Dear Readers,
Thank you so much for all your lovely reviews! I put my personal replies at the end. I truly hope you enjoy this chapter and I'm sorry it took so long to post! Also, has anyone seen the new Avengers: Endgame trailer? You should DEFINITELY let me know what you think in your review.
-Pip
Warnings: more public displays of affection, the fluff you've all been waiting for.
More dire warnings: Threats of violence, and then acting on threats of violence, also language.
...
CHAPTER TWELVE - The Strangest Reveals
…
Sugarbear? - Peter Parker
...
I pace the garage floor, back and forth, back and forth. I have a gun tucked in my jeans and a panic attack lacing its way through my nervous system.
"You want to meet in-person again?" I repeat. "The only way I'm doing that is on a helicarrier headed for space! Er, something!"
"We have some handy-dandy hardware we want to pass along for the next…"
"Can't I confirm this with Captain America?"
"What?" Wade responds. "Don't you trust me, Petey?"
"I trust Captain America!" I respond. "Please? Can I talk to him?"
"Calm down, he's at the Agent Parson's funeral. He can't chat now. It's my shift."
"Are you TRYING to get me killed? First with the micro-sale and now you want to give me - what? Earpieces again? No thank you!"
"Hey, for the record, Potsticker, I wanted to come get you," Wade responds, his tone also getting pissed off. "I was suited up and ready to slice down every mother fucker in that place to come get you but the team made a different call. Okay? I'm not the bad guy just because I have a good sense of humor and a face with low-budget prosthetics."
"It doesn't matter who made that call," I say, the hurt still lingering. I shove it aside. "Cap was right. There's someone on the inside. Vulture wrote on my hand that the Avengers were present, noted the locations, and executed a secondary exit plan that no one knew about…"
"Yeah, yeah… we found that out when the big boom ha..."
"I'm just saying he knew where you were hiding with less than 6 hours of advance notice," I say, "Someone got that intel to him and they did it from your team."
"I know, I know," Wade responds frustratingly. "Don't you think I'm working on that? Huh? I want you out of that pit that we put you in, Tiny Tot. What if we make those plans, those get leaked, and you're outed before we CAN get you? Think about that? Maybe if I can find the mole-bastard before we execute Operation Spider-Trap then you'll be in the clear!"
"I have an idea."
"Oh, by all means, please share with the class."
"Put three feasible jobs together and share with three different groups of people. Maybe tell one group that you're installing a super-secret-camera in Vulture's apartment. Tell the other group that you have eyes and ears on Mason's hidey-hole where he does all the designing. Tell another group that you're pulling surveillance completely. We'll see which one comes out on my end. We can narrow the field if you just work with me."
"It's not a bad idea, Parker, but you have to understand, I've got over three hundred people I'm working with here. Myself and the rest of the famous Name-Brands are just the cherries on top of a very attractive and lucrative cupcake tower. But we got hundreds of others. Technicians, administrative, UN specialists, fucking Agents of Shield popping in and out like zits, enhanced trainees, interns, ground control, guards…"
"Okay, okay, I get it," I interrupt. "Will you just at least start with the big ones and work your way down?"
"I'm already doing this shit, Parker. And it did come out your end. That's why the sale went south. "
"Find out who it is," I say firmly. "Find who it is otherwise - otherwise…"
"Or what, Tinker Toys? What are you going to do?"
"I'm getting on a plane and disappearing."
"You can't disappear from a plane. Unless you were one of the unlucky ones sitting next to Nicholas Cage and the Good Lord takes you home."
"But…"
"Tickets and passports are traceable."
"Fine," I say shortly. "I'll find some other way. But I'll be gone. I will be gone."
"I know you're all pissed off we couldn't Bernard and Bianca you out of this like we planned."
"I'm not mad."
"Yes, you are, quit bullshitting me. Because the Peter Parker I know does not run away, even when it is hard. That's just the angry part yapping."
"I am not mad," I say slowly. "I'm terrified. This'll kill me. I just feel it. If I don't get out soon I will not make it."
