they’d had before.

Their conversation continued on, but Norman had long since diverted his attention elsewhere — his head looked up, looked over, looked behind — something caught his attention that not even he was aware of.

Whatever it was, it was nearby.

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And it was far too loud in the shelter for his mind to guide him the way.

“Listen, hang tight, Mr. Lewis.” A hand clapped down on his shoulder, rattling Norman back to the present moment — frustration only building as the unknown tried to fight through the fog that brandished his brain. “Lemme help this guy out and then we can play a game of Crazy Eights. Promise.”

Dylan pushed Norman forward, just slightly, enough of a nudge that they started walking forward again.

As they did, Mr. Lewis spun on his heels, dropping a cracker and spilling some soup along the way — all just so he could to watch them depart.

“Your promises don’t mean shit, Angeleno!”

Dylan kept one hand against Norman’s back, pushing him forward down the hallway, even as he swung his head over his shoulder so he could holler out,

“I’m from San Diego, bro!”

Side-by-side they both entered the kitchen — Norman flattered in his steps as the swinging doors bounced back against him, and Dylan kept the swing door open in place until he eventually made his way through.

The clanking of pots and pans only got worse as Norman entered the kitchen of the shelter. A tight grimace pulled at his face as he shot his head left and right — taking in his surroundings with a rapidly growing frustration.

It was too loud. The smells were too pungent.

Too overwhelming.

He couldn’t concentrate.

He couldn’t remember what he was supposed to do.

He couldn’t —

“Soup’s ready. Need volunteers on serving!”

“Got it! I’ll start ladling.”

“I’ll take the bread to the tables.”

“Where are the apples for dessert?”

He couldn’t hear the voices guiding his way.

“In the walk-in fridge, bottom shelf!”

“We're running low on plastic forks. Do we have more?”

“Hey, Lauren, did the donation truck already come in today?” Dylan asked.

It was nothing short of a miracle that Norman plucked out the voice among the many. His eyes, crazed and frantic, bloodshot and fatigued, rolled the room until they landed on the young man up ahead. The back of his head bounced with waves of blond hair matching the waves of his voice.

“Yep,” the girl, Lauren, simply replied. She worked quickly as she divided out bowls of soup, careful not to spill any at the cost of waste. “And you pissed off Ray and Tyler by making them unload it.”

Dylan didn’t seem even remotely fazed by the news.

“Did we get any clothes in?” he asked instead, gesturing his thumb over his shoulder. “I got a new friend here who pissed off Smokey the Bear.”

For the first time since they’d entered the kitchen, Lauren came to a slow but sudden stop. The ladle in her hand made a gradual descent back into the pot of soup as she stared straight ahead, catching sight of Norman far behind Dylan, with her eyebrow quickly climbing up her forehead.

“I see that,” she eventually said, shaking off the stupor in favor of filling all the dishes in front of her. “No idea, go talk to Ray.”

Inching a little closer, and cusping both hands in front of him, Dylan innocently asked, “Could you ask Ray for me?”

Lauren threw him a look before returning right back to the bowls of soup. “Reap what you sow, Dylan.”

The kitchen exhaust fan nearly ate up their conversation, melding together with astronomical noise that screamed a sirens song against his ear drums.

The clasp of a hand against his shoulder sounded like a nuclear explosion.

“Alright, hang tight, my dude,” Dylan’s voice began to treat, falling out of earshot along with the footsteps that guided him away. “I’m gunna find you some new threads — make yourself at home, have yourself some soup, take a load off! Your feet look hella burnt out, bro.”

Norman turned around, unsteady on his heels as he tried to watch the tall figure with long blond hair leave the kitchen. The bustling staff blocked his view; each employee moving at a rapid pace, criss-crossing one another.

By the time the young man was gone, the soup had long since been divvied out and Norman still stood standing, lost amiss the productivity of the shelter’s staff.

They moved at a pace he couldn’t keep up with — fast, precise, a ballet of efficiency. Eventually someone led him out into the main gymnasium — Norman didn’t remember how they got there, and he quickly lost track of time as he wandered.

