And who would you be, Peter?
Peter stares. It’s all he can do- stare. His heart is frantic and trembling like a hummingbird inside a cage too large for it, beating its wings desperately against bars, crying for sweet release which was just out of sight, out of reach. The hand, the very hand that has cradled the world within its palm, crafted everything out of nothing, slides with a delicacy Peter was never aware it to be capable of, across his cheek to fold, there, fingers tucked beneath his jaw, thumb smoothing across parted lips which tremble with every breath.
Tony says nothing, seems incapable of saying anything, silently tips Peter’s head back with another hand moving to cup the back of his head. The tips of Peter’s fingers feel numb. The entire world has turned into an inward breath, long and drawn out and it feels like it’s never-ending. The world around them melts into nothing, becomes blanketed with a white mist which descends upon everything, on all the world, on all his senses, muting it to the point of chaotic perfection.
Only he and Tony exist in the moment.
It’s been his most anticipated experience, the kiss from not a lover of the night but a partner intended for life. A man who would cause his insides to tremble, his heart to quiver, his mind to cry. And yet, he can not breath. Can not move. Can only watch, through half lidded eyes, as the earth quivers at his feet, as his lungs attempt to work beyond the pressure crushing his chest, as the words of finality ring within his ears;
I now pronounce you Husband and Bride. You may now kiss your Bride.
It seems Tony has every intention of doing just that. But Peter- time has adopted a stagnant progression, extending the moment on for an eternity. A terrifying, silvery sweet sort of moment where his insides respond to the prickling heat of Tony’s presence, to the warmth of his caress, to the ghost of his breath. He can feel everything, nothing, too much yet, somehow, not enough and with a sudden burst of impatient courage he’s rocking forward on the tips of his heels to slam his lips against Tony’s.
It’s violent yet timid, the clashing of two unfamiliar souls prodding at one another as Tony lets out a surprised, startled- “Hmph,” and draws Peter in, pulls Peter against him, and there’s hunger in the search of his lips as they glide across Peter’s, as his tongue traces the seam of the boy’s lips. Peter’s heart has reached a crescendo and it’s beating wildly against his ribs and he’s breathless.
Tony’s lips are soft, and perfect, and his hands frame Peter’s face and it’s-it’s everything the boy has ever wanted, ever dreamed of. He’s stuffed full, bursting at the seam with everything his body seems to be feeling and it’s overwhelming and urgent and-
Tony pulls back just as Peter tilts his head, opens his mouth- moves his hands to lay them on Tony’s shoulders, offering the man a silent permission, a silent goading. “Go ahead,” his traitorous body had said, “Take me.”
His nerves, his anxiety, his every worry and displeasure was forgotten, cast aside, locked away for later reflection and now, now all Peter can do is rock back, unstable, and stare at Tony with wide eyes and cherry swollen lips.
Tony looks unhinged, eyes dark- pupils blown. His jaw is locked, lips still glistening with Peter’s saliva. The look has Peter squirm, his insides erupting in uncontainable flames which scorch at the back of his skull, at his jaw, his lips- at every point in his body where Tony was directly linked.
And trust Peter to be the first one who speaks. “Thank you.”
Tony looks startled by this, if not a little amused. “Thank you?”
“I-” but Peter can’t say more, shouldn’t say more, before they’re thankfully interrupted. The room around them slowly comes back into focus, the cheering of an audience ringing loud and intrusive at Peter’s sensitive ears. If he reacts to the sudden sensation of bleeding ear drums popped by the shrill screams of congratulations, Tony doesn’t acknowledge it as he turns to the audience with a beaming smile and Peter’s right hand held in his, both extended in the air for display.
“My wife, ladies and gentle, Mister Peter Stark.”
~~~~
He’s not given a moment to collect himself, to breath and adjust, whisked away by numerous different faces, all unfamiliar, where he’s bombarded with questions and requests for photos. It’s a never ending current he’s trapped within, caught within the whirlpool of Tony’s life for only an hour and he’s already overwhelmed with it all.
