Fluffy White Flags
Hormones. Peter could excuse hormones. He'd have to tell himself a few times an hour that first morning 'this is probably not her, just the hormones'.
The thing that bothered him was, she'd been caught, why keep up with the charade? Why keep denying it? She was losing precious time. They could be happily celebrating, jumping up and down and giggling at nothing… unless Gwen decided it wasn't a good thing. In which case, of course, Peter would also help. But that second option came with a very big timer attached, the countdown already in motion! And here she was.. not just ignoring it, but flat out denying it. He could easily picture Gwen cooing down at a neatly wadded up time bomb resting in a baby carrier, a little hat above the red set of dooming numbers steadily backtracking to the "too late" notice on a steep decline.
But, if he squinted, he could sort of get her apprehension. She didn't trust him, she didn't feel safe; probably scared as well not knowing what's gonna happen next. Peter didn't even know himself to be honest.
She was currently in the bathroom taking a shower, probably barfing too, 'cause, you know, more morning sickness.
He'd told her not to bother with the webs until at least two hours had passed, then they'd start to dissolve on their own. So, while they waited, she devoured more sandwiches and Peter tried to explain the 'Peter three' thing.
"It all started when a spider bit me."
"Oh, come on."
She groaned irritated, closing her eyes as if the very sight of him sitting idly in front of her, a glass of milk in one hand, an already open pack of Oreos in the other -maybe a few chocolate crumbs on the corner of his mouth-; as if that had already nudged her to create this mental image of Peter the Child Goblin, repeatedly poking at her with a stick and testing her limits, and that had been enough to predict the painstakingly irksome minutes to come; the thought of him making her waste her oh-so-precious time already making her sick.
The irony of that did, in fact, rub him the wrong way.
"I'm just kidding. I bit the spider." Peter, in turn, predicted more barfing on her part. If he did his job right.
"... I swear to God-" Oh, but he can’t save you now.
"Tough crowd."
"A very unhappy one, too. So quit stalling." Tough luck, Gwen.
But something was holding him back. Peter breathed in. He was stalling alright, but at that moment it dawned on him that it was more for the purpose of buying time for himself than torturing the blonde picking at the crust of another sandwich in front of him. He knew exactly where he had to start and wasn’t at all eager to touch on that particular subject. Fine, he thought. He’ll make this part brief and less annoying for his own sake.
"Okay. So there was this... guy. I was in a tricky place myself, all around. Mr. Stark- my mentor of sorts, he had- he was gone. Then in comes this guy, says he needs our help, I- I let my guard down, I trusted him. For a minute it felt like I had an older brother looking out for me.”
Gwen nodded in understanding, casting her eyes down in sympathy, or maybe out of respect for his grief. In any case, topic/bridge crossed successfully. Now back to the programmed jabbing content.
“Just a minute, though. Turns out he had staged the whole thing. It was not just an act, but an actual goddamn CGI… circus light show, or something. With drones!”
Gwen’s eyebrows knitted together in a scandalized yet silent question as her head tilted to the side. The drone thing threw her off, one hundred percent.
“Long story short, after he died, a video was published revealing my identity, and making it seem like I had killed him. Which, I didn't."
She seemed like she was about to say something, looked about to be a protest or a question by the way she hesitantly opened her mouth, a frown still wrinkling the space between her delicate eyebrows.
"I'm setting the scene. We're getting there." Eventually.
She rolled her eyes and took a deep breath. Again. Her continuous exasperated sighing was suddenly making him not want to share his oxygen with her anymore. That’s right, he’d privatize his in-quarter's oxygen. He’ll bring it up at some point, how she was gonna have to start rationalizing the amount of sighing inside his propriety. Go be dramatically over him now. Hormones, he reminded himself.
"Anyway, the whole world knew of me now. They knew I was Spider-Man and thought me a murderer to a superhero."
"A superhero?" She rudely interrupted, in a tone that clearly said, 'you've got to be joking now'.
