two of cups
As the pair pulled up the dusty, dirt path, the sound of gravel crunching beneath the tires could be heard from inside the car. Conversation had long since ceased, and the air had turned to one of apprehension, strangling the previous comfortable silence. Putting the car into park, Kat got out wordlessly to open the gate leading up to a rather quaint-looking farmhouse.
“Are you finally gonna tell me where we are?” Peter asked slowly as she re-entered the car, pulling it up the driveway before stopping it once more and pulling the keys from the ignition. Kat leaned back in her seat, wincing slightly at Peter’s question.
“Remember when I told you about my dad living super far out?” She didn’t wait for an answer, and Peter didn’t provide one, sensing it was more of a statement than anything else. Exiting the car, the pair moved quickly towards the trunk, grabbing the necessary items before Kat led the way around the side of the home to what looked like a back entrance. Fishing a key from her pocket, she unlocked it before pushing her way inside and stopping in the middle of a rather rustic-looking kitchen.
“Home sweet home,” mumbled the redhead as she began to move again, making her way down the hall to the left and up a set of stairs. Unaware of what else to do, Peter followed her into a room decorated for a little girl.
“Wow, I have to say I did not peg you for a horse girl,” Peter laughed, picking up one of the many figurines on the dresser.
“Shut up,” Kat shot back, but her words held no venom.
The pair dropped their duffle bags and began to make their way downstairs.
“So, where is your dad?” questioned Peter, looking around as though an older man with some strange resemblance to the girl before him might materialize out of thin air.
“With any luck, gone,” she muttered darkly in response as she reached the cabinet beside the fridge and began to root through it.
“You looking for something in particular?”
“Nothing, I can’t find myself, Parker,” Kat sighed before pulling out a half-full bottle of vodka. “I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.”
The redhead made quick work of the cap and did not even move to find herself a glass, electing instead to bring the bottle straight to her lips. She then offered it to Peter.
“Oh no, I can’t,” Peter reasoned, shaking his head. Kat simply lifted a questioning brow.
“I can’t. I have you to think about.”
“What?”
“I’m here to protect you, I’m not sure now’s the time for me to get intoxicated.” Kat laughed. It was a hearty laugh, but there was a bitter tinge to it.
“If anyone’s been protecting anybody lately, it’s been me looking after you.”
“That’s not-”
“I’m sorry, did I not just take out that lizard guy? Twice?” Peter simply balked at her.
“Besides, we are miles away from the city, in the middle of the New York countryside. I think the universe will be alright if Spider-man does a couple of shots with me.”
“It’s not just that,” Peter sighed.
“Okay, so what is it?” Kat demanded.
“I’ve never- I’ve never really gotten drunk with somebody before,” he managed, though his voice was soft with embarrassment. The girl before him let out a strangled laugh.
“Not even at a party?”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I was not that cool in high school,” Peter smiled weakly, bringing a hand up to scratch nervously at the back of his neck.
“What about college?”
“I didn’t go,” he admitted, now fully unable to look her in the eyes.
“Well, I suppose it's never too late to start a bad habit,” Kat shrugged, extending the bottle to Peter once more. And this time, he took it.
Two hours later, the pair sat together on the couch, an empty bottle of vodka between them. Peter felt distinctly that being drunk felt like watching a movie from the 70s; everything was warm and blurry. In the corner of his mind, he thought he could hear Kat snorting lightly at some joke he’d just made, but as he turned to face her, it was as though everything else had fallen away, and he was once again struck by just how beautiful she was. Her eyeliner, a relic of the morning, was smudged around her eyelids, and her hair bunched around her face in a messy halo. She was positively glowing, and Peter felt his skin begin to tint red as he lost himself in her smile.
Distantly, he registered that the radio show playing in the background had transitioned into a slower song, a thought Kat dragged to the forefront of his mind as she bounced to her feet.
“I love this song! Dance with me, Parker,” she smiled, extending her hand in his direction. Peter groaned loudly at the suggestion but placed his hand in hers regardless, allowing the smaller woman to pull him to his feet. Kat brought her arms up to his neck, lacing them around the back, but Peter only stood there stiffly.
“You’re supposed to put your hands on my waist, not just stand there motionless, you freak,” she giggled, moving his hands to her hips before beginning to guide him around the living room with haphazard steps and a slight swaying motion.
“You know you’re pretty cute when you’re not covered in spandex, saving the world,” she said, eyes unfocused as they shifted away from Peter’s gaze.
“Not a fan of the suit?” he asked, tone conveying his mock offense.
“Oh, I used to think you were the cutest; I had your poster in my room and everything,” Kat let slip before her eyes grew wide, and her mouth formed a regretful ‘o’ at the information she had just let slip.
“And here I thought you were just a One Direction fangirl,” Peter teased, a grin making its way across his face.
“Shut up; I wasn’t supposed to tell you that,” she groaned, allowing her head to fall forward and hit his chest.
“No, really, I’m curious; what was it about me that stole your heart? My witty banter or my charming personality?”
“Honestly, it was your cute butt,” Kat admitted, though her words were muffled as she spoke them into his chest.
“Wow.” Peter laughed, and Kat stole a glance up at him.
“You can never tell anyone I said that,” she whispered, an embarrassed flush spreading its way across her skin.
“Who would I tell anyway?” Peter whispered back, lowering his head so they were face to face. He would feel her breath as it fanned across his cheeks, hot and reeking of alcohol.
