Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Beatrice toed through rain-slicked streets, dodging puddles and potholes as the sun dipped below the skyline. She barely registered the train passing overhead, the distant car horns and the scurrying of rats in the shadows—this part of Queens was familiar; it was home. She looked both ways before crossing the street, pulling her keys from her bag as she approached her building. Her hands trembled as she found the door handle, feeling suddenly queasy. Bea paused, barely meeting her own eyes in the dirty reflection. Don’t be a coward.

With a sharp breath and a shake of her head, she went inside. She took the stairs one step at a time, slowing as she got closer to the seventh floor. The shouting from apartment 712 was crystal clear. Beatrice winced; the drinking didn’t usually start until dinnertime. The poor neighbours. Of course, she’d never had the audacity to introduce herself—Beatrice was certain apartment 712 was the most hated of them all—but she knew her closest neighbours, the Parkers, knew, and she hated it.

Beatrice’s left shoulder instinctively twinged as she pushed the key into the lock and turned. She slipped into the apartment as quickly as she could to keep the argument from spilling into the hall, but the sight before her was enough to make her regret ever opening the door in the first place. Mom was on the kitchen floor, an arm outstretched to protect her face from Walter, screaming at the very top of his lungs. Beatrice spotted a bottle of something in one hand, the other poised to hit her mom. There was nothing Bea could do to stop the resounding smack. Her mom crumpled to the floor, cradling the new welt on her forearm, and Walter stood straight. With a sniff, he took a long swig of drink before announcing, “Going out. Clean yourself up, Nancy, for fuck’s sake.”

Mom whimpered, curling further into herself. Walter turned, his beady eyes finding Beatrice still at the door. She hated the satisfied gleam of them, the smirk on his lips. “And where’ve you been?”

“School,” she said. “Education comes first, right?”

“Are you sassing me, girl?”

Beatrice tilted her chin up. “Never, sir.”

He nodded, gaze dipping low enough to make her skin crawl, and shoved her aside. She didn’t let herself breathe until the door clicked shut behind him, and he was gone. Beatrice's legs turned to liquid and she fell to her knees. “Mom?” she whispered, crawling to her mother’s side. “Are you okay?”

It was a stupid question, but she’d tried ‘leave the bastard’ and ‘why do you put up with him?’ enough times to know it brought nothing but pain for both of them.

“Yes, baby,” her mom croaked. “I’m okay.”

Beatrice helped her sit up and stood to fetch her a glass of water. “Want to tell me what that was about?”

“Oh, you know,” she said. “This and that.”

The same roundabout answer Bea had always gotten. She took the water glass to her mom’s lips and helped her drink. In the light, Beatrice could see just how much worse her mom looked. Her cheek had begun to swell and bruise, and there was a small cut on her bottom lip. Growing up, Beatrice never stopped hearing just how much she looked like her mom. Their identical noses, big brown eyes that shone golden in the sunlight, untameable hair and temperaments to match—once upon a time, at least. The only difference between them was their skin. Her mother had a beautiful, dark complexion but Beatrice’s was a shade lighter—her oh-so-generous father’s only contribution. Of course, living with a man like Walter had its consequences. On nights like these, colour wasn’t the only difference in their skin because, more often than not, her mom was plagued with bruises, cuts and grazes. How could any woman live with a man like him?

Beatrice sighed. “When is this going to end, Mom? When will enough be enough?”

“Soon, honey,” she said, putting the glass down. “I promise this won’t be forever." Another promise, broken as soon as it’s made. Another glimpse of false hope. Fool’s gold. Her mom looked up at Beatrice, squinting at the kitchen lights, and forced a chuckle. “Any chance you could help me out?”

Beatrice paused, toying with her hands. “What’s gonna happen when I’m not here to patch you up anymore? When I’m at college and it’s just you and him? I can’t keep fixing this for you.” She stood, ignoring the sinking feeling in her stomach. “Maybe you need to actually see the consequences for it to sink in. Before it’s too late.”

She couldn’t have left fast enough. Her sneakers slipped on the linoleum more than once, but she couldn’t stand the look of betrayal in her mother’s eyes. Bea made sure to lock her bedroom door behind her before sinking to the floor. Her insides burned with the shame and guilt of it all. After everything, easing her mother’s pain was the least Beatrice could do, but … this was necessary. If she wanted anything to change … She was doing the right thing, wasn’t she?

The apartment was silent now, her bedroom slightly aglow with the light of the setting sun. Beatrice couldn’t tell if her mother had gotten up or if she was still on the kitchen floor, if she was hating Beatrice or if she thought, at last, my daughter has grown a backbone.

It took longer than usual for Beatrice to feel safe again. Knowing no one was going to come barging in, locked door or not, gave her a rare peace of mind. Slowly, she stood and slipped the backpack off her shoulders, collapsing on her bed. She was up to her eyes in homework and had missed messages from Celia, but she couldn’t even bring herself to talk to her best friend, let alone study. Instead, she pulled her earphones out of her bag and stared at her ceiling for a few hours, drowning out the world with some Fleetwood Mac. Bruises and scrapes seemed like nothing against the tortures of the mind. She used to meditate to work through her feelings, but not thinking at all was so much easier. Save it all for ‘one day’, she’d tell herself. In ten years’ time when she could afford real therapy.

She heard the clanging of pans on the stove thirty minutes before Walter’s dulcet tones, announcing his arrival as per usual. Beatrice pulled her headphones out and turned off her music. She didn’t dare make a sound as they sat down to whatever her mom had scraped together; for once there seemed to be no question of her whereabouts, no question of why her mother was still beaten and bruised. Beatrice knew it was only a matter of time, but for the moment, it was nice.

Bea sat up in bed. The sky had turned a darker shade of violet, the shadows in her room claiming every inch of space. Turning the light on had only ever been an invitation for Walter, so she waited for her eyes to adjust in the dark. At least now she had a real excuse to avoid her homework. Quietly, she unlaced her sneakers and placed them at the foot of her bed before changing out of her school clothes and into a too-large hoodie and sweatpants. She also opted for some fuzzy socks; very few problems in life couldn’t be fixed with some warm socks.

The TV clicked to life in the living room, and Beatrice knew it was going to be a long night. Sleep seemed further away than ever there in the darkness. She considered stuffing a towel under the door and turning on the light to do her homework, but would she be able to concentrate? Beatrice sighed defeatedly, sitting down on her bed once more. One day she’d leave. She’d go far away, further than anyone could follow, and she’d be allowed to be happy. To turn her light on at night without being afraid. To have good days and bad days and no consequences for either of them. To go out with friends, to watch a movie in the living room, to just wind down and read a book. Surely, one day.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a groaning noise outside her door. Her head snapped up, searching the light under the door for a sign of Walter, but … The sound came again, and Beatrice realised it wasn’t coming from the living room—it wasn’t coming from inside the apartment at all. A shadow crossed her window. Something was outside. Bea’s breath caught in her throat when a dark figure approached her seventh-storey window, opened it, and stumbled into her bedroom.

It was a man, definitely, and he seemed drunk. Beatrice slapped a hand over her mouth, standing and shuffling into the darkest corner of her room, praying it was enough to conceal her. How on earth did he get up here? Oh god. He’s—shit, concentrate. 5’9 maybe, strong, slim build, latex—is he wearing latex? He seemed confused, stumbling around the room, but he was coming closer. And closer. She didn’t have a choice. He turned and looked her dead in the eyes before her fist connected with his nose.

Her hands flew to her mouth as she realised what she’d done—and just how much noise she’d made doing it. The intruder had fallen to the floor with a loud thud, but that was when she realised—he wasn’t any regular intruder. She stood, frozen in place for almost a minute. Her aching fist throbbed with her racing heart as she strained her ears, waiting to hear Walter come stomping over, for the television to shut off, but nothing happened. Lady luck was on her side tonight. Beatrice worked quickly, stuffing a blanket at the bottom of her door so she could switch her lamp on, stealing more than a few glances at the unconscious superhero on her bedroom floor.

Spider-Man was bleeding on her floor.

But why had he come into her apartment? Her room? He was clearly injured—perhaps he just needed help. His skin-tight suit was discoloured and torn in places, and the longer she stood there, the worse it all became. Knowing entirely well she wasn’t strong enough to move him to the bed, she grabbed her pillow and placed it behind his head. She’d seen so many videos of the strange spider hero on YouTube, heard the rumours at school. Beatrice was in awe of him, the way he flew through the streets, stopping even the slightest inkling of crime in a heartbeat, all without breaking a sweat. Why, then, had one single punch from Beatrice knocked him out cold?

She got her answer when she pulled at a tear in the skin-tight suit, assessing the damage as best she could. She could see minor cuts and grazes littered across his torso, and a nasty puncture wound under another tear on his hip. Beatrice swore. She’d never seen injuries to this extent, even living with Walter. She clicked her tongue at the stupid man behind the mask. He needed to go to a hospital. He should be counting his lucky stars that he landed in Beatrice’s room, whether that had been intentional or not. She needed to help him. Her stomach growled, and her heart sank. She’d need something to eat if she was going to heal him properly. But the thought of facing Walter at this hour … No, she’d do what she could.

She stood to draw the curtains, before pulling her hoodie off and rubbing her hands together. The sharp, upturned eyes of his mask seemed to stare at her, but a couple of pokes to his torso confirmed he was still out. If she got caught doing this … She couldn’t even imagine the consequences. Bea kneeled beside him. Breathe in, breathe out. She cleared her mind of Walter, of Mom, of the distant television noise and the sirens outside. Breathe in, breathe out. In, and out.

The light came from deep inside her bones, and Beatrice watched as it shone from her hands, glowing red and gold through the skin on her fingers. Like sunlight, it warmed her but never burned, as small rays danced through her fingertips and out again. Beatrice loved watching it, but she needed to be quick if this was going to work. She pressed one palm right above his navel over the suit, having to actively ignore the firmness of his abdomen, and pushed the light into him. He winced against the pressure, but didn’t rouse. Beatrice focused her other palm mostly on his hip, willing the wound to close, for the flesh to bind back to itself. But there was more, she could sense it. More than scrapes and bruises and a busted hip—he’d been shot. That’s when she noticed the holes in his calf, and the blood dripping out of it. The bullet had gone straight through, at least, though she knew he’d been far from lucky. Her light was fading, her energy running thin, but she willed the last of it into her hands.

Hoping he wouldn’t mind having to heal the minor grazes on his own, she moved her palms down to the injured leg. “Come on,” she whispered, clenching her eyes shut. The light sank deep and began its work. She felt the warmth of his blood on her hands, but she forced herself to ignore it. Just a little more … But there was nothing left. She was worn out, empty. The light receded and Beatrice flinched at how cold the room was without it. She was cold, she was tired. It took the last of everything she had to yank a scarf off her closet door, tying it around the man’s leg as a makeshift bandage. The bleeding had stemmed and the wound had closed, but she was sure he’d feel it in the morning.

Sleep was a welcome escape, but it wasn’t restful. It felt as if barely minutes had passed since her eyes had closed when they opened again. The room was still dark, but the apartment was silent—Walter and Mom must have gone to bed. Beatrice jumped when she noticed Spider-Man, sitting up and looking right at her. “It wasn’t a dream, then,” she said, stupidly, wincing at the sharp ache in her temple.

“No,” he murmured. “I don’t think it was.” His voice sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it. She was so shocked by the fact he was sitting up, and apparently without pain.

“Did you take my mask off?” he asked.

Beatrice shook her head. “No, sir. I figured you kept that secret for a reason.” She shuffled closer on the floor, slowly so as not to startle him. “Can I see?” she asked tentatively, gesturing to his hip. She still didn’t quite trust him, and it was clear the feeling was mutual. But he nodded, and leaned back to show a small scar where the wound had once been. “What on earth?” She grabbed his leg, pulling the scarf away to assess his bullet hole, but that wound was almost entirely gone too.

“I, uh,” he started, pulling his leg back. “I heal fast.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Christ, if she’d known in the first place, she wouldn’t have wasted so much energy on him. At least her secret was safe. “Mind telling me what happened to you tonight?”

“I … Look, I’m sorry for barging in like that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m super grateful you didn’t call the cops on me, but I have to go.” He shot to his feet, stumbling slightly at the lingering pain.

“Wait,” Beatrice said, standing too. “You can’t go out looking like that. You’re all holey, you’ll freeze to death.” She rummaged around her closet and pulled out an old flannel shirt and a pair of Walter’s sweatpants she’d been told to mend. She fixed them months ago, but he’d forgotten all about them. “Here, put these on. They’re my stepfather’s.” He took the clothes with quiet gratitude, pulling them on over his suit. “Do you need any painkillers? I think I have some Advil in my backpack.”

“Thank you, ma’am. And, no, I’m alright.”

“Ma’am?” she laughed before she could stop herself. “I’m not a ma’am.”

“What’s your name, then?”

She hesitated. He was a complete stranger, but he’d trusted her tonight. She could at least return the favour. “Beatrice.”

“Good name,” he said. The flannel was a little small, but the sweatpants dwarfed his red figure. She only hoped he didn’t have far to go.

“Oh yeah? What’s your name, then?”

“Spider-Man.”

Beatrice quirked a brow and he scoffed, but she could see his smile under the mask. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Beatrice.” With that, he drew the curtains, pushed the window open and crawled out onto the ledge before swinging into the night.

Chapter Text

School was impossible after her encounter with Spider-Man. She couldn’t focus on anything; thoughts of the bruises and bloody hero on her bedroom floor plagued her mind every second. She only hoped he was alright.

“You okay?”

Beatrice’s head snapped up as the bell rang. Peter was beside her, packing his things away—she hadn’t heard a single word their teacher had said. “Yeah,” she said, with what she hoped was a reassuring nod. “Long night.”

He nodded as if he understood. “I get it. Homework piles up, right?”

Beatrice almost rolled her eyes. Homework was the least of her problems. Then … Oh my god, I’m behind on my homework.

“If you ever need a study partner, let me know,” he said with a smile, and he was gone.

Beatrice was lost for words. They used to be close, but that was years ago—freshman year. She still remembered Star Wars movie marathons and spontaneous Jedi wars with him, Ned and Celia. But it was the boys who decided to stop inviting the girls along, so why was he being all chummy again?

Probably hormones, Beatrice mused, stuffing her notebook back into her bag. Note to self—email Mrs Warren about extra credit. Homecoming was on its way, too—maybe that was it. But everyone knew Peter had a thing for Liz. Maybe he was just buttering Bea up to be a backup date in case things went haywire. That made more sense. She huffed, brushing stray curls out of her eyes. Forget about Peter, she told herself. Spider-Man too. You have better things to worry about.

She put off the long walk home as best she could, but it had to happen sooner or later. Despite everything, Beatrice preferred the former—Queens at night was a monster of its own. Greeting a neighbour in the stairwell, Beatrice fished her keys out of her bag. There was no muffled shouting on the seventh floor today—surely that was a good sign. But before she could even close the apartment door, a fist connected with her cheek and Beatrice was thrown to the floor. Walter kicked the door shut with a boot, towering over her. Her vision blurred, and she could barely hear Walter’s voice over the high-pitched ringing in her right ear, but she managed to catch the better part of, “You selfish bitch!”

Beatrice pushed herself off the ground, but Walter kicked her again, hard in the stomach. His fist curled around a handful of her hair and pulled, lifting her head up enough to see the state of the apartment. Her mother was sat neatly at the dining table, only the table itself was tipped over and halfway to the living room. Wooden spoons and spatulas littered the floor, with shards of broken dishes scattered around.

“Look at her face!” Walter bellowed. Wincing against the sharp pull of her scalp, she focused her gaze on her mother. She’d never seen her so battered—her split lip was swollen, and the bruise on her cheek was nearly black despite the evident layers of makeup. “How dare you let her walk around looking like that.”

“Scared people will figure you out, Walter?” Beatrice hissed as she clawed at his fist, desperate for the pressure on her scalp to ease. “Scared of what they’d do to a man like you?”

He glowered in response, and pulled her to her feet. “Think you’re so smart, do you? Think you’re another invincible freak?” He shoved her against the wall, holding her by the collar of her jacket. Beatrice couldn’t help but smirk.

“Smarter than you by a long shot, I promise.”

Beatrice was either being stupid or brave, but neither meant a happy ending for her tonight. Clearly her encounter with Spider-Man had gone to her head.

“What are you gonna do to me, Walter?”

She wanted to shut up, but the words kept coming.

“You gonna give me a nice big shiner to match Mom over there? Break my arm, maybe a leg? And what would happen if I just left it alone? People would ask questions, wouldn’t they? Pique the cops’ interest for sure.”

For just a second, she saw fear flash through the man’s eyes.

“So I suggest you take a long, long walk instead, and don’t come back ‘til morning.”

“You nasty bi—”

“I didn’t ask, Walter. Get out.”

To Beatrice’s surprise, and probably Walter’s too, he let her go. He swiped his phone and wallet off the counter and opened the front door. “Don’t think this is over, little girl,” he snarled. “You better clean her up by morning or I’ll make sure there’s hell to pay.”

She didn’t dare let her fear show as all the horrible things he could do that she could never fix flashed through her mind. Instead, she fixed the steeliest gaze she could muster until the door closed and he was gone. Bea couldn’t stop the intense trembling in her hands as the adrenaline left her, but she knew this wasn’t over yet. Her head throbbed in the silence.

“Please baby,” her mom whispered. “Fix me up this one last time and everything will be alright again.”

Beatrice ran a hand down her face. “How can you not see the problem?”

“What?”

“He’ll never stop, Mom. He’ll never leave you alone. Nothing will be alright until Walter is gone, out of our lives.”

She shook her head. “Don’t say that. Walter takes good care of us.”

“I’m so tired of having this conversation with you.”

Mom stood, running a hand through her hair. “What do you suggest I do? I wasn’t as privileged as you in my youth, you know. I don’t have a fancy education at a fancy school. You should be grateful—”

“Grateful?” Beatrice scoffed. “Grateful that it was my own hard work and perseverance that got me into such a fancy school? Grateful that I’m working my ass off to pay for my own college tuition because Walter’s drowning us in debt? Yeah, I’m grateful.”

Her mother was speechless—Beatrice should never have started because now there was no way she could stop, and her mom would likely never forgive her.

“You don’t need an education to be financially independent, Mom. You could bag groceries, or make people’s coffees, or work in a shop. If that’s what you want, then do it. But staying here with him because you think it’s safer? It’s pathetic, Mom.”

She waited. For Mom to shout, to hit her, to tell her to pack her things and get out. But she remained silent. Is she actually hearing me for once?

Bea took a tentative step forward. Don’t let this bite me in the ass. “Sit down.”

Her mom sat, still looking a little shocked at her daughter’s newfound nerve. “What are you doing?”

Beatrice kneeled before her, ignoring the broken ceramic shards cutting into her jeans. She reached out with both hands and closed her eyes, willing her light to the surface. She clasped her mother’s hands and, with her other, cupped her cheek. She let the light sink in, feeling its radiating warmth.

Her mother sighed as the swelling receded. Beatrice opened her eyes to see her split lip close and her black eye fade. “Thank you, baby.”

Beatrice’s grip tightened on her mother’s hands. “I’m not lying to you when I say that’s the last time I will ever do that. I don’t care what you decide to do about Walter, but never again. I love you, Mom. So much. But never again.”

She didn’t wait to hear whatever her mom would have to say, locking herself in her bedroom once again. The afternoon sun cast a lovely golden glow into her room, but nothing could disguise the purple cloud of a bruise blooming on her cheekbone. She couldn’t help admiring it in the small wall mirror—it was almost validation, in the most twisted, sadistic way. What Walter was doing was real. He left marks.

And her abilities … She summoned the light and stared at her glowing hands. Using her abilities to erase what Walter caused felt like she was forgiving him. As if she were a carbon copy of her mother, unable to condemn him because the pain was temporary.

Well, she mused. Temporary no more.