"We all thought he was superpowered. Like Captain Marvel, since he claimed to be from space too, but-"
"What? Stop messing with me, where does Peter come into all of this nonsense?" Excuse you, ma'am. This nonsense is my life story, Peter thought defensively.
"I'm serious, though!"
"Who's that Captain Marvel?" She said, her elbows slamming on top of the counter of Peter's kitchen island next to her plate, surely to support her heavy, tough-headed dense skull as nimble fingers started rubbing at her temples in a circling motion.
"Like, I think she was an Avenger. Actual O.G."
Peter liked the idea of throwing a potentially explosive element in there with the 'O.G.' part, hoping not being able to get with the cool kids' lingo was gonna be what finally got to her nerves in the end. Would that spice things up or get her to shut the hell up and let him talk?
"What's that? If this is from one of your goddamn comic books, Howard, I'll flip. Snot-nosed brat, you have no idea." She muttered as the rubbing circled inwards to finish over her closed eyelids, massaging under her brows before going to press on the bridge of her nose from both sides. She looked so stressed.
Yet, wait a minute. What had she called him? He didn't not.. well, that shut him up. What?
"Howard?" This couldn't be Mr. Stark's father she was referring to, right? He couldn't have missed something that huge.
"I mean Pete.” She straightened up, having realized her mild slip-up, her hands dropping back heavily atop the counter. “Peter. I'm sorry, my brother- he does this exact same thing! Where I think he's being serious and talking about something important, and then it turns out he's just been talking about a damn silly book or a dumb game for a whole ten minutes.." She gestured at the table between them with her hand, as if pointing out the obvious similarities.
Okay, time out. Mental revision moment. Was this some multiversal time-twisting thing where Howard Stark was a kid in whatever year she came from, and he happened to be the sibling to another Spider-Man's significant other? So, in another universe, Mr. Stark -Tony- and he would be politically related? And he -Peter- (not-himself but a version of him) would now be older than Mr. Stark! Is he supposed to be Mr. Stark's mentor?!
"Sidebar. What's your last name?"
"Stacy." Oh, thank God! Peter visibly relaxed, letting out a choked-up ball of anxious breath in a cough he should have known was building up. Just a regular, totally ordinary kid from another universe named Howard then. Oof! Dodged that bullet, Peter three. "What does- actually, how do you even know my name?"
"We'll get to that." He said before backtracking. "Wait. You have a Spider-Man but no Avengers in your.. ehm, New York?" That was another show-stopper. What would that even be like?
Now that he was bringing it up, he vaguely remembered having a conversation like this with the other two Peters. Very untimely and, honestly, he couldn't tell you how it ended, they'd been a bit preoccupied with a handful of supervillains, a multidimensional mystical box, and trying to figure out how to do the Teamwork™ thing. But, wasn't that an interesting thing? They didn't have The Avengers. What on Earth did they have instead, then? He couldn't even begin to imagine their universes' other heroes.
"I- I still don't know what.., uhm, where exactly-… how did I…-?" Nope.
"Doesn't matter, we'll get to that as well. The important thing you need to remember is: me, Peter Parker, was worldwide known to be Spider-Man and believed to be a criminal. And that some people have superpowers, magic and stuff. That's worth remembering too."
"Magic." Again with that tone, one bomb tick away from the 'hell, no!' and the chair flip. He was honestly surprised she'd lasted this long. Now this, this was gonna be the real test.
"So I go to this wizard, right? Doctor Strange." He said in a noncommittal manner, masking his anticipation and excitement.
"Oh, my goodness." She mumbled, burying her face between her palms in frustration. Buckle up, Gwen!
"And ask him, 'Hey, people won't leave my friends and I alone cause they know I'm Spider-Man! Can you make them not know I'm Spider-Man?' and he goes 'Right on, everyone will forget you're Spider-Man with this super intricate and extra delicate spell', but I go 'Wait, my friends can't forget!', right? I don't want them to forget I'm Spider-Man. 'Aunt May too'. So he- well HE gets distracted and screws up the spell-"
"I'm gonna stop you right there. I've had it. Can I borrow some pants?"