The folks stared at him as he meandered on by, no destination in mind as he roamed the shelter. No one seemed to want to stop him, and Norman wasn’t keen to associate. The cool floors provided him no relief to his blistering feet, but he kept walking regardless.

Distance brought a softness to his ears.

The further he found distance, the less noise that probed through his skull — it provided clarity.

Something was here.

Something important.

Something…vital.

He could smell it.

ɎɆ₴

Sǝʎʸᵉˢ

ᖻ༙྇ᘿ༙྇S༙྇

ᶠᴼₗᴸₒᵂ

fₒₗₗₒw

ᖻ༙྇ᘿ༙྇S༙྇

ᶠᴼₗᴸₒᵂ

ᶠⁱⁿᵈ

₣ØŁŁØŴ

Norman relinquished his controls to the feral instincts that lead his way, taking him up the staircase that passed by glass panels overlooking the gymnasium. He wasn’t sure if the smells were getting stronger, or if he was growing more rabid for answers.

All he knew was that he couldn’t shake it.

He couldn’t ignore it.

ᖻ༙྇єϛ

ᶠᴼₗᴸₒᵂ

ᶠⁱⁿᵈ

F͓̞̤́̔̚o̳̥̪̫͓l͔̳͇̇͂͋lͩ͋̓̓ow̼̬͇

He made it down the hall without encountering a single person; employee or housing victim. The boisterous noise from a staggering amount of activity became muffled the further he got away. His growing appetite, ravished by the scent that guided his path, coated his eardrums almost protectively.

Move.

Keep moving.

Fix it.

Follow.

It was a single door down the hall, cracked open half-way, that caught his attention. It wasn’t his mind that took him there. His legs moved without his control, the primal senses urging him to take deep whiffs — indulging in the satisfying smell.

Norman grabbed the doorknob, pausing only to look down. He could see the skin on his hand trembling against the silver hardware, but adrenaline burned his blood hot.

The aroma was overwhelming, different from before.

Not what he first smelt when entering the shelter.

Not foul, not putrid.

No, it was…

Without letting another pause break his stride, Norman entered the room, careful to close the door behind him without letting it shut completely.

A sliver of light seeped through that crack in the door, lending a faint highlight to the otherwise dark office.

His eyes rapidly scanned every corner, every inch — his nose flared like a hungry beast, his chest heaving with rapid puffs of air.

ꓕʜ͆ͅE ̻̮̯ͮͧ̎Ƚ̈́ͭɪ̈́ͫX͓̙̮

ｔＨ𝐄 xᴉɟ

T͕̘͐̆h̬̩̗̓ͪ͗e ͔͆Fix͕

ƒ̞̑ι̱̖̤ͩ̔͛χ͕̞ͫ̃ ιт

ƒιχ ιт

ᴙɘᵇ

ⁱᑫꙄd͍̭ẽ̆ͦrˢᵖ ⁱᵈᵉʳ

ˣ͜ⁱᶠ ᵉʰ͝ᵗ ˢ’ᵗ͠ⁱˣⁱᶠ ᵉʰᵗ ˢ’ᵗⁱⁱᵗ’ˢ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠⁱˣ ~~ⁱᵗ’ˢ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠⁱˣ~~

ᵗʰᵉ ᶠⁱˣ

ƒιχ ιт

“Where is it?” Norman croaked out — no one was around for him to ask the question to. Yet it left his lips painfully, cracking his tongue and splitting the skin of his lips in two.

The room held no occupants. Nothing that stood out among anything else. An ordinary office that looked no different than the one from across the hall — he twisted at the hips, turning to the side, frantic in a hopeless search.

The exhaustion plagued every muscle in his body. Stumbling forward and lunging for the desk up ahead, Norman narrowly avoided a graceless collision with the floor — gripping the corner with both hands and harshly swallowing down a frustrated shout.

“I can smell it,” he all but growled, clenching the cheap desk with fingernails that chipped away into ash. “I can…”

н͠єⲅє

н͠єⲅє

I̵t's

sɐʍ̍̂ͪͪ̉̍ͭ

I̵t's

sɐʍ̍̂ͪͪ̉̍ͭ

Ħēɍē

ᶠᴵᴺᴰ...