It’s nearly an hour after the ceremony, and the reception has begun, where the excitement has fizzled out and the guests have dispersed to do their own thing, that Peter’s allowed a moment's pause. A second to breath air his own and not filtered through several other mouths. He finds a corner in the back, secluded, tables and chairs hiding him from the room of guests- shadows offering him enough coverage to scratch at his itchy flower-crown and adjust his sliding gown.
Common misconception, but dresses were not comfortable. Nor were heels. Peter’s feet ached, his calf muscles deliciously sore, and his lower back hates him. His mind, his thoughts, which were usually a never ending stream of reminded failures, inadequacies, anxieties- was silent for the moment. Blissfully. Worryingly.
And in his secluded heaven, he’s found.
Seen by big, beautiful brown eyes that, in the warm lighting, have flickers of gold that seem to tremble with unshed tears. “You’re beautiful.”
He moves fast, too fast, nearly upsetting his balance and toppling headfirst over his own feet as he spins around and comes face to face with the single most important person in his life, the one person he thought to have forgotten him. “May,” he breathes, and her very name sends a thrill of excitement down his spine. “May,” it’s repeated for digesting purposes, disbelief echoing loud in the singular word, and before either can react he’s throwing his arms around her and crushing her body against his own with a strength he knew to be slightly supernatural but he didn’t care.
It was May. She came. She came- she actually came. “Peter.” her voice sounds as stretched as his, as wet.
He holds on, for as long as he can, breathes in her scent and relishes in her warmth and her hold- a hold he thought himself to never experience again. And somehow, the last month of isolation, and pain, and humiliation, and fear- it was all worth it. For this singular moment.
“I didn’t think you’d come.” he finally admits with an incredulous laugh which bubbles at the edge with a repressed sob. “I-I thought i’d never see you again.”
“And miss this? You? Never.”
He pulls back, just enough to look at May, at her watering eyes and pressed lips. “I found him.” he whispers. “Or rather, he found me but, May, I was found.”
“I know, honey, I know.” her words snag in her throat.
“You’re late.” he doesn’t mean to be so crass, so blunt, so accusing, but this woman means the world to him and the idea that she just missed the biggest moment of his life makes him feel hollow.
May looks down at their hands, which are now somehow entangled, and reaches out her other hand to cup Peter’s face. The way she regards him, with quiet pride, makes Peter’s body sob. Finally. “Not late. Held up. Slight misunderstanding, but I saw it all.” She says, then amends with, “We saw it all.”
Peter’s skin prickles with awareness. “We?” he echoes, eyes scouting the busy dance floor. “Ned? Mj? They came too?”
May nods. “Couldn’t leave home without them.” she laughs, a sound Peter has missed. “Literally. Maryjane threatened me with several different deaths and Ned refused to let go of my hand.”
To hear of his friends, even through story, makes Peter inexplicably happy. “And where are they?”
“Here, somewhere. They tried catching your attention a few times after the ceremony, but you were understandably busy.”
Suddenly, Peter feels guilty. Of his life, of his negligence. How had he not seen them? “I-Tony’s life is very demanding,” he frowns, deflating. “I-I had a lot of people asking for photos and I didn’t think you guys even came.”
It’s a suit of protection, a defense mechanism which has him defending his negligence, his ability to overlook the three people in his life that are arguably his entire life. He should’ve been more observant, less self-absorbed. Tony’s earlier question filters to mind, taunting, smug;
Is that hard to control? The self-blaming?
His thoughts must reach the surface, pulling at the thin corners of his lips, because May’s hand is pressing tight and warm against his cheek once more. “We understand that, honey. We’re happy for you. Never think otherwise.”
Happy? For him?
