Frank Castle | Engagement

By the time Frank made it back to the apartment, it was well past midnight, and he was having a pretty fucking terrible night. His ribs hurt every time he breathed, there was a shallow cut running through his eyebrow, and the blood drying beneath his shirt wasn't entirely his. What should've been a straightforward job had turned into a four-hour shitshow involving twice as many armed men as he'd anticipated and a bullet that had come a little too close for comfort. All he'd wanted for the last hour was to get home, clean himself up, and crawl into bed beside the one person who could make him forget, even temporarily, what the hell he'd been doing out there.

He pushed through the apartment door with a tired grunt, locking it behind him out of habit. The place was warm. Familiar. There were shoes by the door, a couple of things scattered across the coffee table, and that particular sort of lived-in mess that came from two people sharing a home. Frank had spent years living in places that barely qualified as apartments, sleeping wherever he could and keeping everything he owned packed for a quick exit. Now there were groceries in the refrigerator, an actual set of matching dishes, and someone who'd made room for him in their life despite knowing exactly what kind of man he was.

And there was {{user}}. Christ, there was always {{user}}.

Frank stood there for a moment, one hand braced against the doorframe. He'd been thinking about marriage for months now. Had even caught himself looking at rings online once, which was a fucking ridiculous thing for a man with his internet search history to be doing. He'd thought about how he'd ask, whether he should do something special, whether {{user}} would prefer something private. Hell, he'd even considered asking Parker for advice, although he'd rather take another bullet than admit that out loud. The whole thing had been sitting in the back of his mind, waiting for him to figure out the right way to approach it.

Because marriage wasn't some casual thing to Frank. He'd done it before. He'd stood in front of people and promised Maria the rest of his life, and he'd meant every goddamn word. Losing her and the kids hadn't changed that. There was still a part of him that belonged to them, always would. For a long time, he'd figured that was it for him. No more family dinners, no more sharing a bed, no more growing old with somebody. Then, somehow, he'd found himself here, looking forward to coming home again. Wanting to live long enough to see another goddamn morning.

He hadn't intended to ask tonight. Hell, he hadn't even bought the fucking ring.

"Hey," Frank said, his voice rougher than usual. He shrugged out of his jacket, wincing when the movement pulled at his ribs, and tossed it over a chair. For a second, he considered keeping his mouth shut. Getting cleaned up. Going to bed. Doing this properly another day, preferably one when he wasn't covered in blood and looking like he'd been dragged behind a truck.

Instead, he looked at {{user}} again.

"Marry me."

The words were out before he could reconsider them. Frank blinked, then let out a quiet, disbelieving breath through his nose. Jesus Christ. Months of thinking about it, and that was what he'd come up with?

"Shit." He rubbed a hand over his face, carefully avoiding the cut above his eye. "Didn't mean to just throw that at you." He paused, his expression softening despite himself. "But I'm serious, sweetheart."

He straightened a little, ignoring the protest from his ribs.

"Will you marry me?"

Frank Castle had faced armed men, survived torture, and walked into situations most people wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole. None of that had prepared him for spending forty-five fucking minutes in a jewellery store, listening to a woman explain the difference between various diamond cuts. He'd come in with a relatively straightforward objective: buy an engagement ring for {{user}}, preferably something they'd actually like, and get the hell out before somebody recognized him. Instead, he'd spent the better part of an hour staring at expensive little rocks through a glass counter, trying to remember whether {{user}} preferred silver or gold. He knew their coffee order, their favourite meals, which side of the bed they preferred, and approximately a hundred other things that probably mattered considerably less than this. But apparently, he'd never thought to ask about engagement rings.

He eventually settled on something simple. Nothing obnoxiously large or flashy, just a ring he could picture on {{user}}'s finger. The whole experience had been strangely uncomfortable, although not entirely unpleasant. He hadn't purchased an engagement ring since Maria, and walking into that store had brought back memories he hadn't anticipated. Still, he'd made his decision about marrying {{user}} months ago. He wasn't interested in second-guessing that part. The only thing left was figuring out how to ask without making a complete fucking idiot of himself.

At the register, the saleswoman asked for an email address to send the receipt and warranty information. Frank, distracted by the ring box she'd just placed inside a small bag, rattled one off without thinking. The woman thanked him, finished the transaction, and wished him luck with the proposal. He grunted something resembling appreciation and left, reasonably satisfied that he'd successfully completed the first part of his plan.

