Aunt May

Peter finally managed to coax the pine down the stairs without it collapsing into a tangled forest of ornaments and broken dreams. Wade followed, his black suit sliding across the hardwood like a panther who’d forgotten how to be subtle. The tree, now perched precariously in the living room, cast a crooked shadow that made the whole place look like it was auditioning for a low-budget horror film. “Nice work, Spidey,” Wade said, flicking a stray pine needle off his shoe. “If we survive this, I’m convinced we can survive a Tuesday.”

Peter chuckled, though the sound was more a grunt than a laugh. “Just wait until Aunt May sees it. She’s got a radar for ‘over-decorating.’”

Wade’s grin widened, exposing a row of slightly crooked teeth that seemed to have been polished by too many mugs of coffee and too few dental visits. “She’ll love it. She always says the holidays are about family, love, and… whatever else she’s got on her list. I’m just here for the love part, because the rest sounds like a spreadsheet.”

The front door banged open, and Aunt May stepped in, her coat a whirlwind of red and pine-scented perfume. She carried herself like a seasoned general, except instead of a baton she wielded a ladle that could probably double as a weapon. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite reckless pair,” she said, eyes flicking to the tree and then to Wade, who was still trying to look casual while the rest of the apartment tried to rearrange itself around the giant pine. “What have you two done this time?”

Peter gestured to the tree, then to the mess of lights tangled around the coffee table. “We’re—”

May raised a hand, cutting him off. “Don’t bother. I’ve seen worse. I’m just glad you’re both alive and not covered in glitter.” She chuckled, the sound warm and a little conspiratorial, as if she were sharing a secret with the house itself. “Come on, dinner’s almost ready, and if you’ve already ruined my living room, you’ll have to help me fix it later. We’ll need a miracle for that.”

Wade’s mind raced. He had never been to a real Thanksgiving with a family that didn’t have super-villains on the guest list. “Miracle? I thought I signed up for a holiday, not a holy-grail quest.”

May gave him a look that said, “I’ve seen enough to know when you’re trying to dodge something,” and then, with surprising speed, set the table. She placed a tarnished silverware set that looked like it had survived three wars on the table, each fork and spoon polished to a gleam that made Wade’s eyes water. “You two are lucky I’m not a vegan. I made a roast that would make a turkey jealous. And Wade—” she paused, her gaze narrowing just enough to make him feel like he’d been caught cheating on a test—“—you’re not getting any of the mashed potatoes. You have to earn your carbs.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure whether to respond with a joke or a sincere apology. “Do I get a side of sarcasm?”

May’s eyes twinkled, and she shook her head. “Only if you can handle the truth that comes with it.” She slid a plate of roasted vegetables toward Peter, who accepted it with the precise gratitude of someone who’d spent his entire adult life measuring everything with a ruler. “Sit, eat, and try not to talk about the tree until after dessert. I’m trying to keep the house from becoming a Christmas forest that takes over the city.”

Wade plopped down opposite Peter, his black leather jacket suddenly feeling out of place among the pastel tablecloth and the homely scent of rosemary. He tried to loosen his shoulders, but the tension seemed to cling to him like a second skin. “You ever wonder why we keep doing this?” he asked, half-joking, half-genuinely. “All the chaos, the masks, the… the whole ‘save the world’ thing. And now we’re here, forced to eat food that isn’t pizza and watch a woman we barely know try to judge whether a pine tree is too tall.”

Peter glanced at him, his expression a mixture of fatigue and amusement. “It’s the only thing that keeps us human. And the only thing that makes us remember we’re not invincible.”

May, meanwhile, was in her element, sliding plates around with the precision of a surgeon. She caught Wade’s eye and raised an eyebrow. “You’re still here, Wade. That’s a good sign. I thought you’d have fled the moment you realized you were invited to a family dinner.”

Wade made a face that could have been described as a cross between a cat caught in a laser pointer’s beam and a man who had just realized he’d left his phone in the fridge. “I’m still waiting for the part where the house collapses, and we all end up in the subway, because that’s how we roll.” He added a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But I guess I’m scared of… being liked.”

May set down a steaming bowl of gravy and leaned forward, the ladle resting against her chin like a sword. “You’re terrified of being liked? That’s adorable. I thought you were terrified of… well, everything else. You can’t be scared of a little love, Wade. It’s the only thing that can make a monster feel… soft.”

He snorted, a sound that was half a laugh, half a cough. “You sound like a therapist who’s had too much eggnog.”

May gave him a gentle pat on the hand. “If you need someone to talk to, I’m here. If you need someone to fight, call someone else. I’m only good at making pies and scolding kids who think they’re too cool for school.”

The conversation drifted, a chaotic mixture of jokes about the tree’s future as a city landmark and Peter’s precise recollection of the exact number of ornaments that had broken during the unboxing. Wade found himself making jokes faster than he could think, each one a desperate attempt to keep the conversation from turning into an awkward silence that would make him feel like the only one not invited to the party.

When the plates were cleared, May stood, a small flourish of her apron as she announced, “Dessert is ready. And if you think you’re getting out of this without helping me clean up, think again. You both still have to put the lights back on the tree. It’s a family tradition.”

Wade made a face that suggested he was about to say something inappropriate, then swallowed it and went with, “I’d love to see you try.”

May gave him a look that could have melted steel, then turned to the kitchen. “You two, stay here for a minute. I need to… check something.” She disappeared behind a swinging door that led to a pantry that smelled of cinnamon and something else—perhaps the faintest hint of old newspapers and whispered secrets.

Peter gave Wade a quick, tired smile. “Enjoy the quiet.”