A sound to his right, stifled yet undeniably his voice has Peter looking up sharply and away, over May’s shoulder to the direction of noise and his breath stutters in his chest when he sees Tony; elegant, effortless Tony, cascading around the room as peaceful as water from a cliff. He moves from person to person, pauses for a word, a quick greeting, then the current is carrying him away and he’s greeting another. Never dismissive, never crude. Always attentive, kind. Offering them the illusion of his care as he listens to their congratulations and makes them feel heard despite only being able to offer them a few seconds.
The idea of that being Peter’s husband makes him feel breathless and giddy. “Tony Stark, huh?” May prods, gentle, a soft teasing accompanying her proud smile. “And to think, you thought you’d never be married. Now look at you, an Elite.”
He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that he’s not an Elite, will never be. The people in Tony’s life have told him that, continuously. Despite his title as Tony’s wife, he would never truly fit in his life. Should never. He was a commoner, a lowly little boy granted an opportunity that far exceeded his previously sad life. He was to be displayed as a trophy, nothing more.
His smile wavers, it must, because the way she looks at him feels intrusive. Sad. “Yeah, look at me.”
And look she does. He’s held at arm's length, prodded with a gaze, with attentive eyes. But not seen. “You look happy.” Does he? “Does he make you happy?”
The question feels simple, yet impossible. Loaded. How can he answer, articulate a response that will appease May while also not offering her more than he’s willing? Tony makes him… yearn. He wants more, craves more. He’s insecure in the man's presence, feels small and irrelevant. But in his absence? He feels hollow. In his absence, he can still feel him. That invisible current sparking, beckoning, luring him closer to the direction of Tony is harsh tugs and relentless shoves.
Tony makes him feel lonely. Isolated. Unwanted, a burden. He makes him feel like a project Tony is just waiting to solve. To conquer.
“Yes.” He finally says, and it feels like the truth. “He- He’s understanding, May, and kind. My first day with him was… He answered all my questions, helped me when I felt confused.” He smiles, catches sight of Tony over her shoulder again. “And respectful. So respectful.”
“I’m-“ May begins, but Peter is pulled from the safety of her arms and deposited into another before she can even finish her thought.
“Peter-Fucking-Parker, you ever disappear like that again and I will kick your ass.” A panicked, breathy, relieved voice whispers harsh in his ear, the arms around his neck tightening to the point that breathing became hard but he didn’t care. He didn’t care. His arms wound around their torso without a second thought and he hugged them just as fiercely, just as desperate.
“Not like I did it willingly,” he matches the wavering voice, tears bursting hot at the seam of his eyes.
Maryjane, the once woman of his dreams, pulls back with narrowed eyes and playfully punches his shoulder. A reflection of their youth. “You could’ve picked up a phone, asshole. I- we were all worried. We had to find out in some fucking tabloid where you’d run off to.”
“Not intentionally, Mj. I’ve been-“ closed off, hidden, isolated from the world. From the media. No phone, no internet, no human contact. “Busy, with the wedding. With Tony. I-I never meant to shut you out.”
“You better not have, asshole.” Another punch, which grazes his bicep. He realizes now, with Mj still crowding his space, how close to tears his friend truly is. How bothered she’d been by his absence.
But the emotions are quickly sucked up, forgotten, and she’s leaning in conspiratorially to whisper harshly in his ear: “What about the web-head? I’ve not seen him around since you disappeared. Crime in Queen’s has increased by sixty percent since your absence.”
“By what?”
He grabs her arm, possibly a little too tight, and tugs her further into his corner and away from May, away from any other curious ears.
“It’s- my absence is really that noticeable?”
“His is, yeah. I think the police captain has even started putting up posters searching for you.”
Peter snorts. “He hates me. He’s never let that be a hidden fact. I’m a vigilante in his eyes. Seeker of personalized justice.”
It makes Peter burn with annoyance, with a thin veil of anger. His entire youth was dedicated to protecting the very city the police had abandoned and in his quest of saving those who needed to be saved- he was branded as the bad guy. The fuck up. Chief Howard has been very vocal about his opinion of Spiderman.