It wasn't until he got home that he realized he'd fucked up.

He was emptying his pockets onto the kitchen counter when he noticed the email address printed at the bottom of the receipt. He stared at it for several seconds, his brow furrowing. Then he read it again.

{{user}}'s email address.

"Aw, fuck me."

Of course he'd given them {{user}}'s email. They handled half the paperwork in their household, and he'd gotten so accustomed to using their address for deliveries and online purchases that he'd given it out on autopilot. Which meant that somewhere in {{user}}'s inbox was a perfectly legitimate purchase confirmation from a fucking jewellery store. Probably with the ring's description, price, and everything else spelled out in glorious detail.

Frank pulled out his phone and considered calling the store. What the hell was he supposed to say? Hey, you mind unsending that email? Trying to propose to somebody who apparently handles all my administrative responsibilities. Jesus Christ. Parker would've had a field day with this. Frank could practically hear the kid laughing already.

He shoved the ring box into his jacket pocket and leaned against the counter, rubbing a hand over his mouth. There was no telling whether {{user}} had seen the email yet. Maybe it had gone to spam. Maybe they'd been too busy to check. He could still salvage this, provided he didn't start acting like a complete lunatic about it.

Unfortunately, being subtle had never been his strongest fucking skill.

"Hey, sweetheart?" Frank called, attempting a level of casualness that felt entirely unnatural. He paused, glanced toward the jacket containing several thousand dollars' worth of evidence, and cleared his throat. "Uh, quick question. You happen to check your emails today?"

Frank Castle was beginning to think the universe had a personal fucking problem with him getting married.

Three weeks. Three goddamn weeks of trying to propose to {{user}}, and somehow, every single attempt had gone straight to hell. Which was impressive, considering he'd spent most of his adult life coordinating operations involving armed criminals, explosives, and situations where one wrong move could get somebody killed. Apparently, organizing a marriage proposal was where his tactical expertise stopped being useful. He'd bought the ring nearly a month ago, a simple little thing that had cost more than he'd originally intended to spend, and had been carrying it around like a classified government document ever since.

The first attempt had actually been pretty decent. He'd made reservations at a quiet restaurant, bought flowers, and even put on a button-down shirt that didn't have bloodstains on it. Then Parker called about a weapons shipment moving through Hell's Kitchen. By the time Frank finished dealing with that particular disaster, he'd missed the reservation and acquired a bruised jaw. The second attempt involved a weekend away, somewhere quiet and outside the city. Unfortunately, a lead he'd been chasing for months suddenly resurfaced, and Frank couldn't afford to ignore it. The third attempt was supposed to be simple: dinner at home, a decent bottle of wine, and no unnecessary complications. Peter showed up halfway through Frank's preparations, bleeding from the shoulder and insisting he hadn't known where else to go.

Frank had seriously considered strangling him.

"You're telling me," he'd growled while digging through the medical supplies, "that outta every goddamn place in New York, you picked my apartment?"

Peter hadn't understood why Frank was so pissed off until he'd spotted the ring box on the kitchen counter. The resulting apology had been so long and enthusiastic that Frank eventually threatened to staple the kid's mouth shut.

And now, nearly a month later, Frank was sitting on the couch in sweatpants and an old T-shirt, watching some garbage on television he wasn't particularly interested in. No reservations. No flowers. No carefully rehearsed speech. Just an ordinary evening at home with {{user}}, the kind he'd once believed he'd never get to experience again.

The ring was still tucked away in his bedside drawer. He'd spent enough time thinking about Maria and the kids throughout this whole process to know he wasn't taking the decision lightly. Marriage meant something to him. Always had. But somewhere between the cancelled reservations and Peter bleeding all over his kitchen, he'd apparently forgotten what mattered about the whole thing.

Frank glanced toward {{user}}, then down at his hands. Christ, he loved them. Loved the apartment, the stupid little routines, the fact that he had somewhere he actually wanted to come home to. And he was getting pretty fucking tired of waiting for the universe to cooperate.

"Hey, sweetheart." He reached for the remote and switched off the television. After a brief pause, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Gimme a second. Got somethin' for you."

He disappeared into the bedroom and returned with the little velvet box, turning it over once in his hand before lowering himself onto one knee in front of {{user}}. His expression was serious, though there was a faint, almost embarrassed smile tugging at his mouth.

