Chapter Text
Somewhere in the distance, her mother laughed, and the sound warmed Bea to the core. It was rare, so foreign, and Bea knew then: it was only a dream.
She blinked slowly awake, feeling only half-there as she desperately tried to remember the dream. It’d felt soft, like sunlight and the smell of pancakes, bare feet on cool floorboards. Her mother had been there. Maybe. Or not, it didn’t matter. The feeling lingered anyway, golden and light, like someone had cracked open her ribcage and was cradling her heart in warm hands.
The room around her looked how she felt—half-empty, but warm and still. The early morning light caught dust motes in the air, moth-eaten curtains casting slow-moving patterns across the ceiling.
It took a second to place the feeling: Bea was rested. She had slept.
And the reason why was still snoring gently beside her with an arm slung across Bea’s waist, fingers twitching slightly in sleep. He was still in his Spider-Man suit—minus the mask, which was presumably still on the floor—but his face was peaceful. He looked younger, softer like this, with the light casting his curls in pale gold.
She trailed fingers through his hair and down the nape of his neck, careful to avoid his skin with her cold hands, and her gaze caught the curve of his jaw, the incline of his nose, the shape of his mouth.
Jesus.
Bea had experienced plenty of things she wouldn’t soon forget, and Peter Parker’s lips were one of them.
But that wasn’t the only thing that had happened last night. The warmth began to seep from her bones as she remembered.
She’d run. Fallen—jumped, practically—from the Tower balcony, flown across the city like a ghost with nowhere to haunt, and somehow found herself in the last place she should be. The last place she wanted to be. And now, Tony—
Tony must be losing his mind.
Peter stirred beside her as familiar tension started to crawl back in, but the flutter of his lashes, the sleepy crease of his brow, slowed her spiral. He blinked at her, dazed, like he hadn’t quite remembered where he was either.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice thick. “Good morning.”
Bea smiled, worries held at bay. “Good morning.”
He shifted, propping himself on one elbow. “You slept.”
“Yeah,” she breathed. “I think I did.”
Peter let out a quiet laugh, like he didn’t quite believe it either. Their eyes met. Then his face sobered. “We should probably talk about last night.”
Dread settled back in the pit of her stomach at his tone.
“Yeah,” she said. “Sure, okay.” She shoved the covers off and sat up, criss-crossed with her back against the wall. She didn’t meet his eye. He would say it was a mistake, they shouldn’t have kissed. And of course, he was right—just another idiotic fumble from someone who couldn’t stop fumbling.
“Mr Stark called me.”
She looked at him then, brow furrowed. It was the last thing she’d expected him to say. He sat up too, slowly, as if to not scare her away. He leant back against her headboard, though their knees were still bumping.
“He said you were gone,” Peter explained. “He was freaking out, he didn’t tell me everything, but he didn’t have to. I thought he was just mad I was patrolling after hours, but when he said you left … I told him I’d look.”
Oh.
“You knew I’d come here,” she filled. “How? I didn’t even know I was coming here.”
“I had a feeling.”
“Like your tingle?”
“No,” he said with a small laugh. “No, nothing spider-y. I just … This place wasn’t great for you, I know that, but it meant a lot to you. Your mom meant a lot to you.”
There was a question in there, deep beneath all the layers of grief and unspoken solidarity, and it was one she didn’t quite know how to answer.
“I’ve fought monsters,” Peter continued. “Real ones. I’ve seen what they do. How they manipulate people and hurt people to get what they want. And I know you think you’re just like them, but I hate to break it to you—you’re a pretty terrible monster.”
Bea gave a soft snort.
“I’m serious. You care too much, you’re too nice. You’re smart and logical and you’re always putting other people before yourself. You’re strong. And nothing—not what happened, not what they did—can take that away from you.”
His voice cracked, and something in Bea cracked too.
“You’re good, Bea,” he said, like it was the only thing that mattered. “The best of them, and I’ll spend entire lifetimes making sure you know it.”
Tears threatened and she wanted to hide, to climb back under the covers and let her bed swallow her whole, but then Peter reached out a hand and she took it. Without thinking, Bea gave three quick squeezes.
He brushed a thumb over her knuckles before standing, collecting his mask off the floor.“How does breakfast sound?”
Bea looked around the room. It was still a mess—half-empty, more memories than dust motes and barely any of them good—but the light was soft, and Peter’s hand was warm in hers. “Breakfast sounds fucking amazing.”