Wade tried to look relaxed, but the silence was louder than the dinner chatter. He stared at the kitchen’s dull white tiles, feeling the weight of the moment settle on his shoulders. The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed to echo the rhythm of his own thoughts: how many times had he used humor as a shield? How many times had he let jokes be the only thing that kept people at a distance? And now, here, with Aunt May, the universe seemed to be serving him a slice of something he hadn’t asked for—a genuine connection that felt like a warm blanket on a cold night, but with a price tag that read “vulnerability.”

The pantry door swung open, and May stepped out, a towel draped over her shoulder, hair still slightly damp from washing dishes. She held a tray of fresh-baked cookies, the chocolate chips glinting like tiny stars. “I thought you might need something sweet,” she said, placing the tray on the kitchen island.

Wade took a cookie, feeling the soft crumble between his fingers. “You’re amazing,” he blurted, the words spilling out before his brain could edit them.

May chuckled, a sound that seemed to wrap the room in a cozy blanket. “Don’t get too sentimental on me, Wade. You’re not supposed to get soft. That’s what the suit’s for.” She winked, then leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But honestly? I’ve seen enough of you to know that underneath that sarcasm there’s a kid who still believes in Santa. And that’s not a bad thing.”

He stared at her, the cookie half-melted on his thumb, and felt something shift in his chest—a sudden, unanticipated tenderness that was both bewildering and oddly comforting. “I don’t know why I’m scared of being liked,” he admitted, the words feeling raw and oddly freeing. “I’m used to people… avoiding me, or seeing me as a weapon. It’s… strange, hearing someone actually want to see me, not just my… abilities.”

May set a hand on his shoulder, the contact brief but firm, like a gentle reminder that she was there, that she cared. “You’re not a weapon, Wade. You’re a person. And people can like you for who you are, not just for what you can do. It’s a risk, but it’s worth it. You’re already part of a family, even if you didn’t realize it at first.”

He swallowed, feeling the cookie melt a little more as he chewed. “I guess I’ve always thought I had to be the one who made everyone laugh, or the one who saved the day. I never thought about… being the one who needed saving.”

May’s eyes softened. “We all need someone sometimes. Even superheroes.”

For a moment, the kitchen seemed to shrink, the world outside the apartment disappearing behind the hum of the refrigerator and the faint smell of pine. Wade realized that the chaos that usually defined his life could be tempered with moments like this—quiet, sincere, and unexpectedly tender. He felt a flicker of something that wasn’t quite a smile, not quite a laugh, but a warm, steady glow that made his chest feel less like a battlefield and more like a place where he could finally rest.

The door to the living room opened, and Peter peeked in, holding a plate piled high with turkey and cranberry sauce. “You okay in there?” he asked, his voice carrying the practiced calm of someone who had survived countless crises.

May emerged, wiping her hands on the apron, a tray of cookies balanced on the other. “We’re fine,” she said, casting a glance at Wade that was both teasing and affectionate. “Just having a little heart-to-heart. You two can keep the lights on the tree; we’ll handle the rest.”

Wade nodded, feeling a strange sense of gratitude that went beyond the jokes and the sarcasm. “Thanks, Aunt May.” He said it more seriously than he intended, the words landing like a small, steady drumbeat.

May smiled, a genuine smile that lit up her face. “Anytime, kid. Just remember, you’re not alone. Even when the world is a mess, there’s always a place where you’re welcome.”

Peter placed a hand on Wade’s shoulder, his grip firm but not overbearing. “Let’s get the lights up,” he said, his voice low. “And maybe, just maybe, we’ll find a way to make this tree fit without killing the entire block.”

Wade laughed, a sound that felt less like a defense mechanism and more like a release. “Deal. And maybe after that, we can actually enjoy the rest of the night without the pine tree trying to audition for a role in a disaster movie.”

May shook her head, the motion sending a cascade of pine needles dancing across the floor. “You two are impossible,” she said, but there was no hint of annoyance in her tone—only a warm, affectionate exasperation that made Wade feel like he belonged somewhere he never thought he could.

They gathered the tangled lights, untwisting them with a mixture of frantic energy and careful precision. Peter’s methodical approach complemented Wade’s chaotic enthusiasm, creating a strange harmony that seemed to echo the unspoken bond forming among them. As they worked, May watched from the doorway, her eyes softening with each laugh, each shared glance. The tree, now draped in twinkling lights, stood proudly in the corner, a beacon of absurdity and hope.

When they finally stepped back to admire their handiwork, Wade felt a strange mixture of pride and relief. The tree didn’t look quite as towering as it had before, but it seemed to belong—like a misplaced piece of a puzzle that had finally found its place. He glanced at Peter, who was wiping a smudge of sauce from his cheek, and at May, who was humming a carol softly to herself. The room was filled with a quiet, contented hum that felt like the perfect ending to a chaotic day.

Wade let the moment linger, savoring the warmth that spread through him, the genuine feeling of being liked—not for his jokes or his powers, but for the messy, imperfect person he was. He realized that the terror he’d felt earlier was fading, replaced by something softer, something that didn’t require a shield. It was a feeling that arrived mid-joke and didn’t announce itself, but settled in his chest like a secret he’d finally been allowed to keep.

He looked at May, her eyes meeting his with a kindness that cut through the usual sarcasm he used to armor himself with. “Thanks,” he said, the word simple yet loaded with everything he hadn’t known how to say before.

May smiled, the kind of smile that could melt even the coldest of hearts. “Anytime, Wade. Now, let’s eat. The turkey’s getting cold, and the cookies are waiting for a brave soul to take the first bite.”

Wade reached for a cookie, feeling the chocolate melt on his tongue, and realized that, for the first time in a long while, the thought of being liked didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like home.