Victory sounded a lot like ‘you do the work cause I crippled myself but I’d storm out if I could’ -in his head.
Well, there was no actual prize, except maybe for the satisfaction of knowing he'd non-physically ran her out of his kitchen by the sheer power of benign verbal torment. That, he could proudly say, was an All Rights Reserved Peter One superpower. His godlike rambling skills knew of no fit adversary, his prowess proven and unbeaten across the galaxy in its vastness. On second thought, maybe Ned could match up to his talents.
While she showered, Peter tried to decide what their next move should be. He also took a moment to revel in the peaceful quietness of his own early-morning-sunlit living room, a triumphant smirk on his face as he dipped an Oreo in his half-full glass of milk. Oh, It was a half-full mindset moment.
He thought it was funny for a moment how he had to actually help Gwen into the bathroom when all she wanted was to get away from him. She was pissed -not as in, literally-, apparently so annoyed with his way of telling the story, she basically shoved him off her the minute he sat her on the edge of the bathtub. Well, sorry for trying to make it into an easier-to-digest, yet still sort of entertaining type of tale. It wasn't a fun story for him either, but something's gotta give. Actually, scratch that; not sorry at all . It was worth it, just to see that ‘I give up’ face, or the way her expression contorted into a painful grimace the minute she’d tried to stand up, too absorbed by her need to walk out of the conversation, so much so she seemed to have forgotten the condition her feet were still in.
But he could tell this whole situation was getting to her. She was undoubtedly cranky. Peter didn't know how much at fault her pregnancy was for that. Maybe she simply was like that, he didn't know her. Or maybe it was indeed the whole 'don't know who you are, how I ended up here, and how to go back' issue. That was a tricky element, he had to admit.
And the fact that her mobility had been reduced -which was so stupid and totally her doing- probably had to be factored in as well. He realized that had to be fixed first. Without her being able to properly walk around, him having to constantly carry her -and fight her about it-, they wouldn't get anywhere close to figuring things out.
They'd also have to go get something for lunch. Or brunch. He had made a little habit of going for brunch lately at MJ's café. They didn't really do brunch there, but a late morning coffee and a cart hotdog from around that very corner, that counted, right? He didn't go every day, though. Didn't want to freak her out. He just- he missed her. Missed seeing her every other day, talking about every other thing. Airing random thoughts, still too shy to say how they felt about each other. She was his friend before anything else. Ned was constantly there as well, like spending his mornings sitting behind the take-out area, his nose buried in some of the huge mechanics' textbooks that apparently were part of MIT's first year's syllabus, was part of his daily routine. Would he still have that wonderful huge ass set of Legos under his bed? Or never meeting him sort of.. changed him completely?
Soon enough, Gwen was slowly limping out of the bathroom, resting her weight on the walls as she moved, with his sweatpants looking quite stylishly tight on her. He'd begrudgingly given her a pair of brand new boxer briefs, the tag still on, and lamented its loss in silence. He had also offered her a dark blue colored shirt, in case she wanted to wash her bra and leave it to dry over the shower rail. May had done that a couple of times after their washing machine broke down a few years ago. He had forgotten about the Midtown High Logo and yellow letters covering the chest of the gym shirt. He guessed that might have had something to do with how glum she suddenly looked.
"You good?"
"Yeah."
He walked towards her and helped her to his big couch, where she immediately nestled herself into yesterday’s corner, arms wrapped around her folded legs and chin on top of her knees, her damp blond hair down and sticking to her face.
“Is it the shirt? I’m sorry.”
She glanced down at herself without changing her position much, like she'd forgotten the reason behind the blank faraway look in her eyes, her mind elsewhere. His question had seemingly, momentarily distracted her from whatever trepidations were wreaking havoc inside her head. As if she’d also forgotten for a minute there was an outside world where he existed.
