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builder051 · 6 years

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hi there! You by no means have to do this, just thought it was a cute prompt: Peter is on his way to spend the weekend at stark tower while it’s raining, and because he’s a Rebellious Teen®️ he didn’t take a jacket like aunt May told him to, so he’s soaked by the time he gets there. He makes it a couple hours before he gets all feverish and chilly and such, and by the middle of the night it’s a full on flu! And tony lectures him about listening to his aunt from now on (:

Hey! That is a cute prompt; in fact it’s a little bit too cute for me.

This is absolutely nothing against you, but I just can’t hang with the ‘character gets a cold after being out in the rain’ trope.

I have written a Spider-Man fic featuring the rain and sick/hurt Peter and caring Tony, which I will paste below for you. I hope that sort of satisfies??

If anyone else wants to pick up the original prompt, please go for it!

_____

Running (Spiderman: Homecoming)

This was a prompt from AO3. Warnings for a little angst and a little emeto.

_____

When they get out of the car in front of the Avengers compound, all Peter wants is to take the elevator up to his room and collapse across the bed. Or maybe he’ll take the stairs. He’s not sure he trusts the throb in his head to stay out of the realm of nausea if he’s closed up in another moving vehicle.

But he doesn’t even get a step through the front door when Mr. Stark’s hand crashes down on his shoulder.

“No,” Tony says. “You’re not going anywhere until we’ve talked about this.”

Peter sighs. His suit feels too hot and too tight, but it’s doing nothing for the prickling of cold goosebumps on his arms. “There’s nothing to talk about.” He continues to shuffle across the entryway. “I said I was sorry.”

“That doesn’t cut it, kid,” Tony says. He steps around Peter, blocking him from escaping upstairs. “Sorry doesn’t matter. I don’t think you understand how serious this is.”

Peter lets out another breath and shrugs. “I was just doing my job. Same as you.” He’s too tired to arrange his face into anything but exasperated and serious.

“If you still think we have the same job…” Tony breaks off shaking his head. “That’s the problem.”

“Oh, so I’m not allowed to save people?” Peter internally cringes at the whininess seeping through his voice. Mr. Stark obviously thinks of him as a child, someone irresponsible and too naïve to handle responsibilities. His tone isn’t helping, and there’s no way to explain that it’s born more of exhaustion than an actual attitude.

“Of course you’re allowed to save people,” Tony replies, as if this is obvious. “You help me. Together, we save people.

“But I’m not, like, legit enough on my own.” The level of irritation start to rise. “Better not let me physically drag anybody out of harm’s way. Then Ironman won’t get the credit.”

“Fuck, kid, it’s not about credit. You are not allowed to take risks like that. You could’ve been killed.” Tony’s hands are balled into fists. “So, excuse me for caring about your safety.”

“If I hadn’t been there, that little girl would’ve died!” Peter explodes. The image of her tear-streaked rosy cheeks still shows in his mind’s eye. “I have to be allowed to keep a little kid from dying.”

“You can’t sacrifice yourself!” Tony shoots back. “Not in front of me.”

“But isn’t that what you were going to do?”

“No. I jumped in front of you and incinerated the bastard. And the bullet.”

“Big difference.”

“It is a big fucking difference.” Tony jams a finger into the spider logo on Petr’s chest. “My life wasn’t on the line.”

“So give me bigger weapons! Better armor!” Peter comes back. He takes a step backward away from Tony’s reach. His suit is starting to feel like a Halloween costume compared to Tony’s plain clothes and serious expression, his Ironman suit stowed away in a briefcase like the high-and-mighty businessman he is.

“That’ll just fuel your risk-taking. That’s the last thing I’m gonna do.” Tony gives a derisive laugh. “I’m not turning you into me.”

Peter changes his tact. “If I die saving someone, I don’t care. That’s what I do. I save people on the ground.” He swallows hard and clasps his cold, clammy hands behind his back. “If I put that much value on my own life…maybe I am too much like you.”

“Yeah, alright,” Tony spits. “So I’ll just say goodbye to all hopes you’re gonna go on to discover a cure for cancer, or get a PhD by the time your 25, or be the governor of New York, or president of Stark industries. I’ll go flush your college fund down the toilet while I’m at it. Or maybe bust it on booze, since you’re not opposed to people fucking themselves up.”

“I didn’t mean it like that!”

“Yeah, you did,” Tony say. “You’re gonna throw it all away. Just like you did last time I offered you something.”

Peter’s chest fills with guilt, which mixes with his anger like baking soda and vinegar. The throb in his head increases to skull-splitting. He needs to get out of here, but Tony’s still blocking all paths upstairs. “You know what. I can’t do this right now. Fuck you,” he says, with as much force as he can while keeping his volume under control. He turns on his heel and shoves back through the compound’s front door.