“He hated the idea of you, but with you gone he can’t keep up with the crime. In the last week there’s been three major robberies and several casualties. It’s bad out there, Pete.”
“I-I can’t do anything. Tony… he doesn’t know.”
Peter feels helpless, irritated. His body thrums with the need to protect. He itches to feel the sticky air of New York slapping at his face, tugging at his body as he becomes weightless and soars. He wants to feel needed, to feel purpose.
Without his alternate identity, without Spider-Man thrumming beneath the surface of his skin, waiting to be called upon, to be put to use, he feels useless.
Maryjanes gaze is sharp. “That’s never stopped you before. May doesn’t know and yet you’ve been running around in spandex for the last several years.”
“Tony’s different,” Peter hisses, alarmed, eyes searching the dance floor in paranoid stutters to make sure the man in question isn’t anywhere close to them. “He’s an Avenger, Mj. He- if he were to find out who I am, it would be the definitive end of Spiderman.”
“And why’s that?” She presses, “Why does his knowledge of your alternate identity mean the end?”
Peter falters. “I- Spiderman is a child’s fantasy. I spent my teenage years running around in fucking spandex, Mj. Being me- him, while being with Tony, it’s not possible. It’s like- like a conflict of interest, or something.”
Tony could take it away. All of it. Spiderman, his identity, his purpose. He could put an end to Peter’s little game of hero and he didn’t want that. The end of his freedom. The excitement. The thrill.
Maryjane turns, slow and arch and graceful, and when Peter follows her gaze he finds she’s watching Tony. “He doesn’t have to know.” She insists, a mischievous glint in her eye. “He doesn’t have to know.”
He doesn’t have to know.
“But he will find out,” Peter argues, shaking his head, refusing to cave to the temptation. His caved stomach and faltering senses tinged to awareness at that moment, choosing then to remind him even if he did cave, he would be going out into the world with less-than-ideal preparation. He couldn’t hear three feet in front of him, could barely hold his own weight. Fighting, as Spiderman? Virtually impossible given his current state.
“Ned has kept you hidden and safe for years, Peter. Can’t you trust he’ll do it, now?”
At the mention of his best friend, Peter scans the crowd and spots Ned mulling around by the large bar, not engaging the bar man in conversation but rather spinning the umbrella in his cup in slow circles.
He can feel his resolve bending. “It’s not that simple, Maryjane. I-I don’t have the freedom I once had. I don’t even have my phone.”
“Where’s your phone?”
Peter’s eyes widened. Shit. “I dropped it the day I was taken,” he lies, rushed, obvious, fingernails raking down his left arm in a scratch of distraction. Of nerves. “I haven’t thought to replace it.”
Mj doesn’t look convinced. “We’ll get you a new one. A better one. Just trust us, Peter.”
That was never the question. On rather he trusted them or not. He did, with his life. Tony, however? What would the man do when he figured out Peter’s secret? Would he end the marriage, end Peter? Lock him up, throw away the key and never grant him another breath of fresh air?
Or would he be shoved off to the life of a Hunter? Peter has betrayed him. Lied to him. He didn’t think Tony would take that very lightly.
“I’ve always trusted you.” He says, firm. “You wouldn’t know of who I am if I didn’t trust you.”
“Who you are?” A familiar voice pipes up, echoing Peter’s words as a possessive arm slides around his waist. Peter immediately tenses. “And who would you be, Peter?”
He’s pulled in close, enveloped in Tony’s side, body shielded by the mans. He swallows, hard, and softly- subtly shakes his head at Mj. Don’t say anything, he pleads.
“A physics major,” Maryjane offers, the subtle transition in conversation effortless. “I was asking Peter if he felt he would finish out his degree, or if he was content with where he currently is.”