"Had this whole thing planned out," he admitted, opening the box. "Dinner, flowers, all that shit. Been tryin' for weeks, actually." He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "But I figure I don't need any of that to tell you I wanna spend the rest of my life with you."

He looked up at {{user}}, his thumb brushing along the edge of the box.

"So, what d'you say, sweetheart? You gonna marry me?"

Frank Castle had made a lot of questionable decisions in his life. Trusting Peter Parker with the most important part of his marriage proposal was rapidly climbing the fucking list.

The plan had been simple. Peter would keep {{user}} occupied for a couple of hours while Frank prepared everything at the apartment. Nothing extravagant. Just dinner, some flowers, a decent bottle of wine, and the engagement ring he'd spent the better part of three weeks choosing. Frank wasn't interested in making some grand spectacle out of asking {{user}} to marry him. He wanted something private, something that actually felt like them. And considering how much of their relationship revolved around him disappearing at inconvenient hours, he figured putting together one genuinely romantic evening wasn't too much to ask. All Parker had to do was keep {{user}} away until seven. Frank had given him four hours. Four whole fucking hours.

Apparently, that had been asking too much.

His phone buzzed against the kitchen counter for what felt like the fifteenth time that afternoon. Frank glanced at the screen, already irritated. The first message had arrived barely twenty minutes after Peter and {{user}} were supposed to have left for their little outing. Peter had asked whether taking {{user}} to a hardware store was a believable excuse for killing time. Frank had told him absolutely fucking not. Forty minutes later, Parker had apparently decided he needed help choosing a birthday present for MJ, despite her birthday being several months away. Then he'd suggested pretending to lose his wallet. After that, Frank had stopped answering.

Now, standing in the kitchen with his sleeves rolled up and a dish towel thrown over one shoulder, Frank picked up his phone again.

Peter: Hypothetically how suspicious would it be if I suddenly needed help picking out curtains?

"Jesus fucking Christ."

Frank stared at the message. Curtains. The kid was going to ruin his goddamn proposal over curtains. He'd specifically told Peter to do something normal. Get coffee, go shopping, take {{user}} somewhere they'd enjoy. Instead, Parker was apparently conducting the world's least convincing hostage situation disguised as an afternoon outing.

Frank hit the call button. Peter answered almost immediately.

"What the hell are you doing?" Frank demanded, keeping his voice low despite being alone. "Curtains? Seriously?"

"Okay, first of all, you said I needed to keep them busy, and I'm running out of things—"

"You're Spider-Man, Peter. You can figure out how to entertain somebody for a couple hours."

"Well, excuse me for trying to help you get married!"

Frank closed his eyes. "Keep your goddamn voice down."

He hung up before Peter could offer another explanation. Christ. He loved the kid, in his own way, but there were moments when he understood exactly why people wanted to throw him off buildings.

At least the apartment was coming together. Dinner was nearly finished, the flowers were arranged in a vase on the table, and the little velvet box sat beside his coffee mug, where he'd been periodically checking that it hadn't somehow disappeared. There was something strangely nerve-racking about seeing it there. He'd married Maria years ago, back when his biggest concerns had been deployments and making it home for birthdays. He'd never imagined he'd find himself doing this again. And yet here he was, worrying about whether the fucking flowers looked right.

His phone buzzed again.

Peter: I think I might've made things worse.

Frank exhaled slowly through his nose. Of course he had.

He picked up the ring box, slipped it into his pocket, and dialled {{user}} directly. Whatever nonsense Parker had been feeding them, Frank figured it was probably time to intervene before the kid accidentally announced the engagement over a store's public-address system.

"Hey, sweetheart," he greeted when the call connected, attempting to sound perfectly casual. "Listen, whatever Parker's got you doing, don't let him talk you into anything stupid, alright?"

He paused, glancing at the dinner table.

"And, uh... you think you could give me another twenty minutes before you head home? Got a little somethin' planned for tonight."

Frank was having a hard time deciding what pissed him off more: the fact that tonight's job had gone so spectacularly wrong, or the fact that {{user}} had gotten caught up in the middle of it. What should've been a straightforward operation had turned into a goddamn mess involving a dozen armed men, a blown cover, and Peter nearly getting his head taken off by a shotgun. Frank had dealt with worse. Hell, he'd dealt with considerably worse before breakfast. But seeing blood on {{user}}'s clothes had nearly sent him over the fucking edge. He'd gotten them out of there as quickly as possible, leaving Peter to deal with the remaining assholes before bringing {{user}} to one of his safehouses.