“Oh, no. That’s just- No, not entirely.”
Peter sat next to her, a bit confident now that she hadn’t swatted at him or said something crude since the bathroom door opened. Which could mean she really needed a pick me up. Maybe she was naturally impatient, violent, and all-around unlikable. That was his theory that morning. Oh, and a liar.
But he was a nice guy, so he waited PATIENTLY for her to proceed.
“It’s just- Things are different. I hadn’t noticed before but now that I… There’s better light and I can see… me, I-” Ah.
“You look different?” He guessed. Wasn’t that wild of a guess.
“Yeah. Taller, bigger. Older even. Definitely older.”
"That's okay, I wouldn't have known." But he knew.
"No, you don't understand. This is not- this is not me. This isn't my body.” She barely shook her head, like that motion was too much work. She looked bested as a small unhappy sigh -he’d let this one pass- escaped her almost pouting lips, before she added, frowning confused: “But it is."
Her chin nuzzled itself back into the small crook between both knees, while the gears solemnly turned inside her head. She’s lost so much time.
Peter nodded. He figured. She was gonna find out at some point, but maybe.. he could go easy, tidbits of information regarding that sure to be an undoubtedly unsettling side effect of whatever this was. He wondered if this was the best time to continue with his retelling of the events that led up to this point. Maybe another story would be more fitting right now.
"Some years ago I was an Avenger." He started, anxiously wringing a half-damp towel in his hands, the one she'd dropped on the place he was currently sitting on. "I was part of the team. We fought this-...uhm." He smiled sadly, shaking his head, surpassed by the thought of another confrontation. He tried to mask his mild frustration at this whole situation, having already realized how thick-headed Gwen could be.
"You don't understand the mental gymnastics I'm doing right now to come up with a more grounded version of this story. Can you please humor me and keep an open mind?"
She made a buffing sound, something between a snort and a sigh. Then, pulling a long strand of wet hair away from her forehead and tucking it behind her ear, she said: "Fine. Try me."
"Okay. This guy had the- some artifact that gave him the ability to vanish half the universe at a whim." He heard Gwen breathe in again , as if preparing herself for another crazy story all the while summoning some patience. She had to give him the benefit of the doubt at least.
Ignoring the little display of her trademark ‘above-itis’ attitude -although dampened down-, he continued. "He had to get some parts to finish the… thing first, so we fought to try and stop him from getting them. But we lost. Half of us were gone. Reduced to dust."
"What are you saying?" She fixed herself on her corner, crossing both legs, her feet over each thigh like a lotus flower. Peter thought that couldn't be comfortable. Anyway...
"The few avengers that remained, it took them five years to figure out a way to revert the snap: This dusting of half the population of Earth, to begin with."
"And you…"
"I was gone as well. When I came back, some of the people I knew to be my classmates one day were five years my seniors the very next. They had graduated, had jobs… Some even had a family of their own now."
"Is this for real?" What part of 'keep an open mind' are you struggling with, Gwen?
She genuinely looked troubled, as if believing him would mean resigning the little bit of sanity she thought she still had left and was holding on to the idea that none of this was real. Holding on for dear life as if denial was the cord that could take her back to her old simpler life. Her old self with her old Peter.
"So I sort of get it. I know what it's like to be robbed of years of your life in a matter of hours."
She nodded and bit her lip, deep in thought. It did look like there was a battle going on behind her big green eyes, her stare jarred as conflicting needs for a shot at certainty and control wavered but stubbornly fought to remain in place; polarizing ideologies and angles clashing amongst each other, and her, stuck somewhere in the middle, charging at both and defending none, yet trying to sort out which side she should stick with.
It was beyond her. She suddenly looked tired again, not wanting to participate in that raging inner war for a hot second. Time out. Let it happen.
