Another Unreliable Narrator.

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Because picture this: He’s still reeling from seeing Bucky again, he’s still trying to process everything that’s happened and everything that this means. He’s still trying to believe it, but Steve knows he can’t be silent about this. Bucky was his best friend but Howard was his friend too and he can’t look at Tony without seeing Howard in him, without guilt twisting up in his stomach hard enough to make him feel sick.

So he sits Tony down with a bottle of Tony’s favorite scotch even if he doesn’t really approve of how much Tony already packs away, but he sits him down and pours him a drink because he knows this is going to be messy and complicated and painful and he takes a steadying breath and he looks Tony in the eye and says, “I have to tell you something.”

Because picture this: Tony doesn’t know what’s going on and he’s already thinking of six different reasons why this ominous little talk is happening (only two of which he’s directly responsible for, scout’s honor) and eighteen different jokes to deflect with before Steve can say another word. Except Steve is grim-faced and uncomfortable and hesitating like he doesn’t know whether he should start or not and once he does Tony kind of wishes he’d just walked away the minute he saw Steve Rogers bearing booze as a peace offering. He’s silent as Steve talks but his face says enough, his expression shifting from disbelief to heartache to shock to rage in the space of a heartbeat before settling into that dangerous, deceptive calm that never means anything good. His voice is hard when he asks, “Where is he?” and Steve is honest when he says, “I don’t know. But I’m going to try to find out. He still needs me, Tony.” and Tony takes the bottle and leaves without another word.

He’s gone for a week and no one knows where he is. (Which is a lie because Pepper and Rhodey know exactly where he is, Steve can see it in the tight, tired, worried lines of their eyes, but they don’t offer and he doesn’t chase them for it. He’s done enough already.)

Because picture this: Tony thinks of Clint and those dead eyes of his, of what Loki did to Barton, to all those other people. He thinks of what he might have done, what he would have been forced to do, if Loki’s staff hit his body and not his arc reactor. He thinks of Yinsen and he thinks of the cave and he thinks of all those weapons with his name on them in the hands of people who should have never had them and he tries very, very, very hard not to directly think of Obadiah Stane.

He comes back to HQ and he’s exhausted and wrung out and maybe a little hungover but he finds Steve and he ignores the concern clear in the other man’s eyes and he tells him, “Let me know if I can help.” and that’s all he’s got left but it’s enough.

Because picture this: She was the love of Steve’s life but she was also Tony’s Aunt Peggy and when they find out she’s died suddenly the urgency behind their fight about the Accords dims. It’s Tony who sits shoulder to shoulder with Steve at her funeral, listening to Sharon talk about this fierce, strong woman who they both loved so much, who’d knock their heads together if she saw them at each other’s throats the way they were.

And after the service they can agree on one thing: The Accords aren’t perfect and if Steve can’t agree to them maybe they can sit down with the UN and find a better middle ground. 

Their team, their family, is worth more than this and when Bucky is pegged for the UN bombing, Tony is still standing shoulder to shoulder with Steve, not ready to believe Barnes is totally innocent but willing to spend the time to find out if it means helping Steve keep his head on straight, if it means keeping the Avengers together.

Because picture this: Tony finally coming face to face with Bucky in Sibera after being blindsided with the footage of his parent’s murder, reeling and feeling like his heart’s been ripped open, feeling like he can’t fucking breathe. Tony having to meet the eyes of this man, his parent’s murderer, the person who took them away from him, and taking a shaky breath that hitches in his throat too hard to be steadying, watching Bucky’s face for a long moment before he says, “Someone had to remind me once I was a mechanic. That’s kinda what I do. I, you know. I fix things. I have a solid track record of that working out pretty well for me.” 

So there has been a bit of “what if humans were the weird ones?” going around tumblr at the moment and Earth Day got me thinking. Earth is a wonky place, the axis tilts, the orbit wobbles, and the ground spews molten rock for goodness sakes. What if what makes humans weird is just our capacity to survive? What if all the other life bearing planets are these mild, Mediterranean climates with no seasons, no tectonic plates, and no intense weather? 

With a flick of an inner tentacle, the N’tauri gambling master dropped a venomous crefcraw into the centre of the game table. The reaction was immediate.

Four fuzzy Limonstaars shrieked and dropped under the table to huddle in a mass of quivering fur. The three Kakrusch slammed on their face plates and rolled into the farthest corner like a particularly anxious avalanche. The Ighenou, the spider like creature whose species name translated into “Oh gods no get it off!” in a surprising number of languages, froze in the act of reaching for its pile of winnings and decided playing dead was the better part of valor. 