Beatrice couldn’t leave it there—not with school and work and the looming threat of Walter—but she could leave the pain. The pain was what made her fight. So, she lifted a shining finger to the bruise and lightly brushed it over the skin; her healing light dipped slightly beneath the surface before dissipating, and soon it looked as if nothing had ever happened. Her light diminished, and she hesitantly poked her cheek. Still hurt.

Beatrice sat down at the edge of her bed. She couldn’t relax, no matter how hard she tried. Despite wanting to forget every second of what happened, short bursts flashed through her mind. The broken dishes, the way he kicked the door shut, the pull of her scalp. Her hands trembled and she couldn’t quite keep herself upright as she slid to the floor and curled into a ball.

Beatrice rarely cried. If she really wanted to psychoanalyse it, she’d probably pin it down to having to be the peacekeeper, the mediator of her family. Ever the silent child, seen but not heard. Never a burden to those who should care. But honestly, she just hated how it felt. Crying was wet and snotty and messy, and it always made her feel tired. But, despite all its wetness and snottiness and messiness, she cried. She cried because she wanted to scream, to run, to scratch her whole face off from the sheer frustration of it all, but couldn’t. So she cried.

A soft tapping woke her from a sleep she hadn’t realised she’d fallen into. Her room had gotten too dark to see, and she had to turn her phone’s flash on.

Spider-Man was hanging upside-down outside her window. He gave a small wave, shielding his eyes from the flashlight.

Bea’s joints protested as she got up off the floor, but she wouldn’t let it show on her face. She slid the window open. “Hello,” she said.

“Hi. Can I come in?”

“Would you look at that, he learned some manners,” Beatrice joked. “Sure.”

“I’m really sorry about last night,” he said.

Beatrice shut the window behind him. “You don’t need to apologise. You clearly needed help. I’m honestly glad you found my window out of everyone’s.” She didn’t add the part she’d been thinking about all day—that maybe Spider-Man somehow lived nearby.

“Probably would’ve ended up with my face plastered all over the internet. Again, I really appreciate it.”

Beatrice nodded awkwardly as they fell into silence. “I should probably turn a light on,” she said, more to herself than him. “Sorry.”

She grabbed her blanket and stuffed it into the gap under her door, praying Spider-Man actually had been raised with enough manners to not comment on the necessity of it, and switched her light on. She noticed Spider-Man had washed and mended his suit since last night. And his eyes were still just as freaky.

A thought struck her. Did he know what she’d done? What she could do? She thought she was safe, that he hadn’t realised, but—

“I came because,” he started hesitantly. “Well, I owe you. Like, big time, and I wanted to ask how I could repay the favour.”

Beatrice paused. This was … polite. Well, in that case. “What did you have in mind?”

“Anything you need. I won’t rob a bank or break the law, but …” He scanned her room, his weird spider-eyes landing on her desk, messy with three days’ worth of homework. “Need homework help?”

“How did you know that?”

“You’re looking a little swamped.” He picked up a few sheets of paper, shuffling them in his hands. “I know a thing or two about quantum physics—looks like that’s what you’ve got the most of. I can help.”

“Alright, then.”

Beatrice was pleasantly surprised to find that Spider-Man knew a hell of a lot more than she did about quantum physics. Putting the word ‘quantum’ before anything just made it ten thousand times more confusing in her eyes, but Spider-Man had it down. He explained theories like he’d invented them, and showed her different ways of remembering them.

“Now, with big problems like these, you want to—” he started, pointing to one of the last questions, but Beatrice wasn’t listening. Heavy footfalls were coming from outside her room—Walter was home. Bea slapped a hand over where she assumed his mouth was, and hoped he’d get the idea. Shut up, it’s not safe.

She could hear Walter mumbling something, but there was no sign of any conversation. Mom must’ve gone to bed. She heard him stumble around for a moment, before walking down the hall, straight past Beatrice’s room and into the bathroom.

She let her hand fall back to the desk, but Spider-Man stayed quiet. No chance of finishing that homework, then. She was just about to stand and say that he should probably go, when his voice cut through the night’s silence. “Does he hurt you?”

Her mind immediately flickered to the invisible bruise on her cheek, the nightmare’s she’d become so accustomed to, the fear she lived with every day. Apparently her silence was answer enough.

“That evil son of a—”

“Please, you have to be quiet,” she whispered.

“Sorry.”

Beatrice sighed, running a hand down her face. “Don’t be sorry, just … You should probably go.”

He nodded, standing, and made his way to the window. He slid it open without a single sound. “For what it’s worth, this was nice.”

Beatrice nodded. “You helped. A lot.”

He tilted his head in confusion.

“With the homework,” she said. “I get it now. Thanks.”

“Oh, yeah,” he laughed, ducking his head as he scaled her window. “Anytime. See you around, Beatrice.”

Chapter Text

Peter Parker was acting strange. Well, stranger than usual. Beatrice and Celia could only share a baffled look when he and Ned approached them at their lockers on Friday before English Lit, and invited them—unprompted—to Peter’s for a Star Wars marathon.

“If you don’t want to, that’s totally fine,” he said quickly.

“No, we’d love to,” Celia answered for them both. She elbowed Beatrice in the side. “Right?”

“Yeah, we’d love to.” Beatrice thought she sounded less than convincing, but Peter seemed happy enough.

“Cool, will we say seven?”

“Wait, tonight?” Celia winced.

“Yeah,” Ned intervened. “Peter’s got his Stark Internship today. And pretty much every other day, but not tonight.”

Beatrice shrugged. “That’s okay. Seven it is.” She turned to Celia. “You can crash at mine after, if you need to.” Walter was usually manageable when Bea had company. Always thinking about his ‘good’ reputation, that one.

“Oh, wait, a sleepover, that’s a great idea!” Peter beamed. “Let’s do that. May’s working tonight, so she won’t be mad if I bury the living room in pillows and blankets.”

Celia clicked her tongue. “Sound like a plan, then. Me and Bea’ll bring the snacks. Any requests?”

Requests were pointless—they may not have hung out for a few months, or a year, but Beatrice still knew the boys loved Red Vines and Mountain Dew. Peter had a soft spot for chocolate, too, and after the week Beatrice was having, she wouldn’t say no to an extra large Hershey’s bar.

The boys’ requests were the same, as Bea predicted. “I’ll bring pizza, too. Ray’s?” she said. They all nodded enthusiastically. The best pizza in all of Queens—it shouldn’t have even been a question.

Peter opened his mouth to say something, but the bell interrupted him. “See you at seven then?”

Bea closed her locker. “See you at seven.”

Ned and Peter left with a smile and a wave.

“Celia, did that just happen?” Beatrice asked in a hushed whisper as the boys walked away. Celia looked as astounded as she did, running a hand through her red hair.

“I think it did.”

Beatrice couldn’t find anything to say except, “Weird.”

“Right?” Celia nodded, closing her locker. She linked her arm through Bea’s so they could walk to English together. “Do you think he’s dying maybe? Making amends?”

Beatrice laughed. “Amends for what? We drifted apart, it’s natural. And no, I don’t think he’s dying. He actually offered to help me with my homework yesterday.”

“Shit. Maybe he just misses us?”

Beatrice flicked her hair, sticking her nose into the air. “You’re right. Who wouldn’t miss us? We’re great.”

She could think of nothing except their sleepover for the rest of the day. Her teachers were quickly becoming used to seeing Beatrice out-of-sorts, unable to focus in their classes. If it weren’t for her exceptional grades, she was sure they’d worry, or at least tell her off. She really did wish she could focus. Her only classes with Celia were Science and English. With all her best friend’s extracurriculars and her marketing internship and volunteer work, it was hard finding a spare moment to themselves. Beatrice was honestly surprised she'd said yes to Peter’s movie night. She spotted Celia drafting emails in English, and sending them on the way to Chemistry.

“Everything okay?” Bea asked as they walked.

Celia shook her head. “Just moving things ‘round. Marjorie always tells me to request Friday nights off so I can be a ‘real teen’, then throws a fit when I actually do.”

“Stupid Marjorie,” Beatrice said, making Celia smile a little.

She tapped her screen one last time before locking it. “Done. I’m making this afternoon up next week, and I don’t need to go in tomorrow morning either. It feels weird.”

“You’re free!” Beatrice cheered, slinging an arm over Celia’s shoulder.

“We’re also late,” she said, checking the time on her phone. Beatrice swore when she saw they had less than a minute before class started.

They made it with seconds to spare, every head turning to gawk at the latecomers. They were late late—class was full. Ned was sitting with Betty, and there was a seat free near the front and one by Peter, but that was it. Beatrice cast her friend a worried glance at being split up. Celia waved a hand dismissively, taking a seat at the front. “Go sit with Pete.”

Beatrice was grateful. Well, maybe not grateful, but … she hated the awkwardness between her and Peter, and the sooner it was gone, the better. But at least she knew him.

“Settle down, everyone,” Mr Harrington said, leaning against his desk.

“Hey,” Peter said as Beatrice sat down.

She smiled. “Hi.”

“Now,” Harrington started, clapping his hands together. “As I was saying, you all did exceptionally well on your last pop quiz, and I didn’t have to give out anything lower than a B for your last assignment. I can tell you’re all trying really hard, and as a reward, the school has approved a class field trip." Chatter erupted in the classroom, and Mr Harrington had to shush them. “We have a lot of work to get through today,” he continued, “so I won’t be sharing the location of this field trip until the end of class. Sound good?” He was met with a chorus of groans, and smiled. “Good.”

Beatrice badly wanted to talk about the trip, and the fact it’d be to Peter was only a bonus, but they really did have a lot of work to get through and Bea was determined to stay afloat in at least one class.

“So, where do you think we’re going?” Peter asked as they worked through an activity together. It seemed Beatrice wasn’t the only impatient one.

“I haven’t got a clue,” she whispered. “Somewhere fun, I hope.”

“How cool would it be to go to the Met?”

Beatrice stifled a laugh. “This class? We’d burn the building to the ground. Knowing Harrington though, it’s probably super dorky and science-related.”

“Still sounds like fun.”

Beatrice nodded, laughing quietly. “It totally does.”

“Mr Parker, Miss Page. Less talking, more working, yes?”

“Yes, sir,” Peter nodded, ignoring Flash’s smirk.

With the amount of work Mr Harrington had set, time passed surprisingly quickly. For everyone else, too, it seemed, because at precisely five minutes before the bell, hushed whispers grew into loud whispers, then full-blown conversations.

“Alright, I’m assuming we’re all finished?” Harrington said. “Well, pack up your things and take an early mark. I’m feeling generous today.”

“But sir,” Flash said over the chatter. “Where are we going on the field trip?”

The room fell quiet, and Harrington put a hand to his head in mock disbelief. “How could I forget,” he said facetiously. “Would you like to know?”

A chorus of “Yes!” erupted, and he shushed them again.

“The school has approved a trip for next Friday to ..." He paused to do a drum roll on his desk. "Stark Industries!”

Excitement bloomed in the classroom as Harrington handed out permission slips, telling them all to “return these by Wednesday!”. But when Beatrice turned to Peter to share the enthusiasm, she found him pale and rigid. “Peter?” she asked. “You alright?”

“M’fine,” he said distantly. He blinked twice, coming back into the moment. “So exciting.”

He didn’t sound excited. He sounded absolutely sick to his stomach. They each took a permission slip as Harrington passed, stuffing them into their bags.

“Penis is just worried we’ll figure out his ‘internship’ is one big scam,” Flash said with a laugh, just loud enough for them to hear, but not Mr Harrington.

That didn’t matter though, because as the class was leaving, he called out, “Mr Parker, could I speak to you for a moment?”

Beatrice had heard the rumours—she didn’t believe them, though. If any of them were clever enough to get an internship with Stark Industries, it was Peter. He couldn’t lie to save his own life, anyway.

“Yes, sir,” Peter said, zipping up his backpack.

“See you at seven, right?” Bea said.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling, and she could tell it was genuine this time. “See you then.”

She felt almost guilty leaving Peter behind, but the day was finally done, and they’d see each other at seven anyway.

“How crazy is this?” Celia said, jogging to catch up with her. “Stark Industries! You know, it’s really not easy getting a class field trip there. They take security very seriously.”

“I sure hope so,” Beatrice scoffed. “The shit that man builds could kill the planet.”

“He’s actually very green. Sustainable energy, woo!”

They walked through the front doors of the school, and Beatrice tilted her head up to the sun. “I really wish they taught classes outside. It was such a nice day today.”

“Okay, but can you imagine having superpowers?” Celia continued, ignoring her entirely. “You could totally be best friends with Thor. Or Spider-Man!”

At the mention of her new vigilante friend, Beatrice pinked. “Well, you know,” she started, trying to take the subject off Spider-Man, “not all the Avengers have superpowers. Tony Stark’s really smart and really rich, but he doesn’t have magic powers. Neither does the Falcon. I can’t think of anyone else, but you get my point.”

Celia looked affronted. “Beatrice. How could you forget the love of my life?”

Beatrice looked at her, confused. “Who?”

“Black Widow?”

Beatrice slapped a hand to her forehead. “How could I forget Black Widow. And Hawkeye!”

“Your New Yorker citizenship has officially been revoked. You have to live in Pennsylvania now.”

Bea laughed, elbowing Celia in the side as her father’s car pulled up to the curb. “See you tonight at seven,” Beatrice said, hugging her friend goodbye.

“For sure. I’ve got snacks at home we can bring, so don’t go shopping or anything.”

It wasn’t a secret how hard Beatrice was working to save for college. People like Celia didn’t have to worry about that; in fact, half of Midtown Tech didn’t need to worry about that. Finding a job as early as possible, saving literally every penny—it will never be even a concept for them. Beatrice always found it difficult when people acknowledged her situation. Especially people like Celia, but it seemed she was the exception. There was never any judgement, any entitlement from her when it came to Beatrice.

Beatrice waved Celia and Mr Barrett goodbye before starting on her own journey home. Home. Again, she thought. Not for the first time, she envied Peter for having the Stark Internship to fill his afternoons. Maybe she should get a second job. She’d apply for an internship, but she needed money more than she needed experience.

She spent half the walk home calculating and budgeting, and the other half worrying college was going to send her broke. Plenty of successful people never went to college. Maybe she could do that. But she’d be the first in her family if she did. The first Page to push herself, to strive for a better life than Walter.

Hell, if she knew anything, she knew a life that good was worth going broke for.

Chapter Text

Walter had gone to stay at a friend’s house for a few days. Beatrice couldn’t believe her luck when she walked through the front door to find her mother on the couch, perfectly healthy, watching bad reality TV. “How was your day, baby?”

‘How was your day’? Is this a joke? Nancy Page didn’t do ‘how was your day’.

“Fine,” Beatrice said, heading straight for her room.

“Wait a second, Bea,” her mom said, patting the empty couch space beside her. “Tell me about your day. You never talk about school. You never talk about anything anymore.”

“I wonder why that is,” Beatrice said before she could stop herself. Because of Walter, her mind filled in. And he’s not here right now, so take what you can while you can, dummy. “Sorry.”

Her mother’s faltering smile beamed once more as Beatrice sat, dropping her backpack at her feet. She hadn’t sat on the sofa in … forever. “What do you want to talk about?”

Her mom shifted and tucked her knees under her, muted the TV and faced Beatrice. Her full attention. Beatrice had her mom’s full attention. “Anything you like, baby. What did you do today?”

“Well,” she started, pausing to think. “Mr Harrington’s planned a field trip for next Friday.”

“That’s great! Where to?”

This is so nice this is so weird this is so nice

“Stark Industries,” Bea said, clearing her throat. “I actually need you to sign a permission slip, if that’s okay?”

In all honesty, Beatrice was just going to forge the signature, but this was better. “Yeah, you got it in there? Get me a pen, too.” Beatrice fished them out, giving her one of her notebooks to lean on. She signed it with a small flourish. “That’s really exciting, Bea. Opportunity of a lifetime. I’m really happy for you.”

“And do you remember Peter Parker?”

“That boy down the hall?” she asked, returning Bea’s things. “Lives with his aunt?”

“Yeah, him. He’s doing a movie night sleepover thing at his place. It’ll be me, Celia, him and Ned. Is it okay with you if I go?”

Asking for permission was new, too. Beatrice always figured the answer would be ‘no’ and sneak out anyway.

“Of course you can. You and Peter used to be good friends, yeah?”

“All of us were, but that was back in freshman year. I think it’ll be good for us to hang out again.”

“That sounds great, baby. You deserve a good night out.”

Beatrice’s skin prickled. It was so easy to resent her for everything. For Walter, for her powers, for the dark thoughts that crept in the night—how secrets and pain seemed to be her only friends. But her mom was nothing more than a person, like her, who had been dealt a bad lot in life. “You deserve a night out too, Mom.”

“Mm,” she mused, picking at her nails. “When do you work next?”

“Tomorrow around noon.”

“‘Til close again?”

Beatrice bit the inside of her cheek. “I need all the hours I can get.”

“What if we went out for breakfast on Sunday?”

“I’ve got the full day on Sunday. And Monday after school. How about Tuesday?”

“Walter will be back by then,” she said quietly. Walter. “Don’t worry about it, baby. We’ll figure something out, and even if we don’t, that’s okay too.”

Beatrice was quiet. Her mom was completely aware of the implication she was making—that they couldn’t be a real family with Walter around. She was aware, but she wasn’t going to do anything about it.

“When do you have to be at Peter’s?”

“Seven.”

“Want to watch a movie?”

She really had homework to do, and a budget to fix, and a second job to look for, but she figured it could all wait. Her mom was still her mom. Beatrice nodded with a smile. “Love to. Your pick.”

They ended up watching Dirty Dancing, laughing together for the first time in months at the watermelon scene. Against her better judgement, Beatrice let herself forget all about Walter, her homework, and the fact she didn’t have a future. She let herself fall into the fantasy of a happy family dynamic. Dangerous territory.

“It’s six-thirty,” her mom said, pausing the movie. “Should you start getting ready?”

“Shit, I do. I was supposed to get pizza. Sorry, Mom.”

She waved a dismissive hand at Bea. “Don’t sweat it. Love you, baby.”

Beatrice hesitated before saying, “Love you too, Mom.”

She stood, scooped up her backpack, and disappeared into her room. Ray’s was fifteen minutes away on foot, so she’d get there and back in time, but she still needed to shower and prepare herself for what was probably going to be a very awkward night in.

Her phone buzzed to life in her hands. Celia. “Hey.”

“Hey, Bea. I’m at Ray’s and I have no idea what to get.”

Beatrice breathed a sigh of relief. “You are a lifesaver.”

“It was on the way.” Bea could almost hear her casual shrug. “So, what? Pepperoni? Cheese? Do I remember Ned saying he liked Hawaiian or did my brain just make that up?”

“No, as twisted as it is, he likes pineapple on pizza. Get one of those, and maybe two pepperoni? You’ve seen Peter at lunch, I don’t think he ever stops eating.”

Celia laughed. “I’m jealous of his metabolism. Alright, so Dad’s got the snacks in the car, I’m getting the pizza now. I’ll see you in about fifteen minutes, yeah?”

“Sounds great. Thanks, Ce.”

They hung up, and Beatrice collapsed on her bed. Now for the serious decisions—what the hell was she going to wear? The days were starting to get warmer, but the nights were still absolutely freezing. She eventually decided on her nicest pair of sweatpants, a hoodie, and the leather jacket she’d thrifted four years ago. She tugged on her sneakers and tied back her hair, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. Beatrice never looked nice, so she stopped checking a while ago.

Her phone buzzed from the bed with a notification. Celia again.

oh_celia: were outside let us innnnn
bumblebea: hold ur horses im coming down

She stuffed her phone into her pocket and left. “Bye, Mom,” she called from the front door.

“See you in the morning, hon. Text me if you need me. Oh, and tell May I said hi.”

“I will. Love you.” She winced at how easily the words came, closing the door behind her.