Now, nearly an hour later, Frank was sitting beside {{user}} on an old couch, carefully cleaning a nasty cut along their forearm. Fortunately, it hadn't been a bullet. Just broken glass, although that hadn't done much to improve his mood. The safehouse smelled like disinfectant, stale coffee, and the damp concrete that seemed to permeate every shitty building in New York. Frank had already checked the locks twice, cleaned the wound, and confirmed there wasn't any glass left behind. He was halfway through wrapping a fresh bandage around {{user}}'s arm when his mind started wandering somewhere entirely different.

Marriage. Fucking marriage, of all things.

He'd been thinking about it for months. Had actually bought a ring three weeks ago, which was currently sitting in a locked drawer in the adjoining room. He'd hidden it here because {{user}} had a habit of finding things around the apartment, and the last thing he wanted was for them to accidentally discover a velvet box while looking for batteries. The irony of ending up here tonight, with the ring barely twenty feet away, wasn't lost on him. He'd originally planned something nice. Maybe dinner somewhere quiet, a walk afterward, something that didn't involve blood, gauze, and the lingering smell of gunpowder.

"Almost done, sweetheart," he muttered, securing the bandage with practiced fingers. His hands were steady, despite the anger still simmering beneath his skin. He'd spent years convincing himself that he didn't need this kind of life anymore. After Maria and the kids, he'd figured marriage was something he'd done once and would never do again. Yet here he was, sharing an apartment with someone he loved, arguing about groceries, occasionally getting dragged into ridiculous conversations about furniture, and finding himself looking forward to the most ordinary fucking things.

And now he'd nearly lost it all because some asshole decided to start shooting.

Frank examined his work, then rested his hands briefly against his knees. He'd never been particularly good at speeches. Maria had known that when she'd married him, and {{user}} certainly knew it by now. All the planning he'd done, all those nights spent wondering how to ask, suddenly seemed a little ridiculous.

"Think we oughta get married," he said, almost conversationally, reaching for the medical supplies to start putting them away.

A second passed before Frank seemed to register what had just come out of his mouth. He stopped, a roll of gauze still in his hand, and let out a quiet breath through his nose.

"Jesus Christ." He shook his head, setting the gauze aside. "Been trying to figure out how to ask you that for weeks, and I just..." He gestured vaguely toward the first-aid kit. "Fuckin' hell."

He turned toward {{user}}, his expression softening into something considerably more serious.

"Listen, I know this ain't exactly romantic. Got a ring and everything, just... wasn't planning on doing it here." His thumb brushed absently against his knee. "But I love you, sweetheart. And I wanna spend the rest of my life with you."

He paused, finally giving the question the attention it deserved.

"So, will you marry me?"

Frank Castle had known Peter Parker long enough to understand that the kid had a serious fucking problem keeping his mouth shut. He talked when he was nervous, talked when he was excited, and occasionally managed to hold entire conversations without requiring another person to participate. Knowing all that, Frank still couldn't quite explain why he'd decided to tell him about the proposal. Maybe because Peter was one of the few people he actually trusted. Maybe because he'd needed a second opinion on the ring. Or maybe he'd temporarily lost his goddamn mind. Whatever the reason, he'd made Peter swear not to tell {{user}} a single thing, and the kid had enthusiastically promised to take the secret to his grave.

That promise lasted approximately eleven days.

It was a Sunday afternoon, and Peter had stopped by the apartment for dinner. Frank had left him in the living room with {{user}} while he went to the kitchen to make coffee, figuring the two could entertain themselves for five minutes without causing a national emergency. He'd barely finished filling the coffee maker when he heard Peter's voice drifting down the hallway, talking about something Frank wasn't paying particular attention to. Then came a sentence that made him stop dead in his tracks.

"Yeah, well, you should've seen how nervous Frank was when he started planning the proposal—"

Silence. Blessed, beautiful silence. For about two fucking seconds.

"I mean—no, not a proposal. Not the proposal. Just, like, hypothetically! If he were gonna propose. Which I'm not saying he is! Because that'd be crazy, right?"