A light rain has started to fall, and it quickly cools Peter’s rage. He feels bad the moment he’s on the other side of the heavy glass that fronts the building. The adrenaline fueling him is waning, and within seconds he goes from frustrated to emotionally limp.

He should turn around and apologize. Go up to his room and take a painkiller and a nap and let things blow over. But…he can’t. Something’s keeping him standing under the low-hanging clouds, hating Mr. Stark. And possibly hating himself more.

Maybe it’s pride. Or maybe masochism. But whatever it is, it leads Peter to point his boots away from the compound, toward a misty tree-lined ridge. He walks maybe half a football field before he starts feeling downright cold, shivering slightly beneath the fabric of his suit. By the time he reaches the tree line, his teeth are chattering.

The walk helps clear his head a little, but it does nothing for the pain in it. Earlier Peter had assumed it was just a post-mission crash, a little low blood sugar, a little dehydration, a little hormonally burnt out. But now that the throb has roughly timed itself up with the cold tremors wracking his limbs, he feels barely a step from feverish.

He weaves between trees in various states of leaflessness. Damp twigs and natural mulch crunch beneath his thin-soled boots. The softness of the forest floor feels uncanny, a sharp contrast from the hard tile and wood floors back at the compound. It’s almost like the little stand of trees wants to make him comfortable more than Mr. Stark does.

“What did I do?” Peter mutters under his breath. He backs up against a tree and leans into it, pressing his slightly damp gloved hands over his face. The pressure of tears is built up behind his eye sockets like water balloons about to burst. Mr. Stark’s probably going to fire him. Take away the suit again, for good this time. All because he can’t listen. He’s a hardheaded teenager with a lack of respect for authority. It sounds like a bad report card.

But all of it stems from a maddening desire to change the world for the better. What on earth is wrong with saving a little girl’s life? If he died doing it, there’d probably be a statue raised in his honor. Which is honestly a lot more recognition than he’s getting right now as Mr. Stark’s kid sidekick. Peter’s head gives a particularly strong throb, and he slides down the roughness of tree bark until he’s seated on the forest floor with his head pressed into his knees.

He doesn’t really mean to shut his eyes in the first place, but when Peter opens them, it’s downright dark out. The rain’s picked up, falling harder and colder through the network of branches over his head. He unwinds from the ball he’s been curled into and almost falls over. Vertigo takes over all fumbling thoughts, and Peter’s left to scramble for a hold on the tree trunk to keep from face-planting.

Peter painfully shakes his head and tries to remember where the fuck he is. It clunks into place along with why the fuck he’s there, and a fresh wave of guilt flows down to his stomach while quiet nausea works in the other direction. He’s only a few minutes’ walk from the compound. He needs to go back, if only because he’s freezing and wet and not feeling well. It hardly matters if he still doesn’t completely forgive Tony. He needs to think of himself, his health, and put attitude aside… So maybe Mr. Stark does have a point after all.

Peter finishes hauling himself to his feet, the roughness of tree bark pulling the spandex of his gloves. He starts back down the hill in what he hopes is the direction of the compound. It’s a little disconcerting that he doesn’t completely remember. And also that he’s having a hard time walking in a straight line.

When he breaks through the trees, rain starts hitting him hard. It’s turning to mixed sleet, and the moisture cuts through his suit instantaneously. Peter can’t control the chattering of his teeth, and his throat is so tight he’s going to fall over retching at any moment.

He walks forward, looking down so the icy droplets don’t cut against his cheeks. So when the sunny beam of headlights cuts into his visual field, Peter isn’t quite sure what he’s looking at. He blinks against the sudden brightness, trying to make out the outline of the car. It’s low-profile and red, inching along atop wet grass, though it’s obviously meant for stretches of highway. Or racetracks.

“Oh my god,” Someone shouts. The car’s driver door opens, and Mr. Stark emerges, looking frantic. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on under is Ironman suit, and no jacket to protect from the weather. He sprints up to Peter and grabs him in an embrace that seems to catch them both off guard.

“What the fuck, kid?” Tony asks. “I didn’t know if you’d gone back to the city, or into town, or… I definitely didn’t think you’d gone hiking…”

“Huh.” Peter’s too cold, and his jaw’s too tightly wired to say much of anything. But he feels his face crumple, and warm, salty tears join the droplets of cold rain streaming down his face.

“It’s ok,” Tony comforts him, patting him on the back with a touch too much force.