He helped her up and together they left, closing Bea’s door behind them and bypassing all the bad in the rest of the apartment. The front door was heavier than she remembered but Peter didn’t let them linger, making sure to lock it on the way out.
The hall was dark and quiet, and Bea wondered what the actual time was. Surely people should be up and on their way to work, racing up and down the stairs, but all she noticed was a quiet humming and an acrid chemical smell, like someone had freshly painted their apartment.
Peter’s apartment was seven steps down the hall, but when old Mr Lee in apartment 705 swung his front door open and shouted at his cat to stay put, Bea had the awful realisation that Peter was still unmasked.
She elbowed him urgently in the ribs, jerking her chin toward the open door, but Peter only laughed and tugged the mask over his head. He turned towards Mr Lee and offered a friendly wave.
“Morning, Mr Lee, sir,” he said.
But Mr Lee only powered on. “Precisely why we can’t have nice things anymore,” he grumbled as he started towards the stairs. “Kids in lycra with nothing better to do, thinking they own the city, every man and their dog turning everything into another goddamn computer. Back in my day …”
He disappeared downstairs, muttering the entire way. Bea turned to Spider-Man and at the amused look in those freaky white eyes, she laughed.
“C’mon,” he said, and unlocked his door.
Inside, someone was stacking plates, moving hurriedly around the kitchen.
“Pete, that you?” Aunt May called, slamming a cupboard door closed. “Shit, sorry,” she said to the cupboard. “Pete, I gotta take off, I’m already late, but you and me are going to have a good long chat about your curfew—”
May rounded the corner and froze at the sight of Bea, who was desperately trying to look less guilty than she felt. In her peripherals, Pete pulled his mask off again.
“Hey, May,” he said, a little bashfully. “Thought you’d be at work by now.”
“That was the idea,” May said, falling into her rhythm again, stuffing a change of clothes into a tote bag. “Beatrice, honey, always lovely to see you. I’m sorry I have to go, but does your, uh …” May looked to Peter, who gave a slightly panicked shrug. “Does Tony know you’re here?”
Bea’s shoulders drop. Her phone was still at the Tower.
“I spoke to him last night,” Peter answered for her. “He knows, it’s all good.”
May didn’t seem totally convinced. “We’re having a family meeting tonight, young man,” she said, less harshly than she probably intended. “I have to go, I’m very very late for work, but Bea, I’m so glad to see you, I hope to see more of you around soon!”
She planted a big kiss on Peter’s temple and squeezed Bea’s shoulder as she passed. May gave one last, “Love you guys!” as the door closed behind her.
The silence was stifling.
“Tony knows I’m here?” Bea asked, voice quiet.
Peter nodded. “He’s, uh … on his way.”
Her stomach sank. “Is he mad? He’s probably so mad.”
“He sounded worried. I don’t think he’s mad.” Peter looked around the room. “Listen, do you want to shower? Or you can just get changed, I have fresh clothes you can borrow. I’ll make breakfast and then we can talk, alright?”
Bea always thought her last meal would be a bit more extravagant. Nevertheless, she nodded and let Peter lead her to his room, hand her a pair of sweatpants (“They’re not his,” Peter had assured her. “Walter’s, from that night. I, uh … I burned them. Sorry.”) and an old, too-large shirt that read I survived my trip to NYC. He showed her to the bathroom, even though she remembered only too well, and left her to change. The shower was daunting and the idea of getting her hair wet was daunting enough to send her off the side of another skyscraper, so she simply changed. She folded her old clothes in a small pile and tucked them into her hoodie, before lacing up her boots again and heading back out to face the music.
Peter was a chef. Sure, the pancakes he’d made were flat, some in the stack darker than others, and came from a shaker mix, but they were fresh and warm and drowning in berries and syrup. Hot coffees were brewing on the side, and he was waiting for her at the table. He’d changed too, into sleep shorts and a t-shirt.
Pete’s phone buzzed softly on the table beside him, lighting up with a text before fading to black. He didn’t check it. Instead, he nudged the chair beside him with his foot in invitation.
Despite their appearance, the pancakes were delicious and the coffee was rich and rousing. She expected Peter to talk more about last night, to mention the kiss, or ask about her disastrous testimony, but he must have known she didn’t need any of that.
They talked about school, strangely, and college—something she hadn’t given thought to in a good long while. They talked about how overdue they were for a movie marathon, and that maybe they should get everyone together one night soon.