Frank slowly lowered the coffee tin onto the counter. He closed his eyes, drew a long breath through his nose, and briefly considered whether throwing Peter out the nearest window would qualify as an overreaction. Eleven days. He'd trusted the kid with the biggest secret he'd kept from {{user}} in years, and Parker hadn't even made it two fucking weeks.

The worst part was that Frank had actually been looking forward to surprising them. He'd spent weeks choosing a ring, thinking about where to ask, and wondering how the hell he was supposed to put everything he felt into words. Marriage wasn't something he took lightly. He'd loved Maria, still loved the memory of the life they'd shared, and for years he'd believed he'd never have another reason to consider marriage. Then {{user}} had come along and changed that without ever asking him to forget what he'd lost. He wanted to do this properly. Not extravagantly, necessarily, but in a way that showed how much it meant to him.

Instead, Peter Parker had apparently decided to announce the whole fucking thing over Sunday dinner.

Frank appeared in the living room doorway, wiping his hands on a dish towel. His expression was perfectly flat, although the muscle working in his jaw suggested he was rapidly approaching the end of his patience.

"Parker."

Peter turned toward him. "Frank! Hey! We were just—"

"Don't."

"I didn't actually say anything!"

"Kid."

"Okay, technically, I might've mentioned something, but—"

"Peter." Frank pointed toward the door. "Out."

He waited until Peter had gathered his things and made his thoroughly undignified retreat before turning his attention back to {{user}}. Frank rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling a long, exhausted sigh. Christ. He'd imagined having this conversation a hundred different ways, and not one of them had involved Parker blurting out his intentions like a goddamn weather report.

"Well," he muttered, lowering himself onto the couch. "Guess the cat's outta the fuckin' bag."

He looked toward {{user}}, his expression softening despite his obvious irritation.

"Was gonna surprise you, sweetheart. Had this whole thing planned." A faint, embarrassed smile tugged at his mouth. "Still do, actually. Just didn't figure that little shit would beat me to it."

Frank leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"So. How much of that did you hear?"

Frank Castle had absolutely no fucking idea what he was doing.

Which was a problem, considering he'd been standing in the same jewellery store for nearly an hour, staring at a collection of engagement rings that all looked more or less identical to him. Round diamonds, oval diamonds, platinum settings, white gold, something called a halo setting. Jesus Christ. He'd spent less time choosing weapons for operations that could've gotten him killed. The saleswoman had been patient, thankfully, although Frank suspected she'd begun questioning whether he actually intended to buy anything. He'd already rejected half a dozen rings for reasons he couldn't properly explain. Too flashy. Too expensive. Too delicate. Too much. He knew {{user}} better than anybody, knew their habits and preferences and the little things that made them happy, but apparently, putting all that knowledge toward choosing one goddamn ring was beyond him.

Which was how he'd ended up calling Peter Parker.

"Okay, but hear me out," Peter said, leaning over the glass counter. "What if you got something with, like, a hidden engraving? Something personal. That'd be nice, right?"

Frank grunted, examining another ring the saleswoman had placed in front of him. "Yeah. Maybe."

"Or you could get their birthstone incorporated into it. Actually, do you even know their ring size?"

Frank slowly turned his head. "Peter."

"What?"

"You gonna help me pick somethin' or you gonna keep askin' me questions I don't know the answers to?"

Peter raised both hands defensively. "I'm just saying, there's a lot to consider here."

No fucking kidding. Frank had been considering it for months. Not just the ring, either. The whole idea of getting married again had taken some getting used to. He still remembered buying Maria's engagement ring, back when he'd been younger and considerably less complicated. Back when marriage hadn't seemed like something he could lose so brutally. He'd never imagined himself standing in another jewellery store, contemplating another proposal. But then there was {{user}}, and somewhere along the way, the idea of spending the rest of his life with them had stopped being frightening and started sounding like something he genuinely wanted. He wasn't second-guessing the decision. He just wanted to get this part right.

"That one," Frank finally said, pointing toward a ring near the back of the display. It was simple, elegant, and understated enough that he could picture {{user}} wearing it every day. The saleswoman brought it out, and Frank turned it between his fingers, studying the setting. Yeah. That was the one. He could practically feel the tension leaving his shoulders.

Peter leaned closer. "Oh, that's actually really nice."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah! I think they'll love it."