“S-sorry,” Peter chokes out. He means sorry for crying, sorry for leaving, sorry for yelling, sorry for everything.

“I’m not mad,” Tony murmurs. “Jesus, you‘re freezing. Get in the car. I’ll get you someplace warm.”

Peter means to say ok, but his body’s had enough of talking and shivering and pent up emotion. When he opens his mouth, he ends up pitching forward in a body-wracking dry retch.

“Or, ok, throw up a little bit first,” Tony says with what sounds like the verbal equivalent of a shrug. Peter heaves again, bringing up bile and not much else.

When he’s able to semi-straighten up, coughing, Tony maneuvers him over to the sports car, practically picking him up to stick him in the passenger seat. Then he walks around to his own side and sees to pointing every vent at Peter and blasting the heater.

“I’m gonna make sure you’re taken care of, ok?” Mr. Stark says. He pats Peter’s shoulder a little more gently this time. Peter has an idea he’s not just talking about right now.

He shakily nods. “Ok.”

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chinashopbully · 7 years

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‘I Like Birds’ ch. 12 PREVIEW

(~2500 words) In which Bruce is exasperated, Tony is exasperating, and the author doesn't know shit about restraining himself from adding in a brief bonus!POV halfway through the story.

(also there's a donation request stuck in there at the bottom. don't want that to catch anyone off guard.)

He’s run out of things to try.

Bruce was already on the edge of doing something that’d instantly raise the Homeland Security alert levels. Roping the other Avengers in to help was supposed to increase his options, and thereby decrease his frustration, and thereby serve the overall purpose of world peace.

But of course, since Steve got pulled away on some international something-or-other, and Natasha already came and went with what seemed like maybe twenty minutes in between, only one Avenger has been around lately.

And of course, it had to be Tony.

“Have a little faith in the kid,” says Tony.

“Says the guy who tried to hold him against his will ‘for his own good’?”

“I’m never gonna live that down, am I.”

“I’ll forgive you when he does.”

“Gonna be tough to know when that is if he’s already drunk the Kool-Aid.” Tony pauses, scratches the hair at the nape of his neck. Bruce can’t tell if Tony’s overall greasiness is from handling machine parts or not showering. Both, probably. “Okay so that,” says Tony, “that came out wrong.”

“Damn well better have,” Bruce mutters, stalking away to the other side of the lab where there’s Less Tony.

Tony’s voice covers the distance a little too well. “All I mean is that if he really is chanting Oms and preparing his body for the mothership or whatever then nothing — nothing — we do or say is gonna bring him back down to earth. We try to reach out, it’ll just drive him away. Probably even prove some point about us outsiders being ignorant or hostile…”

“Not that I disagree,” says Bruce, not as under-the-breath as he intended, “but where was this understanding when you were having your AI lock down the building?”

“And anyway I don’t see how it’s our business either way.”

“How do you not give yourself whiplash?”

“Also,” Tony says, “he has powers. It not like he’s helpless.”

Bruce stares. “…I don’t want to sound like a broken record but—“

“So it takes me a while!”

The response sticks in Bruce’s throat. Fact: Tony Stark sucks at people. Sometimes willfully, often not. Occasionally it’s hard to tell which is which.

Bruce shuts his mouth.

Tony drops the torque wrench and reaches into the bag of blueberries dangling from DUM-E’s claw (probably on JARVIS’ orders). “Are we sure he’s not, y’know. Undercover or something?”

“If he were onto something — if this were work-related he’d tell us.”

“That’d be kind of a first.”

“He’d tell me.”

“You sound awfully sure of yourself.”

“He promised,” says Bruce.

“Well did he pinkie promise?” Tony leans back, and dear lord, when was the last time that face saw a razor? “Because that’s the heart and soul of contractual obligation.”

Bruce blinks at Tony’s pointedly guileless face before deciding that it’s not even worth the effort of counting to ten. He forces a smile. “It wouldn’t kill you to be slightly less of a jackass about everything.”

“That’s never been proven.”

He’s going through a rough time, Bruce thinks. He’s going through a rough time. He’s going through… “If not us,” says Bruce, “you know he’d at least tell Deadpool.”

Something metal gets thrown across the floor when Bruce isn’t looking; he jumps, presses a palm to his chest, sucks down the panic and swallows it away only through the aid of relentless practice. He stares at Tony in unbridled horror. He’s going through a very, very rough time, if he’s pulling stunts like that.

Tony gestures violently with one hand. “One, okay, I do not know that, and neither do you. We don’t even know when or, more to the point, why the kid left his place, but I will bet you an entire goddamn casino that Wilson did something shitty to drive him off. Guy’s the human personification of a fault line. Turns on a dime. Razes entire sections of the world at random. Doesn’t know pizza from roadkill and I’ve seen him go nuclear because he didn’t like the color scheme of one of the new-generation iPhone releases.”