Bea relaxed into it, like thawing ice, and for a while it was almost like they were normal teenagers again. Then came the name she’d been haunted by for weeks.
“I talked to Celia,” said Peter. “Last week. We got paired up in PE.”
Bea’s fork paused mid-air. “What did she say?”
“That she’s sorry. That she doesn’t know how to fix it.”
She exhaled through her nose. “I know I’m being weird about it. I just … It’s hard, knowing she was there. That close to—”
“You’re not being weird.” Peter’s voice was steady, serious. “It’s hard because it was hard. You went through hell. If you want to be mad at her, be mad at her. They’re your feelings.”
Bea didn’t respond right away. But she nodded, grateful for the permission, even if she didn’t know what to do with it yet.
Then a knock sounded at the door.
Peter sighed and stood, brushing his hands on his shorts. “That’ll be Mr Stark. Are you ready?”
“No,” Bea said with a weary sigh. “But yeah, I guess so.”
He offered one last encouraging smile before he disappeared towards the front door and returned a moment later with Tony Stark.
Tony looked like he hadn’t slept. His eyes were dark, his mouth set in a hard line.
“Morning,” he said.
Bea grimaced. “Hi.”
He turned towards Peter and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll drive you to school. Go get ready, the kid and I need to have a chat.”
Peter looked between Tony and Bea as if unsure he should leave, but Tony squeezed his shoulder gently and he nodded. He quickly darted back to the table to finish the last of his coffee, sneaking a small squeeze of Bea’s hand before he left to his room, the door closing loudly behind him.
Tony stepped into the kitchen like he owned it—which, knowing him, he might—and helped himself to the coffee machine. He moved slowly, methodically. “Peter said you slept.”
Bea tensed, unsure where this was going.
He turned to her, steaming cup in hand. His face was unreadable. “What did you take?”
She blinked. “What?”
“Last time you slept through the night,” he said, voice soft but pointed, “you were self-medicating.”
“I didn’t take anything,” Bea snapped, sharper than she meant to. “Jesus, I didn’t—you think I’d—”
Tony raised a hand. “I’m not accusing, just asking.” He took a sip of coffee. “I’m just trying to understand.”
She looked away, jaw clenched. “I didn’t take anything. I was just … tired.”
Tony nodded once. “Okay.”
Silence again. Then, more gently, he asked, “Why’d you leave?”
Bea stared at the floor. “I’m sorry. It was stupid.”
“Sure was,” Tony said, not unkindly. “But that’s not what I asked.”
Her throat felt tight. She knew why, but finding the words … “I wanted to feel something else,” she said. “Anything else. I’ve been walking around with this pit in my chest, and all I ever feel is shame, and it’s so heavy. I’m so ashamed, of all of it, and I just—I couldn’t bear it anymore.”
Tony didn’t speak right away. He looked down into his mug.
“I didn’t know,” he said finally. “About Walter. What you said during your testimony, I didn’t realise how bad it was.”
“It’s fine,” Bea said, out of reflex.
“No, it’s not.” Tony looked up, eyes sharp. “You say that a lot. But it’s not fine, Bea. That kind of thing, it leaves marks.”
She shrugged. “I’ve dealt with worse.”
“That doesn’t mean you should’ve had to. Honestly, with what you’ve been through? You’ve got every right to turn into a full-blown supervillain.”
Bea gave a hollow laugh. “Well, I did kill three people.”
Tony shook his head. “That’s not the same, and you know it.”
Bea looked down at her hands. “Sure I do.”
Tony knew better than to offer platitudes, to say everything would be okay. There was no going back to before, and that fact had never been clearer than now. So they remained where they were, quietly sipping their coffees.
“You hungry?” he asked eventually.
“I already ate,” she said, gesturing towards her empty plate.
Tony grinned faintly. “Yeah, I can see that. Your shirt’s a crime scene.”
"Barely." She glanced down at the oversized tee and the small spots where syrup had dropped. “It’s Peter’s,” she said, as if that meant anything.
“I know,” he said. “I bought it for him. Just saying, kid, I would’ve brought you clean clothes if you’d warned me you were crashing here.”
There it was again—the all-too-familiar shame.
Peter reappeared then, backpack slung over one shoulder. His curls were brushed back, his shoes tied neatly. He looked so put-together, Bea found herself missing the sleepy mess of him from this morning.