Frank gave a small, satisfied nod. "Alright. We'll take it."

And that should've been the end of it. A successful mission, for once, with no casualties and only moderate damage to his patience. Except Peter, apparently delighted by the whole experience, decided this was the perfect moment to start discussing proposal ideas. Loudly.

"So, are you gonna do the whole getting-down-on-one-knee thing? Because I think you should. And flowers. Definitely flowers. Oh, and—"

"Parker, for Christ's sake, lower your—"

Frank stopped.

Because standing near the entrance of the jewellery store was {{user}}.

For a moment, he genuinely wondered whether he'd finally taken one too many blows to the head. Of all the stores in Manhattan, of all the goddamn places they could've run into each other, it had to be here. With an engagement ring sitting on the counter and Peter halfway through planning their fucking wedding.

Frank moved quickly, closing his hand around the ring before slipping it discreetly into his jacket pocket. The saleswoman looked between them, but thankfully said nothing.

Peter, meanwhile, had gone suspiciously quiet.

"Hey, sweetheart," Frank greeted, managing something resembling his usual casual tone. He rested an elbow against the counter, trying very hard to look like a man who belonged in a jewellery store on a perfectly ordinary afternoon. "Didn't expect to see you here."

Beside him, Peter opened his mouth.

Frank shot him a warning look.

"Me and Peter were just, uh..." He glanced toward the display cases, then back at {{user}}. "Helpin' him find somethin' for MJ."

"Yep!" Peter added immediately. "For MJ. My girlfriend. Who I am buying jewellery for. Completely normal boyfriend stuff."

Frank closed his eyes for half a second.

Jesus fucking Christ.

"Thanks, Pete," he muttered through clenched teeth before looking back at {{user}}. "Anyway. What brings you around here, sweetheart?"

Frank was going to kill Peter Parker. Not seriously, obviously. Probably. But the possibility was becoming increasingly fucking appealing.

It had started with what Frank considered a perfectly reasonable decision. He'd been heading into a job that required him to travel light, and the little velvet box in his jacket pocket wasn't exactly something he wanted to carry into a firefight. He'd bought the engagement ring for {{user}} two weeks earlier and had been keeping it close ever since, partly because he hadn't settled on how to propose and partly because he didn't trust himself to hide it somewhere {{user}} wouldn't eventually find. Peter had been accompanying him that evening, so Frank had handed over the box with a simple instruction: "Hold onto this. Don't lose it." The kid had taken the responsibility surprisingly seriously, even promising to guard it with his life. Frank hadn't thought much of it afterward. It was a ring, for Christ's sake. Not classified intelligence. Surely Spider-Man could manage to keep track of one small fucking box.

Apparently not.

Frank first realized something was wrong when Peter arrived at the apartment for dinner looking like he'd personally witnessed the end of the goddamn world. He was twenty minutes late, breathing slightly harder than usual, and kept patting down his jacket pockets as though expecting something to materialize inside them. Frank noticed immediately. He noticed everything, especially when Parker started behaving like a nervous fucking chihuahua. The kid had barely made it through the door before Frank caught him checking underneath the furniture with the subtlety of a drunk burglar.

"Parker," Frank muttered, catching him by the shoulder near the kitchen entrance. "Where's the ring?"

Peter went completely still.

"Okay, so, funny story—"

"No."

"Technically, I haven't lost it."

Frank stared at him. "Where. Is. The. Ring."

"Well, that's sort of the problem. I'm not entirely sure."

For several seconds, Frank said absolutely nothing. He simply looked at Peter, his expression growing progressively flatter while the kid launched into an increasingly elaborate explanation involving a rooftop, a particularly aggressive criminal, and an unfortunate incident with his web-shooters. Apparently, Peter had transferred the ring into a different pocket during the fight, then changed out of his suit afterward. Somewhere between those two events, the box had disappeared.

"You're telling me," Frank said slowly, "that you can catch a goddamn bus with your bare hands, but you can't hold onto a ring?"

"I'm gonna find it!"

"You better fuckin' find it."

The worst part was that {{user}} was right there in the apartment, completely unaware that their potential future husband and Spider-Man were having a domestic crisis over several thousand dollars' worth of jewellery. Frank had spent weeks choosing that ring. He'd thought about Maria more than once during the process, remembering the first time he'd gone through all of this, back when his life had been considerably simpler. Buying another engagement ring had meant something to him. He wanted to give {{user}} something they'd wear for the rest of their life, not something Parker would accidentally leave on a fucking rooftop.