“Meanwhile,” says Bruce, because he’s kind of in a mood now, “your response to being kidnapped was to spend the next few years building a personal army of weaponized armor and publicly claim ownership of world peace while daring known terrorists to come hurt your very few loved ones.”

For a moment Tony turns to ice, unmoving and brittle. Only for a moment. Then: “I am a model of mental health,” he says, breezing on. “Two, in the unlikely event everything is still sunshine and roses between spider-boy and Ol’ Hair Trigger, why in the name of sodium pentathol would Wilson tell us anything? I feel like his weird daddy-issues hero-worship thing he had for Cap kinda went belly-up. Because, again, turns on a dime.”

Bruce presses his thumb against a sudden sore spot on his forehead. “I can’t believe I’m about to defend Deadpool of all people, but it’s not like that was an unprovok—“

“Sure I mean, he might show up playing the I’ve Got A Secret game to try and squeeze a buck out of the deal, but he hasn’t, which most likely means he doesn’t know anything. But if you wanna track him down and interrogate him anyway, do me a solid and gimme a heads-up first because I’ve been meaning to test the new Hulkbuster armor.”

“Tony—“

“Three, and goddammit Brucie I hate to say this, I really do, but it gots to be said — maybe Spidey Krishna has been a long time coming and has nothing to do with anything. Not us, not nobody, not no how.”

“At the same time he’s been trying to track down the source of serial suicide bombers? Come on, Tony.”

“Coincidence. Fact is he’s no more emotionally stable than the rest of us at the best of times and god knows we’ve all flown off our own deep ends before. Typically, dare I say it, at the most inconvenient moment? Joining a cult is, like, the tamest of all possible outcomes, let’s be real.”

Bruce feels a dangerous burbling in his chest. Shuts his eyes for just as long as it takes to breathe in once, all the way, through the nose. Two fingers against his inner wrist. Pulse slows. “Claiming coincidence without investigation is just plain lazy,” says Bruce, with his eyes open.

Tony’s expression sours. “You’re paraphrasing. Badly.”

“Every effect has a cause. You either care enough to find out what that cause is, or you don’t.”

Tony narrows his eyes and hums in thought. “Wasn’t there something, somewhere, at some point, in some abrahamic religion, about the devil spinning scripture to his advantage?”

“Tony, I know you have a god complex, but comparing one of your pre-bandwagon rants to actual religious texts—“

“Pushing it?”

“A little, yeah.”

“Well, we were talking about cults, so. My mind was just in the gutter already, I guess.”

Bruce maintains a careful stoneface.

“Hm.” Tony flicks a blueberry in the air, catches it in his mouth on the way down. Again talks with his mouth full, which is sort of the Tony Stark equivalent of coughing and mumbling when you have to say something embarrassing. “Okay yes, my behavior before with the whole… y’know, kidnapping thing… was less than awesome and I was… less right than usual, okay? And now I just think we should leave him alone.”

“And I just think we should find a way to help him.”

“How, though? What’s he need?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because he’s not saying.”

Bruce raises his eyebrows, waiting for Tony to make his point.

“If he’s not saying anything then he’s probably not needing anything,” says Tony.

“Wow,” Bruce says. “I thought maybe you were just putting on a show so you could win the argument, but you really have pulled a U-ie.”

“Look, if you’re right, and this has nothing to do with spandex, and he really does want to be at Jonestown, then we’d be poking our way into his personal, poorly-guarded-secret-identity life and — aside from being just plain rude — probably fucking him up even worse in the long run, even if we did manage to get him to quit the club. And if I’m right, and he’s only there to work a job or… I dunno, whaddaya call it, a case? A mission? If he’s there to do Spider-Man stuff, then we’d be poking our way into that and probably fucking that up, which could get him killed. …I feel like this is overall just a no-pokey situation.”

“As if you never benefit from people sticking their noses in your business from time to time,” Bruce says, looking pointedly at the blueberry bag and Tony’s hand reaching into it.

“How dare you. JARVIS is not a ‘people’. He’s better than that.”

“I’m not saying we barge in guns blazing. But we should try to do something.”

“Great idea, and here’s another one: How ‘bout we don’t.”

“Enough don’t,” says Bruce. “We’ve been don’ting — or, you have been, rather — ever since—“

“JARVIS, music.”

“Which playlist, sir?”

“How ‘bout the GTFO party mix.”