"So, if it weren't for this… snap you'd be about twenty-two years old." Maybe she thought it was easier to play along with it, and indulge him this time in the name of peace. A white flag for the moment. He'll take it.
"I guess. But see, that's not me either. I would be, but I'm not."
"I was nineteen just yesterday." She confessed without a second thought.
She was stating a fact. Might as well have said something like 'this couch is brown'. The one fact she was without a doubt one hundred percent certain of right now. No one should dare take it away from her. That explained some things.
"That's still you, though. You just don't look it, now."
Stretching his hand out he offered her the towel, a more material sort of white flag. An olive branch. A white, flat and fluffy olive branch. She smiled at him, shy and apologetic. Then shook her head and chuckled, grabbing an end of the white towel and pulling it into her lap.
"I'm still older than you, so watch it. You punk."
"But what is time." He half-joked. Under these circumstances, time had no substantial meaning and was at the same time the most valuable, vulnerable thing humanity had. Gwen's smile grew larger for a moment before it turned into a more troubled version of her regular worried-brow face, her eyebrows furrowed as she looked ahead at nothing in particular. Still trying to grasp the concept and understand its effects.
"You shouldn't appear this young to me then, but still. I don't understand it. I look at you and I only see this scrawny kid."
Peter shrugged. He didn't want to tell her yet that, while technically she was only two years older than him in her mind, her body, and possibly the way she perceived things, was that of a woman on the other side of twenty-five. He clutched the end of the towel closer to him and picked at a loose thread.
"You're not really wrong. I'm still a kid."
Nothing wrong with being a kid, he thought.
Whenever someone called him 'kid' he could feel him, like a warm whisper coming from the furthest back end of his mind and dispersing way too fast on its way to someplace inside, where the image would be vivid and the memory undying. Mr. St-... Tony. The word was never enough to see him during waking hours. To feel him. If he could have his hand pat his shoulder one more time. Just once.
Not now. Not the moment.
"How are your feet feeling, though?" He abruptly let go of the towel and stood up, anxiously running both hands over his face to somehow shake himself out of it. He paced about before deciding to go lean on the kitchen island a few long strides away from her. Gwen's gloomy, melancholic mood was intoxicating apparently.
"Better." She raised the towel up to her head and started delicately ruffling the blond hair cascading over her shoulder. "I can walk a bit more. Still hurts."
He leaned forward and back again, resting his weight onto the side of the cheap counter-like surface, arms crossed over his chest as he thought about their options. But was soon distracted.
Her legs were still twisted in that odd yoga position, her back forced straight by it as she ran the towel up and down her no longer dripping hair, a feat which resulted from wrapping the towel around a handful of blond wet strands and seemingly squishing the excess water away. Well, after that much work, Peter wasn't about to offer her the hairdryer. What, and render all her efforts useless? He could already foresee more abusive beating if he so much as mentioned it. How dare he show her the amount of extra work she could be avoiding. Ignorance is bliss. And a slightly less bruised Peter. Let her air dry.
Back to planning. Feet. The damn feet. Okay, maybe they could get an unguent of sorts or something for the pain. Or a free wheelchair they could borrow. A pair of orthopedic… shoes? Some prosthetics? Pirate wooden stick legs?
"How about… we go down to a pharmacy and see what they have?" There was one close by. Five blocks from there. How they were gonna get there was ten minutes from now Peter's problem.
"That's not a bad idea. They tend to have nurses in place there as well." He'll take the 'not bad' from her any day.
She looked about done with her hair, her bangs now being the main focus of her attention and practiced ministrations, which consisted of repeatedly combing through them with her fingers. He could have offered her a comb as well but now that too felt not only unnecessary but risky and potentially damaging to her ego and his body. Who knew what hormonal pregnant women could get like when offered simpler solutions to problems they'd already managed to overcome on their own accord and with their own resources? Again, he wasn't up for the challenge.