But she raced down the stairs, unable to hide her grin when she eventually made it to the ground floor and saw Celia outside with her dad. She pushed the door open and took the pizza boxes out of his arms. “Hi, Mr Barrett.”

“Hey, Beatrice. How are things?”

“Good,” she lied. “Thanks for getting pizza. And snacks.”

Celia rolled her eyes. “I told you, it was on the way.” She turned to her dad and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll call you in the morning,” she said.

“Okay, darlin’. Have fun tonight, girls!”

“We will, Mr Barrett. Thanks again.”

He left, and the two started upstairs, chatting about the field trip, Celia’s internship, and the interesting night ahead. “How is … You know,” Celia started, changing the subject. “Walter’s still around?”

“Yeah,” said Beatrice, trying to keep her voice steady. “He’s staying with a friend for a few days, but yeah. He’s still kicking.” Celia knew very little about the reality of having Walter around, and knew absolutely nothing about Beatrice’s abilities. But that was exactly how Bea liked it.

They made it to the seventh floor, struggling a little with the weight of three pizzas and the small mountain of snacks. Peter opened the door before either could free a hand to knock.

“Hey guys! Wow, you brought so much!” He reached out and took the pizzas off Beatrice and two bottles of soda from Celia. He carried it all like it was nothing, and ushered them inside. “May got called in early, so she’s at work, but Ned’s here. You guys okay if we just dump all the food in the lounge room and eat while we watch the movie?”

“Sounds good to me,” Celia said with a shrug. “Do you mind if I get changed first?” She was still in the same jeans and blouse she’d worn to school. Beatrice hadn’t noticed the small backpack of clothes she’d been carrying.

“Go for it,” Peter said. “Bathroom’s straight down the hall.”

Celia disappeared, and Beatrice shrugged her jacket off, folding it and setting it down on the kitchen table. Peter sat down in the living room with the food, and Ned gave a small, “Hi, Beatrice!” from somewhere beside him as she kicked off her sneakers. She prayed the old shoes weren’t smelly, flipping them upside down for good measure.

“Bea, bring the cups over while you’re up?” Peter called, followed closely by the fizzing of a soda bottle being opened. She found the stack of red solo cups Peter had left on the kitchen counter and tossed them to the boy before crossing the room and sitting down herself.

Pete’s setup was rather sweet. He’d pushed the coffee table out of the way, put a mattress down and covered it and the sofa in pillows and blankets. Beatrice wondered how one household could have so many cushions. The TV had A New Hope ready to play, and all the lights were low. He’d even lit a few candles around the room.

“I still can’t believe we’re going to Stark Industries,” Ned said, fidgeting excitedly. “I mean, I know it’s nothing special for you, Peter, but it’s gonna be so great.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, rubbing the back of his head.

“How’s the internship going anyway?” Bea asked.

“Alright,” he said. “I don’t think I do very much, but last week I got to help out in the labs. That was pretty cool.”

“Met any Avengers yet?” Celia asked, reappearing in a pair of soft-looking sweatpants, a Led Zeppelin shirt and her favourite yellow crew socks.

Peter shrugged. “I met a couple, sure.”

Celia dropped her bag with Beatrice’s shoes and joined them on the mountain of blankets and pillows. “What about Black Widow?”

Beatrice rolled her eyes. Celia would probably lay down her life for that woman.

“Uh, yeah, she’s at the Tower a bit. Nice lady.”

Beatrice laughed along with Celia. They were both certain the Black Widow was more lethal than nice.

“Hey,” Celia started, snapping her fingers as she remembered. “What did Harrington want? After science today.”

It was Peter’s turn to roll his eyes. “He thinks my internship is fake. I’ve given the school all the legal paperwork and stuff, but they don’t believe it because Stark Industries has this policy against hiring minors.”

Bea frowned. “You’re saying he thinks you forged legal paperwork?”

“Pretty much. He told me I could own up about lying and he’d let it go, or I’d be suspended.”

Beatrice was taken aback. “How does your supervisor feel about it? Can’t they call up the school and tell them to get off your back?”

“It’s not that bad yet, so she’s talking to their legal department and sending a few emails, but it’s just so unnecessary, you know?”

“God, that’s ridiculous,” Celia said. “Sorry, Pete.”

He shrugged.

“Really, Peter,” Beatrice said earnestly. “They can’t suspend you for having a fake internship when you don’t have a fake internship.”

He smiled, shaking his head a little. “Right, this pizza’s getting cold. Play?”

They all nodded, taking a slice or pouring a cup of Mountain Dew as Peter pressed play. Beatrice had forgotten how much of a classic Star Wars was. The boys put up with the girls fanning themselves over Han Solo, and the girls comforted the boys when sweet Han was imprisoned in the carbonite in Empire Strikes Back.

Beatrice was nodding off by the end of the films, not surprised to find Celia and Ned at the other end of the mattress, curled under a blanket each and snoring lightly. Peter, on the other hand, was wide awake beside her. “You tired?” he asked, chewing on a Red Vine.

“No,” she lied, stifling a yawn. “Wide awake.”

He chuckled at her, and handed her a pillow. She held it close to her chest, hugging it tight. It smelled like Peter.

“So,” she said, willing herself awake. “I heard in gym today that you know Spider-Man.”

Something flashed across Peter’s face, but he smothered it in an instant. “Yeah. Stark Internship, you know? He’s nice. Not an Avenger, though.”

Beatrice nodded.

Peter was hesitant when he said, “He’s actually told me about you.”

Her heart jumped. “Has he now?”

“Yeah. Says you helped him through a rough patch, he’s really grateful. Apparently.”

She played with a corner of the pillow, unable to look at him. “So, is that why you organised tonight? Because of Spider-Man?”

“No, I thought … I just thought it’d be nice to hang out. Like we used to.”

She was tempted to say something mean, to tell him it’s his own fault they don’t hang out anymore, but she didn’t have the energy. “Thank you. For organising this. It was nice.”

“I’m glad.”

They stayed up and talked for hours, Beatrice drifting off every now and then. They talked about everything and nothing, just like they used to. She really wanted to know why he was worried about the field trip, but she knew he’d just deny it, brushing it off as disappointment he wouldn’t be seeing someplace new. She was sure he was curious about her, too. About Walter and the too-loud, too-regular fights. It was impossible for him not to know.

Eventually, Peter’s head began to dip, his eyes fluttering closed. They were two tired idiots, staying awake for one another. “Go to sleep, Parker,” Beatrice said, grabbing a blanket and the pillow. She scooted around until she was lying down, comfortable at the end of the mattress. She heard Peter moving too, laying down where he sat beside her.

“Night, Bea,” he said softly.

“Night, Peter.”

Chapter Text

Despite sharing a twin mattress with three other people on the floor, it was the best night’s sleep Beatrice’d had in a long time. She was half-awake when the hard pillow she was hugging whispered her name.

“Beatrice,” the pillow whispered again, only it wasn’t a pillow. It was Peter.

Her eyes shot open, and she pulled away so fast she fell off the edge of the mattress. She heard Peter laughing, then felt his hand reach for hers to pull her back up. “You okay there?”

“Sorry,” she said, red-faced, sitting up straight. The sun was barely up, and Ned and Celia were still sound asleep. Beatrice rubbed her eyes—six hours of sleep was more than she’d gotten in a long time, but she still felt tired.

“You’re okay,” Peter said, still chuckling at her. “Didn’t mean to freak you out. You looked like you were having a bad dream.”

She wasn’t sure it was possible, but she blushed harder. The bad dreams never left her, but she rarely remembered them. This one must’ve been pretty tame—Peter wouldn’t be laughing if it hadn’t been.

“Are you okay?” he asked, a little more serious now.

Beatrice just looked at him. She was so tired of that question. So tired of saying ‘yes’ when the real answer was definitely ‘no’. But what was the alternative? She couldn’t talk about any of it, not to Peter. “Mhm.”

He definitely didn’t believe her, not that she expected him to. “Beatrice, if you ever need to talk …”

“I appreciate it, Pete,” she said, a little too quickly.

He was quiet.

“Can I use your bathroom?” she asked, standing.

“You don’t have to ask.”

Beatrice nodded, refusing to meet his eye, and walked down the hall and into the bathroom. She let out a breath as soon as the door closed behind her. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck—

What was she thinking? How long was she … cuddling him for? Beatrice didn’t do affection or vulnerability or touch. The most affection she’d ever given a person was probably hugging Celia.

How was she ever going to face Peter again? She’d really have to move to Pennsylvania now, just like Celia said. Maybe change her name for good measure. Jesus, she couldn’t breathe.

Bea needed to get a grip. She wrung her fingers, pacing around the small bathroom, practically hyperventilating. She remembered reading something, a trick to calm the mind, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember exactly what. It was to do with the senses, she knew that much. Okay, I can do that. I can do that, maybe try to find … five things I can see. She looked around the bathroom, taking in the details. The bath mat, with a corner tucked underneath. One. The open shower curtain. Two. Apple-scented shampoo. Three. A bright pink loofah. Four. She glanced at herself in the mirror. Five. Okay. Five. Good.

Now, four things I can … touch? Is it touch? Regardless of the order, she could already feel her heart calming. She leant forward on the sink. One. The ceramic was cold, and stray beads of water wet her fingertips. The tap was dripping, slowly, and she reached out to turn it off all the way. Two. She reached for the hand towel beside the sink. Three. The picture above the toilet was crooked, so she nudged it with her hand. Four.

She took her first full breath in minutes. She strained her ears now, looking for three things she could hear, but the sound of a tea kettle whistling to boil on the stove made her pause. Was Peter making … breakfast?

With a clearer head, Bea went to the toilet, washed her hands and her face, and stared at herself in the mirror for a long time. If another Beatrice existed in the world, Bea was sure she wouldn’t like her. She was too tall, too dark, her hair too curly, and her eyes too brown. Her voice was annoying, and she never fit in anywhere. She couldn’t even do the right thing in her sleep. Christ, what a mess.

Beatrice took a deep breath to steady herself, and left the bathroom. Peter was indeed in the kitchen, making coffee and pancakes. “Breakfast?” he offered, flipping a pancake.

“You didn’t have to cook.”

“I’m hungry,” he shrugged.

“Want some help?”

“No, you’re fine. Make yourself some coffee, if you want. We’ve only got instant, but mugs are on the shelf.” He gestured loosely to his left, but Beatrice remembered. She took two mugs and set them down on the dining table, scooping coffee and pouring the just-boiled water.

Beatrice wanted to apologise, but she didn’t want to make it awkward. Which would’ve been fine, except every second that passed where she didn’t say anything at all made things infinitely worse.

“Morning, idiots,” came Celia’s tired voice as she stood. She wore her blanket on her shoulders like a cloak, and her red hair stuck out at all angles, desperate to be brushed. “I smell coffee.”

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty.” Beatrice smiled and handed her the coffee she’d made for herself. Celia took it gratefully, cradling it in her hands. Bea passed Peter’s coffee over and got up to fetch herself a new mug.

“Pancakes?” Peter offered. Celia nodded enthusiastically, dropping the blanket and taking the plate of steaming, buttery food.

“God, I didn’t know you could cook,” she said, sitting down at the table to eat. “You’re my hero.”

Peter beamed at the little compliment, and handed Beatrice her own plate of breakfast. Their hands touched briefly as she took the plate, and her breath caught in her throat. No, not happening. Not happening. She quickly set the plate down and busied herself with making another coffee.

“Wait, who the hell are you calling Sleeping Beauty?” Celia said through a mouthful of pancake, thankfully unaware of everything that’s happened that morning. “The sun’s just come up. No one wakes up this early, except you psychopaths, apparently.”

“You went to bed at, like, ten,” Beatrice argued. Grateful for the diversion, she started on her pancakes.

“Doesn’t matter. Early is still early.”

Peter nodded, grinning. “That’s some sound logic right there.”

Eventually, Ned woke up too and had his share of pancakes. Peter had made so many, it seemed impossible for any number of people to get through them all.

“What’s everyone up to today?” Ned asked, sipping on a glass of juice.

“May gets home at nine, so she’ll sleep most of the day. I guess I have homework.”

“I’ve given myself the day off,” Celia beamed. “Might go shopping. Homecoming’s coming up.”

Beatrice shook her head in disbelief. “You have months, Ce.”

“Yes, well, the earlier the better. What are you doing today?”

“I have work at noon. Might get some school stuff done before then,” she said. “Ned?”

“Honestly? Gonna go home and watch Return of the Jedi.”

Beatrice laughed. “You missed half of Empire Strikes Back.”

He grinned, shrugging. “I watched it through osmosis.”

They chatted a little while longer while Beatrice finished her coffee and Ned finished his pancakes. Celia and Ned had to get changed, so Celia went to the bathroom and Ned to Peter’s room, and Beatrice and Peter were alone again.

She helped him clean up, washing the dishes as he dried. She didn’t look at him when she said, “I’m sorry about this morning.”

“Sorry for what?”

Beatrice glared at the soap suds. He was really going to make her say it out loud.

“Oh, about … gotcha. You don’t need to apologise. We’re friends, right?”

She looked at him now, unsure of what to say. “Yeah.”

They finished tidying up until the kitchen was spotless, and Ned and Celia had returned, all neat and tidy, chatting between themselves. “How are you getting home, Ned?”

“Eh, I was gonna take the train.”

She tilted her head at him. “You still live in the same place, right? Dad can drop you off.”

He grinned at her. “Thanks.”

Celia politely excused herself, ever the lady, and went out into the hall to call her dad. Beatrice heard her greet someone, probably the elderly neighbour down the hall, off to church on a Saturday again. Beatrice paid no mind to it, but Peter prickled. She saw him tense, ever so slightly, out of the corner of her eye.

“Peter? What's wrong?” she asked.

“M'fine,” he said, tense. “It’s, uh—”

But Celia had come back inside. “That was quick,” Bea teased.

She looked at her phone. “Oh. I didn’t—no, there’s … Walter’s home.”

Beatrice’s shoulders tightened on impulse. Her face fell and she toyed with her hands nervously, pressing her nails into her fingertips.

“Who’s Walter?” Ned asked.

Beatrice shrugged, trying for indifference. “Mom’s boyfriend. Said he was staying with a friend of his for a couple of days, but plans change, I guess.”

“You can stay here for a while, if you want,” Peter said, also attempting casualness but failing just as Bea did. She hated him for the offer—wished he knew nothing about what happened with Walter, or kept it to himself, at least.

“No need,” she told him, waving him off. “Really, it's fine. Celia, call your dad.”

The girl nodded, dialling his number, this time taking the call in Pete’s lounge room. Ned and Peter had started talking amongst themselves about something, but Beatrice couldn’t hear them. A high-pitched ringing filled her ears. Walter’s home. Did Mom know? Is she safe? Is she—

“Thanks, Dad,” Celia said, coming back over. “See you soon.” She ended the call, slipping the phone back into her bag. “He’s in the area, about five minutes away. Wait with us downstairs?”

“‘Course we will,” Peter said. Beatrice nodded, picking up her jacket and slipping into her sneakers. She made sure she had everything, zipped up the pockets, and followed her friends out the front door. The floor was empty, but Beatrice couldn’t help but imagine her mom and Walter behind the door of apartment 712.

The group went downstairs to the ground floor, chatting along the way about school, their upcoming field trip and their weekends ahead, but Beatrice was quiet—thinking, listening.

Celia’s father arrived right at the five-minute mark, and they said goodbye to Ned and Celia. Beatrice managed to avoid Peter’s questions all the way back up to the seventh floor, and left him with a, “Thanks for last night, Pete. It was fun.”

“Any time,” he said, looking as miserable as Beatrice felt.

She didn’t give him a second glance as she twisted the doorknob and hurried inside, closing it quickly before Walter descended upon her.

“Where the hell have you been?”

He almost sounded like a worried parent, except his words were slurred and he looked as if he hadn’t slept a wink. “Peter’s,” she answered, looking him dead in the eye. She wasn't going to be afraid of him, she just wasn't.

“Peter’s,” he repeated, barking a laugh. “Should’ve guessed, just look at you.” She scowled, shoving past him to get to her room. No such luck. He grabbed her by the elbow, his breath hot against her ear. “I’ve always told you, if you’re gonna act like a filthy slut, then that’s how I’ll treat you.”

She jerked away from him, but his grip tightened. His other hand reached up to tuck a loose curl of hair behind her ear. A fear she hadn’t known before sank like an anchor in her gut. “Best be off now, Beatrice.”

She shrugged him off and stormed into her room, ignoring the empty look in her mother’s eyes, staring at something on the blank wall—so different from the mom she’d seen only yesterday.

Bea couldn’t seem to catch her breath—a ball of panic had lodged itself in her chest and it felt as if she were slowly suffocating. Her whole body burned with terror as she sank to her knees, smothering her gasping sobs with trembling hands. She was so angry, so scared—she wanted to kill Walter. She wanted to cut off his hands so he could never hurt another being for the rest of his life, to gouge out his eyes so he could never look at Beatrice or her mother the way he did ever again.

But fuck, what she wanted most of all was to breathe, just breathe.

“Fucking hell,” she said into her hands. There was no use counting her senses, not when all she wanted was to be away from the sights, sounds, smells of her life. She held her hands out, willing them to stop shaking, as she pinched each fingertip, counting as she went. One, two, three, four, five. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten. One, two, three, four, five. She took her first deep breath, and continued to count. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Her flushed face begin to cool and she dropped her hands. Fine, she’d be fine.

She was fine.

Chapter Text

“Thanks so much, have a nice day.”

Beatrice had been on autopilot all weekend. The empty state let her feel safe, but it also left her entirely unaware of time. So on Sunday evening when her customer gave her an odd look, explaining that it was nearly six o’clock and the day was well and truly over, she stopped.

“Sorry,” said Bea with a little laugh. “Time flies when you’re having fun, I guess.”

The customer laughed too, to Bea’s relief, and told her to get home safe. For the first time since the start of her shift, she checked the time on the till. Five forty-five. Close in fifteen. Okay.

The shopkeeper’s doorbell rang again, and Beatrice sighed. “Welcome to Bread & Butter, what can I get for you?”

The man, who stood at least half a foot taller than Beatrice, had entered with both hands stuffed tightly in his pockets, his hood covering most of his face. He approached the counter and pulled a handgun from his pocket. He held it by his side, but his finger was sitting on the trigger.

“I need everything you’ve got,” he said, voice deep and hoarse. “Both tills empty and whatever you’ve got out the back.”

Beatrice raised a brow. Who the fuck robs a bakery?

She considered her options. Give him the money and get fired, but live. Not ideal, since she needed the work. Don’t give him the money and get shot, potentially die. Less ideal, but—

He shoved a pillowcase in her face, and Beatrice had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Don’t even get a say about my own murder.

Beatrice took the pillowcase, hesitating at the cartoon Spider-Man on the front, and started stuffing it with bank notes. She reached further under the till as if to rescue a stray note, and pressed the red emergency button.

She finished emptying one till and moved to the next, trying to move as slowly as possible. “Don’t play games with me, hurry up!” he said, voice echoing through the empty shop. The gun had left his side and was now pointed directly at the spot between her eyes.

She wanted to laugh. To tell him to do it, because it’d save her a hell of a lot of heartache, but before she could do anything, the shopkeeper’s bell rang again.

“You still open, Beatrice?” the newcomer asked, and her heart skipped a beat when she saw the too-familiar blue and red suit. He gestured to the tall man, hiding whatever reaction he was having at the sight of a gun in Bea’s face. “He a friend of yours?”

The man twisted on his heel, shifting his aim from Beatrice to Spider-Man, and pulled the trigger. She’d never heard a gunshot before, and she knew she’d never forget it. The gunman had been fast, but Spider-Man was faster. Beatrice had never seen him fight before, and holy shit, it was a sight to behold. She wondered how anyone got a hit in at all.