Bruce isn’t sure how he immediately recognizes the opening of “Back Off, Bitch” by Guns N’ Roses — it’s very much not to his taste — but he does, and rolls his eyes.

It’s been over two months since both Spider-Man and reason fled Tony, and both have yet to come back. Been a little longer than that since Pepper left — physically left the Manhattan offices, since Tony refused to do so (the adult version of a child screaming get out of my room), and while Bruce sympathizes with her choices and with her need to be geographically removed from Tony, he more than sympathizes with Tony’s need for the anchor she provided.

These days Bruce can think of Betty without risking a news-breaking incident. If you’d asked him as a younger man whether a person could experience sadness so visceral that their body interprets it as a very real threat to life and limb, his answer would’ve been different, and uninformed. He still thinks “sadness” is a hell of a way to describe the existential anguish that is Betty’s absence from his life. Mostly, therefore, Bruce only thinks of Betty long enough to remember her name, and that they love each other — and that he has a good idea of what Tony’s going through with Pepper being gone.

And if Bruce can spend as much time with Tony as he does, then he must have some kind of nebulous, intuitive understanding of both how and why Spider-Man would spend time with Deadpool.

…And if Bruce is projecting onto both Tony and Spider-Man, he can’t help it. He’s not the most empathetic person, but sometimes empathy, like rage, is unstoppable.

Hmm.

He creeps up behind Tony — already back to “tinkering” and hellbent on ignoring him — and putting his hands on his knees, leans over. His mouth is an inch from Tony’s ear before Tony is even aware that Bruce is in his personal space.

“Mikey,” says Bruce, more than loud enough to be heard over the music.

Tony swats him with a backhand without looking. “I CAN’T HEAR YOU, BUT YOU GO RIGHT ON AHEAD AND KEEP TALKING.”

“His name’s Mikey!” says Bruce.

Tony throws down the screwdriver, waves vaguely for JARVIS to mute the music, and flops his hands on his knees. Sighs, heavily. “Don’t name it, you’ll just wanna keep it,” he says.

“He looks like a Mikey, too,” Bruce adds.

“Of course he does, he’s obviously an adorable babyface who was raised on wholesome cereal that’s a part of this complete breakfast. And overlooking the question of how the hell you found this out, why in the fuck would you tell me?”

Bruce shrugs. “He’s our friend.”

“Yes! He is! Our friend who loves his secret identity! And you know me, you know I’ll never be able to unlearn that. Why would you—” Tony squashes both hands to his face and takes a breath. “Look, I may be accidentally anathema to consistency, but I like to try anyway, okay? I’ve actually had to work very hard not to learn Spidey’s IRL bullshit. Do you understand how hard that is? Do you realize how much he sucks at the secret identity schtick, Gumby?”

“Gumby. Because he’s green. I get it.”

“Seriously. Why.”

Bruce shrugs. “To remind you that he’s human?”

“I know he’s human!”

“And that we all know you’re still very, very sorry about what happened, but running from your guilt by switching from extreme overprotectiveness to an extreme hands-off policy is probably not going to solve any problems.”

Tony narrows his eyes.

Bruce shifts his weight, settling back a little.

“Okay,” says Tony in a profoundly reasonable voice as he rises from the floor. His back pops, twice, when he stretches it. (His eyes bug a little, but he manages not to groan even though he clearly wants to.) “I’ll do some remote surveillance around the place and have JARVIS ping me if anything looks weird. I mean. Dangerous-weird, not creepy-weird. We’re already way past creepy-weird. So this way we’re doing something, but not sticking our hands in up to the elbow. Sounds like a pretty fair compromise to me. Coffee?”

It takes Bruce a couple seconds to realize he just won. “Great,” he says. “I mean, about the idea, not about the coffee. I know damn well that’s not decaf. …You shouldn’t have any, either,” he adds, reaching for the cold pot and holding it out of reach before Tony can touch it.

“Of course I should. I’m a busy adult with many important things to do. And cocaine’s still illegal.” He opens the minifridge, and Bruce closes it with his foot before a can of Monster can escape.

Tony fixes him with a look. “You’re cruel to me,” he announces.

“Mm-hm. How many hours since you slept?”

Tony pretends to consider the question, then gives up. “JARVIS?”

“Thirty-one hours, sir.”

“Thirty-one hours, Brucie Boy,” says Tony.

“C’mon,” Bruce says, reaching for Tony’s elbow. “You’re going to bed.”

“Nah! Nahahah nnno!” He curls away. “You’re gonna have to wash the hell out of your hands if you want to put them anywhere near me.”

“Tony, you’re standing there in a cloud of your own thirty-hour stink and I seriously doubt if you’ve changed your underwear since the weekend. Don’t talk to me about germs.”