"Listen to me, sugar-bear," Wade responds carefully, "You will make it. You're not going to die. If the choice comes between you dying and Spider-Man making a re-appearance, then fuck it, Spider-Man is back on the table."
"You're serious?"
"As serious as the taliban at a headscarf sale."
"For crying out loud! You - you can't JOKE about something like that…"
"Too far? I'll try again. How about this; as serious as a cancer patient at a headscarf sale. Better?"
"Mr. Wilson," I say with every ounce of patience I have. "Please…"
"Mr. PARKER, please! You are already enhanced. You're strong, and a hero, to boot. Got it? If you are truly in crises, and you might not come out, then you fucking fight. Spider-Man could take Vulture and his whole crew down, easy! Why can't Peter Parker? Don't you forget those red-and-blue-spandex powers, okay? Spider-Man is a card you can still play. He ain't dead. And you won't be either."
I hesitate.
"Captain fucking America is Lawful Good. Sacrificing one life to save millions is not only something he believes in, but made the difficult choice to do it himself. He would never ask someone to do something he hasn't already done, or would do, himself. That's sort of a problem when you're noble as shit."
"So…?"
"So I had an opportunity once to kill Hitler. And I didn't."
"Wait… WHAT? How?"
"Time travel. Long story. Different studio. Anyway, I had the opportunity, and I couldn't fucking do it. Why? Because he was an innocent baby. He wasn't wearing that fucking mustache yet. Or a swastika. Or had a rap sheet numbering murder by the thousands. He was a week old at most, and fucking cute and chubby and doing the same old shit cute babies do. I couldn't do it even though… well, I don't need to tell you what happened in wartime. Cap's got that covered if you need the personal horror stories."
"I don't know…"
"If it comes down to saving you or the microprocessors," Wade says, "I'll save your ass if it's the last thing I do. Though it probably wouldn't be the last thing I do, because I have a tendency to bounce back." There's a pause. "Look, I gotta go. Canada is calling."
The call ends.
I blink. I'm not entirely sure where that conversation was supposed to go, but it was clearly not following any rules.
I punch in the number I know by heart - my pounding, panicking heart.
"Hey, it's me," I say.
"Hey Peter."
"Hey."
"You okay?"
I don't address the question. "You want to get that coffee I mentioned?"
"Yeah," MJ sounds tired, grateful. "I'm actually on your side of the river today."
She probably thinks I'm still primarily in Queens.
"Anywhere near…. Birch Coffee?" I ask. "Or the Mill?"
"Both."
"Let's do Birch. It's less...conspicuous."
"Why, you hiding or something, Peter?"
"Yes," I respond in a joking manner. "Aren't you? Shouldn't you be in class?"
"Shhhhhhhh," she says quietly. "School can suck a dick. I'll see you there in about a half hour."
...
Coffee Date - Michelle Jones
...
Peter is already there when I arrive. He claimed the stools at a small counter beneath the front window for us. I can't shake the feeling he chose that spot so that he could watch the street. Either he's delusional, sick with paranoia, or he's big, big trouble.
I think it's the trouble.
"Hey," I say, dumping my bag on the counter and sliding onto the stool.
"Hey," he replies, smiling at me. "How's uh… how's it going?"
"I was up until four a.m. this morning studying for a test. Took the test at 8. I get the results next week."
"You must be… really tired."
"Tired is an understatement."
"Let me get you a coffee. What do you like?"
"Just a cappuccino, thanks."
"Great," he says eagerly, hopping off the stool and trotting to the counter. I can tell he feels awkward waiting in line, keeps glancing back at the door, windows. Orders the coffee and waits with a twitchy, impatient dance at the counter. Finally he brings two small cups back, each hand steaming.
"You seem on edge?" I ask.
"Do I?" he says. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," I roll my eyes. "It's weird when people apologize for everything."
"Okay, so, I'm on edge," he shrugs his shoulders. "Usually."
"You're like one of those little nervous terriers."