Peter never told Tony his major, and he wonders if the way Tony’s eyebrows raise in surprise because he’s remembering all those weeks ago when Peter had been summoned to his lab. He’d been amazed by all the lab equipment. Stunned by the sheer opportunity laid out before him, and yet Tony thought he was just simply ogling. That he, surely, wouldn’t know how to use any of the equipment.
It thrilled Peter to know he could shock even Tony Stark.
“A physics major?” He echoes, sounding pleasantly surprised. “I didn’t know you were interested in physics.”
Peter flushes as Tony’s gaze is turned on him, feels the punch of excitement and nerves as they ascend his spine; twirling and constant when in Tony’s presence. “You never asked.”
He’s sure it’s weird, to Maryjane. Weird to see the sort of detached, yet hopelessly attached exchange between callous husband and invested wife. Peter knew everything there was to know about Tony, the glossy exterior, that is. And it seems Tony knew nothing about him beyond his name and childhood trauma. Their relationship was unlike Mj’s, or Ned’s. It was imperfect, and flawed.
Broken shards of glass translated just that, stains of red wine across the walls in Tony’s dining room illustrating just how unhinged Tony really was when it came to Peter. How unhappy. They weren’t doing a drunken tango of slowly evolving love.
They’ve found their place, their pace, and there’s no chance of progression beyond this exchange. Perhaps a bit more discovery, a bit more understanding, but nothing beyond.
“I suppose it never crossed my mind,” Tony says, leaving the, Perhaps it’s because I didn’t care, left unspoken for the sake of saving Peter the embarrassment in front of his friend. “You must be Maryjane. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Tony turns on MJ so quickly Peter can’t help but snort at how her eyes widen comically, or how she shuffles on her feet as her growing nerves get the better of her. Mj prides herself on her control, her callous exterior, but it seems even Tony could pry beneath the facade and faze the woman.
He keeps his arm around Peter’s waist but offers the other to Mj, shaking her hand with quiet respect. “The pleasures all mine. I’m just relieved Peter finally found someone.”
Shame heats his face, red and hot. “Yes, because I was so horrible before.”
Tony pulls back at that exact moment and panic flares in Peter’s chest. “Where are you going?” He asks, already missing the weight and warmth of Tony’s arm draped around his back, the heavy curve of his hand at his hip.
“To dance,” Tony says, on automatic, prompting Peter with an open smile and sly wink. Then, he surprises both of them when he holds his hand out to Peter. “We’ve put it off long enough. I do believe you owe me a first dance.”
Peter stares at Tony, then at his hand, then back at Tony and up at Mj, moving in fractured steps before he finally accepts the invitation with a swooping belly and places his hand very lightly in Tony’s. The responding smile makes him light headed.
It gives him the opportunity to pretend Tony was genuinely ecstatic to be dancing with him.
He’s led to the middle of the floor, the guests all fanning out and offering the couple an uncontended dance floor and Tony spins to face Peter.
“Your friend thinks very little of your dating abilities,” Tony begins, and Peter thinks, for one second, that maybe he’s bringing it up to chastise him for his inexperience but then Tony is smiling and Peter realizes he’s just poking harmless fun.
“I was never known to harbor any abilities when it came to dating, so it’s understandable.” Peter shrugs, seemingly careless, when his entire body burns. This conversation is just reminding him of what tonight means and although he’s not prepared, he’s intoxicatingly excited. Nervous.
Peter can barely breath. This feels casual, right. The way Tony draws him in, draws him close, placing a hand on Peter’s waist while silently encouraging the boys' hands to find their placement. Finally, they’re fit together. Like two puzzle pieces, intertwined for eternity.
Tony’s right hand squeezed Peter’s left as a song the boy doesn’t recognize begins to flood the room, slowly building in volume and courage. “The Virgin Mary,” Tony confirms, a paraphrase of something hurtful he’d said what seems like years ago. “A title you wear comfortably.”