“I hate you,” she squeaked, but there wasn’t an ounce of truth to the words.
Peter leaned in closer. Their noses brushed against one another. He watched her eyes flutter closed.
“You wish,” the half-hearted whisper seemed to echo between them, bouncing straight off his lips onto hers. Just an inch closer, he thought. Suddenly, Kat wrenched herself from his grip, and his half-lidded eyes flew open just in time to catch her throwing up all over his feet.
“I am so sorry.” Kat had been spewing apologies for the last half hour, and now, as the two sat in front of the washing machine, simultaneously praying it might wash the vomit out of Peter’s Chuck Taylors was no different.
“God, I am so embarrassed; I’m usually very good at holding my alcohol. I know it probably doesn’t seem like it, but I’m serious-”
“Kat, it's fine, really,” he assured her once more, though he was certain this attempt to calm her down would be just as futile as all the rest.
“Urgh, it is so not fine; I just threw up all over you.” She buried her face in her knees.
“How about we just go to bed? I’m sure all of this will be far less disgusting after a good night of sleep,” Peter offered.
“You’re probably right.”
“I’m definitely right,” Peter replied, playfully nudging her shoulder with his own.
Slowly, Kat rose to her feet before padding towards the door. She paused after noticing Peter was not following.
“You coming?”
“Nah, I’ll take the couch for tonight.”
“Alright, loser, whatever makes you happy.”
As he settled slowly onto the couch, Peter couldn’t help but ache for the soft lighting of the bedroom he’d shared with Kat. For the quiet sound of her half-snores and the warmth that inexplicably bloomed in his chest every time she turned to face him. Taking a deep breath, he turned in the direction of the couch’s back cushions, allowing himself to be lulled into an uneasy sleep by the distant clicking of a grandfather clock.
To say he was jerked awake would be an understatement. The harsh jab on his back was easy enough to ignore the first time and even the second, but as he felt the cool end of an unknown object butt against his back a third time, he couldn’t help but roll over, if only in an attempt to brush it away. Struggling to peel his eyes open, it took him fifteen seconds longer than average to notice the shotgun pointed callously at his face.
“Holy fuck.” Scrambling as far back as the couch would allow, he got his first look at his assailant. The man, probably nearing his sixties, had a firm scowl painted across his face and was eyeing Peter with all the caution and rage one might fix a piece of prey with. And yet, Peter also couldn’t help but register the sense of familiarity that befell him as his eyes scanned the face of this man he had supposedly never met. He looked a lot like-
“Kat!” He called up the stairs, eager to be relieved of the gun in his face. Before him, the man’s brow creased, but his gaze quickly darted away from Peter at the sound of footsteps on the staircase.
“Dad?”
Peter supposed there had been few occasions in his life as awkward as having breakfast with the father-daughter combo sat at the table beside him.
“So, Mr. Jennings-”
“It's Mr. Peterson.”
“Jennings is- was my mom's last name.”
Both spoke at the same time, their matching cold tones equally alarming.
“Right, er- Mr. Peterson, my name is, well actually, this is pretty funny, my name is Peter. Get it? Peter, Peterson?” He quickly trailed off as he found himself on the receiving of two nearly identical glares.
“Anyways,” Kat began, her tone all business, “We were just about to pack up and go, so we’ll be out of your hair soon.” She cleared her throat, picking up her half-empty plate, and moving towards the sink. Peter watched as the older man’s features softened, gaze fixed on his daughter.
“Murph-” Peter barely caught the name that slipped past his lips before Kat slammed the plate in her hands down into the sink.
“I told you not to call me that!” Immediately, any previous traces of sincerity or wistfulness vanished from Mr. Peterson’s face.
“Feed the chickens before you go.” The command was gruff and curt, a demand rather than a question.
“Whatever,” Kat rolled her eyes, moving quickly through the kitchen and out the door, pausing only momentarily to grasp the handle of a rusty tin bucket by the door.
“Good talk,” Peter muttered below his breath but quickly broke down into an awkward half-smile at the sight of Mr. Peterson’s intense glare. “Would you look at that? I think she forgot her jacket; why don’t I just go take that to her.”
Standing quickly from the table, Peter reached out to the hooks beside the back door, grabbing his and Kat’s winter coats in one swift movement.
As he arrived at the barn out back, he easily caught sight of Kat, half clutching her arm in the bare New York cold as she scattered feed across the ground for the group of all too-excited chickens.
“You forgot your coat, Murph,” he joked lightly, extending the rather lumpy piece of clothing to her.
“Oh fuck off, Peter,” she rolled her eyes but accepted the coat without argument.
“God, it’s so dumb; I changed it legally years ago; he’s the only one who won’t just call me Kat,” she groaned, burying her face in her hands.
“Your name is Murph?”
“Murphy. Fucking old man's name. It was my grandpa’s, I think my dad thought if he wished hard enough, I’d come out a boy.” She snorted at the sentiment before turning to Peter, but he wasn’t listening. He wasn’t thinking about anything except MJ. His MJ who didn’t exist in Aunt May’s stupid Yellow Pages from forever ago, but it didn’t matter because it led him to Kat. Kat, who was passionate and funny and beautiful, and looking at him right now like he was insane (justifiable, of course, given his gawking). Kat, whose last name was Jennings, and whose first name, against all odds, was Murphy.
“You’re MJ?”