Three of the four humans glanced hesitantly at one another. Not recognizing one of the galaxies most feared and lethal beings, notorious for its bad temper and willingness to strike anything that came near it out of an all consuming rage, or because it was hungry, or bored, or it was Tuesday. They were silently debating the options of hiding with the Limonstaars (cuddly!) or behind the Kakrusch (a solid barrier) when the fourth human at the table knocked back her drink and set the empty glass upside down over the irate little hissing thing which immediately started slamming a stinger half the size of its body against the glass.

“Oi Igghie!” She reached out a long brown arm and slid a flimsy credit sheet from the bottom of the pile. “I’m gonna borrow ya creds.” Slipping the credit sheet under the glass she lifted the tiny prison and its increasingly angry inhabit and and strolled over to the violently trembling N’tauri. “So does this go back to you or should I just chuck it behind the bar for you?” She held out the glass expectantly. The N’tauri keened and slumped to the floor.

“Incinerate it!” growled one of the Kakrusch, a cacophony of agreement roared through the bar.

“Ah, where do I do that then?”

“Out the corridor, s-second door to the right.” One of the Limonstaars piped up, fluffy ears barely visible over the table.

“Cheers, back soon!”

One by one the other aliens crept back towards the table, picking up their cards and glaring at the gambling master. 

“They warned me about Terrans” the quivering mass of tentacle jelly wailed. “Whatever you’re thinking don’t try it on a Terran, those space australians will probably think its a proposition or a snack!”

One of the remaining humans reached out and patted the N’tauri approximately where its shoulder should be. “I wouldn’t worry about it.” He soothed, “I’m a Terran and I was terrified.”

“Well what the flying feschnark was she then?!” the N’tauri shrieked.

Mary Anning (1799-1847): the Princess of Paleontology

TONS more detail available at the main site entry (click right here). Art notes and the like behind the cut.

“I think we need more space,” Peter said, and Wade froze in the middle of unstrapping and hanging his guns and katanas on the coat rack by the door.

“Space?” Wade croaked out.

Peter was sitting on the couch, head bowed slightly, fingers tangled together, eyes gazing off into nothing. “Yeah. Wade,” Peter frowned a little, and Wade could not look away, could not help but stare at the oncoming collision, “don’t you think we need some space?”

I need some space, Wade heard in the silence between Peter’s words. I don’t think this is working out. It’s been a great couple of years, the sex was good, but now I need some space.

“Do you…” Wade tried to keep his voice controlled, even. He’d been expecting this, hadn’t he? Everyone knew that he didn’t deserve Peter. Peter was much too good for him, too good. Look, even now when he was breaking up with Wade, Peter was still trying to let him down gently. But Wade had some pride left; if he looked very hard he might find some shoved in the crevices of his couch or stuffed in the back corner of his closet. He found some pride left curled up in the sole of his boot, in the press of a hidden knife on his thigh, the mask he hadn’t taken off immediately when he got home. He found some pride, and he straightened his back, and when he spoke his voice did not creak or break. It held firm, like he would have to hold firm. For Peter, who deserved more than an ex-merc who talked too much and guzzled Mexican food. And maybe when he was alone again he’d let himself break, but until then he would not waver. Peter deserved that much.

“Yes?” Peter asked, this time turning to look at Wade face-to-face.

“Do you want me to—Should I start packing now?” Wade asked. “How soon do you…”

How soon do you want me gone? Wade could not ask. How long do I have to pack my things and leave? Or should I go now, pick up my stuff sometime when you aren’t home so you can make this break clean? What about the furniture we bought together. The record player you bought at the antique shop so I could actually play all the records I had stashed around the house? Who gets Die Hard 2? This is technically your apartment, but I put my name on the lease. How long till I have to fill out that paperwork?

“Oh no,” Peter chuckled, his expression easing into something softer, something sweet, something that made Wade’s heart creak and groan in his chest with regret and desperation and need. “We don’t have to start packing right away. We can make plans first.” Peter let out a long, relieved sigh. “I’m glad you’re taking this so well. I know that you can sometimes get,” he paused, “sentimental, about these sorts of things.”  Wade blinked his eyes behind the mask to keep the tickle of tears at bay. “Too attached.” Peter laughed and Wade had to lock his knees to keep from falling to them and begging Peter to give him another chance. But that would just prolong things, make Peter feel guilty for leaving, and Wade would rather bathe in lava than make Peter feel bad.

Too attached, Peter didn’t say, but Wade heard anyway. You grew too attached. Followed me everywhere like some demented puppy. I need space, away from you, from your clinginess. Stop getting so attached to me, so sentimental. I need space.