“Hey, man, you gotta be careful with that thing!” Spider-Man said, swinging around the small shop and shooting webs at the robber with frightening accuracy. “Don’t hurt yourself, buddy,” he called, but then his eyes met hers as he gestured for her to get down, to hide behind the counter.

She dropped to the floor, letting the Spider-Man pillowcase spill out behind her. The grunts of two men, kicking and punching, quickly turned into the grunts of one and Beatrice prayed with all her might that it was her friend who remained standing.

One of them jumped the counter, landing directly beside Beatrice, and she jumped, ready to summon her light and blind this son of a—

But it was Spider-Man kneeling before her, his empty hands outstretched, saying, “It’s just me, you’re safe.”

She clutched her chest, throwing him daggers. Scared the shit out of me, stupid Spider.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

“No, I—I’m fine, I promise.”

He huffed, shaking his head, a hand on his knee. “Three days without me and you’re getting yourself into all sorts of trouble.”

Beatrice laughed. Despite the panic, despite the fear, she laughed.

Police sirens echoed in the distance, growing closer with each second. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Definitely.”

Spider-Man took her hand, squeezed it twice, and said, “Listen, the webs’ll disintegrate in a few hours, don’t waste your time cleaning it up. I gotta go now, but I’ll see you soon.”

The hero hurtled once again over the counter, leaving Beatrice alone in the webbed bakery with an unconscious, gun-wielding robber. The sirens grew only closer, and she willed herself to her feet. The bakery was truly a mess; her manager was going to be pissed. A police car pulled into the parking lot, and it only took a few silent minutes for the officer and his partner to put the pieces together.

The officer sighed, rubbing the back of his head. “I really can’t figure out whether that Spider-Man character is a help or a hindrance.” He laughed as he cuffed the robber, who was slowly coming to. There wasn’t much for Beatrice to do, since nothing had been stolen and no one had gotten hurt. The police at least found humour in the irony of his Spider-Man pillowcase-slash-money bag.

The officer took a quick statement from Beatrice as his partner read the robber his rights and sat him in the back of the police car. She thanked them for helping, as little as they did, and sent the officers on their way with a pastry each.

Then she was alone again. Alone with herself and a bakery full of spiderwebs. She locked the front door, switched the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’, and pulled down the blinds. No more surprises tonight, thank you.

Beatrice hoped Spider-Man hadn’t been lying when he said those pesky webs would be gone in two hours, because she didn’t bother cleaning them up. She tidied around his webs, making quick work of packing up and putting away before fetching her bag and jacket. She hoped to high heavens that her manager would be more concerned about the near loss of Bea’s life than the state of her shop. Unlikely.

Walking down the street, she made sure to fit her keys between her knuckles, to hold her bag tight against her. Her steps quickened in the darkness between streetlights, breath hitching in her throat as she went. Something moved in the darkness, in the corner of her eye, and Beatrice’s grip tightened on her keys. She never usually had any trouble getting home after work, but there was a first for everything. Like getting robbed at gunpoint. In a bakery.

A figure shifted in her peripherals again. Beatrice wanted to cry—this had been the worst day. She was seconds from breaking into a sprint, her keys just about coming loose between her fingers, when a figure dropped from the skies in front of her.

She leapt back, before recognising the figure and doubling over with relief. “You fucking asshole,” she said through shaking breaths as she clutched her heart. “That’s the second time tonight you’ve scared me half to death.”

Spider-Man held his hands out in surrender, and his tone was light and humorous when he said, “Sorry, Bea. God, you walk fast, I could barely keep up with you!”

She glared at him. “Maybe because someone was practically chasing me in the dark!”

He tensed, head darting as he searched their surroundings. “Who?”

Beatrice sighed, her heart finally calming down. She massaged her temples. “I meant you, webs. Look, can I help you with something?”

“Uh,” he said, relaxing a little. “No, I just—Well, that was pretty terrifying what happened back there, I just wanted to … you know, make sure you were okay.”

“I am, I’m—I’m fine,” said Beatrice, quicker than she should’ve. “Really, it was nothing.” She started continued walking, and he matched her strides.

“It wasn’t nothing, Beatrice. You know, it’s really good to talk about these things.”

She stopped, turning to face him. “To who? Who am I supposed to talk to, my family? My friends?”

“Yes, your friends,” he said, white eyes frowning. “Why not?”

She shook her head, silently pleading for him to drop the conversation entirely, and kept walking.

“No, stop, seriously,” he said. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder, and Beatrice had to resist the urge to shrug him off. “I think I understand your family, but why wouldn’t you be able to talk to your friends?”

Her throat tightened. She thought of Celia, who knew more about Beatrice than anyone—but still not everything—and of Peter, who knew far more about Bea than she liked. “I just ...” she began, struggling to find her words. “If they ever found out about what I am, what I’m like, they—they’d never want to speak to me again. I don’t want to lose them.”

“I don’t get it, what are you like?”

She shook her head, refusing to meet his eyes.

“No, I’m serious. The Beatrice I’ve met is nothing but kind and helpful and—and smart. You’re really smart. Why would any of those be a bad thing?”

Spider-Man fell quiet as Beatrice pushed past him a second time, and they walked together in silence. She counted to ten inside her head and pressed her nails into her palms when that didn’t work. She knew what he really must’ve thought of her. Beatrice, selfish Beatrice, who would rather lie to her friends than be vulnerable, just so they don’t finally realise how completely toxic—

“I’ll drop it, I promise,” interrupted Spider-Man, “but if they’re really your friends, if they really love you—then, well … the bad things, whatever they are—they shouldn’t matter.”

“I don’t think I can afford to take a chance like that.”

They’d arrived at her building without realising it, too absorbed in Beatrice and her gross invulnerability, but Spider-Man wasn’t done with her yet. “I’ll meet you up there,” he said, shooting one of his webs at the highest window and propelling himself into the air.

Beatrice swallowed the lump in her throat. That future therapist might need to hurry up.

She walked in and climbed the stairs as she’d done a thousand times before, feeling the same fear and trepidation and panic she’d felt a thousand times before. She’d been on guard forever, perfectly poised to deflect anything that might hurt, like this exact scenario. Why was Spider-Man so intent on knowing Beatrice? What did he want with her? Did he secretly hate her? Of course he hates you, you never even thanked him for saving your stupid life.

Her mind screamed, begging and pleading for her to turn around, to run away—who knows where, just out—but her body marched forward, one step at a time until she’d reached the seventh floor. Against every ounce of her own better judgement, she pushed the key into the lock and walked in.

The TV was still on, but her mother had gone to bed. Walter was snoring loudly on the sofa, thick fingers wrapped around a long-forgotten bottle of beer. Beatrice crept past him, dodging the areas of linoleum that creaked, and silently slipped into her dark room. She made sure to stuff the blanket under the door before turning on her lamp, and spotted Spider-Man clinging to the outside of her window, patiently waiting to be let in.

She never locked it anymore, not since the night she’d first met him. God forbid he ever need her help again and the thing that killed him was a locked window.

She reached over, pushing the glass up, and he dropped silently to her floor. “I’m really sorry,” she started. “I meant to say thank you before, but I’m just—”

“For what?” he asked.

She looked at him, baffled. “For saving my life?”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said, shrugging. “Guess it makes us even though, huh.”

She tried a smile. “Yeah, s’pose it does.”

Beatrice didn’t miss the awkward pause or the shift of his tone when he cleared his throat and said, “Is it … I mean, are you happy here?”

“Weird question, Spidey.” He laughed nervously and rubbed the back of his head, and Bea sighed. “You know, it’s … complicated.”

“Speaking of, uh, complicated, there’s actually something I’ve been meaning to ask you about,” Spider-Man said, not quite meeting her eyes.

“Should I be worried?” Beatrice asked with a smile, but his silence made her falter.

“So … I heal fast,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Well, I don’t heal that fast.”

Bea frowned, doing her best to ignore her racing heart. “What do you mean?”

He looked back at her, and she almost saw sadness in his freaky white eyes. “The night we met … It should’ve taken me at least a week to heal from that bullet wound.”

She knew where he was going with this. “Maybe you were just lucky—”

“Please, be honest. I know you did something.”

Maybe it was the way he looked at her, or the way he seemed more nervous than she was. Or maybe it was the fact that she’d carried this secret alone forever, and she was tired.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” she admitted after some thought. “It’s just the way I am.”

Spider-Man nodded. “Can you show me?”

Beatrice’s breath hitched in her throat. It’d all been a secret for so long, she couldn’t even fathom the consequences. Then again, what real harm could come of it? Of light?

Fuck the consequences, she thought. Spider-Man was her friend, but he wasn’t like Peter or Celia or Ned. She knew he wouldn’t get scared, wouldn’t think she was a freak. The thought of it, of acceptance—it scared the absolute daylights out of her, but it also made her want to show him. It made her want to be proud of her light, to be open and honest and vulnerable for once.

So she held her palms out before him, facing up. They were shaking, and Beatrice realised she hadn’t taken a full breath in almost a minute. She closed her eyes, trying to calm herself, then another pair of hands were under hers, supporting them at the wrist—Spider-Man had closed the gap between them. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

The room exploded.

Bright white light poured from Beatrice's entire being until the room all but disappeared, and they could see nothing but one another. Spider-Man barely flinched, only squinting in the bright light. She could suddenly breathe better, and the mass of panic in her chest had left. Beatrice felt warm, felt safe—free. Like she’d been stuffed in a box her whole life and this was the first time she’d stepped out of it.

For as long as she could remember, she’d thought of her light as the physical manifestation of her energy—using her own life source as a method of healing. It never really made sense to her, and now she knew why. This light wasn’t purely physical at all; it was her being in every sense of the word. She felt it shining, not from her bones, but from her soul.

She laughed. Beatrice had never felt anything like it—like happiness. Pure joy.

She felt her feet lift off the ground and, for a moment, she thought Spider-Man had lifted her into the air. But his hands were still gently cradling hers, apparently too surprised to move. She wanted to panic, because that was the normal thing to do, but something inside calmed her. Beatrice was safe, and not just because Spider-Man was there.

She closed her eyes and let the light consume her, and when she opened them again, Spider-Man was on the ceiling. His hands had tightened around her wrists, and that’s when she realised he wasn’t on the ceiling—she was.

Chapter Text

Beatrice panicked, eyes widening as she realised what was happening. Her light disappeared as if a bulb had burst inside her, and she fell. Bea felt Spider-Man’s arms reach out and grab her, wrapping around her waist and breaking her fall.

“You alright?” he asked, helping her back to her feet.

She couldn’t wrap her head around it. Was she—flying? Like, flying-flying? Actually in the air? “I’m—”

The distant sound of a bottle clattering to the floor filled the air, and the superhero tensed. “He’s coming,” was all Spider-Man whispered.

“Hide,” Beatrice pleaded. Hide, not leave. No, she needed to know he didn’t think any differently of her. That he didn’t hate her.

Beatrice leapt into bed, shoes on and all, turned off her lamp and pretended to sleep. If not for the crippling fear, she could’ve laughed watching Spider-Man scale her ceiling, crouched in the alcove above her wardrobe.

His heavy footfalls grew only closer as Beatrice buried herself under the covers like a child. But then—shit. She hadn’t locked the door. She found Spider-Man’s eyes in the dark, and prayed he could read her mind for the slightest of seconds. She prayed Walter was too drunk to bother with her, or—

All of it was futile, she realised, as Walter stopped outside her door. This was it. What was she going to do? She couldn’t fight him off—Beatrice tried hard to remember anything she’d been taught in gym other than how to climb a stupid rope.

The door opened, barely, but then stopped. She poked her head out from under the covers and saw Spider-Man with a web shot at her door handle. Walter grunted something that made Spider-Man tense even more, but then he stumbled away, presumably to pass out in his own room.

Spider-Man lowered himself down from the ceiling in expert silence, dropping the web and closing the door properly again, this time flicking the lock. He lifted a finger to his lips before approaching Beatrice with an outstretched hand. “Come with me,” he whispered.

She took his hand, following him to the window and out to the fire escape. “Where are we going?”

“Trust me. And hang on tight.” He pulled her arms around his neck and told her to wrap her legs around him, too. She’d never felt so awkward in her life, yet—not awkward at all. “Are you ready?” he asked.

“For what?”

He didn’t bother answering before shooting a web at a nearby rooftop and hurtling them off the fire escape. Beatrice did her best not to scream.

She clamped her eyes shut against the night breeze, and she was sure she was suffocating Spider-Man with how tight her grip around his neck was, but she couldn’t bring herself to loosen. “Open your eyes!” he said, laughing wildly as they swung again and again through the city.

“No!”

“Beatrice, I’ve got you. Open your eyes!”

Against her better judgement, she turned her head forward and cautiously opened one eye, before gasping in awe and opening the other. Spider-Man laughed at her, but said, “Isn’t it beautiful!”

It certainly was. They were so high up, the streetlights and headlights looked like stars. She couldn’t tell exactly where they were, but she certainly had never seen anything so pretty in her life. For the second time that night, she felt free.

What she’d felt in her bedroom, her feet almost touching the ceiling, had been nothing compared to this. She could feel the wind in her hair, the air biting her cheeks. She felt the rise and fall of her insides with every web, and the exhilaration that came with free-falling through the air. Was this what Spider-Man felt every time? Or was he showing off, just for her?

Spider-Man seemed to know exactly where he was going, which was comforting because Beatrice didn’t recognise a single building or street until Stark Industries came into view. The Tower was unmistakable, standing like a beacon against the rest of New York.

Beatrice’s heart leapt as she realised they were heading straight for it. Well, the rooftop. “Should we be here?”

“Mr. Stark knows me. He won’t mind.”

They landed gracefully on the rooftop, and it took a minute for Beatrice to let go of the hero. “Sorry,” she said when she finally released him. “Weird to be back on solid ground.”

He chuckled, then stepped towards the edge before sitting down with his legs dangling over. He reached out a hand, inviting her to join him. “Come on, the view’s to die for.”

She hesitated, willing the strength back into her trembling legs. “I can’t be out long, I have school in the morning.”

“No, I know, but—” Spider-Man said, freezing in place. He thought she’d miss the widening of his suit eyes as he realised his mistake, but she saw it.

“Wait, how old are you?”

Spider-Man paused. He seemed to be fighting with himself, as if giving his age away would give away his identity. “Sixteen,” he finally said.

Beatrice froze. “Sixteen?” She couldn’t wrap her head around it—he was her age, and he was a superhero.

Spider-Man nodded.

“Well, shit. I guess I should be calling you Spider-Boy instead,” she said, finally joining him at the ledge.

He laughed, helping her sit down beside him. “No. Stick with Spider-Man, Beatrice.”

Beatrice went quiet, looking down at her hands. She liked the way he said her name. “Sixteen then, huh? You go to school?”

“Unfortunately,” he grumbled, swinging his legs and looking out at the bright city. “I can’t wait to graduate, though. I feel like I’ve just got so much more to offer. It would be nice to just be a full-time Spider-Man.”

Beatrice gave an awkward laugh. “That sounds exhausting.”

“You don’t like helping people?”

“Are you kidding? ‘Course I like helping people. If I didn’t, you’d be in a world of trouble.” She elbowed him gently, and he chuckled. “It’s just… Doing that full-time? Having to keep up the secret identity, fighting bad people, lying to good people? I would get tired of it.”

“I do see your point,” he said quietly. “Do you … want to talk about what happened?”

Beatrice looked at him, searching his eyes for an ounce of hatred towards her, of disgust or resentment. But she couldn’t see much beyond the mask, and those freaky eyes.

“I just … That’s never happened before.”

“You mean the part where you were upside down?”

Beatrice huffed a laugh. “Yeah, that. I’ve always found it hard to summon it, like it was tied to my energy or something. But it never felt easier than when I was with you.”

He tilted his head, but there was no judgement in the gesture.

“It felt like it was just there. An endless supply that was there and always would be there, no matter how tired or hungry or distracted I was.”

“How long have you been able to do it?”

She thought for a moment. “I can’t remember a time before having this, so … forever?”

“And who else knows?”

“Just you, my mom, and …”

“Your stepfather?” His tone shifted into something dark.

“Walter, yeah.”

They were quiet for a moment. Beatrice tried to look like she was admiring the view, but in all honesty, she couldn’t see any of it over the noise in her head.

“You know,” she started, changing the subject. “My class is actually coming here. Friday.”

“You don’t say,” Spider-Man mused.

She nodded. “Field trip. Something about our grades being better than average. Will I see you here?”

“I’ve got school on Friday,” he shrugged. He looked down at his hands, fidgeting with his fingers for a moment before saying, “You, uh … you know that Parker kid, right?”

“Peter?”

“Yeah,” Spider-Man said. “Isn’t he in your class?”

Beatrice nodded. “I hear you two are real tight. You told him about me?”

“Is that okay?”

“I guess,” Beatrice nodded.

“Is he one of the friends you don’t feel comfortable talking to?”

It was getting late, and Beatrice was finding it harder and harder to filter her words. She laid back against the cool cement of the rooftop and stared at the stars. “It’s not that I’m not comfortable,” she said slowly.

“Then … what?”

“I just—I’ve never had real friends before. Celia is the closest I’ve ever gotten, and reconnecting with Peter and Ned … They’re probably the closest I’ll ever get. If they find out I’ve been keeping this from them, that I’ve been lying to them? I’d hate me too.”

“I don’t think they’d hate you. I know Peter, and he seems like a pretty understanding guy. I’m sure you could tell him about this.”

Beatrice shrugged. “We used to be close, but we kind of … grew apart, you know? I don’t know if I know him as well as I thought I did. If that makes sense.”

Spider-Man was quiet for a moment. “Yeah, makes sense.”

They fell silent, only met with the distant sounds of the city carried on the light breeze. “So, what’s lined up for you after you graduate?” Beatrice asked.

Spider-Man shrugged. “College, I guess. Then a job. Then working ‘til I’m seventy, then sweet, sweet retirement.”

“If that’s the amazing Spider-Man’s fate, then there’s no hope for the rest of us.”

He laughed, then laid back to join her stargazing. “As if. You’re probably on the books at Harvard or Yale already.”

“Ha!” She pretended to wipe a tear from her eye. “Oh, boy, you’re funny. No, I think I’d be lucky to get into community college at this rate.”

“You really gotta stop doing that,” he said. “Selling yourself short, I mean. I could put in a good word with Mr Stark, if you like. Hiring Peter was a fluke, but he’s always on the lookout for gifted college graduates. Be a few years away, but he’d be lucky to have you.”

“Like I said, you’re funny, Spider-Boy.”

“Spider-Man.”

Beatrice chuckled, then paused, turning to look at him. “Wait, you’d do that?”

“Hm?”

“You’d put in a good word with Stark? For me?”

He shrugged, still looking at the stars. “Sure. You’re smart, smarter than any kid I know.”

“I’m not Peter smart.”

“No,” he agreed. “You’re smarter. By miles.”

“Okay, but,” she countered, “I’m pretty sure Peter Parker doesn’t need Spider-Man helping him with his quantum physics homework.”

“No, but he also doesn’t have a job and manage superpowers. Not to mention Walter. Peter doesn’t have a Walter.”

Beatrice flushed, turning back to the stars.

He waved a dismissive hand, as if swatting the uncomfortable conversation off the edge of the Tower. “So? What’s your post-graduation plan?”

She sighed, rather heavily. “I just want to leave. I don’t care which college, university. I want to get out of here.”

“Out of New York?”

“Yeah, I think so. I love it here, but it’s so hard. With Mom and Walter, I can’t seem to save a penny no matter how many hours I work.”

“You could get a scholarship.”

“I’ve thought about it.”

“Imagine if you did your college essay on being a kick-ass superhero. Helping people with those powers of yours. You’d be at the top of their list.”

Beatrice felt a well-known weight settle on her chest, and had to sit up. She pushed a loose curl out of her eyes as she said, “Yeah, maybe.”