"Oh no," Peter laughs. "No, no, please don't compare me to one of those. Can't I be… like… a bigger dog?"
"Labradoodle," I respond, deadpan.
He snorts into his coffee. "Oh boy. Well if I'm a labradoodle then you're a…" He looks at my hair. It is not behaving today. The curls are more than curls, they are their own frizzy ecosystem responding to global warming.
"Don't say poodle," I say. "I'll revoke your friend card."
"I'd hate to do that." He glances out the window, sharply, and then relaxes. "Staying up late like that… for these tests - must be hard."
"Not much harder than the tests in high school, to be honest. It just has actual consequences instead of disappointed parents."
"Like someone's life?"
"Something like that," I toy with the curved handle of the cup. "I can't fail these things. Not if I'm going to be a good nurse."
"That's a lot of pressure." Peter says emphatically. "But you'll do great. I know you will."
"You're always so confident in other people but never yourself."
"I'm confident," he says loftily.
"Yeah bullshit," I take another sip. "Tell me something about your job."
"Not confident in that," he replies in the same, lofty tone, a smile tugging at his mouth.
"Mhm."
"I'm confident about… other things," Peter says, becoming very interested in the disintegrating foam pattern in his coffee.
"Oh yeah? Like what?"
"How I feel… about you," Peter finally looks at me, holding my gaze.
I feel both surprised and not surprised. I could tell this was something… maybe something, but not sure how much of something was something…
"I see," I respond shortly.
"Oh," Peter mistakes my tone. "Are you… I'm sorry. You're probably dating someone else, huh? OR… you know… totally happy and capable of enjoying being single which is totally fine and I fully support that because you're independent and cool… and… and I just made it awkward. I'm sorry. Let's, uh, go back, way way back, to the friends thing… comparing ourselves to dogs. That was fun."
"Peter, Peter, stop," I reach over and put my hand on his. "It's okay."
He looks down at my hand, and looks likewise surprised. Delighted, even.
"If you keep backtracking you're going to give me whiplash," I chide. "If you are confident about that, then be confident. Do you like me, or what?"
"Yes," he says shyly. "Is that okay?"
"It's okay," I respond. "Um… yeah. More than okay." I pull my hand back quickly. "I've liked you… for awhile."
"You mean like… when we were at school?" He's astonished.
Yes, every day, I want to say.
"You never really noticed me," I shrug instead.
"I didn't think anyone noticed me, ever."
"I did," I say carefully, sipping my coffee. "I always did."
"That's because you're highly observant and not obsessive," he quotes me with a grin.
"True. And with vastly superior intelligence," I add.
"I concede," Peter laughs. He looks like he hasn't laughed like this for a long time. "MJ," he says, "I like you a lot. I'm not in a good place, right this minute… to… ask you out officially. And. And. You know. Like…"
"Change your facebook relationship status?"
"I'm not on facebook…"
"Me, either."
"But if I was."
"You wouldn't be able to change it right now."
"Yeah."
"Do you have to go, like, break up with someone?" I ask calmly.
"Nothing like that," Peter takes a deep breath. "You know about the prison thing. And the panic attacks. I need to… change some things about my life if I'm going to be any… good to you. Does that make sense? I'm not trying to be frustrating."
"It sounds like long-term projects."
"Maybe, but if it is, I'll let you know," Peter says, sadly. "Is that okay?"
"That's okay," I push my half-empty cup down the counter. "Thanks for the coffee."
"Oh," he looks crushed. "Are you - are you leaving?"
"No," I turn my body towards him and push an elbow up onto the counter. "I just figured you might try and kiss me at this point and I'd make things easier for you… if you did."
"Uh huh," he nods his head up and down.
"Well?"
"Can I?" he asks.
"So polite," I chuckle. "Yes, you can."
He reaches one pale hand up and tucks wayward curls behind my ear, first. I feel an excited tremble run through my stomach.
Things rarely excite me… not much, anyway, that can't be found in the pages of a book. I'm too logical and expectant to be surprised, and sometimes this robs me of joy. I take things too literally, too seriously.