“Not comfortably,” Peter shakes his head, looks at where their hands are clasped, and swallows. “Forcefully content. Do you think I like being… incapable of intimacy?”
“Maybe you do,” Tony purrs, and his voice is suddenly at Peter’s ear- pulsing there with chills bursting across Peter’s skin. “Maybe you like the idea of me ruining your innocence.”
Peter squirms and swallows, core clenching at how ridiculously hot that sounded. Tony had no right to chastise him over his virginity while also attempting to make it appear as… flirting? It simply wasn’t fair the amount of control one man harbored.
“Yes, because my every waking thought is how to please you.”
It is, but Tony doesn’t know that.
“There’s the bite.” Tony grins. “I was wondering if you even knew what sarcasm was. I can handle your inadequacy regarding intimacy, and your ridiculous refusal to call me anything other than the dreaded, “Sir,” but I could not handle someone who doesn’t understand sarcasm. It’s my second language.”
And was this… Tony was being pleasant? Surprisingly. Unprompted.
“Perhaps if I wasn’t locked away in my room for the last month, you might actually know more about me.”
Tony laughs, wry and slightly distracted, as he looks around the dance floor. “You mistook my curiosity for caring.”
“God forbid I think my husband cares about me.” Peter rolls his eyes, unknowing of where this was all coming from. The courage, the disrespect, but it felt nice. After weeks of playing nice, of playing pretend, it was invigorating to speak without filter.
They begin moving, barely swaying to the music already reaching a peak, hands still locked. “I told you I don’t,” Tony says, gaze and tone sharp. “I’ve never implied I ever will.”
Yeah, Peter knows that. Has known it. Doesn’t make it hurt any less. Doesn’t soothe the sudden ache in his throat.
He looks away, at the ground, at their accumulated audience. He sees May, watery eyes, tight smile, illuminating with pride.
He looks back up at Tony, watches the flashes of camera’s tremble across his features and makes the shadows on his face dance with one another. God, he’s so beautiful and Peter’s so pathetic.
“My aunt made it,” he says instead, hoping the earlier conversation will be forgotten if only for pity. He doesn’t want to cry on his wedding night. “And my friends.”
“I met one,” Tony points out, dryly. “Maryjane, I believe.”
Peter nods in confirmation. “Yeah, “ he whispers, drawing himself closer to Tony on instinct. Their chests bump. “She’s my… she’s one of my best friends.”
He wants to kiss Tony. He wants to kiss him again, until time stands still, until he’s reminded of his completeness, of his role, forgetting the ache of rejection. He wants to kiss Tony and just pretend he’s okay.
“You miss them?”
“Yeah.” Peter nods again, though this time quicker. The woman singing is belting out words of love, lyrics of aspiration- admiration. “More than anything.” No amount of time on this earth would ever leave him content when it came to his family. There would always be more to say, more to crave.
He would never have enough time.
“Then I suggest seeing them again, before we leave. I’m not sure when you’ll be able to see them next.”
It was the confirmation of everything Peter has feared, everything he dreaded. His lips tremble before he firmly presses them tightly together, creating a seamless line, refusing to cry- to appear weak in front of Tony when the man is an unwavering brick wall. Cold and indifferent to the touch of another body.
He was being isolated again, closed off from the world, from the warmth of his aunt, his friends. He was stupid to ever believe marrying Tony would grant him some kind of freedom.
“I will.”
He can feel it before he even hears it, the slow drawl of the voice drawing to an end as the last lyric rings out, loud yet soft. Definitive. Tony pulls back then, drops his arms from Peter’s body. Peter’s own hands curl around nothing, around air, searching for everything yet finding only cold reality.
Tony regards him for a second, brown eyes guarded, assesive. “You have an hour to mingle before we leave. I expect you to meet me by the doors, ready, exactly one hour from now.”
“And my family?” Peter prompts, still stupidly hopeful. Because that’s exactly what Mj and Ned are- his family. “What do I tell them?”
“Goodbye.”