“Kidding,” Spider-Man said quickly, sitting up too. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be,” she said, before stretching and faking a yawn. “I’m beat. Would you mind if we called it a night?”

“What else would we call it?” he said, and she knew he was smirking under his mask. He leapt to his feet with more care and grace than she could ever muster. “Come on.”

Beatrice took his outstretched hand and he pulled her to her feet. “No showing off this time. Capisce?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gave a dramatic salute before wrapping an arm around her waist, and they were off.

Chapter Text

The week passed far too quickly. Beatrice was too distracted by her newfound abilities, her growing friendship with the Spider-Boy, and Walter, who had grown only more aggressive since their encounter on the weekend. Not to mention the tidal wave of homework that was slowly consuming her, body and soul.

Beatrice didn’t realise it was Friday until she checked her phone early that morning, when she found she had less than five minutes before she was supposed to meet Peter downstairs. That’s how she ended up hopping on one leg, struggling to tie her sneakers while brushing her teeth and trying to text Peter to tell him she was running a teensy bit behind.

pedroparker: nbd take ur time
bumblebea: sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry
pedroparker: as u should be. i am SO inconvenienced. shame on u.
bumblebea: i think youre joking but the full stops are throwing me

He sent a gif that Beatrice didn’t let herself look at, as she tied her hair into a half-up bun and hurried to the bathroom to spit her toothpaste.

Walter had been drinking the night before, so he wasn’t due to be up and about until at least eleven, so she had free reign to hunt through the apartment for that damn permission slip. She was sure she’d stuffed it into her bag after Mom had signed it, but that was six days ago.

She eventually found it in the mail pile beside the fridge, stained with coffee rings and a beer spill, but there was nothing she could do about it now. She wiped her mouth one last time, checking her reflection in the microwave to make sure she didn’t have any toothpaste crust on her face, before leaving, locking the door behind her.

She opened her phone again to let Peter know she was really on her way now, and saw the gif he’d sent. Betty White dabbing. Of course.

bumblebea: incominggg
pedroparker: heck yeeeeeeeeeee

“Ready to go?” Beatrice asked, stepping into the lobby. Peter jumped, looking up from his phone, a small smile on his face. He looked remarkably well-dressed, in his cleanest jeans, a pun-free t-shirt, and a green flannel. Was it ironed?

Of course he wanted to make a good impression, he was going to his workplace today. Beatrice felt embarrassed in her torn jeans and old hoodie, but it was too late now to change.

“Ready, captain,” he said, giving a dramatic salute, and something at the back of Bea’s brain piqued. Déjà vu. “Shall we?”

He opened the door for her, and she thanked him as she passed. The morning air was crisp, but not cold. She could hear the familiar sounds of built-up traffic already, as people made their way to work, school, whatever.

They made small talk as they walked to the subway, about stupid, mundane things. “Are you excited about the field trip?”, “Hope it warms up soon.”, “Did you get the Chemistry homework done?”.

Beatrice hated small talk.

But eventually, small talk shifted into real talk as they passed a billboard for a new movie coming out. Apparently, Ned’s friend of a friend knew the director, and it was going to be a big hit. Then they found Harry Potter and Star Wars to talk about, or shout enthusiastically, rather, and Beatrice didn’t realise they’d made it all the way to Midtown High until they were at the gate.

“You made it!” Ned cheered as they arrived.

“My seat partner!” said Celia with a fond smile. “Just in time, too.” She gestured to Mr Harrington who was greeting the bus driver. “You’ll sit with me, right?”

“As if I’d want anyone else,” Beatrice said in a lilting voice, linking elbows with her. Celia started telling her about this really funny conversation she had at work, but Beatrice wasn’t listening; Peter was looking pale.

“You okay, Peter?” Ned asked, and Peter nodded vigorously.

“For sure!” he said. “I just … forgot to have breakfast, is all.”

“Oh!” Ned twisted his backpack to his front and pulled out an energy bar. “Mom insisted.”

Celia tugged on her arm. “Bea? Where did you go?”

“Huh?”

“You were gone for a second there,” she said with a nervous chuckle.

Bea shook her head. “Sorry, I … Why do you think Peter’s so nervous?” she whispered.

“Wouldn’t you be?” said Celia. Beatrice frowned at her. “Seriously. He’s going to his workplace with Flash Thompson on board.” Beatrice couldn’t help noticing how tense Pete looked. “It’s going to be an interesting trip.”

“You and me, Ce. We won’t let Eugene mess this up for him.”

“You read my mind.”

After a bit of shouting on Mr Harrington’s part (AKA, roll call), the class boarded the bus, and they were on their way. They hadn’t even started their field trip, really, and Mr Harrington looked just about ready to call it a day. Beatrice stuck to her word, and found herself in an aisle seat beside Celia, who was staring out the window with her headphones on, busy channelling her inner main character. But then Bea realised with a sinking feeling …

She forgot her earphones.

Her only lifeline on an hour-long journey, and she’d forgotten them. She cursed herself quietly for being so disorganised.

“Psst,” said Peter from across the aisle. He’d sat with Ned, but like Celia, Ned had called the window seat. “Forget your earphones?”

How did he always know?

Beatrice nodded, and pouted dramatically. “First-world problems, right?”

“Here,” he said, and took his earphones out of his pocket. He put one bud in his ear and held the other out for her.

“Are you sure?”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

She put the earbud in her ear, having to lean into the aisle a little to make the cord reach, and nodded when Peter showed her a playlist he’d picked. She honestly hadn’t even seen it, deciding it would be rude to dictate what they listen to when Peter was sharing his music, but it was good. A healthy mix of 80s hits, a bit of rock and a few new ones, too.

Beatrice relaxed in her seat, closed her eyes, and just listened to the music. The bus was bumpy, and the driver took his turns just a little too fast, but she tuned it all out.

Before long, she was startled out of her nap by a hard shove, and Flash Thompson saying, “Move it or lose it, Penis.”

The earbud ripped out of her ear as he pushed past them. “Sorry,” Peter grimaced, through the sea of students dismounting the bus.

“All good.” She nudged Celia gently—she’d fallen asleep too. Beatrice turned back to Peter, who was winding his earphones into a neat knot. “Thanks for sharing.”

“Anytime.”

They all left the bus, Celia with a pink mark on her cheek from falling asleep on her hand, and Ned with very tired eyes. “Alright, everyone!” said Mr Harrington. “We’ve spoken several times this week about how we need to be conducting ourselves on this trip. Does anyone need a refresher?”

Most of the class shook their head.

Harrington sighed. “Basically, all I’m asking is that you be polite and professional. This isn’t a playground, this is a workplace. Your future workplace, one day, perhaps. So make good impressions!”

With that, he herded them into the building, not a single one of them (except Peter, maybe) missing the opportunity to stare in awe at the outside of the building. It was sleek and smooth, and if Beatrice hadn’t already seen it on her Sunday night adventure with Spider-Man, her jaw would’ve been on the floor.

“It’s the most beautiful building I’ve ever set foot inside,” Celia said in complete awe.

“I dunno, Ce,” Beatrice joked. “Your house is pretty nice.”

“But this is Stark Industries.”

The lobby was just as magnificent as the outside, and this time Beatrice let herself marvel at it. The architecture, the sharp lines and clean edges. It was really something.

“What do you think?” asked Peter from behind them, Ned by his side.

“Pretty building is pretty,” Bea determined, and Celia nodded.

“Welcome, Midtown Tech!” a voice called, and they all turned to find a young woman standing by the reception desk. “I’m Yasmin Kline, I’ll be your guide today. We have a really exciting day planned for you guys, but before we can start anywhere, we need to go over some rules. It’s really important for you guys to be respectful, and to listen when I give you instructions, okay?”

Yasmin clapped her hands together, and Beatrice noticed how strong and even her voice was. She must’ve done plenty of tours if she was this confident.

“We have employees on almost all levels, working hard on their projects, so we’re going to do the best we can not to disturb them, yeah? That doesn’t mean you guys won’t get to see some pretty cool tech today, maybe even a few Avengers if the rumours I’ve heard this morning are true.” She gave a sly wink, and the class broke into excited whispers. All except, of course, Peter, who just sighed.

“Only you would be sighing at the prospect of seeing an Avenger,” Beatrice joked.

He rubbed the back of his head bashfully, and shrugged.

“No, I get it, Mr I-see-superheroes-on-the-daily.”

She hoped the humour would break him out of his nerves, and it did—barely. He still looked a little green.

“Alright, guys,” Yasmin started again. “Your teacher went to the liberty of sending through a class list, so when I call out your names, come up and collect your badge. These are only visitor badges, so you’ll be able to go wherever I go, but if you’re dawdling or if you get lost, these won’t be much help. Stark Industries has a very strict security policy, so I will be asking each of you to please return your badges at the end of the trip. Any questions? No? Let’s get started.”

She tucked a Starkpad under her arm as she picked up the box of badges. One by one, she rattled of names, going down the list in alphabetical order. “Barrett, Celia” was one of the first, then “Leeds, Ned” shortly after.

“Page, Beatrice,” Yasmin said, searching the group. Bea poked her hand up and made her way to the front to collect her badge. It was small and grey with a little clip that she secured to the top of her jeans, with her name in bold letters and a barcode at the top. She gave a small “Thank you,” and hurried back to her friends.

“Parker—” Yasmin started, and frowned. “Pete?”

Peter stuck his hand up and gave her a little wave.

“I didn’t know you were coming by today. New intern made the badges, I wish I’d read it before! Really good to see you.”

“Yeah, you too, Yaz.”

“Do you have your badge on you? You can use either, but not both, I’m afraid.”

“Uh,” Peter said, and started digging through his pockets, eventually pulling out a lanyard with a yellow and red badge on the end. “Yeah, I-I’ve got it.”

“Perfect. Thanks, Pete.” She tossed his visitor badge back into the box. Beatrice spotted Flash standing a few feet away, his mouth open a little as he digested the situation.

Yasmin continued reading out names, but Beatrice wasn’t listening. “Your badge looks so cool,” she whispered, pointing at his lanyard. “Your face is on it and everything.”

“It is pretty cool,” he agreed. “But it took me, like, twenty minutes to find it this morning. Thought I’d lost it.”

“Don’t you need it for your internship?”

“Not always. I work on the same levels as Mr Stark’s AI, FRIDAY. She knows me.”

Flash scoffed, suddenly beside them, his own badge in hand. “Are you kidding me? I know places like this, there’s no way they’d let an intern work that high up.”

“Quiet,” Mr Harrington hissed, a finger on his lips.

“Alright,” Yasmin said, handing the box back to the receptionist. “Have I missed anyone?”

“No,” Harrington said with a nod. “That’s everyone.”

“Great! Let’s get started then.”

She led them through the lobby, explaining the history of the building and Stark Industries as she went. “Howard Stark established Stark Industries back in 1940, and Tony Stark took over in ’92. We had a few bumps in the road …” Beatrice pressed her lips together—terrorism seemed like a pretty big bump. “… but it was all shut down nice and quick, and the one and only Ms Pepper Potts has since taken over as CEO while Tony Stark focuses on his work with the Avengers.

“But you must already know all that,” she said, stopping at an elevator. “This elevator will take us up to the highest Research and Development level, but no higher. Those last top ten floors are residential areas for the Avengers, private labs and research rooms. I’d love to take you up there, but since I’m not Tony Stark, and I’m pretty sure none of you are either, we’ll just be sticking to the lower levels today.”

Beatrice smiled. Oh, to be Tony Stark.

“I’m going to need everyone to clip their badges somewhere visible, so the Tower’s AI can detect them. Either on your shirt, or on a pocket is fine. Otherwise we’ll be spending half the tour scanning badges, and that doesn’t sound like a good time to me.”

A few students fiddled with their badges, pinning and re-pinning until they, and Yasmin, were happy with the placement, and they all shuffled into the elevator.

“FRIDAY?” Yasmin called out as the doors closed on them all. “The museum, please.”

“Yes, Miss Kline.” The elevator began to move, taking them up.

“That’s the AI I was telling you about just before,” she explained. “Her name is FRIDAY, and she’s always watching. Mr Stark built her himself. She works mostly with him on the top floors, but she looks after the entire Tower.”

The doors opened to what Beatrice assumed was the museum, and a chorus of gasps erupted from the class. “Holy cow,” Celia hissed, as they all exited the elevator.

Holy cow, indeed. As museums went, the Avengers Museum was rather spectacular. Each Avenger had their own segment with photos, videos, old suits, weapons and personal items. Beatrice thought about her own personal items and decided she’d be very uncomfortable having them on display for a bunch of kids.

“Take your time to look around, and then we’ll move on, alright?” Yasmin said, wandering through the museum with them.

Celia gasped and grabbed Beatrice’s elbow. “Bea, look! Black Widow has a section!”

It was smaller than everyone else’s but had an impressive series of knives and swords on display.

“She’s so amazing.”

“I think you’re in love, Ce.”

She nodded solemnly. “I think so, too.”

Beatrice looked around for Ned and Peter, and found them by the Captain America display. Peter was pointing at a copy of the Captain’s shield, saying something to Ned that was clearly blowing his mind.

The Iron Man display was the last one at the end of the hall, and no one else had reached it yet. Of course Tony Stark would leave the best for last. His display wasn’t much bigger than anyone else’s, but Bea found it far more interesting. There was even mention of Spider-Man, since Tony was the one who designed the hero’s suit.

“Hey,” came Peter’s voice from behind her.

“Oh, hey,” Bea replied. She looked over his shoulder and found Celia still at the Black Widow display with Ned fangirling by her side. “I had no idea there was a museum here.”

“Me either, actually.”

“Really?”

Peter shrugged. “I’m usually upstairs. Never get to see all this.”

“You gotta tell me,” Beatrice said, looking back at the Iron Man display. “Is he what they all say?”

“That depends, what do they all say?”

“Oh, you know. Is he really just a billionaire in a shiny suit?”

“No,” Peter said with a small smile. “I mean, yeah, he is that, but not just that. He’s the smartest person I’ve ever met, there’s never a problem he can’t solve. Last week I was stuck working on my—on a, uh, new version of Spider-Man’s web shooters, he’s been struggling with lag lately, and I couldn’t figure it out. It was probably just because he had fresh eyes, but he spotted the issue straight away.”

“You sound like you really admire him.”

He shrugged. “He’s done a lot of good stuff. I’m really lucky to be able to work with him.”

“Alright, guys!” Yasmin said then, clapping twice to get their attention. “Let’s keep it moving.”

Chapter Text

So far, the museum had been the most interesting part of the tour.

Yasmin kept things interesting with her fun facts, and introductions to scientists, engineers and researchers, but Beatrice was starting to yawn. She hated to be rude, but the only thing keeping her awake was walking. She felt another yawn coming, but tried to choke it down.

“Alright, guys, I’m seeing some tired faces out here, but stay with me,” Yasmin said, showing them through yet another room of labs. “We’re actually heading to a very exciting lecture, hosted by our very own Dr Bruce Banner. He’s agreed to a short, ten-minute class on the effects of gamma radiation with time for questions at the end.”

This perked the class up considerably, and respectfully hushed whispers filled the halls. Yasmin led them out of the laboratories and down another hallway, finally stopping at a set of large double doors.

“You guys remember the rules? Dr Banner is taking time out of his day today to speak to you all, so I’m hoping you’ll be quiet and considerate, and hold your questions until the end.”

The class nodded excitedly. Even Peter looked like he was looking forward to it.

The doors opened, and there he was. Dr Bruce Banner, reading over his notes. “Good morning, Dr Banner,” Yasmin greeted, letting everyone in to find a seat. “Thank you again for doing this.”

“Of course,” he said, a gentle smile on his face. He seemed to spot Peter, too, and gave him a small wave. Peter returned it politely and sat down.

“Alright, everyone. Welcome. My name is Bruce, or Dr Banner, whichever you prefer. I hope you’re all enjoying your tour of the Tower. Today we’ll be looking at gamma radiation …”

The lecture was interesting. But Dr Banner’s delivery did not help Beatrice’s yawning situation. She only hoped they would stop for lunch soon so she could find a coffee machine.

“Any questions?” Banner asked, but he was interrupted by the doors opening, and a very familiar head poking through.

Oh my god, Beatrice thought. Tony freaking Stark.

“Kline, you got Parker?” he asked, and even Yasmin looked a little starstruck.

“Uh,” she said, turning to find Peter. “Pete?”

“Coming,” Peter said, standing and making his way down to the door. Half the class was gaping like fish, the other half still too in shock that Tony Stark was in the room. Well, half in the room.

Tony clapped a hand on Peter’s shoulder, and the door closed behind them.

“Like I was saying,” Bruce said. “Any questions?”

Betty put her hand up. “Mr Banner,” she started, and Beatrice frowned.

“It’s Dr Banner,” Bea said before she could stop herself. But even Dr Banner hadn’t looked like he was going to correct her, and a man with seven PhDs deserved a bit of respect. But the silence that followed was nothing short of mortifying—Beatrice pinked, sinking down in her chair with a small, “Sorry.”

“Dr Banner,” Betty said, throwing Bea a dirty look. “How would someone protect themselves against gamma radiation?”

“Hopefully you’ll never need to,” Banner said with a laugh, but no one joined in. He cleared his throat. “Like I said before, gamma is highly penetrative.” Flash snickered from the back of the room. “Kind of like an x-ray, but stronger. You’d need something solid and thick, like a cement wall, to protect yourself against gamma rays.”

“How did you survive, then?” Flash asked.

Harrington sighed. “Flash, you need to put your hand up if you want to ask a question.”

“No, that’s alright,” Bruce said. “How did I survive? Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?”

“You mean you don’t know?” asked Sally.

“I have my theories, but no actual answers for you, I’m afraid. Any other questions?”

Beatrice tried to focus, to think of a question to ask that could impress Dr Banner, but Peter had slipped back into the room, only this time without an appearance from Tony Stark.

“Everything alright?” she whispered when he sat back down.

“Yeah,” Ned said, leaning in. “What was that about?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

Later couldn’t have come soon enough. Beatrice was convinced it was just an internship-related matter, but the way she’d find Peter stealing worried glances at her made her uneasy.

“Thank you so much for that, Dr Banner. That was really enlightening,” Yasmin said, leading the applause for Dr Banner. The class joined in, and he gave a small bow.

“Don’t mention it. I just hope everyone learned a little something today.”

“Yeah, right,” Flash said under his breath as the class dispersed, heading for the door.

Beatrice turned and stared him down. “Have a little respect, Eugene.”

He reddened, frowning at Beatrice, and opened his mouth to retort but Harrington had moved towards them. “Am I going to have to send the both of you down to sit in the bus for the rest of the trip?” he asked.

“No, sir,” Beatrice said icily, Flash only shaking his head.

“Good. Let’s keep it moving.”

Finally out of the lecture and free from disrupting Dr Banner’s lecture, Beatrice found Peter. “So?” she asked.

“So what?”

“What was all that about, then?”

He hesitated for a moment, before saying, “All what?”

Beatrice clicked her tongue at him. “That’s cold, Parker.”

He laughed, and glanced nervously around. “He, uh … just needed to ask about one of the projects I’m working on for Spider-Man.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, I’m not supposed to say anything, because it’s a … surprise. Of sorts.”

“Okay,” she conceded, hands up in surrender. “Keep your secrets.”

Beatrice heard Yasmin talking at the front, but didn’t quite catch what was said. Peter grinned beside her. “Food, finally,” he said.

“Oh, good. I’m dying for a coffee.”

The cafeteria was quiet, not unusual considering it was barely ten o’clock, but there were a few tired-looking workers slouched over their steaming mugs, or sitting in small groups and chatting quietly amongst themselves. None of them paid the tour group any mind.

“Alright guys, we’re taking a quick break to refuel and recharge. Help yourself to any drinks from the fridges over there.” She pointed across the room to a wall of refrigerators, well-stocked with iced coffee, juice, water, and soda. “And we have a selection of snacks available from you just over here.” There was a small table with packets of chips, muffins and muesli bars. “Everything is covered by the tour, so help yourselves.”