ᶠⁱⁿᵈ...

Ӻīꞥđ...

F͎͆̋͂ͭ͂̉̃͞ĩ̱́x̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡

Norman clenched his eyes shut tightly, gripping the edge of desk until wisps of steam began to seep out from his fingertips and waft up his nose — inhibiting his ability to smell the sweet, fragrant pheromone that lit his nerves alight.

It was everywhere. All around him, every inch of the room, every walking step, with the next inhale somehow bringing a whiff stronger than the last. His skin crawled, his blood boiled, his mouth ran dry —

His next breaths came in uneven, and quiet. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the desk, all the while a low growl rumbled in his chest.

Something was here.

They guided him here, they wanted him here —

He was missing something.

Ӻͫ̐ͥīꞥ̎ͤͩđ Īͪⱦͯ

Ӻī͑̎͑͗ͫ̓ͬ̔̾̿͛ͭꞥ͊ͯ̔ͧ̇đ̆̉ͨ̓ͪ̅͐͒͊̅̊ͥ̑ Ī͒̔ͤ̽̿ͬͮ̿͛͂̉̎͋ⱦ͒̑̾̀̊͋̂̊ͮ̈͂̚̚

F͓̞̤́̔̚o̳̥̪̫͓l͔̳͇̇͂͋lͩ͋̓̓ow̼̬͇

ƒ̞̑ι̱̖̤ͩ̔͛χ͕̞ͫ̃ ιт

Ħēɍē

ꓕʜ͆ͅE ̻̮̯ͮͧ̎Ƚ̈́ͭɪ̈́ͫX͓̙̮

ｔＨ𝐄 xᴉɟ

Ṫ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅḞ̷̞͉͔̋͝ḯ̷͉̜͒͛͜x̴̶̰͔̱͕̘̫̳͗̽̍̀͐̈́T͕̘͐̆h̬̩̗̓ͪ͗e ͔͆Fix͕Ṫ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅḞ̷̞͉͔̋͝ḯ̷͉̜͒͛͜x̴̶̰͔̱͕̘̫̳͗̽̍̀͐̈́

Ṫ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅ₴₱łĐɆⱤ₱̴̢̛̻̳̫͚͍̗͎̱̼̯͌͗̍̆͐̽͑̓͆͜͠ł̶̢̯͎̼̫̥͔͙͉̻̹̆̇̓̃͊̍̀̔͂͊̈́͘͜Đ̴̻̗̪̝͎̲͍̭̞̭͔̂̈͆̎́̌̏̌̓͆͝ͅɆ̸̛̰͉̙͉̳̟̭̩̲̘̮̏̒̎͋̄́͘͜͠͠͠Ɽ̶̨̺̬͚͇̼͎͕̯̩̭̈́̊̈́̓̈́́̍̔̍̽̏͜

ẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅḞ̷̞͉͔̋͝ḯ̷͉̜͒͛͜x̴̶̰͔̱͕̘̫̳͗̽̍̀͐̈́£ïxẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅḞ̷̞͉͔̋͝ḯ̷͉̜͒͛͜x̴̶̰͔̱͕̘̫̳͗̽̍̀͐̈́

Ήλя₱̴̢̛̻̳̫͚͍̗͎̱̼̯͌͗̍̆͐̽͑̓͆͜͠ł̶̢̯͎̼̫̥͔͙͉̻̹̆̇̓̃͊̍̀̔͂͊̈́͘͜Đ̴̻̗̪̝͎̲͍̭̞̭͔̂̈͆̎́̌̏̌̓͆͝ͅɆ̸̛̰͉̙͉̳̟̭̩̲̘̮̏̒̎͋̄́͘͜͠͠͠Ɽ̶̨̺̬͚͇̼͎͕̯̩̭̈́̊̈́̓̈́́̍̔̍̽̏͜₴₱łĐɆⱤṪ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅ

Ṫ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅΉλяⁱᑫꙄd͍̭ẽ̆ͦrˢᵖΉλяⁱᵈᵉʳ

Ӻͫ̐ͥīꞥ̎ͤͩđ Īͪⱦͯh̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅ

ӺīӿṪ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅṪ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅṪ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅ

Ṫ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅ

₣ØⱠⱠØ₩ƚ̋̊̎̅̔ƚ̈́̾̄ᱵ̿̑Ꮗ͌͆̇ͨ͌ͦ͑̐Ƒ͐̆̂̓̓ᱵ₣ØⱠⱠØ₩

H̶̪͕̱͎̟̩̗̟̲̻̮̱̖̲͖̬͕̯̩͚̩̹͎̙͍̱́̌̂̾̓͊͒̔̐̏̑̈́̾̔̆̄̍̍͒͆͘̕̚̚͝͝ͅe̵̢̧̨̨̛̘̳̥̫̲̣̲̙͉̥͕͕͉͇̲̠͎̦͖͉̹̟̫̊̈͐̋̊̔̃͊̽͊̋̑̑̊͛̍̏̔͘͜͝͝͝͠ŗ̷̨̛̘͕̬̞̙͔͓̳͇̩̭͇̩͇͍̠̠̪̘̠̟͌̓̍̈́̈́͑̊͌̈́̆̌̇̅̇̒́̓̋͆̒̃͗͘͜͝͝͠ȩ̷͖͚̖̱̱̝̥̬͍̭̝͔̘̤̯̳̹̞͔͎͈͎͙̟̣̒̌͛̋̊̍̌̄̽̀̈́̆̈̓̋͌͋̊͆̍̆̚Ħ̴̩̱͕͔̗̯̳̻̣̹̱̥͙͛̄̽̏̌ͬͦ͋͛ͫ̉̏̈́͌́ͅē͐ͫ͋͌ͪ̔ͯͯͣ͛͊̔ɍ͗̊ͨͤ̊̋͗ͧͦ̃̚ē̛̫̭̩͎͎̪͚̙̻͍͈̆ͯ͂̅̌̂̑͒̐ͬ̚͞h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅ

Ħ̴̩̱͕͔̗̯̳̻̣̹̱̥͙͛̄̽̏̌ͬͦ͋͛ͫ̉̏̈́͌́ͅē͐ͫ͋͌ͪ̔ͯͯͣ͛͊̔ɍ͗̊ͨͤ̊̋͗ͧͦ̃̚ē̛̫̭̩͎͎̪͚̙̻͍͈̆ͯ͂̅̌̂̑͒̐ͬ̚͞

Ħ̴̩̱͕͔̗̯̳̻̣̹̱̥͙͛̄̽̏̌ͬͦ͋͛ͫ̉̏̈́͌́ͅē͐ͫ͋͌ͪ̔ͯͯͣ͛͊̔ɍ͗̊ͨͤ̊̋͗ͧͦ̃̚ē̛̫̭̩͎͎̪͚̙̻͍͈̆ͯ͂̅̌̂̑͒̐ͬ̚͞

H̶̪͕̱͎̟̩̗̟̲̻̮̱̖̲͖̬͕̯̩͚̩̹͎̙͍̱́̌̂̾̓͊͒̔̐̏̑̈́̾̔̆̄̍̍͒͆͘̕̚̚͝͝ͅe̵̢̧̨̨̛̘̳̥̫̲̣̲̙͉̥͕͕͉͇̲̠͎̦͖͉̹̟̫̊̈͐̋̊̔̃͊̽͊̋̑̑̊͛̍̏̔͘͜͝͝͝͠ŗ̷̨̛̘͕̬̞̙͔͓̳͇̩̭͇̩͇͍̠̠̪̘̠̟͌̓̍̈́̈́͑̊͌̈́̆̌̇̅̇̒́̓̋͆̒̃͗͘͜͝͝͠ȩ̷͖͚̖̱̱̝̥̬͍̭̝͔̘̤̯̳̹̞͔͎͈͎͙̟̣̒̌͛̋̊̍̌̄̽̀̈́̆̈̓̋͌͋̊͆̍̆̚h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ŗ̷̨̛̘͕̬̞̙͔͓̳͇̩̭͇̩͇͍̠̠̪̘̠̟͌̓̍̈́̈́͑̊͌̈́̆̌̇̅̇̒́̓̋͆̒̃͗͘͜͝͝͠ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅh̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅŗ̷̨̛̘͕̬̞̙͔͓̳͇̩̭͇̩͇͍̠̠̪̘̠̟͌̓̍̈́̈́͑̊͌̈́̆̌̇̅̇̒́̓̋͆̒̃͗͘͜͝͝͠h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅh̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅŗ̷̨̛̘͕̬̞̙͔͓̳͇̩̭͇̩͇͍̠̠̪̘̠̟͌̓̍̈́̈́͑̊͌̈́̆̌̇̅̇̒́̓̋͆̒̃͗͘͜͝͝͠h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅ

̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅh̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅŗ̷̨̛̘͕̬̞̙͔͓̳͇̩̭͇̩͇͍̠̠̪̘̠̟͌̓̍̈́̈́͑̊͌̈́̆̌̇̅̇̒́̓̋͆̒̃͗͘͜͝͝͠h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅH̶̪͕̱͎̟̩̗̟̲̻̮̱̖̲͖̬͕̯̩͚̩̹͎̙͍̱́̌̂̾̓͊͒̔̐̏̑̈́̾̔̆̄̍̍͒͆͘̕̚̚͝͝ͅe̵̢̧̨̨̛̘̳̥̫̲̣̲̙͉̥͕͕͉͇̲̠͎̦͖͉̹̟̫̊̈͐̋̊̔̃͊̽͊̋̑̑̊͛̍̏̔͘͜͝͝͝͠ŗ̷̨̛̘͕̬̞̙͔͓̳͇̩̭͇̩͇͍̠̠̪̘̠̟͌̓̍̈́̈́͑̊͌̈́̆̌̇̅̇̒́̓̋͆̒̃͗͘͜͝͝͠ȩ̷͖͚̖̱̱̝̥̬͍̭̝͔̘̤̯̳̹̞͔͎͈͎͙̟̣̒̌͛̋̊̍̌̄̽̀̈́̆̈̓̋͌͋̊͆̍̆̚

“Arrg—gghhhHHHH!”

With one frenzied sweep of his arm, Norman sent stationery, photo frames, and a slew of other items hurtling to the ground. They clattered to the floor in a disarray, some laying in a helpless heap as others bounced far across the office.

All the while, Norman clenched both sides of his head, grabbing onto his temples until his fingers dug deep into the thick of his hair — hands trembling, echoing the tumult within his mind.

“What is it!?” Norman hissed, his tone swirling in the same pattern that his head spun. “What do you want!?”

Ṫ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅh̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅᶠᴵᴺᴰ...

ᶠⁱⁿᵈ...

Ṫ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅ

Ħēɍē

Ӻīꞥđ Īⱦ ʇᴉ puᴉɟ

ᶠⁱⁿᵈ...

“What? What!? What!?” Physical exhaustion finally ate away at his core — Norman’s knees buckled and he fell to the ground, nearly toppling over face-first had he not thrown out both hands to catch his balance. “What is it I need? How do I fix this? Tell me!”

The brunt of his words were smothered against the ashy skin of his palms, pressed firmly against his face. With those same trembling hands, he ran his fingers up through his hair, clenching hold until his grip pulled at his scalp and tugged, harshly.

The floor below him held twice the amount of mess than when he’d first walked in. Norman scanned the clutter, at first without forethought — too focused on the chaos in his mind, too busy trying to tame the fervent craving that gnawed at the edges of his consciousness.

It was then, without any intent, that a glimmer of silver caught his eye.