The only jokes and sarcasm I understand is my own, after all.
His lips brush mine, just barely. Tentative and shy.
I find it endearing that he is so careful, as if he is worried he'll break me. I'm not easily broken. I'm Michelle fucking Jones.
I try to make it a little easier, leaning closer, parting my lips slightly and sharing a warm breath. We both smell like cappuccinos, and our noses smoosh together.
A phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls back as if someone electrocuted him.
"What?" I ask.
He laughs, but it's not a true laugh. He's masking something. "Sorry it - startled me."
"Startled me too. But…"
"I'm sorry, I think it's work," he pulls the phone quickly out of his pocket. "I have to take it. Hold on a moment."
I watch the change in his body language like a hawk. Or a nurse.
Rigid shoulders, short of breath. His eyes wide with… terror?
He begins to perspire, almost instantly. Jesus.
"Hey," he answers. I watch his eyes dart quickly to the window.
"No, no, I'm not home," he says shortly, "But I can be there in 10 minutes or so!"
If possible, his already pasty-white face becomes paler.
"No, no, wait," he says. "Let me meet you there."
Another pause.
"What do you mean you pinged my location?" he asks. "What the hell for? I'm just getting a coffee."
I feel my heart beginning to pound, too.
"Look," Peter tries to rein in the emotions and speak clearly. "I'll start heading your way right now. Meet you halfway. Five minutes."
The voice on the other side of the phone rises. I can hear the tinny feedback of someone yelling and, while I can't pick up every word, it sounds as if they are cursing him out. A LOT.
"Fine," he says, his voice giving out raspily. "Oh, you're already on 23rd. Got it. I'll be out front. Thanks for going out of your way. I appreciate it."
The hell?
He hangs up the phone and looks at me, his face unreadable.
"What the actual fuck, Peter?" I ask. "Is there someone following you?"
"I guess so," he says shortly. "Turns out my coworkers are a little obsessive."
"That's bullshit," I respond.
"Listen," Peter startles me again by reaching forward and placing his trembling hands around each arm. "I'm going to ask you to do some things that won't make any sense, but I wouldn't ask you to do them if I didn't think it would be… be…"
"Are you trying to say dangerous?" I ask briskly.
"Yes," he admits quietly. He looks around the coffee shop. Noting the bookshelves, the windows, the machinery behind the glass walls where they bag their own coffee grounds. "Go over to that corner," he says quietly. "Away from the doors and windows. Read one of your textbooks." He hands me my half-finished coffee. "Take that with you. Act like you've been here alone. Don't react to anything you might see, or hear, or…"
"Peter, you are truly freaking me out," I reply. "If you are in trouble. I can help. We can call the police."
"Don't, don't, don't," Peter shakes his head. "It's not that kind of trouble."
This is confusing. "Oh, it's not, huh?"
"Michelle," he says urgently, not using my nickname. "Will you do it? Please?"
"Yes," I say slowly, fighting every instinct to stomp my foot and ask - no, DEMAND answers. This is ridiculous. I didn't sign up for a fucking soap opera.
I just… signed up for him. I thought.
"Wait here for twenty minutes before you go home," Peter says. "Don't wait any less than that… and… don't wait till it gets dark, either. Please. Please."
"Okay," I say simply, releasing the control that I usually have - need - in weird situations. "But Peter… I won't let this go, you understand that? We have to talk about what is happening right now. This isn't okay."
"I know it's not okay." He looks towards the window. I notice gooseflesh erupt on his arms, the back of his neck. He looks like bubble wrap.
"Jesus, Peter," I whisper. "What's happening to you?"
"Go," he says, his voice hard. "Now."
I am not accustomed to letting boys bully me. Especially smart-ass white boys telling me what to do. But this is Peter. My friend. My old classmate. As miffed as I am right now, I trust him intrinsically. Even if he doesn't deserve it.
But his tone is not bullying, nor bossy. It's like that familiar tone a parent uses when they spot their little kid about to cross a busy intersection without looking.
It does mean danger.