They were both yet to bring up the kiss. But, she supposed, the moment was over, and pretending it hadn’t happened at all was safer than asking what it meant.
“Don’t you clean up well,” she said brightly, eager to shift the conversation.
“Alright, keep it PG,” Tony said, draining the last of his coffee. “Let’s drop our honour student off before he gets detention.”
Bea stacked the plates and left them in the sink, and Tony rinsed his mug after her, letting some of the water wash the sticky syrup off the other dishes. He ushered them quickly out the door and Peter locked up behind them all. Bea, her bundle clothes under an arm, moved automatically towards the stairwell, but Tony had stopped at the elevator.
She frowned and opened her mouth to tell him the beast had been out of order since 1991, but the sign was missing. More concerning was the quiet humming she’d heard before, louder now, like the turning of gears. When Tony pressed the elevator button, it lit up.
Tony frowned at her floored expression. “You good?”
“The elevator,” she said as Peter joined them. “It’s working."
“Uh, yeah,” said Tony. “You feeling alright?”
“The elevator’s never worked.”
Tony shrugged. “So I spent a bit of money.”
“On an elevator?”
“Among other things.”
Bea deadpanned. “You bought the building.”
“Well, your landlord—delightful fellow, mind you—he refused to sell just the one apartment, and the whole rent thing was ridiculous. He put your rent up twice, and that was even before we found you the first time”
“So you bought the whole building.”
“Naturally,” he said, looking amused. “C’mon, you should be used to this by now. We Starks don’t do anything halfway.”
Peter looked around like he was seeing it for the first time, too. Bea still didn’t know whether to be irritated or impressed.
Tony had parked on the street, right outside the door. Bea called shotgun before Peter had even stepped outside, and he didn’t even fight her for it—he graciously opened the passenger door before climbing into the back seat.
Bea caught Tony rolling his eyes, though there was a small smile.
The drive wasn’t too long, still early enough that traffic was bearable, but people were starting to emerge and head to work, to school, to wherever it was they were going.
Peter and Tony chattered the entire way about suit upgrades and patrol rotations, about the old Dominican lady who hooked Peter up with churros every Thursday night. Bea chimed in occasionally, but mostly she just listened.
As they pulled up to the school, Bea found her shoulders and neck tenser than ever. More people were milling about the front steps than she’s expected—students, parents, staff. Familiar faces. Bea kept her head down. She found herself searching the crowd for Celia, but she mustn’t have arrived yet. A blessing, probably.
“Hey, Pete,” Tony said, twisting in the driver’s seat. Peter was pulling his backpack on. “Why don’t you swing by the Tower tomorrow. It’s the weekend, May won’t mind me stealing you for one day. We’ll look at your web shooters, have some lunch with the team. Sound good?”
“Sounds great,” Peter said, grinning, but when he looked to Bea he found her still staring out the window. He hesitated before leaving. “See you later, Bea.”
She didn’t look at him. “Yeah. Later.”
The car door thunked closed behind him. Tony pulled away slowly, a quiet settling into the space between them. Bea shifted in her seat, arms around the bundle of her old clothes, Peter’s too-big shirt brushing her elbows.
They were halfway to the Tower when Bea finally said, “What if we just went to court?”
Tony glanced sideways. “What, and skipped the part where you put on real pants?”
“I’m not going in with you,” she assured him. "But you need to testify and it’s going to take too long to go by the Tower. I’ll just wait in the family room. Trust me, it’ll be fine.”
Tony sighed. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah.” She sounded less believable than she liked, but Tony switched lanes anyway, and turned in the direction of the courthouse.
And what a mistake it was. She would’ve been better off getting dropped in the middle of the street than walking through the back entrance of the courthouse looking like she did. It was a painful sight—Tony in his fancy suit, sunglasses and hair perfectly quaffed, and Bea, dressed in borrowed clothes, hair looking ridiculous and not an ounce of makeup to hide the dark circles under her eyes.
Only Jen had witnessed them, thankfully, and had quickly directed Bea to the family room. She assured her that no one would bother her, and as soon as Tony was finished he’d come pick her up.
She felt oddly like a toddler.
And then she was alone. No sound crept into the room, and Bea was left alone with the steady, rhythmic ticking of the analog clock on the far wall and the tapping noise coming from an air-conditioning vent. For the past thirty minutes, Bea had sat. Her phone was still at the Tower, and there was absolutely nothing to do to distract her from the long seconds, minutes and hours. She read pamphlet son legal aid and court etiquette until her eyes blurred, even played with some of the children’s toys, but eventually—she’d had enough. She stood, stretching her stiff muscles, and left the room.