Staplers, calculators, pens and pencils, sticky notes and scissors —

Whatever it was, it didn’t fit in with the rest.

h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅẽ̵̱͕̞̎̓ ̷̸̶̲͕̥̻̣̹͔͖͇̊͆͆̌͑͌̌̒̍̚ͅӺͫ̐ͥīꞥ̎ͤͩđ Īͪⱦͯ

Ṫ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅӺīӿṪ̶̷̴̵̸̡̥̻͕̪̣̳̯̥͕͕̮͚̘͖̫͔̈́͐̎͑̋̆͗̾͂̎̀͗͗̚̚͝h̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̡̨̧̧̢̥̗̦̫̩͍̥͕͈̭̩̬̩̜͓̗̙̥̔͒͌̓͌̅ͪ̃͒͗̅̽́̋͂̏͆̋̀̚̕͠͝͠ͅ

Ħēɍē

Fingers that still trembled fiercely began to unravel from his matted, ashy hair. They reached down to the floor, grazing the carpet carelessly, shaking all the way to their destination. Papers and envelops were weakly pushed to the side in his attempt to retrieve the shard of metal —

Not metal, no.

Too light. To dull.

Too disposable.

Norman furrowed his brows, grazing two fingertips over the item before gently, slowly, holding it in his grasp.

It felt like —

THWWWIPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP —

Norman jolted back as the small casing erupted into a messy explosion of white goop, narrowly avoiding being caught in the crossfire. It spread across the floor with an unanticipated force, covering the large pile of office supplies that once occupied the desk.

Papers, file folders, photo frames, even the stapler were quickly clothed in a thick outpour of melted paste. The bubbly froth that initially spewed out of the small canister quickly hardened up, spreading across the floor with strands of sticky silk; each weaving and intertwining into the next.

The source — the object Norman stared at with wide, blown out eyes — nearly disappeared behind a cloud of smoke. Burnt to a crisp and smoldering in the aftermath of his touch.

Norman quickly looked towards his own hand, startled, only to re-divert attention just as quickly back to the sticky substance.

The confusion that painted his face wore on him with vivid colors.

Norman reached forward, grabbing the nearest item in the large, contaminated pile.

A photo frame laid amongst the mess; covered in white, tacky fluid. Norman grabbed the smallest part of its upper hand corner, barely free of any white goop. With his finger and thumb, he tugged it away from the wreckage.

It drew along a sinuous string of fluid, like bubble gum freshly plucked from a child’s mouth — stretching onward, resistant and unending. Norman couldn’t help but eye it, curiously — the unhinged pit in his stomach too deep to give it his fascination, but the oddity of it all still captivating his attention.

He almost didn’t notice the picture sitting behind the glass; so engrossed staring at the intricate, silky cobwebs pulled from the splatter across the floor. To the point where the image sealed away was the last thing he found focus on; the faces confined inside the frame catching his attention, forever frozen in time.

Behind the thick layers of white, two men posed side-by-side. Norman squinted his eyes and then returned them to size, struggling to make out the details beneath the mess. The white covered nearly all of the glass, but the threads of gummy fiber thinned out with detailed latticework making each strand unique and nearly translucent.

Instinctively, he went to brush the tacky fluid away, stopping short of his fingers grazing the substance.

It was there he could see the picture wasn’t of two men — no, Norman studied the image more intently.

It was a man, and a young boy.

A teenager.

They were familiar, both of them. Both holding a framed document no different than Norman held the framed photo. Both faces etched deep into the tapestry of Norman’s memory.

Though partially obscured by the large splatter of white goop, the man in particular struck a chord of recognition. The trademark goatee, the impish twinkle in the eyes, even the assured tilt of his head —

Standing next to a neatly kept tuft of hair, wide innocent eyes, and a familiar, awkward smile of adolescence —

Norman’s eyes flittered left to right, back and forth, lingering only to pause on the center where he could scarcely make out the Stark Industries logo within the frame — free of any tacky fluid that would keep it indistinguishable.

ƒ̵̘̑ι̵̫͆χ̴̞̏ ̴͍̓ῖ̸̺т̷̲͂

Ħēɍē

He went to drop the framed photo back onto the floor — slowly at first, suddenly when the open envelope off to the side caught his gaze. Norman quickly reached for it, picking up the letter in one fell sweep.