They all split off, towards the fridges and towards the snacks, before finding a seat. Beatrice only fetched herself an iced coffee, the thought of food making her stomach flip.

“Not eating?” Celia asked, opening a blueberry muffin.

“Nah, not hungry.”

Just as she was opening the bottle, Yasmin approached their table. “Hi guys,” she said, crouching down. Beatrice felt like she was back in elementary school. “Do you mind if I steal Peter for a moment? It’s a work thing.”

Bea looked at Peter, whose face gave nothing away. “Sure,” he said, scooping up his snacks and his juice. “Wanna come?” he asked Beatrice, who shrugged.

“Am I allowed?”

“Come on,” he said, so Bea left her drink with Celia, who looked as confused as she felt, as Yasmin led them out of the cafeteria and into the hall.

“Are you in trouble?” Bea asked him quietly.

“No one’s in trouble,” Yasmin assured over her shoulder.

When Beatrice stole a glance at Peter, who had looked worse than she felt all morning—actually, since Mr Harrington had announced the trip—she saw no anxiety. No fear, no tinge of green. He actually looked a little flushed. They turned a corner, and Yasmin stopped outside a door. Bea peeked through one of the tinted windows—it looked like another research lab, only empty. “I’ll wait out here,” Yasmin said, opening the door.

“Should I stay out here, too?”

“Nah,” he said. “Come meet him.”

“Him? Him who?” But Peter only gave Beatrice a reassuring nod as he entered.

“Ah, there he is,” came a new voice, and Beatrice stopped dead in her tracks.

It was Tony Stark.

And she was in a dirty hoodie. Shit. She really should’ve woken up earlier.

“Who’s your friend?” Stark asked, gesturing at Beatrice. Her face felt hot, her hands clammy, and she couldn’t quite take a full breath.

“Beatrice,” Peter said. When Tony’s expression remained unchanged, he said, “Beatrice Page? She’s the one I was telling you about.”

“Oh, you’re the wonderkid,” he said with a nod. “Peter here doesn’t shut up about you. Nice to put a face to the name.”

Her brain was going to melt. Not only was she standing in the same room as Tony Stark, but he also knew who she was.

She thought for a moment Stark was moving to shake her hand, but he was only reaching out to tap the workbench awake. A bright blue light exploded from it—a holographic model of Spider-Man’s suit.

Tony started explaining to Peter something far too technical for Beatrice to understand, something about the systems in Spider-Man’s suit malfunctioning. But then she realised it wasn’t too technical at all. She’d actually faced the same problem once when she tried building her own AI.

Disclaimer: It went very, very badly.

“Did you try turning it off and back on again?” Bea joked. She was met with blank looks from both of them. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I don’t know why I said that. But …” She approached the desk slowly, waiting for Stark to tell her to back off, kick her out or something, but he didn’t. She pointed at a small section on the holo, careful not to touch anything or disrupt the feed. “If you can recalibrate the program to incorporate all of this into one sequence rather than separate sequences, it should stop shorting out.”

She also pointed out a piece of code on the sidebar that was incorrect, but her brain was still catching up with the lack of coffee, she wasn’t sure she even understood half of what she was saying. “But, uh … You’ve already thought of that, haven’t you? Shit, don’t mind me. I don’t know the full … thing, I shouldn’t’ve … Sorry.”

Tony looked back at the workbench, and said, “FRIDAY?”

“Just a second, Boss,” the AI replied. “And … Done. Model successful.”

Beatrice shrank a little, feeling the heat return to her face.

“Not bad, kid,” Tony said.

“Uh, thanks.”

“Right,” he continued, clapping his hands together. “I think that was all I needed.” He stood and, with a hand on Peter’s shoulder, walked them to the door. “See you guys around, yeah?”

Beatrice was speechless—the best she could do was smile and nos like a bobblehead figurine.

True to her word, Yasmin was still waiting in the hall for them, Starkpad in hand, doing some paperwork. “All done, Mr Stark?” she asked, putting the pad to sleep.

“Thanks, Kline. You’ll take them back to the nest?”

“Of course.”

She nodded once at him, very professional and whatnot, and ushered them forward. Peter said one last goodbye to Stark before he was off, heading for the elevator. “I can’t believe it,” Beatrice said quietly.

“You okay?” Peter chuckled.

She sputtered for a moment, unable to find the words. “I think so?”

They made it back to the cafeteria, Beatrice still reeling from the interaction, and Yasmin told them they probably had about five minutes left to eat and relax before the tour continued. “Thanks,” Peter said, starting back towards Ned and Celia.

“Wait,” Beatrice said, a hand on Peter’s arm. “Why does Tony Stark know who I am?”

He looked confused.

“You told Stark about me.”

“Why not? You’re the smartest in our grade, he should know you exist.”

Beatrice didn’t know what to say to that. It wasn’t true, not by a long shot, but it warmed her to know Peter thought so.

“Guys!” Ned called through the cafeteria, earning a quiet, Ned! from Mr Harrington. Peter and Bea exchanged one last look before crossing the cafeteria and sitting back down. “Where did you go?”

“Intern stuff,” he told Ned, who nodded as if Peter’s answer actually meant something.

“Bea,” Celia said, sliding closer. “Check out what Betty just sent me.” Beatrice really tried to focus on the video—a TikTok about the Avengers—and laughed when she was supposed to laugh, but her mind was still on the weird interaction she’d just had. A little voice in the back of her head was saying it was a test, that Tony wasn’t actually stuck on a very simple problem. And why wouldn’t it be? Peter had said so himself, there was never a problem Tony Stark couldn’t solve.

Whatever this was, whatever they were planning, Beatrice was certain Spider-Man was involved.

Chapter Text

Beatrice tried to focus on the rest of the tour, out of respect for Yasmin who was somehow still running at full steam ahead, and for Mr Harrington who must’ve really gone out of his way for this. But her mind was still busy processing her interaction with Peter and Stark.

She’d come to the very definitive conclusion that it had been a test, because there was no way in all the world that Beatrice solved a problem that Tony Stark couldn’t. But why were they testing her? What were they looking for?

“And that finishes up our tour today!” Yasmin said, and Beatrice snapped back to reality. “Do we have any more questions before we head back down to the lobby?”

Flash stuck his hand in the air. “Yeah, I’m dying to know. How did Parker get his internship?”

“Well,” Yasmin said with a chuckle. “You might have a bit more luck asking Peter about the specifics. But in most departments, the Stark Industries Internship program will consider college students or fresh graduates. There are some special cases that are overseen by Ms Potts or Mr Stark themselves, but those are very rare instances.”

Flash seemed less than satisfied with that, grumbling something under his breath, but he said nothing more. Yasmin answered a couple of other questions before the headed back to the elevator, and Beatrice almost jumped when Celia linked arms with her.

“Everything okay, Bea?” she asked quietly. “Seems like something’s on your mind.”

Beatrice shrugged. “Kind of. You got anything on after school?”

“No, free as a bird.” She winced. “Actually, scratch that. Dad’s got a gala dinner tonight and wants me to come along. But I don’t need to be home ‘til four, we can do something beforehand?”

“Coffee?”

“Coffee,” Celia smiled.

It was a happy accident when, after returning to the lobby, handing back their badges and being herded onto the bus by Harrington, Bea and Celia found two seats at the opposite end of the bus as Peter and Ned. She didn’t want to be distancing herself from Peter, but the fact he was hiding something … it was unsettling.

And Beatrice didn’t have time for unsettling. She was behind on her schoolwork, she’d been picking up extra shifts at the bakery, and she’d be lucky to get five hours of sleep a night. No, she didn’t need unsettling.

The ride back to school was jarringly loud compared to their too-early ride to Stark Industries. Everyone was still buzzing from the exciting trip, and Mr Harrington had to tell them to quiet down on more than two occasions.

“I know some people get super weird when they meet celebrities,” Celia was saying. “But If I got to meet Black Widow, I’d be so cool.”

“You really think so?”

“Yeah!” she said. “I’d be all, ‘Hey, Widow. How’s it goin’?’ And she’d be like, ‘Oh, Celia. You’re so cool and we have so much in common, like we both have red hair. You’re so amazing, wanna come on this mission with me?’”

Beatrice laughed so hard it earned a stern look from Harrington. “You kill me, Ce.”

“Don’t laugh, I saw you checking out Iron Man’s display.” She smirked triumphantly at Beatrice’s appalled expression. “I get it, you’ve got a thing for the goatee.”

“Oh my god, Celia, shut up.” Beatrice dragged a hand down her face. “Isn’t he married or something? Pepper Potts, aren’t they a thing?”

“I think they’re engaged,” she said. “There’s hope for you yet, Bea.”

“Celia,” Beatrice said, flushing bright red when she saw Peter turn a little in his seat. “I do not have a ‘thing’ for Tony Stark. Trust me.”

“Fine,” Celia huffed, still smirking a little. “But if you could bang one Avenger, who—”

“Can we stop talking about this?” Beatrice laughed nervously, watching the back of Peter’s shoulder bob up and down with laughter. Could he hear them? Could the whole bus hear them?

“You’re not off the hook. We’re definitely talking about this. But later, for sure.” And with that, Celia pulled out her phone and her headphones, holding them between their ears so they both could hear, and watched TikToks together until her phone died.

Lucky for them, that happened about ten minutes after they made it back to school. Celia had just enough time to call them an Uber to take them to the café. Beatrice insisted they could take the subway, but Celia wanted to spend as much time as possible with Beatrice before she had to go home. That, of course, and she needed to borrow their driver’s phone charger.

They’d walked past this new café plenty of times—in fact, enough times that it wasn’t ‘new’ anymore—but had never stopped in. “Welcome to Urban Aroma, what can I get started for you?” the barista greeted, and Beatrice pushed Celia to go first.

Bea scanned the menu, then scanned it again, looking for the least expensive, highest-caffeine-content drink they had. Celia had finished ordering, and Bea still had no idea. Table number in hand, she linked elbows with Bea and started towards a table under the front window, with a good view of the street.

“I haven’t orde—”

“You still like those caramel macchiatos, right?” Celia asked, sitting down.

Beatrice sighed. “Ce, you gotta stop buying stuff for me. I can afford it.”

“I know you can.”

“I’m serious, I suggested this place because I can afford it.”

“Bea,” Celia said, leaning forward. “I believe you, but it’s my duty as your best friend to buy you coffee sometimes.”

She was quiet for a moment, before conceding, “I’ll buy next time.”

“Sure.” Celia clapped her hands together. “So? What’s going on?”

The dreaded question. Beatrice was honestly so desperate to just word-vomit all over the table, but she couldn’t. Not while her secret was still a secret. But to just be able to say, oh, you know Spider-Man? Yeah, he passed out in my room one night and I healed him with my weird magic superpowers and now we’re friends and he saved me from being shot at work and then he walked me home and then I found out my powers are, like, powers, and my stepfather is so abusive and I have no way out, my job pays terribly, I’m falling behind at school, and now I’ve got Tony Stark on my radar and I really don’t want him there ...

“Honestly, nothing,” Beatrice said instead, choosing to ignore the disbelieving quirk of Celia’s brow. “Met Tony Stark today.”

“Ooh, the lover-boy?” Ce teased. “Lover-man, I should say. Did you two have passionate sexy times on his desk?”

“Sometimes I wonder why your brain works the way it does,” Bea said. The waitress came over and placed Celia’s almond latte and Bea’s caramel macchiato down. “Thank you,” Bea said, and waited until the girl was out of earshot to say, “For the record, there were absolutely zero sexy times. He wanted to see Peter, but Pete dragged me along and then the next thing I know, they’re trying to fix a problem with a Spider-Man suit and I butt my stupid ass in.”

Celia’s jaw dropped, a grin teasing her cheeks. “And?”

“And I solved it? But it doesn’t make sense—”

“It makes all the sense in the world, Bea. You’re fucking smart.”

“Okay, but the problem they needed to solve was a line of code and a sequence recalibration.”

Celia shook her head, taking a sip of her latte. “That doesn’t mean anything. Even people as smart as Tony Stark can need a pair of fresh eyes.”

“But, you don’t think it’s a little suspicious? Apparently Peter’s been talking to Stark about me, and Spider-Man has, too.”

“Wait, time out,” Celia said, placing her mug back down on the saucer. “Spider-Man? How does Spider-Man know you?”

At just that moment, someone pointed out the window and shouted, and Beatrice glanced out to see a familiar red-and-blue figure swinging down the street.

“That Spider-Man?” Celia said, dumbfounded.

“Yeah, that one. He, uh … Helped me out at work one night.” Bea massaged her temples. “See, this is what happens when we don’t catch up for a while.”

Celia was quiet, prompting her to continue with a small wave of her hand.

“This dude was trying to rob the bakery. The Sunday after the sleepover.”

“Holy shit, Bea.”

“He had a gun and everything, real villain material,” she joked, but Celia put a hand on hers, squeezing once for comfort. “I had nothing to worry about, Spider-Man showed up pretty quick and dealt with it.”

“I can’t believe you kept that to yourself. I’m not even mad you didn’t tell me, but did you tell anyone?”

“The police—”

“I mean a friend, Beatrice.”

She shrugged. “Spider-Man found me after my shift and walked me home. We talked about it, even though there really wasn’t anything to talk about, and … I’m fine, Celia. Really. Don’t worry.”

Celia wasn’t buying it—Beatrice wasn’t even sure she was buying it.

“But, yeah. So, I don’t know what they’re telling Stark, but if it interferes with anything, I’m going to kill them.”

“It sounds like they’re trying to help. Like friends do?”

Beatrice chuckled. “Nah, that sounds too logical. I think I’m gonna keep going with my whole paranoia thing.”

“Cheers to that,” she said, and they clinked mugs.

“So what’s new with you?” asked Bea.

“Well,” she started. “For one, I haven’t been robbed at gunpoint. No, my life isn’t nearly that exciting.”

She went on to explain how her father’s business had been struggling, their lead engineer had just quit but they were lucky to find a good replacement. An ex-employee of Stark’s, if Beatrice could believe it. But the dinner thing she had to go to tonight was an outreach thing to one of their competitors.

“I still don’t understand half the stuff Dad talks about, but supporting him is the least I can do.”

“You’re such a good daughter.”

“Oh, yeah,” Celia scoffed. “It’s a real heartache to get all dressed up on the reg, meeting rich people and their gorgeous, rich teenagers.”

“You sacrifice so much,” Bea joked, her expression incredibly serious. “Thank you for your service, Miss Barrett.”

Celia put a hand over her heart and nodded solemnly. But then her phone lit up, and she glanced down to check the time. “Shit, speaking of sacrifice. I have to go.”

“Oh, for sure,” Beatrice said and they stood. Bea took their mugs back to the counter and thanked their barista again before heading out with Celia. They waited at the curb for her driver. “Take lots of photos at this gala for me, alright?” Beatrice said as they waited. “I wanna see at least one rich person looking like a fool.”

“You got it, Bea.” Her driver pulled up in a sleek car, dark with tinted windows. “Listen, before I go … Promise me you’ll call me next time something big happens. Please don’t bottle it up, I know you’ve got a lot on your plate right now.” Understatement of the year. “You can talk to me. Any time,” she insisted.

“I promise,” said Bea, and it wasn’t entirely a lie.

“Pinkie swear?”

Bea held her pinkie out in response and Celia looped hers through, giving it a single hard shake, before pulling Beatrice into one last, tight hug. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

She waved Celia off, and started towards the subway.

For the millionth time that day, Beatrice felt the absence of her earphones. Music helped her drown out everything else and without it, she was defenceless. There were children on the subway, screaming and crying, a man yelling on the phone about a “crappy" business deal, and a young couple about Beatrice’s age having a very heated argument about custody and a dog.

As much as she wished she didn’t have to go home, she couldn’t deny her relief when she finally spotted her building.

The stairwell was suspiciously quiet as she climbed to the seventh floor, never hearing so much as a peep from behind door 712. The quiet was almost more unsettling, she concluded as she pushed her key into the lock, than an argument. At least when they were arguing, she knew what she was coming home to.

“Mom?” she asked quietly, closing the door behind her. The TV was off, but all the lights were on. The apartment was spotless. Had Walter left again? “Mom.”

“In here, honey,” her mom called, from Beatrice’s room.

“What’s going on?” Bea asked, standing in the doorway. Her mom was there, folding clothes on her bed. “Is everything okay?”

“You had some laundry, I thought I’d get it done today.”

Alrighty, then. “Is … Walter around?”

“He’s at work. They asked him to work overtime, but he’ll be home at six.”

Beatrice nodded. “Want me to cook tonight?”

“Baby,” her mother said, giving a genuine smile. “That’s lovely of you to offer, but I know you have lots of work to do.”

Beatrice couldn’t argue with that. “Can I help cook?”

“Really, honey. You just get your work done.”

Beatrice nodded and kicked her shoes off, crossing the room and dumping her bag at her desk.

“Oh,” Mom started again as she stood, “I almost forgot to ask. How did the field trip go?”

Beatrice shrugged. “It was really interesting. Met Tony Stark, actually.”

“Oh, wow.” Her brows shot up. “Make a good impression?”

“I think so,” Bea nodded. “We’ll see, I guess.”

“We’ll see.” Her mom smiled again, closing the door as she left.

One day, Beatrice decided, she’d be as successful as Tony Stark and she’d be able to get her mother somewhere safe. Somewhere she could be this well all the time.

Chapter Text

Five days later, Beatrice was pinching herself. The email had been sitting there, open on her desk since Monday, but she still couldn’t quite convince herself it existed.

As a result of your interest in our esteemed internship program, we would like to invite you to attend an interview this Wednesday at 4:45pm at Stark Industries. Your interview will be held by Mr Tony Stark. Please meet Mr Harold Hogan (Head of Department, Security and Safety) in the lobby at least ten minutes prior to your interview.

Beatrice had been sure it was fake. It had to be. She’d sent a screenshot to Celia when it arrived, who had only replied in gifs and exclamation points.

bumblebea: but ??? i didnt apply for any internship program
bumblebea: i think i’d remember if i did hey
oh_celia: I TOLD YOUUU these are the perks of having spidey on ur side bby

And so there she was, on Wednesday afternoon with ten minutes before she had to leave for her interview at Stark Industries. God, she was going to have a heart attack. Had she really made that much of an impression? Surely not, but … The evidence was right in front of her.

She’d gone with Celia to Goodwill on Monday afternoon, and she’d never had so much luck in one thrift. She found a pair of black trousers, a white blouse and a grey blazer, along with a pair of black dress shoes that were only a little too big. The blazer was a bit pricier than she was hoping for, but Celia assured her it was a ‘good investment’.

Beatrice had been dressed and ready to go for almost thirty minutes. She’d done her hair three times before pulling it back into a low bun.

She checked the email one last time. Stark Industries. Lobby. Mr Hogan. Okay.

It hadn’t said anything about what she should bring, but she had a copy of her résumé in her bag and all her IDs. ‘All’ seemed a bit broad, considering she didn’t even have her driver’s licence, but surely Mr Stark knew that already.

Beatrice wished she’d told Peter. Part of her assumed he must’ve known, seeing as he and Stark were apparently that close, but she still thought telling Peter would’ve been the nice thing to do. She could’ve done with a few pointers, or his weird humour to cool her nerves.

With one last steadying breath, Beatrice left her room and the apartment, all the while ignoring Walter’s crude questions about her fancy get-up and her mother’s absent gaze. The front door closed behind her with a little more of a bang than she’d expected, and she hurried downstairs.

The subway was particularly quiet for mid-week, but it didn’t faze Beatrice—she’d remembered her earbuds this time.