Tony hisses.

Bruce makes a grab for him.

“Jesus, your hands are cold!”

“Come on.”

“I need an adult!”

“Tony—“

“I’m not tired.”

“Worse than a nine-year-old…”

“Ow! Did I say you could—“

“Would you just—“

“Okay! Let go, alright! Hands off, I’m going, I’m going.”

“Go to bed, Tony.”

“You’re not my real dad.”

Somewhere in the lava flow of his subconscious, Bruce can feel the Other Guy roll his eyes, at both of them.

Hey! If you like this scene, or if you like the fic in general, if it has added some kind of value to your life, and only if you are comfortable with it and can afford it, please consider tipping the author.

There are zero negative consequences to not tipping. That is totally chill. Author understands what it's like to not be able to respond to a donation request (and also to just... not wanna) and officially absolves you of all guilt and guilt-related feelings. Author is nonetheless forced to make a public request for donations so that the people who already can and want to will be able to do so.

Positive impacts of tipping include: supporting an unemployed autistic, helping someone get out of A Situation, validating many hours of emotionally difficult work with a material survival resource, and (author hesitates to mention this because it feels borderline manipulative but, dammit, for the next several hours it is also true) congratulating someone on surviving another year because today (wednesday) is author's birthday.

Have an excellent rest of your day.

#i like birds (fic)#my fic

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im-not-a-what · 7 years

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Sorcerer Supreme

Title: Sorcerer Supreme

Summary: For the Gold children, it's a fight for honor: who is going to be the superhero of their choice for Halloween? Belle comes up with a solution.

Rating: G

Genre: humor, family, sibling rivalry

Characters/Pairings: Gideon, Rumbaby OC, Rumbelle

AO3 Link

Note: Set in the Golden Quartet verse

“Mummy! Tell Gid he’s wrong!”

Belle was still reeling from the heated argument between her twelve-year-old son and seven-year-old daughter. They’d spoken so quickly that she’d caught only snippets as she entered the kitchen. Something about how girls should dress up as girls, that no, that’s not fair, Téa could pick any costume she wanted. No, Gideon had already picked and she should just pick another one.

With no ready answer to Téa’s accusation, Belle demanded that the yelling stop immediately and that the kids, who were glaring each other down over the kitchen counter, sit at the table.

“All right,” Belle declared once the children promised not to speak out of turn, “I want to hear both sides. Now, I’m thinking of a number between one and ten. Each of you pick a number. Whoever guesses closest goes first.”

Téa guessed four. Gideon guessed six. Belle’s number was five. This happened a couple more times before Belle picked nine. Téa guessed ten while Gideon guessed nine. Téa immediately whined, “I was gonna guess nine!”

“Well, you didn’t,” Gideon said, his voice bouncing with smugness.

“Gideon, don’t provoke your sister. Now, what are you and she arguing about?”

Gideon folded his hands on the table. He made sure to sit straight, gaining a few years on his countenance. He looked like a law student ready to deliver his opening statement at a mock trial. Belle didn’t doubt he put on a similar show for his school teachers. “We were having a conversation about our Halloween costumes. I mentioned that Robin, Neal and I had made a deal to dress up as superheroes this year for the school Halloween dance. I planned to go as Stephen Strange. That’s when Téa flew off the handle.”

“You stole my idea!” Téa cried.

“Téa.” Belle spoke low but punched the ‘T’ in her name. She’d worried in the early years that she’d never get the hang of being stern with her children. As it turned out, she’d become an expert, startling even Rumple with that edge of authority. “I said you could speak after Gideon was done.”

The girl squirmed in her seat. Her face started turning red, like she was trying to hold in a volcanic outburst.

Belle knew to get to the point of Gideon’s side before the explosion happened. “So, Gideon, you want to be . . . who again?”

“Stephen Strange,” Gideon said with crisp articulation. “Doctor Strange, the Sorcerer Supreme.”

Téa coughed. Somewhere in that cough came out the phrase, “Comic books.”

Belle snapped a stare at her. Téa sat still, then glanced at her mother with feigned befuddlement.

“Yes, he’s a comic book character,” Gideon said, as though it wearied him to explain what to him was a self-evident fact.

“All right,” said Belle. She faced Téa. “Now it’s your turn.”

Téa gripped the edge of the table like the reins of a bronco. “I want to be Doctor Strange for Halloween! I told Gid a long time ago that he’s my favorite character!”

“I’m your favorite character?” Gideon quipped.

“Shh,” Belle hissed.

Téa grinned, showing off a gap in the row of her upper teeth. “Ha!”