But how were they going to actually buy anything? That was the question. With what he made fixing electronics he couldn't say he had much change to spare. He got himself a debit card and an account for people to make the payments through transfers and deposits but he was sure there wasn't much in there. At least not for anything medicine related. He didn't even have health insurance himself.
And you could be wondering then: how on Earth did blank slate, no contacts Peter Parker score that three-room apartment, on a sixth floor, with a hella nice view of a very well-lit boulevard? How did he manage to afford all the furniture, how was he paying all the bills? All valid questions.
Ah, fine. Caught him! Truth be told, none of that was his property. Guilty as charged. He wasn't renting the place to any landlord, the furniture wasn't his at all. Hell, he wasn't even paying any bills! Shame on them if they even expected Spider-Man to pay taxes!
The owner seemed to be on a trip, if the number of envelopes and cardboard boxes stacked up and still getting accumulated by the door was anything to go by, so… yes, you could say he was squatting. But! He made sure to keep the place in pristine clean conditions. Meaning, let the dust settle where it's supposed to, but other than that, he'd clean up after himself on the dot. So, in case the owner showed up unexpectedly, he could shove his few belongings into that backpack of his and haul ass out the window without leaving any trace of his stay. Watch out, New York.
Only now, with Gwen as part of the equation… well, he guessed until she could walk again, it's every multiversal being for themselves. If the owner came back, sorry dude. Spider-Man will aid the authorities in taking the limping, and virtually unidentifiable squatter out of the property and through the proper legal process of taking her straight to jail. And out of his hands. He could only dream.
*Evil laugh*
KIDDING! Hey, come on. Peter Parker? No. We've already established, he was a nice guy. Have you been paying attention? Wake up.
He was house-sitting. Granted, he did use his less than stellar, not so legal hacking abilities to elude the payment part of getting an official all-access membership, and a ranked four and a half star reviewed profile on the legit 'travelers top three go-to choices' websites (mindmyhouse.com, trustedhousesitters.com and housecareres.com. No joke, those were the names). He didn't have the time to get people to actually go and give him reviews for a job he'd never done before, he needed to ensure he wasn't gonna be camping under a bridge or sleeping on a park bench for the foreseeable future. He immediately started applying for jobs (houses to sit) around Manhattan and, surprisingly, there were at least seven places already looking for the perfect match, and two more had posted their request soon after on that first day.
Yet, this one guy in an Aussie accent, and definitely in a hurry, was almost suspiciously fast in reaching out directly to him. He had to swallow his newfound paranoia when it came to trusting potential guardian-like figures of the older cool dude variety, since Aussie guy sounded like he could really use a hand. And he thought someone with his made-up record would be no stranger to sudden, perfect, too good to be true opportunities like this.
Aussie guy -a thirty-six-year-old brawny man by the name of Todd Rickon-, for circumstances yet undisclosed, had made a last-minute call and was willing to pay a better than nothing sum for a trusty someone to take care of his flat, his one plant, and his bird, for a total of six months as he went backpacking around some warm and cozy corner of Western Europe. He'll take the bird poop on his hair for free if it meant, well, a roof over his head and access to WiFi. And a heater. As a bonus, he got himself a small salary.
If he was being honest, he hadn't even tried to snooze back to sleep because he was expecting a call from Mr. Owner himself. He had hoped he would call while Gwen was in the bathroom still, but beggars can't be choosers.
He was brought back to the present by the squeaking of the couch's inner springs as the weight resting on its firm cushions gradually shifted. Gwen produced a small groan, stretching her legs over the length of the couch and bending over to reach her outstretched toes with her fingers, her back cracking in several places in the process. Which seemed to take her by surprise more than actually hurt her.
"Woah, there." Peter said from his place against the kitchen island, an amused smile on his face. "That's a sick beat. You should make an album."
Gwen snorted, letting her head drop down forward, her forehead now resting on top of her knee caps.
