Chapter Text
I hated the silence in the cabin.
When Dad was alive silence meant that he was working, better defined as hammering, muttering curse words that I should have heard, and singing off key to divorced dad rock while sparks flew around him. It meant that Pepper was sitting in the living room reading a book, Morgan was tucked into bed, and I was right beside him doing my homework. Silence meant family.
Now silence meant absence.
I walk through the cabin, my Harvard sweater doing little to keep the cold December air off of my bones. The floors creak with memories that I buried alongside him two months ago.
“How did the interview go?” Pepper asks, her voice gentle, which in her language means when are you going to get off your ass?
“It went well. They said I have a good chance.” I force a weak smile.
I’d get into Harvard. The last name, the money, the connections. That should be enough. It would be enough.
“How long do you think it’ll take for them to let you know?” she questions, circling back.
“Dunno. A few weeks. They’ll email me.” I say, grabbing a cheese stick out of the fridge.
Pepper sighs. The kind of sigh that warns you a lecture is coming. “Y/n, how long are you going to hide from this?”
Not pulling any punches today, are we, Mom?
“I’m not hiding.”
“Y/n-”
“I took a gap year, Mom. I’m transferring schools. I’m doing all the things.”
“Yes, but Y/n-”
“I. Am not. Hiding.”
The floor creaks as I walk back to the only place I felt at peace: my room. The one place that doesn’t remind me that he’s gone… except for the dusty photo of us on my desk.
I close the door behind me and lean against it, letting the silence settle around me like a heavy coat. The room doesn’t look like I'm grieving. I made my bed to look presentable in the interview. I don’t remember the last time I did that. The dusty rose duvet pulled up over the wrinkled sheets.
Buzz.
I groan.
It’s Peter. It’s always Peter.
He doesn’t even have to say anything anymore, just his name flashing across my screen is enough to make my chest ache. Because he’s grieving too, just differently. The blip stole five years from us, and when he came back he was still sixteen. My best friend, frozen in time, while I had to grow up without him. Now we are both growing up. Without my dad.
I don’t answer. I just stare at the buzzing phone and wait for it to go quiet.
The silence presses in again, heavier this time. And suddenly I’m back there. Fifteen, sitting cross legged on top of the pristinely made bed. Notebooks and papers spread everywhere. Dad leaning against the doorframe, pretending to check his watch.
“Harvard called. They’re furious. Said they won't extend their application deadline for teenagers who stay up all night doodling Iron Man helmets in the margins of their homework. I knew I shouldn’t have asked them that.”
I’d thrown a pillow at him. He’d laughed, caught it and sat down on the edge of my bed, knocking over the laundry I had just finished.
“Well that’s unfortunate. Guess I’ll just have to go to MIT instead.” I teased.
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Y/n,” he placed a hand on my shoulder, “You’ll get into whatever school you want. You’re a Stark.” Then his voice was softer, like what he was saying wasn’t meant to be heard by anyone else but me, “But don’t let that be your only reason.”
“I’m just finishing my sophomore year, dad. I have at least a year until I have to start applying to schools.”
“I know, but I know you’ve got your sights set on one very particular school.”
I looked down at the notes in front of me.
“You’re gonna go far, Y/n.”
The memory stings, hot and sharp, like the tears that threaten to fall from my eyes.
My phone buzzes again. Peter. As persistent as ever.
This time I don’t ignore it.
“Hey.” I mutter, flopping onto the bed, pulling the duvet over my legs as some sort of armor.
There’s a pause on the other end. The faint sound of Queen’s traffic filling the silence. He’s definitely on a rooftop somewhere. Then came his voice, “You answered.”
“Gold star for observation.” I say, sharper than I meant it to be. The silence that follows makes me wince. “Sorry. Long day.”
“It’s ok,” he says. Peter always says it's ok, like he’s afraid I’ll hang up if he doesn't. “I just wanted to check in, see how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine.” The lie slides out automatically, practiced. Clean. “I had my transfer interview with Harvard.”
He sighs. He doesn’t buy it. He never does.
“Y/n…” his tone softens, as if he’s trying to coax me down from a ledge. “You don’t have to be fine all the time.”
I pick at a loose thread on my sweatshirt until it frays. “You don’t get it, Peter. I don’t get the luxury of not being fine. I have to keep moving.”
Another pause as the sounds of traffic fill the line again. Then he speaks, quietly, “You think I do?”
That lands harder than expected. For a moment neither one of us say anything. Just the sound of his uneven breathing and my heart beating too loud in my ears. “I didn’t mean it like that, Pete.” I say, “You’re still sixteen. I had to grow up without you. Without my best friend. And now he’s-” my voice cracks and I hate it.
There's a rustle, like he’s moving the phone between hands. “I know and I’m sorry, but I can’t fix that.”
“I know you’re grieving too. He was a father to you just as much as he was to me. And I’m being slightly unfair about this. Only slightly. Like twelve percent unfair.”
“Maybe,” he takes a breath, “maybe we don’t have to do this whole grieving thing alone.”
I laugh, bitter and small. “What is this? A hallmark movie?”
But when he laughs back, quiet, almost relieved, I realize that it doesn’t sound so terrible.
“Thank you, Peter.”
“For what?”
“Just thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Y/n.”