I am determined to figure out what the hell this is.
I had… suspicions in high school. Suspicions about the sorts of things he did.
Now, those suspicions come flooding back. I wonder if I should have given them more credence. Why else had he been at the Avengers Tower, anyway?
"Be careful," I whisper. I take my bag and coffee and walk to the back, sitting at the last table. I watch Peter put his coffee in the bus bin and walk with a stiff jolt outside.
If I didn't know any better, I'd almost think he was… packing. Like he had a gun… or maybe a very oddly shaped wallet… tucked into the back of his jeans.
Holy shit. He IS packing. That's a gun.
I watch his head until it is gone from view at the window. I hear the rumbling of an old car, and spy just the very top of a pickup truck on the street. Peter's head bobs inside the cab, and then the engine chugs away.
My hands are shaking, but I do as he asked. I open my textbook and pretend to read for twenty minutes, my eyes skirting the window and doors like a wild thing, afraid of something bigger that will pounce.
...
CIA - Peter Parker
...
I still imagine MJ's warmth on my lips as I hop into the truck.
"What the actual hell do you think this is? A taxi service?" Jackson exclaims when I get in. He gives me a friendly shove in the shoulder. "You know if you keep this up the boss is gonna question your commitment."
"I can't be expected to just sit in that damn garage 24 hours a day until I'm needed," I say angrily. "At some point I have to leave and buy a sandwich and a cup of coffee so I don't die."
"I'm just giving you a hard time, asshole," Jackson responds. "Don't worry, it's just a quick errand. I'll have you back to your super secret date."
I feel the blood drain from my face. "Yeah, my super secret date with me, myself, and I, and really second-rate coffee. The closest thing I've gotten to a date is when Siri responds to my questions at the Apple store."
Jackson laughs.
"So…" I sigh. "What are we doing today?"
"We had a low-level criminal make off with one of our armored trucks."
"We had an armored truck?"
"Oh, we still do. We just got it back."
"What happened to the guy who took it?"
Jackson grins wickedly. "You're going to happen to the guy that took it."
I feel my gut drop with dread.
"I'm not in the mood to commit my first murder, okay?" I sigh. "My first try didn't go very well and I went to prison because I sucked at it, remember? Plus its broad daylight!"
Jackson shrugs. "You can make someone hurt without killing them."
"So what do we need from him?" I ask. "Money?"
"Naw, nothing. Just hurt him and remind him who runs this neighborhood." Jackson turns up the music. "Remember, I got rules."
I had forgotten. A few weeks ago I was afraid to speak to him, grateful for the loud rap music he'd play so that I wouldn't have to. But here I am, chatting away with him like its second nature. Like I'm not still completely terrified.
I hope MJ is okay. I hope she still speaks to me after this.
I'd deserve it if she didn't.
I don't deserve someone like her at all.
Does… does that count as my first kiss? Our lips did touch, after all. But not much.
"Hey, if you use that new toy of course," Jackson says, "I got firecrackers I'm gonna set off. Give you a little noise cover. You hear those, you probably got thirty seconds or so. Pop him one or two times if you have the stomach for it and then we go."
"Fireworks? Great," I say sarcastically. "I've always liked the Fourth of July."
Jackson pulls up to the front steps of a tiny, white clapboard house built on a cement block with old, old windows. There's cardboard and blankets against the glass, huge jungle-weeds overgrowing the yard the size of a matchbox.
I hop out of the car, my heart pounding, racing up the steps of the leaning porch and kicking at the door. It swings in with only one blow, the hinges bent, the doorknob rusted it over.
The interior smells like urine and cigarette smoke, dark with shadows and littered with trash.
There's a man sleeping on the brown couch inside, so thickly encased in the cigarette smell, newspapers laying haphazardly on him, an open bottle of liquor on the floor beside him, his fingers still curled sleepily around the bottleneck.
He lets out a partial snore, blearily opens his eyes, and sees me standing at the foot of the couch.
My gun is pointed at his chest. Safety on.