“Téa,” Belle said, “just because Gideon wants to be Doctor Strange for Halloween doesn’t mean you can’t be, either.”

“We can’t both be him!” Téa looked outraged by the notion. “Everyone will think I’m copying Gid!”

“Because you would be,” Gideon said.

“No!” Téa lunged over the table. “You’re copying me!”

Belle held up her hands at them both. “Enough! Gideon, not another word until I say it’s your turn. Understand?”

Gideon sighed and leaned back in his chair.

Téa poked her tongue at her brother. She flicked it fast enough that it slipped back into the safety of her mouth before her mother saw. There was a shadow of imitation in her wiggle to sit up straight and her tightly clasped hands.

“Téa,” Belle continued, “can’t you make a . . . Doctor Strange costume in your own way?”

Téa tried to keep her tone as plain as white bread at first. “I want to be Doctor Strange, but I can’t be a good Doctor Strange when my brother is Doctor Strange, too. He’ll look exactly like him. He doesn’t even care about Doctor Strange that much. He likes Batman, but Neal is going as Batman. Now he’s taking out his disappointment on me!”

Gideon grit his teeth together. “I’m not—” He stopped himself just as his mother directed a sharp glance at him.

“Then Gideon said I shouldn’t be Doctor Strange because I’m a girl! He said I should be Catwoman or Wonder Woman!”

“Those wouldn’t be so bad,” Belle said.

“But it was my idea to be Doctor Strange! It’s not fair!”

Gideon raised a finger. “May I speak?”

Belle sighed. “You may.”

“I didn’t say she had to be Catwoman or Wonder Woman. There are superheroines with magic powers. Zatanna. Scarlet Witch. The Enchantress.”

“The Enchantress is a bad guy! I don’t really know Zatanna or Scarlet Witch. I shouldn’t have to be someone I don’t know!”

Gideon laid his hand over his heart. His expression mockingly softened. “I’m helping you learn more about superheroines. You should have more female heroes to look up to. Mom agrees, right?”

The call-out caught Belle so off-guard that she could only guffaw.

Téa anchored herself on her elbows. “Yeah? Why don’t you dress up as Scarlet Witch?”

Gideon’s face twisted in a blend of confusion and repulsion. Belle hid a snorted giggle behind her closed hand. Clearing her throat to chase the laugh away, she regained her neutral frown. “Anyone here is free to choose what hero they want to model themselves after, regardless of gender. So, Téa, you may dress up as Doctor Strange. And yes, Gideon could dress up as Scarlet Witch.” Her aside look at Gideon came with a half-hidden smile. “If you’re comfortable.”

“Mom,” Gideon cut in, “you know why she wants to be a superhero for Halloween so badly. She wants an excuse to hang out with Robin and Neal.”

“Oh?” Belle checked with Téa, who grimaced but said nothing to deny the claim. “Well, why not?”

Gideon nearly jumped out of his seat. “Why not? She’s in second grade! The guys don’t want to hang out with a second-grader! Besides, we’re going to the school dance. We’re going to do more grown-up things.”

“Grown-up things?” Belle inched toward him with intensified parental interest. “Like what?”

“Uh . . .” Gideon retreated and tried to find anything to look at but his mother’s insistent stare. “N-nothing all that . . . nothing bad. I swear.”

“I can’t believe you trust him to babysit me.” Téa shook her head with precocious disapproval.

Belle coughed out another laugh, collected herself, and like her children joined her hands in solemn contemplation of the dilemma. After a minute in this pose, she said, “I think you should both be Doctor Strange.”

“No,” Gideon said.

Téa gaped at her mother. Then, as though succumbing to the braindead condition her expression suggested, she slumped forward and thumped her forehead on the table.

Belle raised her eyebrows. As far as childish gestures went, Téa’s display bordered on a performance piece. She graced it with an impressed, only partly sarcastic, “Wow.” Then she addressed Gideon. “If neither of you is willing to pick another costume, that’s the only compromise we can reach.”

“I’m not going around Storybrooke as ‘twinsies,’” Gideon said.

“Me neither,” Téa said.

As neither was ready to budge or see reason, Belle saw no immediate recourse. However, her curiosity sent her on a little research binge to learn more about Doctor Strange and other comic book superheroes. Inspiration struck. She confided her plan to Rumple, who initially expressed some puzzled trepidation. As he came to understand the plan, confusion transformed into enthusiasm.

On the afternoon of Halloween, the kids returned home to two Doctor Strange costumes standing on mannequins in the living room. One fit Gideon; the other fit Téa. Despite the presence of the one intended for her brother, Téa oohed and aahed over the faithful recreation of the Master of Mysticism’s outfit. The capes even levitated! Clearly her father had put his magic touch into the costumes.