Only, the music wasn’t helping. She spent the entire ride cursing herself for her lack of preparation—she should’ve looked up interview questions, practised in a mirror or something. What would they ask her? She had no experience—Bread & Butter certainly did not count—and she had no qualifications. For the millionth time since she received the email, she questioned the entire situation.

What if it turned out to be some elaborate prank? She could picture Peter and Spider-Man sitting together, laughing amongst themselves at how hilarious it would be to prank Beatrice like this. Imaginary Tony would ask, “What’s so funny?” and, after the boys explained, he’d agree to be part of it, too.

She snapped back to reality in time to realise they’d reached her stop. Beatrice swore colourfully under her breath as she snatched her bag off the seat beside her and ran for the doors, barely making it before they closed behind her.

Beatrice berated herself. Tony Stark would not go to this much trouble just for a joke. End of story.

Walking was a better distraction than sitting. She rarely came to this part of the city, so focusing on not getting lost took priority over her anxiety and insecurities. She did miss a few turns and had to go back, but eventually she made it to the familiar building.

She’d forgotten how large it seemed from the ground, and found herself unable to take a full breath. You’ve got this you’ve got this you’ve got this—

Beatrice was fifteen minutes early—would have been more if she hadn’t taken all those wrong turns—and didn’t expect Mr Hogan to be waiting, but a very smart figure was standing by the receptionist desk, hands clasped before him.

She approached the desk, making sure to smile at the figure in case it was Mr Hogan, and introduced herself to the receptionist. “I have an interview with Mr Stark at 4:45? My name is Beatrice, I was told to meet a Mr Hogan here.”

“Page?” the figure—Hogan—asked.

“Yes?” said Beatrice, turning to shake his hand. “Oh. Yes, that’s me. It’s nice to meet you, Mr Hogan.”

He didn’t look very impressed as he turned to the receptionist and said, “Grab her a visitor’s badge, yeah?”

The woman looked startled, but nodded, rifling around her desk before pulling out a small, grey visitor’s badge. It was identical to the one she’d received on her field trip, though this one didn’t have her name.

She thanked her, taking the badge and pinning it to her blazer.

“This way,” Hogan said, and started towards the elevators. She was grateful she’d done the tour already, even though she zoned out for most of it. Vaguely familiar surroundings were better than brand-new surroundings.

But the tour made no difference, Bea realised, when Hogan walked past the elevator Yasmin had taken them on, towards a more secluded area—a private lift.

This must go up to Stark’s floors, Bea assumed, heart practically in her throat as she stepped inside with Hogan.

“86 please, FRI,” he said, clasping his hands in front of him again, eyes firm and forward. Beatrice eyed him warily. So, no small talk, then.

She turned, eyes forward. Bea could do silence.

This elevator moved much faster than the public one—Beatrice almost lost her balance several times, but it made the trip short and sweet. She could barely contain her awe when the doors opened.

They seemed to be on an office floor. The elevator opened out to a long stretch of hallway, with conference rooms and meeting rooms lining either side.

Hogan took off at a brisk pace, leaving Beatrice jogging a little to catch up. She felt the need to say something, anything, to make a good impression on someone who clearly worked pretty close with Mr Stark. But as she was opening her mouth to remark on the weather—what the fuck, Beatrice—Hogan stopped, his hand on a doorknob. “Ready?” he asked her.

She gave a determined nod in response, steeling herself for what was coming next, and he knocked twice, opening the door.

But the person sitting at the desk was not the Tony Stark Beatrice was expecting. It was a strikingly pretty, tall, strawberry-blonde woman who was reading something on her StarkPad. She mentally berated herself—of course Mr Stark wouldn’t actually conduct his own interviews. He was a busy guy, and she … well, she was just Bea.

“Miss Page is here for her interview,” Hogan said, and the woman smiled.

That was when Beatrice realised this woman was not just any woman. It was Pepper Potts. “Thank you, Happy.” The man—Happy?—nodded, and ushered a stuttering Beatrice inside before closing the door. “I hope you don’t mind,” Potts said. “Tony’s running a little behind schedule today, so you’re stuck with me ‘til he gets here.”

Oh my god. “That’s—yep. Okay.”

“Please,” she said, gesturing at the chair across from her. “Take a seat. Tell me a bit about yourself.”

“Well,” Bea started, toying with the strap of her bag as she sat where she was told. Her knee bounced with her nerves. “Uh …”

“This isn’t part of the interview,” Potts assured with a kind smile. “I’ve actually heard a lot about you.”

“From Spider-Man?”

“From your friend Peter. He says you’re the smartest in his grade.”

“He’s prone to exaggeration.”

“You wouldn’t be talking about me now, would you?” came a new voice from behind Beatrice. She recognised it instantly, and stood.

“You’re late,” Ms Potts chided.

“Actually,” he countered, closing the door. “I think you’ll find the kid here was early.”

“Sorry,” Beatrice said stupidly.

She waited for him to join Ms Potts on the other side of the table, to sit down and get straight to business, but instead he stood at the door, eyeing Beatrice up and down.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Ms Potts said, standing and collecting her things. “It was lovely to meet you, Beatrice,” she said, reaching out to shake her hand. “I hope to see you around here one day.”

“Thank you, Ms Potts.”

Potts gave one last look to Tony, brows quirked in a way Beatrice couldn’t decipher, but Stark took little notice. The moment the door clicked shut and Potts was gone, he tapped the screen on his watch and a holographic burst from the desk. It took her a moment to decipher the information—it was backwards, after all—but what caught her eye first was an image, one that made her stomach drop. Beatrice’s yearbook photo.

So … Not an interview, then.

“What’s this?” she asked, feeling instantly hollow.

“This,” said Stark, “is you.”

He walked around the desk, turning the holographic as he went, and leaned against the desk.

“Your friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man gave me the heads up about you, so I asked FRIDAY to run a quick bio-scan and background check during your field trip.”

It was a good thing she was sitting down. “That’s a breach of my privacy.”

“It’s a breach of my security having an unidentified enhanced in the building, don’t you think? I’m sure you get it. But what I don’t get is how your abilities work.”

“And you think I do?”

He shrugged. “You’ve probably got a better idea than me. Got a cool origin story? What’s your wattage?”

Her face burned with embarrassment, but also with anger—she’d trusted Spider-Man with this.

“I don’t know, okay?” she said hotly. “Like I told that webhead, I’ve had them forever.” She shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest. “I can’t believe I fell for this. Interview, interrogation. Tomayto, tomahto for you, right?”

Now it was the right way round, she could read the holo properly, and it did nothing for her twisting insides to see that Tony Stark knew everything. He had her address, school, grades, college applications, job application for Bread & Butter. Even her first ever detention slip, and the write-up she’d gotten at work last week. He had her height, weight, eye colour, blood type—the full description. Her skin crawled, but then her eyes landed on another small section, almost too small to read, and she froze entirely. There was her mother’s name, and another name beside it. “What is that?”

“Like I said, it’s you.”

Beatrice glared at him. “Yeah, I heard you the first time. Who is …” She squinted. “Adrian Cross?”

In an instant, the holo was gone and Tony was standing there, looking innocent as ever.

“Don’t make me ask again. Who is Adrian Cross?”

He sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. This interview was clearly not working out the way either of them had wanted. “Before HYDRA fell—you’ve heard of them, right? Right. Well, Cross was their lead engineer, worked with the big guns, like Strucker, Sitwell, so on. Not that you’d know who they are. Cross was … He was their lead on human experimentation.” Beatrice suddenly couldn’t breathe. Human experimentation? “But I’m telling you, he was arrested long before you were born.”

She only nodded, her mouth feeling full of sand.

He watched her for a moment before saying, “I just gotta know where you’re at with all this.”

Beatrice glanced at him. “You think I’m dangerous. That I’ve got something to do with HYDRA.”

“We don’t know what you can do, don’t know how you can do it. Don’t think you know, either. So yeah, it is what it is, and what it is is dangerous.”

She can’t quite meet his eye when she says, “What’re you gonna do about me, then?”

“Kid, you haven’t done anything illegal, you’re not in trouble. Your father working for HYDRA doesn’t make you HYDRA, but we need to know the extent of whatever this is. To cut it short, I’m offering to help train you. To get the full scope of your abilities in a safe, controlled environment.” He shrugged. “That’s what Pep says, anyway.”

Beatrice looked up. “Pepper Potts knows about me?”

“Not my fault,” he said, hands up in surrender. “That one’s on Spider-Man. He doesn’t shut up about you.”

“I think I’m going to kill him.”

“As long as you do it in a safe, controlled environment.”

Beatrice couldn’t bear it. She shook her head, leaning back in her chair. “I really thought this was a real interview.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble,” he said, clearly not so sorry at all. “FRIDAY, get Happy for me.” Turning back to Beatrice, he quirked a brow. “So?”

“What?”

“Am I taking your sullen silence as a yes, then?”

“It’s not sullen,” she said. “And … Do I really get a choice?”

“Nope.”

Beatrice nodded, and the door behind her opened. “All done, then?” said Happy.

“Yeah,” Stark said, sitting down in Potts’ seat. “It’s late, you mind driving this one home?”

“She seemed to get here fine all by herself,” Happy countered.

Beatrice stood. “Yeah, it’s really not necessary. I can—”

“No, it’s getting dark and I’m not dealing with the guilt when I have to read about your brutal murder in the paper tomorrow, alright? Happy’ll take you.”

Beatrice pinked, ignoring Happy’s frown. “I really don’t mind—”

“Same building as Peter, Hap.”

Beatrice paused, frowning. “How do you know where Peter lives?”

“He’s my intern.”

“I thought he was just an intern. Wait, how do you know where I live?”

“Were you not here just now? You know, when I got your entire profile from a scan.”

Bea scowled.

The verdict was clearly not changing anytime soon, and Happy sighed defeatedly. “Right, come on, kid,” he said, holding the door open for her.

She turned back to Stark. “Thanks,” she said, “for whatever this was. It was good to meet you. Again.”

He only gave a small wave of his hand, busy looking at something on his phone when Happy closed the door. He started towards the elevator at the same ridiculous speed, Beatrice barely able to keep up. “Garage please, FRIDAY.”

“On it, Happy,” FRIDAY replied.

The ride down was almost as awkward as the ride up, but it had absolutely nothing on the drive home. Beatrice sat in the back seat; she’d tried to sit up front with Happy, but he wouldn’t let her. “So, how long have you known Mr Stark?” she asked tentatively as he turned a corner.

“A while.”

She nodded slowly, though she was sure he couldn’t see her. “You always been in security?”

“No.”

Right. Silence.

Beatrice pretended to be engrossed on her phone, but she’d run out of data, so all she was able to do was type out all the quantum theories Spider-Man had taught her in her Notes app. One after the other, and over again, until even she was convinced that she just had so many emails to respond to, she didn’t have time to make conversation.

“End of the line, kid,” Happy said suddenly, coming to an abrupt stop outside her building.

“That was quick,” she remarked. “Thank you, Mr Happy—Mr Hogan. Really appreciate the lift.”

“Yeah, see you ‘round.”

She shot him a grateful smile that he didn’t see, and got out of the car. He waited three whole seconds before taking off down the street.

Beatrice’s pathetic people-pleasing heart broke just a little.

He was well and truly gone by the time Beatrice had fished her keys out. The stairwell was empty, dead quiet—but Bea simply put it down to families being together in time for dinner. She wondered as she climbed the stairs if Peter and May were sitting down to dinner together tonight. From what Bea remembered, May wasn’t the best cook, so probably not.

The seventh floor was strange tonight too, free of the familiar shouting from 712. Instead, she could hear low whispers and heavy footfalls, the scraping of moving furniture. A familiar wave of unease washed over her, but surely that could be put down to her strange encounter with Tony Stark. That's how Celia would logicise it, at least.

With tentative steps, Beatrice steeled herself and, against her better judgement, went inside.

Chapter Text

Beatrice couldn’t move.

It was as if her feet had been glued to the floor, her back to the closed apartment door. There was so much blood. Walter’s body lay unmoving barely two paces from where Beatrice stood, and the pool of blood rushing from his head met her shoes. She tried wiping the blood off onto the floor, but it was only more slippery against the linoleum.

Tearing her eyes off … the body, she looked up and realised she was surrounded. Four rifles, pointed right at her. Men in all-black tactical gear, and past them—

Mom.

Her mom was sobbing frantically, tears mixing with the blood from a cut on her brow. She struggled against the rope that tied her to the dining chair, shouts of distress muffled against her gag. Beatrice shifted, taking a step towards her, but a low voice stopped her.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

A man emerged from Beatrice’s bedroom.

“How wonderful it is to see you again.” He sauntered into the kitchen, making sure to keep well behind his armed men. “Look how much you’ve grown.”

Beatrice couldn’t find a single thing to say, except, “Who are you?”

“Who am I?” the man said, clutching his chest. “I’m hurt, Beatrice, truly. We used to be so very close.”

She steadied herself, willing her light to the brim in case she needed it. She wasn’t sure what it was going to do—blind them? Her light was for healing, not for battle. “That still doesn’t tell me who you are.”

“You’ve moved on, clearly,” he said with a sniff, dropping his charming act as he stepped closer, this time past his men, who lowered their weapons slightly, and over the body. “It’s actually your new friends I should be thanking. Tony Stark, and that little spider. Not quite as subtle as they thought. Before they got involved, your mother was doing a fine job of keeping you away from us. From me.”

Beatrice deadpanned. “I still don’t know who you are.”

“Yes,” the man said. “You do.”

He was standing right before her now, and his hand reached up to cradle her cheek, fingertips firm against a pressure point behind her ear. Beatrice gasped as the room slipped away, a blinding white light filling her vision. Then it all fell away, like the last of a snowstorm, and all that was left was Beatrice. But ... not. She was only a child here, barely five years old, yet she looked just the same—dark skin, dark curls and the same dark eyes, only brighter. Unburdened.

The man’s voice filled the air again, and the now-Beatrice whipped around to find him, a kind smile on his young face. “Can you do it again for us, pumpkin? My friends want to see your pretty magic.”

Bea couldn’t catch her breath. She stepped back, glancing again at her younger self, giggling in this strange man’s face, nodding wildly before shutting her eyes. She didn’t remember this. This never happened.

Little Beatrice didn’t look like Beatrice anymore. Her hair glowed bright white, floating in small coils around her head. She opened her eyes, still giggling like this was the funniest thing that’s ever happened to her, and Beatrice truly froze. She couldn’t breathe. Little Bea’s eyes were ice-blue and glowing, just like the rest of her.

Beatrice thought she’d seen enough, that this was clearly some kind of trick, because Beatrice would remember this, but then little Beatrice did something that solidified it for her. Little Bea rose off the ground as if lifted by some invisible force—exactly how Beatrice had with Spider-Man.

“That’s enough!” Beatrice screamed, taking a step back—a real step back. She hit the door, and gasped at the shock of it. The man’s hand fell from her face and she didn’t fight the instinct to wipe her cheek with her sleeve. “Who the fuck are you,” she demanded.

The stranger looked truly hurt this time. “Beatrice—”

“Tell me who you are!”

“I’m your father.”

Father. Adrian Cross. The name shot through her head half a million times before it sank in. Adrian fucking Cross, who was supposed to be in prison. The Adrian Cross who hadn’t existed in Beatrice’s reality until Tony Stark—until less than an hour ago.

“You’re supposed to be—”

“In jail? Oh, pumpkin. They told me you were smart.” He reached out to caress her cheek again, but Beatrice flinched away. Her mother cried out, fighting harder than ever against her bonds.

Cross rolled his eyes and turned to one of his men. He gave a small twitch of his head and the soldier was off. Beatrice could only watch as he approached her mother, raised his gun and pulled the trigger.

Nancy Page slumped forward, lifeless, blood gushing from her head.

The scream died in Bea's throat. She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t breathe—only a guttural gasping, minus the oxygen. Her knees buckled, and it was only by some miracle that she managed to stay upright.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Cross said, shifting to block Beatrice’s line of sight.

She could barely hear him over the ringing in her ears. She clenched her fists, willing her light forth until she exploded, a human sun, hot as flame.

Tony’s voice echoed in her mind. We don’t know what you can do, don’t know how you can do it. Don’t think you know, either.

Perhaps it was time to find out.

She reached out and grasped Cross by the throat, nails sinking into his skin, and willed everything she had into melting his jugular into a straw so she could siphon out his insides, but nothing came. She felt … cold.

Panic bubbled in her chest, her grip on Cross weakening, and the edges of her world fading black. Her body felt heavier than ever as her light went out. That’s when she saw him. Another of Cross’s men removed a syringe from her thigh—he’d jabbed her right through her trousers. She heard a definitive click, and cast her gaze further down to see another man clamp a metal band around her ankle.

Her eyelids felt heavy, but she fought to look up once more, to find her mother across the room. A sob caught in her throat as she felt her healing magic fade into nothingness, unable to be summoned no matter how desperately she tried. She’d never seen her mother so still before and it occurred to her that there was nothing Bea could do, even with her magic. Nothing to be done. She was dead.

Her knees did give way then. Adrian caught her as she fell, and the world slipped away.

The darkness was such a reprieve. In her mind, she didn’t have Tony Stark or Spider-Man to worry over, essays to write, or quizzes to do. In her mind, her mother wasn’t slumped over with a bullet in her brain.

But for everything, Beatrice wished she had dreamed in the darkness. Gentle dreams, of her mother on her best day, of Peter, or Celia or Ned. Even Tony Stark would’ve been nice. Familiar. But Beatrice didn’t dream at all in the hours before she awoke, and even then, she was alone in the darkness.

That was, until Cross’s cold voice roused her. “Rise and shine, pumpkin.”

She blinked awake as the harsh fluorescents above flickered to life, the damp cement floor scraping her hands as she shot up and pushed herself as far back as possible, away from him.

“Now, now. Don’t be like that, Beatrice.”

She took a deep breath and summoned her light, ready to fight her way out of there, but … nothing came. Her hands were still cold, still the same disappointing shade. The memory of what she’d lost hit her like a freight train.

“Say hello to your new best friend,” Adrian said, nodding at the band on her ankle. “Your Dampener. Suppresses all of your abilities, for your own safety and ours. You’re just Beatrice now.”

“That’s more than enough for you, you sick—”

He slammed his hands against the bars between them, the sound frightening her into silence, and Beatrice realised she was in a cell. A prison. A cage. There were no windows, only the bright lights above and the door he’d come through, beyond the wall of iron bars. “Surely your feral mother raised you with better manners than that.”

“Don’t you dare talk about her,” Beatrice said, desperate for the trembling in her voice to leave. Shoving the memory from her mind, she glowered at him. “Where am I?”

“And why would I tell you that?”

Beatrice stood abruptly and shot towards the bars of her cage, stopping only a few feet from Cross. He was dressed in all-black, wearing a high turtleneck. Beatrice was disappointed she couldn’t appreciate her handiwork—she hoped her nails had drawn blood.

“Tell me where you’ve brought me or I swear, I will gut you.”

But he only laughed. “You know, you got that from me. That spark. The fire in your veins. You’re welcome.” He shrugged and tucked his hands into his pockets, as if he were talking to an old friend rather than someone who was busy planning all hundred and one different ways she could kill him.

Beatrice gripped the bars of her cage and reached through, clawing at him, but a sharp pulse ran through her shoulder and she fell back. She hit the cement with a grunt, an ache spreading from her hip all the way down her legs.

“Sorry, honey,” he said, smirking, as he crouched down to meet her eye level. “Did that hurt? Quick lesson for you. Touch the bars, you get zapped. Try to escape, you get zapped. Try anything funny, and you’ll … get zapped, that’s right.”

She fought the urge to spit in his face. A cold fear settled deep in the pit of her stomach as she saw the amused glint in his eye. No one knew she was here. No one would know either, not for days, weeks even. And then how would they find her? She glanced down at herself and noticed she wasn’t even in her same interview clothes. Instead, she was in crisp white trousers and a white shirt, white sneakers, too. Her curls fell loose around her face—they’d even taken her hair tie.