"Aw what the HELL," he exclaims in realization and terror. "Jesus Christ, don't shoot…"
He starts to turn over, but I bend down quickly and press a hand down on his chest. He's shocked at how much pressure there is, how much I am able to hold him down with only one hand.
His free hand grasps the bottleneck, and he completely lays it out into the side of my head. It shatters out of his hand, and while glass and liquor erupt in my hair, eyes, ear - it's even worse for him, falling down like amber and crystallized rain. He screams and tries to cover his face for protection.
"Shit!" I exclaim, shaking my head. I smell like a bar now, and I can see the twinkle of glass out of the corner of my eye stuck in my hair, my cheek. It doesn't hurt, yet - whether from adrenaline or my own powers, I have no idea.
"I ain't got money, don't kill me, please!" he cries instead, struggling against my strengthened hand pushing at his sternum. If I push harder, I'll begin to crack his bones.
I have to be the puppet. Make it work.
"You stole an armored truck from Vulture," I accuse. "You realize who the hell you're dealing with, right?"
"I do now, I do now!" he sobs. "I gave it back, though! I gave it back!"
"The hell you did! We took it back!" I push the gun barrel against his temple.
"I'll give you money!" he swears loudly. "All of it! Just don't let him give me up to the CIA. Don't let him give 'em my name! I'd die in prison, I swear!"
"Why would he give you to the CIA?" I ask confusedly. "We don't work with them."
"Ignore what I said!" he screams. "I'm drunk! I'm high! I don't know what I'm saying!"
"If it wasn't important, you wouldn't be trying to back-peddle!"
The fireworks start going off outside, the cracks and pops setting my teeth on edge.
"Oh, Jesus, that's Jackson Brice out there… his fireworks… shit!" the man struggles drunkenly, waving his arms. "Please don't kill me!"
"I won't kill you if you tell me what you said!" I shout into his face. "WHAT ABOUT THE CIA?"
"I don't remember!"
"Tell me, or I shoot you."
"I didn't say anything about the CIA!"
Please forgive me.
I take off the safety, press the gun to space of his leg above the knee.
I squeeze the trigger.
The force of the blow kicks my hand a little, sprays generous sheets of blood up into my face and arms. The couch nearly silenced the pop, but the fireworks took care of the rest. I stumble back, away from the man I just shot.
The man I just shot.
The man screams horrifically, mouth gurgling with pain as he lunges for his leg, pushing his hands against the bleeding wound and rocking in a fetal position on the couch.
"Tell me what you said about the CIA," I repeat over his screams. "I'll I shoot the other knee."
"It's - it's - Vulture is a protected informant for the CIA," the man sobs. "Ev-Ev-Everett Ross. The little blond bastard from the deputy task force!"
"I've never heard of him. Any relation to Thaddeus Ross?"
"NO - no n-n-no but they work together! He works with Thaddeus Ross because of the UN accordances!"
"What does Vulture do for him?"
"I'm telling you he's a fucking informant! They protect him from the Avengers and SHIELD and he gives them all their - their - secrets!" The man is sobbing loudly. "I thought I'd go into shock now, man! But I ain't in shock! It hurts! It fucking hurts!" He finally makes eye contact, eyes and lips quivering. "Better hope he doesn't do you in next like he did Mac's guys! He sold them out!"
My eyes widen and I stumble backwards, away from him. My hands, arms, and shirt are drenched in his spray of blood. I look down at them in horror, tucking the gun methodically into my pants.
I nearly fall out of the door, tripping down the porch steps and rushing for the side of the pickup just as Jackson is getting in on the other side, laughing and stinking of firework smoke, a more distinctive, sulfur-like scent. Like I jumped into a cab bound for hell.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Jesus!" Jackson exclaims. "Look at YOU! Someone earned their stripes today, hot damn! What the hell is all that on your face?"
"He broke a bottle on my head! Okay? Now drive me home please," I say urgently. "I gotta wash all this off!"
"Oh, calm down," Jackson pulls away from the curb and we high tail it down the street. "No one saw ya."