"Just take my word for it," she said, face still out of view behind her arms, yet a slightly playful tone tinting her mostly serious inflection. "I wasn't always the cracking virtuoso you see before you today…" Sitting up, trying to suppress her complicit smile, she added "You don't get this good in one day."
He stared blankly at her, knowing her follow-up joke had been automatic but was probably not totally aware of what she had just said. He gave her a couple seconds. In the few beats it took her to fold her legs underneath herself it seemed her own words had had enough time to bounce on the edge of her consciousness and back to the forefront of her mind as she stopped on her tracks, eyes widening as realization dawned on her. She looked up at him, questioningly, the way mild alarm was shifting into hysteria evident in her shocked expression. Peter's lips thinned in a shy cautious smile as Gwen let out a confused chuckle.
"Well..." she tried, before another snort of her own interrupted her. "I did." She laughed.
"You did. You literally did." He lightly chuckled along.
He noticed then how his own shoulder blades sagged down relaxed, suddenly feeling the air cleaner, easier to breathe. As it tuned out, he’d been a bit worried about this whole ordeal messing up too much with Gwen’s sense of self, but was surprisingly glad she’d found her sense of humor somewhere in that scrambled-up mental… situation she had currently going on.
"I guess I'm a musical prodigy ." She jested, putting on an old-timey British accent at the end, making a smug face.
"You must be one of those gifted people."
"Thanks for noticing." She made a small curtsy with a bob of her head.
"I didn't mean it as a compliment." He tried to tone down his shit-eating grin, at least for delivery’s sake, but couldn’t even refrain from giggling a little at Gwen's amused gasp.
"Shut up." She laughed. "Is gifted what you middle schoolers say instead of stupid?"
Peter uttered a shocked laugh himself, shaking his head with renewed energy, realizing how problematic that could be with today’s standards. Oh, this was his doing. That one’s on him. One hundred percent.
His phone buzzed in his pocket with a notification. He was thankful for the excuse to not answer the question as he fished it out, expecting some new potential client about a piece of faulty electronic equipment for him to tinker with. Fix. He meant fix.
A new message, but no new client. It was from Todd.
Hey Peanut. We'll have to reschedule our call, bud. Something came up. Listen, if Sir Loras wants to stay with Gracie, and Anne has no problem with the old fella, then let him. But do take him to that leafy park for a stretcher, yeah?
He called him peanut because… well, they'd met at a coffee bar for the first interview and he'd ordered some peanuts to go with his super strong Colombian coffee. Said the saltines accentuated the flavor or something of the like. He was honestly not wrong, but it was definitely a weird combo. They were getting along, having some laughs, and at some point he lifted up one single peanut from the bowl on the bar in front of them and held it at eye level, squinting. He looked at him, sort of through it. Comparing.
"You know, when I was a wee little thing, bored off my mind back home, my older brother and I would draw tiny faces on peanuts and pretend they screamed whenever we ate one of the bunch."
"Like, with ink?"
"Yeah. If you saw us with black mouths you knew we have been murdering peanut people."
He held the small nut up and kept looking at him, before making a gesture with the hand holding the mug and chuckling to himself.
"You look like one of those sketchy characters from our peanutville." He popped the peanut into his mouth. "Can't help who drew you. Don't worry, Peanut Man. Don't look that tasty."
"Good to know. I won't pretend-scream." He joked.
"Damn right, mate. My teeth aren't as strong as they used to, so it'll take me a good while." He laughed good-heartedly. "American food has softened me."
He told him how his older brother was now four years younger than him. He'd been dusted, Todd hadn't. They had been one year apart in age all their life, and now the roles had reversed. Peter had a feeling this backpacking trip had something to do with all of that, but he didn't want to pry.
Another message popped up before he even had time to answer.
Call you in a few hours, P.
He typed in ' No problem. See you in a few, then. '
Well. That settled that. So, the pharmacy.
"How well do you think you can manage a five-block walk?" He asked Gwen, tossing the phone aside on the kitchen island.
"That's a gifted question."