The wax imprint that once sealed the parcel had since cracked and dried over, torn off at the top from when the letter was initially opened; but still fresh enough that even in the haze of his madness, he could tell it was fairly recent. The card inside was made of material far heavier than the other scattered papers that fell off the desk, holding a weight of significance that prompted him to pull it out from its resting place.

Norman paid it no care, even as the tacky substance covering the photo frame stuck to his fingers and caked into the callouses on his palms. It didn’t bother him — not as he struggled to get the card out from inside, and not as he struggled to read the contents with eyes dry as the desert and stinging with a prickly heat.

Those same eyes flickered to the framed photo beneath him, the hand holding the letter moving away just sightly so he could see the picture without any obscuration.

He looked back to the letter, all while spreading his fingers wide — creating a spiderweb between the spaces of all four of his fingers.

ӺīꞥđӺ̧̢̼͉͖̪̙̥̝͓͑͛̃̅ͫͮͫ̋́͘ͅī͈̻͔ͫͥ͆ꞥ͂͂̈̾̑̃̃̓̑̋̌đ̨͘͡

p̑̿̾ͯ̑̑ͬ̈ͤ͆̍͒ͭ̑̓u͍͚̤̖̓ͥ͆̉́n̷̨͞o̴̡ͧ̕ɟ̛̕͡ Ғ͕͕̟̈́ͮ͐θμπδ̆̾

Ħēɍē

H̰̞̗̄̔ͭίϻ͖͊̀ͅ

ƒ̵̘̑ι̵̫͆χ̴̞̏ ̴͍̓ῖ̸̺т̷̲͂

ꓕʜ͆ͅE ̻̮̯ͮͧ̎Ƚ̈́ͭɪ̈́ͫX͓̙̮ʰ̵̦̈́ᵉ̷̲̈'̷̦̔ˢ̴̯̊ ̴͖͛ᵗ̴̢͗ʰ̵̬̋ᵉ̴͇̚ ̸̭̅ᶠ̵̣͑ᶦ̸̓͜ˣ̸̥̐

ｔＨ𝐄 xᴉɟʰ̵̦̈́ᵉ̷̲̈'̷̦̔ˢ̴̯̊ ̴͖͛ᵗ̴̢͗ʰ̵̬̋ᵉ̴͇̚ ̸̭̅ᶠ̵̣͑ᶦ̸̓͜ˣ̸̥̐

T͕̘͐̆h̬̩̗̓ͪ͗e ͔͆Fix͕ʰ̵̦̈́ᵉ̷̲̈'̷̦̔ˢ̴̯̊ ̴͖͛ᵗ̴̢͗ʰ̵̬̋ᵉ̴͇̚ ̸̭̅ᶠ̵̣͑ᶦ̸̓͜ˣ̸̥̐

ʰᵉ'ˢ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠᶦˣ

xᴉɟ ǝɥʇ s'ǝɥ

нє'ϛ τнє ƒίx̛̳̮̊̾͗̓̏ͪ͡ᵉ̴͇̚ ̸̭̅ᶠ̵̣͑ᶦ̸̓͜ˣ̸̥̐

For the first time in weeks, Norman felt a frigid chill — one that ran down the length of his spine, overtaking the scorching heat of an inescapable inferno. Coursing through his body and freezing him in a state of realization.

With that realization, he smiled.

And with a surge of energy that wasn’t his, he climbed off his knees and staggered out of the office. Discarding the letter in the pile left on the floor, with the card slipping out of the envelope for any onlookers to see.

Through the splatters of sticky silk, the printed text against the card caught the final highlight from the cracked door, only to fade away into darkness once that door closed shut.

𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓻𝓭𝓲𝓪𝓵𝓵𝔂 𝓲𝓷𝓿𝓲𝓽𝓮𝓭

𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓮𝓭𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓸𝓯

𝓜𝓼. 𝓥𝓲𝓻𝓰𝓲𝓷𝓲𝓪 𝓟𝓸𝓽𝓽𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓜𝓻. 𝓐𝓷𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓷𝔂 𝓔. 𝓢𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓴.

⟵ ⟶