The halls were empty, but she was so utterly bored, she wasn’t sure she’d mind someone seeing her if only it meant human company. She found those large wooden double doors that led to the courtroom where Tony was probably getting grilled to the nines for saving her. Some more gratitude and less selfishness would probably go a long way.
A water fountain stood nearby. She approached it, and took a long drink.
And nearly choked when a door slammed open and a familiar red-haired figure appeared.
Celia looked pale, shaken. Her panicked eyes scanned the hallway, face flushed and tears spilling down her cheeks. She froze when she spotted Bea.
Bea wasn’t much better off. The fountain was still running, and she had to consciously pry her hand off the button. “Are you …” she started, stepping towards Celia. “Are you okay?”
Celia shook her head, wiping her face. Bea wanted to look away, to give her the privacy she needed, but there was nowhere to go. “It’s a lot in there.”
“What are you doing here?”
Celia swallowed, gesturing to the double doors behind her. “Called to testify.”
Bea’s stomach dropped. “Against Cross?”
She nodded.
“I’m sorry,” Bea said without thinking. “You shouldn’t have to—”
“Listen,” Celia interrupted. “You can stay, if you want. Hear the whole story. It didn’t come out right at school, and I’m sorry for that, but if you wanted to hear it properly, I … I wouldn’t mind.”
Bea hesitated, and the silence between them sounded like answer enough. Celia nodded, and before Bea could even contemplate stopping her, she turned on her heel and disappeared down a corridor.
Bea didn’t move—couldn’t, even. Like if she did, she’d risk shattering the fragile understanding that had just been offered. Bea didn’t know what she wanted, but the part of her that had been writhing for weeks with anger and uncertainty felt just a little quieter.
She returned to the family room and waited.
It was another half hour before someone broke the silence. Tony knocked before he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. He didn’t speak, didn’t tell her to get off her butt and get in the car. He only crossed the room and collapsed on the tacky sofa beside her.
“How’d it go?” Bea asked distantly, eyes unfocused on a spot in the carpet.
“Swimmingly. Real cheerful in there.” He dragged a hand down his face. “Lots’a questions, plenty of mind games. But it’s done.” He nodded, glancing at her. “You ready to take off?”
She chewed her lip, blinking a few times before turning to look at him. “I, uh …”
“You uh?”
Bea rolled her eyes. “I was wondering if we could stay. Just a little bit.”
“What the hell for?” He frowned, but must have caught the look in her eye. “It’s the Barrett kid, isn’t it?”
She didn’t answer.
Tony sighed. “Fine, alright, we can stay.”
“You’re serious?”
“On one condition,” he said, holding out a finger. “If I say we need to leave, we leave. No heroics.”
Bea nodded.
“I mean it.”
“Understood.”
Together, they left the family room and made their way down the hall to the double doors. People were milling about outside and Bea could feel their eyes on her as Tony opened a door for her, but she didn’t care. The weight of her mother’s necklace was like a grounding force as she stepped inside.
The courtroom looked exactly the same as it had yesterday. The fluorescent lights were just as bright, and her chest was just as tight, but the panic was gone. The power Cross held over her had diminished slightly, because she wasn’t here for him. This time, she was here for Celia.
They took their seats at the very back of the courtroom, ready for an easy escape as always, and waited as people came back in and took their own seats. Neither Tony or Bea spoke—whether too afraid to break whatever spell of confidence Bea was under, or simply because there was nothing to be said, Bea wasn’t sure.
Before Bea could second-guess her decision and tell Tony she’d made a mistake, the gavel fell with a sharp crack and the room quietened. She’d missed the judge’s entrance, missed Cross’s. His silhouette taunted her from the front row.
The judge nodded toward the prosecution bench.
Jennifer stood. “The prosecution calls Celia Barrett to the stand,” she said.
From somewhere in the rows to her left, Celia stood. She was paler than she’d been earlier, trembling visibly even from the back of the room. Despite everything that had happened, Bea desperately wished she could hold her friend’s hand through this.
Celia placed her right hand on the same battered bible Bea had, and listened as the bailiff spoke. “Do you solemnly swear that the testimony you are about to give will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
She swallowed. “I do.”
And so, her story began.