“How long?” Wade asked, because he needed to know. Wade had always assumed that this relationship had an expiration date. He’d always known that someday Peter would look up and realize he was dating a homicidal freak. Peter was a hero. A savior. He was Spiderman! And Deadpool was just some anti-hero with voices in his head, disfiguring scars, and the inability to shut up. But now that it had happened, now that Peter had seen the light, Wade had to know exactly how long he had to get used to a life devoid of Peter, devoid of light.

Peter shrugged. “I don’t know babe, it was just a thought. I don’t really have a set schedule. We’ll just keep our eyes peeled and hopefully we’ll find something cheap.”

Babe? Wade’s face contorted in confusion. “What?” he ground out, utterly at a loss.

Peter’s head jerked up at Wade’s tone. His forehead creased. “What what?” Peter asked his tone somewhere between teasing and concerned, and Wade couldn’t help but feel justified in his confusion.

“What,” Wade pushed from between clenched teeth, “does any of that stuff have to do with you breaking up with me?”

Peter’s mouth fell open and his eyes widened. For a moment everything was frozen and Wade was able to catch a glimpse of surprise in Peter’s eyes, confusion, and pain. Wade winced. He never wanted to cause Peter pain.

“I’m—I’m not—” Peter sputtered. “Wade, what are you— what do you mean breaking up?”

Wade rubbed at his forehead with the ridge of his thumb. “You were breaking up with me. Just now. And then you started spouting nonsense and I don’t understand what’s going on, but I’d really like you to just tell me when I have to be gone so I can disappear and you’ll never have to see me again.” He gulped, and then, since this couldn’t get any worse, asked, “What was it, Baby boy? What was the last straw? I’ve got to know what I did to ruin the one good thing I had going for me, I have to—”

“I didn’t break up with you!” Peter interrupted, his cheeks flushed and his voice high and reedy.

Wade paused. “Yes you did.”

“No I didn’t,” Peter insisted. “I think I would notice if I was breaking up with the man of my dreams, thank you very much. Wade, I love you, and if you’ll have me, I’ll stay with you the rest of my life. Of course I didn’t break up with you.”

“But,” Wade shifted slightly closer to Peter, who was apparently still his boyfriend, “you just said it, as soon as I walked through the door. You said you needed some space. Needing some space from your significant other usually signals a break-up.”

Peter’s expression slackened, and then the pain was wiped away into something softer, kinder, something that made Wade, even stuck in the limbo of not knowing, take two more steps forward and then sit on the couch.

“Hun,” Peter said, “Babe, Light-of-my-life, my effervescent darling, Wade, I meant that literally.” Peter gestured to the room. “I think we need more space. Literally. This apartment was not meant for two people. I was asking if you thought it would be a good idea to get a bigger apartment. One with more space.”

Wade took a moment to actually look at the room, take in how close together the love-seat was crammed to the coffee table, how over-flowing the bookshelves were, the piles of movies and game consoles shoved against the wall beneath the television, the little path they’d carved that led from the love seat to the kitchen and one that led to the front door. Just enough room to walk.

“Oh,” Wade said quietly.

I need more space, Peter had actually meant, so I can make room for you, too. I need more space to fit me and you and you and me comfortably without compromising each other. I need more space so you can have some of it. We need more space for our lives to grow further twined around each other.

“Yeah,” Peter agreed, and slipped his arm through Wade’s, tugging him close. “I promise I’ll never leave you. I love you.”

“But,” Wade said weakly, “but you said you were glad I wasn’t so attached. You said I was too sentimental. Too clingy.”

Peter frowned. “I never said clingy. I meant that you tend to get attached to inanimate objects. You once chased me around New York for three straight hours because I tried to throw away a broken pair of web-shooters.”

“Duh!” Wade exclaimed. “They were the web-shooters you were wearing when you asked me out!”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “They were broken. Unfixable, and replaceable.”

Wade sniffed, unimpressed. “I still have them, hidden—”

“Away where I will never find them,” Peter finished for him. “I know. Trust me, I know. So was it such a huge leap to think that you might become attached to this cramped little apartment since it was the first one we had together?”

Peter had stared at the room, avoided eye-contact, frowned, because, Wade now realized, he’d been nervous. You get attached, Peter had actually meant, and I know this, because I love you. And I want us to have more space to grow, but I don’t want to make you unhappy. I don’t want to hurt you. I want space for us, but I would rather stay cramped in this dingy apartment with no space if it meant you kept smiling.

“I love you,” Wade said, or really, it burst out of him, like some revelation, like someone much smarter was speaking using his tongue.

Peter only smiled, unsurprised. “I know.” He paused to let that sink in. “So? New place? New space?”

Wade grinned and ruffled at Peter’s hair. “That sounds wonderful.”