Wedding of the Century update

Peter took the subway to Bedford and walked to Meserole Avenue, where the Fun Flicks Cinema waited for him. It was a one-screen theater inside a brownstone, across the street from a tattoo parlor, and as usual, no one was interested in watching its revival of Le Samouraï. Peter bought a ticket, passed on the popcorn, and went inside the shabby little theater with its twelve lonely seats.

Frank was waiting for him. Peter sat next to the man. He looked a little the worse for wear; enough to make Peter wonder if he was in any position to judge. He knew how many years it’d been, but how many wrinkles, how many gray hairs…?

“Heya, D,” Frank greeted.

“B.”

“Thought you were out of the game.”

“So did I.”

“You sure you want back in? Not a lot manage to walk away…”

“You think I don’t know that?”

Frank nodded. Peter wondered if he looked like that when he thought of Gwen.

“Alright then.” Frank tapped his shoe against a briefcase between their seats. “There’s your loadout. You still remember how they all work?”

“The day Fitz comes up with something I can’t figure out, then I really will retire.”

“Going under the assumption you’re not as smart as you think you are—and you’re here, not with the supermodel…”

“Safe assumption,” Peter conceded.

“Pinky ring.” Frank held up his own hand. He used the forefinger on his other hand to motion without touching the ring he had on. “Clockwise down the ring from twelve o’clock to six o’clock, then back up to twelve o’clock. The diamond melts into a powerful acid.”

Next, Frank reached into his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He flashed it at Peter.

“Most of these are ordinary cancer sticks. But some, if you feel them out, will show a protrusion around the end of the filter. Those are packed with high-density explosive. Roughly the same concussive force as a hand grenade. They go off thirty seconds from being lit.”

“No lighter?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t I get a lighter that’s some sort of flamethrower or something?”

Frank frowned. “You can’t bring a cigarette lighter on an airplane these days, D. What’s wrong with you?”

“Anything else?”

“Stick-boots with stick-gloves stashed in the heels. Wristwatch with riot-control spray. Sunglasses with the usual refinements… you really think he’s alive? Octavius?”

Peter glanced at the screen. It offered no answers. He’d come in in the middle of the movie and it was too far along for him to make any sense of it. “I have to find out.”

“Yeah.” Frank crossed his legs. “Fury wouldn’t want me to say this, but… the world hasn’t exactly gotten better since you took him out. And I don’t think it’s because he faked his death. He’s a madman. There are other madmen. This girl of yours; she seems nice. If I had a choice between a girl like that and doing this…”

“You do,” Peter snorted. “The world’s not exactly short on girls.”

“Not like that.”

He had a point there.

Peter shook his head. “No. I wouldn’t be much good to her. Not without settling this.”

Frank made a face, but whatever he had to say, he didn’t put into words. They’d never been too close. He knew Peter just well enough to know he couldn’t be argued with.

***

As bizarre as it was, Peter was picked up in a town car three days later. He’d made arrangements for his vacation and Mary Jane had crossed whatever Ts she’d needed to. Now it was just a matter of sitting in the back of the plush Lincoln and letting it take him through traffic.

Peter didn’t know how, but even the omnipresent sirens and radios and construction noises of the city didn’t seem as loud in the backseat. It made him feel a little like he was going deaf.

He glanced at the chauffeur. “Look, I’m just gonna come out and say it: I don’t know whether people tip with you guys or not? I will if it’s a thing, but I don’t want to insult you.”

“It’s not frowned upon, sir, but neither is it a requisite.”

“Okay. I don’t like to be stingy; is five dollars good?”

“Five dollars is reasonable.”

“Alright then. And you can listen to the radio or whatever, I don’t mind.”

“I’m actually listening to a podcast on ancient Sumeria at the moment.”

Peter nodded. “Yeah, crank that shit.”

Which got a laugh out of the driver, making Peter feel a bit better about being waited on hand and foot.

Traffic cleared up as they left the city, coming to a private airfield. The Lincoln went right up to a plane waiting on the runway.

Peter was used to budget flying. Even on the job, he never went undercover as someone who flew first class. So he was used to planes as something like eighteen-wheelers of the sky, only hauling people instead of Playstations.

This plane, though. It was a thing of beauty. In its elegant lines, it reminded him most of an ice sculpture of a swan he’d seen once.

His face darkened. Gwen had gone gaga over that sculpture. She’d wanted to buy it, despite the fact that it would obviously melt. Peter had suggested renting a little space in the nearest meat locker and visiting the swan from time to time. They hadn’t gone through with it—he should’ve. It’d be worth it to have one more laugh with Gwen, in the time they had left.

Peter buried it all, knowing he shouldn’t be feeling this regret. He was doing something about it, he was doing the right thing. Avenging her. Whatever fault Peter held, it would be dispelled when he got justice. He and Ock would both have their shame expunged.

In his haze, Peter didn’t realize the chauffeur had gotten out and opened his door for him.

Peter stepped out sheepishly. He hadn’t planned to make the man do that. He took a tenner from his wallet, handed it to the chauffeur, and approached the plane.

A match-flame appeared at the open door. Mary Jane, wearing matching Disaya off-shoulder top and skirt, both pleated. The material was faintly translucent. He could see the slip she was wearing under it, and some of her long legs, her yoga-taut arms.

Peter tried to decode it: it was a good-looking outfit, but she wasn’t dressed to the nines like she’d been on their date. But she wasn’t exactly wearing a cardigan either. He’d gotten a glimpse of what Mary Jane wore while she was just lazing around the house when she’d confronted him over Felicia; it wasn’t this. Then again, he was pretty sure that was what she slept in. Even Peter didn’t hang around the house all day in his pajamas like he was Arthur Dent.

I know what you’re doing, he said to himself. Stop it. She doesn’t have an ulterior motive. She’s not trying to trick you. That’s what you’re doing to her. Don’t both-sides it.

And Peter snapped a quick argument back against himself: It’s not like I’m conning her. I like her just fine. And I’m trying to stop a terrorist.

Yeah, I’m sure she’ll be fine with getting her heart broken if you stop another 9/11.

Well… yes.

With that settled, Peter marched up the staircase to greet Mary Jane. She gave him a hug and a quick kiss, more getting used to the idea than anything else.

“Peter, you’re a genius. This Wakanda thing has me trending like a mofo. Peter are saying that I’m a bold voice against Western hegemony, that I’m an evil Jew whore, that I’m a regular whore—”

“I’m… sorry?”

“No, no, it’s good,” Mary Jane assured him. “It’s controversy. When people hate you, they love to hate you. You know Colonel Parker used to sell ‘I hate Elvis’ buttons?”

“I don’t think Colonel Parker had Elvis’s best interests at heart, though.”

Mary Jane blew air out the side of her lips. “Well, I’m smarter than Elvis. And I eat better. And I know, for a fact, that I’m not Jewish. Or evil.” She wagged her eyebrows.

Peter sidestepped her leading insinuation. “Leaving bold voice against Western hegemony?”

“Eh, I’ll do a USO show next year. Wear a camouflage bikini. People have short memories; that’s why they’ve rebooted Terminator so many times.”