“But they look exactly alike,” Gideon pointed out with a sigh. “Twinsies.”

“Maybe it won’t be that bad,” Téa said, still marveling at the cape that playfully twitched when she petted it.

“Don’t worry,” called their mother’s voice from the staircase. “We have a solution in mind.”

The kids whirled around. Gideon gasped, almost choking on air while his face drained of color. Téa spit out a stream of air that bloomed into laughter.

Belle sauntered down first, head to toe in black spandex with a bit of yellow trim, including the bat symbol on her chest. Her hair hung loose under the mask with the short, pointed bat ears. Behind her came Rumplestitlskin in a green and gold cloak over a black and gold armored tunic. His head was adorned with a golden helmet. Two, long horns curled out.

Gideon coughed out, “You’re not going out like that, are you?”

“Why not?” Belle said, not at all bothered.

“You guys look awesome,” said Téa, having found air and words again.

“Why thank you, little mortal.” Rumple completed his descent and knelt before Téa. “Now, Batgirl and I have consulted on the matter of your . . . contention. So, the alternative.”

He snapped his fingers. Téa’s regular clothes were swept up in a magic cloud. In their place appeared a wild costume of green and black. The onesie was simple, but the cape arched from her shoulders and billowed out in strips like octopus tentacles. The mask covered her head, just like Belle’s, but the black, zig-zagging extensions vaguely resembled elk antlers.

“Whoa!” Téa touched her mask. “Who am I?”

Rumple summoned a hand mirror. He held it far away enough that she could see most of herself. Téa squeaked. “I’m Hela! Oh, that’s so cool!”

“All right, good.” Gideon inched toward the mannequin with his Doctor Strange outfit. “Then I’ll just change into this—”

“Oh, no,” Rumple sang as he stood. “You have an alternate, too. Either you both go as Doctor Strange, or . . .”

Another snap. Gideon started and looked down. His body suit, like Belle’s, was nearly all black. Whereas her outfit had a yellow bat and gloves to provide contrast, his had the blue silhouette of a bird.

“Nightwing?” he asked.

“Oh, I get it!” Téa gestured at him and herself. “I’m Loki’s daughter! Nightwing and Batgirl are in the Bat family. Family costumes!”

“Oh. Great.”

“Doctor Strange is still an option,” Belle reminded him, “but you both must wear those. Now, who’s ready to go trick or treating?”

Téa jumped up and down, making the tendril-like antlers on her mask bounce. Her cape fluttered behind her. “Me! Me!”

“But the sun is still up!” Gideon glimpsed at the Doctor Strange costumes.

“You have that dance to go to, right?” Rumple sidled up to him. His smile matched his costume entirely too well. “If we all go now, that will give you ample time to meet up with your friends at the dance. Perhaps we’ll run into them on our route!”

“O-okay, okay, Téa can wear the Doctor Strange costume! I’ll stick with Nightwing but please, please don’t make me go trick-or-treating like this!”

Rumple tilted his head. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Dad, my two friends are eighth graders. The costumes are cool, but matching costumes with my parents? I’ll never live it down!”

“Pfft,” was all the commentary Téa deemed necessary.

Belle joined Rumple’s side. “Well, we wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable. But if you’re willing to let Téa—”

“Yes, I’m fine, I’m fine with it! Go have fun!”

“I don’t know,” Téa said, giving her Hela costume further consideration. “This is nice, too.”

“I don’t care, just leave me out of it!” Gideon zipped past his parents and up the stairs. His thumping feet faded within a few seconds.

“Wow.” Téa put her hands on her hips. “He should’ve been the Flash instead.”

Belle and Rumple didn’t need to know who that was to appreciate the remark. They laughed, as did their little girl. Rumple waved his hand. The Hela costume and Doctor Strange costume swapped places.

“Yes!” Both of Téa’s fists pumped up. “I am the Sorcerer Supreme!”

“For today,” Belle reminded her. She helped her daughter twist her long hair into a bun. The ‘do prevented any interference with the high cape collar that was already attempting to lift her off the ground. Rumple placed a jack-o-lantern bucket in one hand while he took the other. He told her how to command the cape so it didn’t take off against her wishes.

“Will we be back in time to see Gideon leave for the dance?” Téa asked as they headed out the door. “I want Neal and Robin to see my costume!”

“We’ll make sure they see it,” Belle said.

“Even with magic, both your costumes took a good deal of effort,” Rumple said. “We might as well show them off.”

#rumbelle #ouat fic #gold family #gideon gold #rumbaby #verse: golden quartet

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