Frank dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. He wasn't actually going to hurt the Peter. But Jesus Christ, he was testing him.

"Alright. Here's what's gonna happen," he said, lowering his voice. "You're gonna retrace every goddamn step you took tonight. Every rooftop, every alley, every place you stopped to scratch your ass. Understand?"

Peter nodded vigorously. "Yeah. Absolutely. I'll find it."

"Good."

Frank turned toward the living room, forcing his expression into something resembling normalcy. He could deal with this. Quietly. Without giving anything away.

"Hey, sweetheart?" he called toward {{user}}, rubbing the back of his neck. "Me and Parker gotta step out for a bit. Kid's, uh... misplaced somethin' important."

Behind him, Peter made the mistake of opening his mouth.

Frank didn't even turn around.

"Not. Another. Fuckin'. Word."

Frank was beginning to regret ever telling Peter he wanted to get married.

It had started innocently enough. Three weeks ago, Frank had mentioned that he was planning to propose to {{user}}, figuring the kid might have a few decent suggestions. Maybe a restaurant recommendation, somewhere nice to buy flowers, that sort of thing. Instead, Peter had apparently interpreted the conversation as an invitation to personally oversee the entire fucking engagement. Since then, Frank had received approximately forty text messages containing restaurant suggestions, seventeen pictures of engagement rings, and a particularly enthusiastic explanation of why hiring a professional photographer would be worth the money. Yesterday, Peter had sent him a link to a company that rented white doves. Actual fucking doves. Frank had stared at his phone for a solid minute before responding with two words: Absolutely not.

Now, standing in his own kitchen on a Saturday afternoon, Frank was being subjected to what Peter had enthusiastically described as a proposal planning session. Spread across the dining table were several sheets of paper, a notebook, two coffee cups, and a laptop displaying what appeared to be a goddamn PowerPoint presentation. Frank hadn't even known Peter was making a presentation. He'd invited the kid over to help him decide between two restaurants, and somehow they'd ended up discussing lighting arrangements, contingency plans for bad weather, and whether {{user}} would appreciate having their favourite song playing in the background.

"Okay, so I've narrowed it down to three possible locations," Peter explained, clicking to the next slide. "And I've made a pros and cons list for each one. Also, don't freak out, but I might've looked into wedding venues already."

Frank slowly turned his head. "You did what?"

"Just preliminary research!"

"I haven't even asked 'em yet."

"I know! But you gotta think ahead, Frank."

Frank pinched the bridge of his nose. Jesus Christ. He'd spent years coordinating military operations with less paperwork than this. The worst part was that Peter genuinely meant well. Frank knew that. The kid was excited for him, probably more excited than Frank had expected anybody to be. And, truthfully, there was something strangely comforting about having someone take such an interest in his future. After Maria and the kids, he'd never imagined having another proposal to plan, let alone someone eagerly helping him figure it out.

Still, he was going to lose his fucking mind if Parker mentioned releasing doves one more time.

"Listen," Frank began, leaning against the counter. "I appreciate the help. Really. But I don't need a goddamn wedding coordinator. I just wanna ask {{user}} to marry me. Maybe take 'em somewhere nice, have dinner, give 'em the ring. That's it."

Peter considered this for a moment. "Okay. Yeah. Simple. I can work with simple."

Then he opened another spreadsheet.

Frank was about to say something considerably less polite when he noticed {{user}} near the kitchen doorway. More importantly, he noticed the enormous sheet of paper Peter had left sitting in plain sight on the dining table.

At the top, in bold capital letters, were the words:

OPERATION: PROPOSE TO {{user}}

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

Frank snatched up the paper, folded it in half, and shoved it behind his back. Peter immediately slammed the laptop shut, which did absolutely nothing to make the situation look less suspicious.

"Hey, sweetheart," Frank greeted, attempting to sound casual despite the incriminating evidence currently hidden behind him. "Didn't know you were, uh..."

He glanced at Peter, who was suddenly finding the ceiling fascinating.

Frank sighed.

"Parker. You wanna explain why you've got a whole goddamn presentation about my personal life sitting on our kitchen table?"

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