#centcomm15

It’s a sleek black box, unmarked and cleanly wrapped ( though the paper isn’t necessarily holiday appropriate- simple black with crisp corners and a thin piece of ribbon around the exterior ). She’d put it next to the tea kettle before leaving that morning after he’d come in late the night before, someplace he’d surely see it. Inside is a cell phone, specially configured for a specific purpose, designed and executed by one Harry Osborn. He’d gone a little overboard on the aesthetics ( no surprise ), and had given the device a near-translucent body, smooth, curved edges, and, when it’s powered on, a slick interface that denotes the phone has no singular provider. 

Maria’s included a note, hand-written because she’d elected not to have the techs at Oscorp transcribe her personal message into a one-time splash screen when the device first boots up. Even reaching out for something like this had been a bit of a stretch as far as her privacy goes. 

        Bruce - 

                In an effort to avoid any repeat of the past, I’ve decided to provide you with a secure line that has the ability to reach me on whatever device I’m currently using. The tech isn’t new- you might remember something similar from the nineties. I can tell you more about it later, but hopefully we don’t have to put it to use for a good long while. 

                                 ~ Maria

It still happens ( less frequently now, than before Bruce had signed the amended Accords ) that there are nights when one of them is asleep before the other is in, and also manages to leave before the other awakens. The taxi ride home is a blur of ghostly street lamps and swirling dots of snow, the trudge up the apartment stairs one final test of his stamina. It’s late, far later than he usually comes in, so late it might’ve been wiser to just accept the call of the sleek futon in the green room of the lab, with it’s ratty periodic-table blanket. But there’s something stronger about the call of home - of the promising warmth of home, and the familiarity of the body that hasn’t yet failed to ease the frustrations of cradle-progress. 

        Maria’s already asleep, the light of the microwave guiding his way past the couches, the door to the room ajar. The time tells him it’s the wee hours of the morning and he does his best to keep from disrupting Maria -- though he can’t help but slide up against her; she’s warmer than him, which is a rarity, and he lays his head next to hers, nose brushing her hair, and his arm along her hip, exhaling softly to reassure her barely-conscious murmur and falling asleep in the same breath. 

She’s already gone when he wakes up, blinking into an empty pillow, covers still neatly drawn up around him. It’s mid-morning, or there-bouts, the sun still rising and not yet strong enough to completely penetrate the blinds. It takes him a while to make his way to the kitchen, and he blinks at the simple box waiting for him - 

    A present, clearly, but ‘why-?’ is aborted quickly because it’s a stupid question, and he checks his wristwatch - which date dial had stopped working on the 10th. The sinking realization of the significance of the present doesn’t damper the fondness in his chest at its presence, and he pushes aside the fact that he didn’t realize it was Christmas already to pick it up. 

He opens it without fuss, affection for Maria mounting as he lifts out the sleek phone - part of him wishes she was here, the simple presence of a gift touching enough; but then he finds himself glad for the moment of quiet he has to be able to gather himself. A high-tech pager, is what it sounds like, but the function of it is what’s important; the trust it signifies; the concern for his peace of mind; the desire for a shared connection regardless of circumstances... 

   A text message can’t convey his gratitude, nor the impact the gift has, so he dials her number and hopes it won’t go to voice mail.