"I don't care if anyone saw me. It's broad daylight and I'm covered in blood. What if you get pulled over or something? They got Randy, didn't they?"
"Don't get spooked. Randy was an idiot for speeding. Just calm the hell down. I'll drop you off at your garage and you can wash up."
"Thank you." I put my seatbelt on. "Next time? I'm wearing a mask!"
"So bring a freaking stocking mask already! And what the fuck did I say about talking?" Jackson reaches over and turns on the music that wasn't even on before.
Every pounding of the bass in the song punches a hole through my chest. Oddly, it keeps me centered, till I'm safely in my garage.
Home, I guess. Still.
Then I can have another panic attack, alone.
Alone and washing blood off my hands in the tiny sink. No.
No no no no… wait. That's evidence of a major crime I just committed.
What am I DOING?
I just shot someone.
Holy shit.
I need report that to Cap right away. Right away. Right away.
Holy shit I just shot someone.
I pick up the cell phone.
CIA. Don't they have eyes and ears in and on absolutely everything?
I put the phone back down on the counter in slow motion, then I'm robotically opening the door and looking at the setting sun. It will be dark by the time I get to Brooklyn.
I've got to report this to Cap. Before he hears about it from someone else. Before they think it's the Parsons murder all over again.
I shot him. I shot him. I SHOT him.
And I don't even like guns. I like shooting webs, not bullets.
I feel like I don't recognize myself anymore. I'm a stranger, wearing Peter Parker's face.
...
...
Review Replies
DaWriter06: Thanks for leaving a review! I am so happy you're enjoying my story!
Starnight5: I hope you enjoyed this little taste of Peter/MJ fluff! If I were any good at romantic comedy I'd just write about these two all day long. But alas, angst it must be. And I'm glad you enjoy Bruce and Natasha, I truly didn't like the pairing until I got into their heads. Now I ship it so hard. I'm curious if they're going to drop the romance or keep it going. Isn't it fun where our anger and sympathy fluctuates for a character? Bucky is a hard one to hate for me, but I really started to get annoyed with him by the end. haha. Soon you'll see why ;)
LooneyLovegood1981: Wow, I wish you all the luck and send prayers for good health/brain power/energy while you study abroad! That sounds very amazing. I am glad you get to go home for Christmas though. Christmas in Germany sounds like a magical kind of thing. Thank you so much for your continued thoughts on my chapters, and I'm happy you're enjoying the Bruce/Tasha/Bucky dynamics and feeling those emotions too.
curry-llama: Seriously Toomes is the worst! I almost enjoy writing him too much because it's easier to write someone who's so full of himself that his evil happens so easily. Toomes feels so justified and normal in his actions that he can't be reasoned with. He's going to have some intense scenes coming up soon that I think you will like. And thank you, yes cancer was tough, truly the worst. I'm three years in remission and feeling great now, but the experience definitely left lots of scars, both mentally and physically. I am sorry about your Aunt, and your other family. Best thing you can do for your peace of mind is do all the regular doctor visitation that you're supposed to, eat healthy and exercise are the most preventable measures. And most of all, you can't live in fear! You can't make that fear go away, but don't let it stop you from doing anything you want to do :)
Tightpants182: I felt the EXACT same way about Bruce and Natasha in Ultron! God it felt SO forced and ridiculous. But once I got into their heads I sort of forced myself to see it from their perspectives and suddenly I felt like I just got it. I mean, it's not too much of a stretch to imagine falling in love with Mark Ruffalo on my end... haha! He's one handsome dude! And hey, if you wana slap Bucky, I'll hold him for ya lol ;) Thanks for reading, as always. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!
BeccaRave: There'll be a LOT of Peter coming up soon! Hopefully this chapter sort of made up for the lack of Peter in the last chapter :) Thanks for reading as always!
NEXT TIME: It's about time there were some necessary face to face conversations with our favorite mentor/mentee relationship, and there's finally movement from the rat in the Avengers - and Peter's determined to find out who it is before he retires from this for good.
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