Work Text:
Peter somehow didn't notice the sofa cushion that had migrated into the doorway; it was only his abnormally fast reflexes that saved his newly cracked can of Cherry Coke from an ignoble demise on the carpet of the living room (and him from a very unhappy sister-in-law). He blinked at the offending object from his new, slightly sprawled position on the floor.
It was only then that he noticed that the cushion which had tripped him was not the only one. In fact, all of the sofa cushions were removed from their usual positions, and several of the dining room chairs had been moved into the living room as well. Peter raised an eyebrow as he noticed Ben Grimm, seated on the floor just beyond the chairs, hunched over so as not to dislodge a cushion that had been propped up a few inches above his head.
"Ben? What's going on?" For the life of him, Peter couldn't figure out what the big man was doing seated amidst this ... chaos. Ben, for his part, replied with only a long-suffering sigh as a small blond boy marched into the room through the other entrance, his thin arms weighted down with a mound of sheets and blankets that threatened to bury him. He dropped them next to the mess with a short exhalation, smiling proudly at his accomplishment.
"We're buildin' a fort." Ben finally stated, deciding that it was easier to simply tell Peter what was going on at this point. Neither of them expected the youngest Richards to do a near-perfect impression of his mother when angered: hands on his hips, lips pursed. Ben and Peter looked at each other in confusion.
"It's not a fort!" Franklin exclaimed, his four-year-old voice somehow managing to make two grown men feel like complete idiots. "It's a clubhouse."
"Oh, really?" Peter smiled, situating himself more comfortably on the floor to watch Franklin continue his construction efforts. "What kind of club?"
"One you can't belong to." Franklin stated matter-of-factly, tucking the edge of a blanket in securely to the edge of the stripped-down couch.
Despite himself, Peter felt just a little bit offended. "Why not?"
Franklin fixed him with his best "adults are stupid" stare. "Because it's a club just for Bens, that's why!"
Peter took a moment to digest this. "You mean it's a club just for people named Ben?" Franklin nodded seriously. "But... your name is Franklin, not Ben." Again with the stare.
"My middle name is named after my Uncle Ben!"
Peter smiled. "Middle names count?" Another nod. "Well then, I can be in the club!"
Franklin looked at him suspiciously. "Your middle name is named Ben, too?" It was Peter's turn to nod.
"My middle name was named after my Uncle Ben." He confided, causing Franklin to grin happily.
"Okay!" Apparently satisfied with this, Franklin set about pressing Peter into service helping with the construction of the all-important clubhouse.
000ooo000ooo000
It was a little less than an hour later that Johnny realized he hadn't seen Peter in some time, and began to worry. Well, not "worry" exactly. "Worry" was reserved for when Doc Ock escaped from prison for the eighteen-millionth time and came after Spider-Man again. This was the nagging feeling that Pete had gotten involved in one of Reed's projects again and Johnny wouldn't see him for a week or until an explosion forced them out of the lab.
A quick check-in with Sue (who was busily attempting to put together a casserole while the boys were occupied with something else and not bothering her) pointed him to the living room, where he was confronted with a monstrosity the like of which he had never seen. He recognized the green fleece blanket that he and Peter liked to cuddle under to watch movies in the evenings, but he had never before seen it juxtaposed with Sue and Reed's maroon pinstriped sheet set and his own orange comforter (bought because it matched Ben and, therefore, annoyed Ben).
The overall effect was ... jarring, to say the least, particularly when it was arranged in startlingly asymmetrical fashion, with high peaks and low sagging points seemingly at random. And then there was the finishing touch, a sign scrawled in crayon (though in Peter's handwriting, despite his efforts to make it seem more childish) and stuck to one of the peaks with several strips of scotch tape. It read:
Johnny did a doubletake at the misspelling. The handwriting was definitely Peter's, but even if he'd written it under Franklin's direction, he knew that his nephew already could spell such a simple phrase correctly (he was already shaping up to be just as smart as his father, which was why Johnny vowed to teach the kid useful stuff, like how to fix cars and pick up normal girls who couldn't do quantum physics in their heads).
"Pete? Are you in there?" He questioned, contemplating knocking on the structure but fearing total collapse if he touched it incorrectly.
There was a rustle from within.
"There's no Petes here!" Franklin's muffled voice made its way through the makeshift wall. "This is a club for Bens!"
"What?" Johnny was now utterly confused. "Pete! What's going on?" He tried again. This time, Peter's head appeared through a flap that had been (hopefully) built into the structure.
"It's a club. For people who are named Ben." He grinned up at his lover, who only looked more confused.
"But... You and Franklin aren't named Ben!" He insisted, wishing that Peter would come out of the "clubhouse" and talk to him properly. The mishmash of colors was making him slightly nauseous.
"Middle names count!" Franklin's small voice insisted from inside the structure. Peter nodded seriously.
"Exactly."
"You can't come in, Uncle Johnny! You're not named Ben!" Johnny thought he heard Franklin continue in a softer voice, urging Peter not to let him in. He rolled his eyes.
"Come on, Pete! We were gonna watch Clerks before dinner, right?"
Peter's head smiled apologetically at him. "Sorry. We're making up the club bylaws, and I'm the Treasurer so I really can't leave. We'll watch it after dinner, okay?" His head disappeared back into the clubhouse, leaving Johnny standing outside, gaping.
"Hey! Peter!" Johnny couldn't believe he'd been ditched for a four-year-old. Well, okay, Franklin was a pretty exceptional four-year-old, and Johnny loved his nephew to bits, but...
"Calm down, Sparky. You'll get your boyfriend back later." Ben's deep voice rumbled out from the fort, and Johnny realized that he'd probably lost this battle, if Franklin had managed to capture two of his uncles at the same time.
"Will you at least tell me why you misspelled the sign?!" He was rather embarrassed that he sounded as desperate as he did, but if he was losing Peter for half the evening, he really had to know.
There was a slight pause, and then Ben and Peter's half-laughing voices proclaimed in unison, "Authenticity!"
Yup. He had totally lost. With a sigh, he decided to go see what he could do to help dinner arrive sooner.