“Don’t be rude now,” he chastised again, standing. “Say hello to your other new best friend.” He pointed upwards at the silent drone, hovering halfway between Cross’s head and the ceiling. “We haven’t named this one. Feel free to do the honours.”

Beatrice was fresh out of snarky comebacks. They’d taken her clothes, her phone, her magic, her mom … No, she couldn’t let herself go there. Not if she was going to survive this. They were most certainly going to hurt her here, and she had nothing to defend herself with. Nothing to fix herself with.

She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from crying.

“Breathe. Everything’s going to be just fine, pumpkin. You can’t hurt anyone here. You’re right back where you belong.”

A shiver ran through her, and not just from the cold, but she couldn’t show her fear. Something told her she wasn’t getting out any time soon; she couldn’t crumble, not now. She forced herself to her feet, never breaking Cross’s gaze. “I don’t belong here.”

His smirk dropped, replaced with a sickening scowl that made Beatrice only more on edge. “We’ll just have to see about that.” Cross turned on his heel and Beatrice watched as he disappeared around a corner, his pet drone obediently following. “You’ve got two buckets, figure it out.”

Then there was a loud crack, and the fluorescents switched off.

The darkness was suffocating—she couldn’t see anything. Not even a sliver of light from under the door. Her breaths were coming shorter, a pressure against her chest she hadn’t felt in weeks. She found her hands and pinched each fingertip, willing herself to breathe.

One, two, three, four, five.

Six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

One, two, three, four, five.

Six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

The pressure eased and she finally felt her lungs fill to the brim, her mind clearing. Just breathe. She could do that. She could breathe. She couldn’t see, and the rushing in her ears was deafening, but she could breathe. Bea didn’t remember seeing a bed while the lights were on, so she didn’t bother feeling around in the dark for one. But … two buckets? Was that code for something?

She blinked for a while, hoping her eyes would adjust, but they never did. Alone in the darkness, again. At least, she hoped she was alone.

On her hands and knees now, she crawled around the space. It was small and cement, ice-cold which made her think they were underground, with no doors or windows save for the metal bars.

Then she found the buckets. Two, just as Cross had said, and decently sized, but one was empty and the other full of water. She hoped it was water as she cupped her hand and dipped it in, taking a tentative sniff before lifting it to her mouth. Cold, clean water.

Beatrice took six mouthfuls before stopping, realising just how small the bucket was in terms of survival. It wouldn’t surprise her if this water was the only water she’d have until she was rescued—if she was ever rescued. But the empty bucket—that didn’t make sense.

But if she understood Cross at all in the short time she’d spent with him, this was all there would be for her. So, one for drinking, and one for … relieving herself?

She crawled away in disgust, hoping that she was wrong or, if she was right, that perhaps she wouldn’t have to use them at all. But for now, what she needed most was rest.

Chapter Text

Beatrice used to be afraid of the dark. When she was little, before Walter, there were days when she didn’t sleep at all, in fear of what may come in the night.

But in the days past she’d been trapped in her cage, the darkness had quickly become her only friend. The only solace from Cross and his taunting—a reassurance that he was done with her, for however long, because once he was gone and the lights went out, Beatrice was alone. Trapped, yes, with only her thoughts for company, but … alone. Safe.

Though Cross would always return. It was almost comfortable how easily she could rely on him.

Beatrice sat up, joints aching from the cold cement, and covered her eyes as the fluorescents burst to life. The familiar hum of Cross’s drone followed his heavy footsteps and, blinking so her eyes adjusted, Bea watched him saunter to her cell. “Good morning.”

Morning. She looked over at her buckets and noticed they’d been cleaned and refilled, and her white clothes were fresh and crisp. She felt the familiar panic in her chest again at the thought of someone in here, someone changing her all while she was unconscious.

She forced herself to her feet, brushing the dirt off her new clothes as if it were her only inconvenience here. Her muscles protested, ankle spasming under the Dampener, but she couldn’t show her weakness.

“Settling in, pet?”

“Oh, Cross,” she said, watching him scowl at her formality. “You can’t blame a girl for being a little upset at her first kidnapping.”

Back to the sarcasm. Because she was probably going to die in here, but she wasn’t going to let it happen without a fight.

“There are quite a few people looking for you,” he said, beginning to pace. The drone followed his every step. “I must say, while we were tracking you down, I figured you were quite the lone wolf.” He tucked his hands in his pockets again and shrugged. “Abusive father, absent mother. Only one friend, too, which was mighty sad to hear.”

Celia. God, she couldn’t let herself think about Celia.

“But it seems you have a few more on your side than we thought. Would you like to see them?”

Beatrice bit the inside of her cheek. The thought of Peter or Ned in here sent shivers down her spine. “No.”

“No? Oh, dear,” he said with a tilt of his head. “Well, pet, I’m afraid you don’t have much of a say in the matter.” And then he was gone, walking out without another word as he left Beatrice in the dark again.

When she was sure he had gone, Beatrice let herself fall. Did he really have them, or was this all part of the trick? The manipulation? Or maybe he wasn’t talking about Peter or Ned at all. Maybe …

She felt as if she’d been doused with ice water.

Spider-Man. Iron Man. No, if he had Iron Man, he’d be parading it. His ego wouldn’t let him be silent. But Spider-Man? Small-time neighbourhood hero that clearly thought of Beatrice as a friend? There was a possibility.

Beatrice almost hoped it was Iron Man. This was all his fault. Tony Stark, the man who meddled. Cross’s words from the apartment still rang through her mind—Tony Stark, and that little spider. Before they got involved, your mother was doing a fine job of keeping you away from us.

Tony Stark had a security problem, clearly. That day, the interview—Adrian was watching. He had to have been, because Beatrice never had an issue before he interfered—Stark, and Spider-Man, too. Two men who she would be much better off without.

Only, that wasn’t true. She’d still have her abilities and … Walter. Spider-Man rescued her from a robbery and kept her secret, even if he really didn’t. And Tony had offered her safety. The ability to grow without hurting anyone.

But her mother was dead, Walter was dead, and Bea was in her cage, and there was nothing beyond any of it. Cross would keep her locked away until he found a use for her, and one day she would die. She would never see her friends again, or feel the sun on her skin, or the breeze through her hair.

Bea took a deep breath, holding her head in her hands. She needed to keep positive if she was ever going to make it out. She couldn’t focus on what was going to happen, because the fact of the matter was … she wasn’t dead yet. As long as she was alive, there was a chance, and right at that moment, she was alive.

A scream sounded from beyond her cage, then a round of gunfire. Beatrice tensed, still unable to see. There was shouting and grunting, and the sound of metal against metal. She stood quickly and moved to the back of her cage, trying to keep her breathing steady and quiet.

Was this a rescue? Had Cross been compromised? Beatrice kept her back flat to the wall, hoping she was hidden enough that they would pass her by.

But if this was a rescue …

The fluorescents burst to life, and part of Beatrice almost expected Cross’s heavy steps, the hum of his drone. Instead, the only sound was the unmistakable whirr of a charging repulsor.

The door opened and Iron Man appeared, red and gold suit slightly damaged from battle. “Stark?” she asked in a hoarse whisper, but he didn’t respond. He lifted a hand and shot a beam at her cage, sending broken bars flying throughout the room. Beatrice flinched at the sudden noise, before standing and crossing the room to meet him.

But there was nothing comforting about his presence. Nothing that told her she was safe, or that she was actually being rescued. She hesitated, stepping back when he took a step forward. “Stark,” she said again, voice wavering. “What are you doing?”

No response. He lifted a hand, repulsor charging again, and Beatrice only just managed to leap out of the way as he fired at her. She barely had a moment to question it when he fired again, this time grazing her shoulder blade.

Beatrice cried out and stumbled, but she was still quicker than the suit. He’d barely taken another step as she darted around him, clutching at the broken bars on the ground. She faced him and swung hard, twice, but missed, desperately hoping to just keep him at a distance. But then he took a step closer and she struck him, right around the head. Silence settled between them. Had she hurt him? Knocked some sense into him? He had said she was dangerous, but really—this was too far.

His suit whirred again, and he pried the pole from Bea’s grip, tossing the bar across the room. It clattered pathetically against the cement wall, and he took another step towards her.

Bea dove left, despite her aches and burns, and found herself a new pole, a new weapon. But he wasn’t giving up—as his repulsors whirred to life again, Beatrice took the plunge and shoved one of the bars clean through the side of Iron Man’s knee joint.

He gave no cry of pain, but doubled over, falling to his good knee. It took barely any effort for Beatrice to kick him to the ground, scurrying away until her back hit the metal bars. He collected himself, for all of three seconds, before twisting and aiming his repulsor at her yet again.

Bea didn’t have the luxury of time to consider what she was about to do as she picked up a third bar and thrust forward, burying it through his arc reactor chest piece. He gripped the pole, struggling to stay upright. Blood rushed from his knee joint, the destruction in his chest. The arc reactor pulsed electric blue for just a moment, trying hard to stay lit, but flickered and went out as the man in the suit fell to the ground.

Tony Stark was dead.

She approached him slowly and fell to her knees beside him, ice in her veins. She touched his mask gingerly. Cold. Real. Why had he tried to kill her? What had she done?

Perhaps he had realised what a danger she was. That if he killed her on his ‘rescue’ mission, he would be able to put it down to a terrible accident and save them all the trouble and heartache of helping her.

A betrayal—but she’d still killed him.

The lights stayed on for a long time after Tony Stark died, and Beatrice remained beside him. Despite the open cage, despite the silence beyond. Who was she to take a life and then save her own? So she stayed with him, a hand on his suit, crying into her sleeve.

She’d almost fallen asleep beside him when she heard the hum of Adrian’s drone, but she never saw it. She glanced up, searching the room, but the lights switched off and she felt a sharp pinch on the side of her neck. Her head swam and, though she was blinking blind in the darkness, the world shifted around her until she was laying on the cement again.

She dreamed this time. Of Spider-Man, oddly. He was hunched over his mentor’s cold corpse, sobbing, Why? Why did you kill him?

I’m sorry, said Bea. I didn’t have a choice. But then the same feeling washed over her as Spider-Man stood, repulsor charging as he lifted a hand.

He was right, said Spider-Man. You’re dangerous.

She shot awake before he could fire, but it felt as if he had. Every nerve was flaring, warning her of the danger, but there was none. The lights were on and Adrian was waiting at the bars of her cage.

The entirely undamaged bars of her cage.

She tried pushing herself to her feet, but her limbs felt heavy. Using the wall for support, she managed to stand on shaking legs, much to Cross’s amusement.

“I’ll be honest, Beatrice,” he started. “I didn’t expect you to go straight for the kill. Perhaps you’re more like me than you realise.”

She barked a laugh, hoarse and rough, but she couldn’t disguise the trembling of her voice when she said, “Keep dreaming, Cross.”

Her eyes darted to where Stark had been, but there was nothing. Not a drop of blood on the concrete floor. Had someone cleaned up while she was out? Had it happened at all?

She met his eyes again. “Feel free to explain whatever the fuck that was.”

“That was just the beginning, Beatrice.” He smirked wickedly, eyes glinting with something she couldn’t understand. “Well done on an excellent first run.”

The door beyond him clattered open again, and two soldiers dressed in all-black tactical gear entered, one carrying a tray of food and the other a medium-sized black bag. Bea frowned, confused.

“Your reward,” Cross said. He almost sounded proud. The tray and bag were each pushed through a gap in the bars. “You’ll find everything you need to treat your wound. And eat up, you’ll need the strength.”

“For what?” Her voice had lost all its edge and she sounded like a scared child. “There are only so many Avengers you can drag in here.”

“Very true, pumpkin. Eat up.” Cross and his soldiers left, but the lights stayed on.

She eyed the food carefully. A bread roll, a cube of cheese, a ball of some kind of meat, and an apple. Actual food groups, and more than she’d eaten in days, probably. Realisation washed over her—she hadn’t eaten since lunch at school on the day of her interview, and even then she’d barely eaten from nerves.

Certain he was still watching, and not wanting to give Adrian the satisfaction, she turned instead to the black bag and unzipped it slowly, sure it was a trick. But, true to his word, Adrian had provided bandages, dressings and an unlabelled salve.

Her shoulder. The pain had subsided somewhat, but it still felt warm. In one less-than-graceful move, she slipped the shirt over her head and, making sure her chest was covered, twisted to see the damage. Her white shirt had patches of red and a strange, crusty clear fluid around where the wound on her right shoulder blade had seeped. Angry blisters had risen around the wound itself but, as far as Bea could tell, it wasn’t infected. Cauterised on contact?

Biting a knuckle to keep from crying out, she applied the salve as best she could. It burned, but only for a moment before pure relief washed over her. The salve had numbed it entirely, sending a soothing cooling sensation down her arm. She replaced the lid on the balm and unwrapped a dressing, reaching over to cover the burn. She’d never had to bandage herself before, always relying on her abilities to heal herself, but she’d seen enough medical dramas in her life to have a decent idea. Surely that’s what they were really for.

Tucking an end of the bandage under her arm, she reached around and did loops around the top of her shoulder, covering the dressing as much as possible. It was a patchy job, and though she could barely see it, it still felt exposed.

Beatrice slipped her shirt back over her head and stuffed the supplies back in the bag. If her health was in their best interest, they should just take her stupid Dampener off for a second and let her do it properly.

But her health wasn’t in their best interest—this was pure kudos. Her reward for killing Tony Stark. So maybe, if she was going to be rewarded for killing, then she would just … not kill. Simple as that.

She stood and kicked the tray of food back through the bars, watching in heartbreaking satisfaction as it slammed against the wall, food spilling across the floor. “I don’t want your praise, Cross. Go fuck yourself.”

Then the familiar hum of his drone filled the room, and Beatrice stumbled backwards. The lights went out once more and, startled, she tripped over her own feet. The familiar sharp sting at her neck came before she hit the ground.

Chapter Text

Tony Stark was alive, and standing in the doorway.

Bea had awoken again to lights on, and the sound of battle beyond the door. To repulsors and thrusters and metal on metal. Her heart was in her throat as she waited for the door to open, and she wasn’t sure if she was relieved or terrified to see the red and gold Iron Man suit saunter through. “Stark,” she murmured.

You’re alive.

Are you real?

I don’t want to hurt you.

“Stark,” she said again. “Please—”

She was cut off as the man raised an arm and blasted the iron bars away again. Bars spilled over the floor of her cage, and the scene was set.

It took longer this time, Beatrice still pleading with him and dodging his blows, avoiding the inevitable, but despite her efforts, the ending was the same. Blood on cement, his arc reactor going dark, and Beatrice just sitting there, beside him, unable to come to terms with what she’d done. Then darkness.

It took three more ‘rescue’ missions for stupid, naïve Beatrice to realise no one real was coming for her, least of all Tony Stark. She took comfort in the knowledge that none of it was real, but the way he bled, the coldness of his suit and the warmth of his blood—it all felt very real. She never attempted an escape, past the bars and out the door. If these ‘runs’, as Cross called them, were simulations, it meant he was still there.

The third run went very much the same, only quicker, ending with Beatrice standing over Iron Man’s corpse and a bar through his arc reactor. But the one after is where things began to change. His fight pattern was different, and his blows were coming faster and harder. Bea couldn’t keep up and quickly found herself cowering in a corner, pleading with the silent man before she was hit with a third repulsor blast in the side to join the fresh wounds in her hip and leg.

The lights went out early that night, and Bea was put to sleep. She awoke to no food, no reward, but Adrian had been kind enough to offer bandages.

It was a while before Tony Stark appeared again. Days, if she could guess, but she hadn’t seen Cross once. Her clothes were changed, buckets emptied and water refilled, but no sign of the man himself. Bea knew well enough by now that Stark wasn’t real, but the damage he caused was, so she devised a plan. A stupid plan, one that might end up with her injured beyond belief, but she was willing to take the risk.

Bea was almost relieved to hear the fighting beyond her cage. “Tony,” she greeted warmly when Iron Man appeared at last. “Welcome back to the land of the living. Really good to see you back on your feet.”

Iron Man didn’t waste a second before blasting the bars, but Bea was determined to take her time. She needed this to work, and it wasn’t like she didn’t have the space to try. Dodging and ducking, she did her best to get her Dampener in the line of fire. If she could just get it off her stupid ankle, she could get free. No idea how, but she’d have to cross that bridge when she came to it.

Iron Man never once lost his pace or his determination to take her down, and despite her best efforts, Bea landed herself with a twisted ankle and the drone sending her to sleep yet again.

For all the bandages and salve in the world, none of her wounds were healing as they should. Her shoulder had begun leaking something foul-smelling, her hip ached, and the wounds on her legs were angry and red. She was exhausted no matter how long she slept, and she found the cement floor was leaving bruises and scabs on her knees and elbows.

Eventually, Beatrice figured … if she wasn’t killing anyone real, then surely it would be okay. She needed food and regular medical attention—surely no one would blame her for avoiding serious injury? The likelihood of her ever making it out of that cage alive and seeing anyone she cared about, let alone Tony Stark, in person again was comedically low. It was okay. It wasn’t bad. She wasn't bad.

Beatrice stopped counting the runs, only readying herself as a new Iron Man came. He was getting quicker with each run, more unpredictable in his attacks. Whatever Cross was doing, he was building up to a point and Bea wasn’t sure she could survive it much longer. Her days had turned methodical, a step-by-step process to survival.

Fight, bandage, eat, sleep.

Her buckets were cleaned and replaced every time they knocked her out. Her clothes, too. She remembered suggesting once that Cross switch to a black outfit the next time he wants to kidnap someone. Less laundry. Which, of course, only led to more frequent runs, more brutal attacks, more lasting injuries.

Beatrice clearly didn’t inherit her sense of humour from him.

One constant throughout it all was that he never let her fight without her Dampener, not that they ever took it off her to start with. That only confused her—surely the point of all these attacks was to gauge her capabilities, force her to grow into their weapon? Give her a good old-fashioned villain arc, like in the movies. But, she considered with a smile, perhaps they were scared of what she could do.

Beatrice used to be afraid of her abilities. And maybe it was because she’d gone without them for so long, but she was ready for a villain arc. She often daydreamed about setting fire to Cross, burning him and wherever he’d been keeping her to ash. Watching the realisation light his eyes before she cooked him from the inside out.

Not that she could do that, even without her Dampener, but a girl could dream.

She’d drifted off early that night without a tranquilizer. She’d eaten, taken a few sips of water, but Adrian hadn’t sent his drone in. That wasn’t to say the food hadn’t been laced, but it was truly the first night in a long time she’d fallen asleep of her own accord.

It didn’t last long. Before she knew it, the fluorescents were back on, only red this time. New developments, Beatrice deduced, climbing to her feet wearily. Again. They rarely woke her for a run, she was usually knocked out, but if Adrian was upping the ante … Bea moved her buckets out of the way as the familiar sounds of fighting in the hallway reached her ears. It was louder than usual, but Beatrice put that down to another one of Cross’s updates.

She could hear Iron Man’s repulsors, rapid gunfire, but … Beatrice froze. Was that Captain America’s shield? The vibranium sounded almost magnetic, with reverberations—she’d never heard it in person, but from the YouTube videos she’d seen, it was unmistakable.

Beatrice shook her head, focusing instead on what was coming. This was all designed to distract her. She’d been doing well lately. Her last three attacks hadn’t even touched her, so it only made sense that Adrian would have something new for her. After all, he’d hate for her to be bored.

The doors opened, and Beatrice could hear the Iron Man suit approaching. Her heart fluttered as it always did in hopes that this time it would be real, but she shoved it down. He was harder to make out in the red light, but that wouldn’t change anything for her.

The gunfire continued outside the door—yet another new addition—but it was Stark’s helmet opening to reveal his face that truly jarred her. “Page, that you?” he asked, and she almost fell over from the shock. “We’re getting you out of here.”

No, this … this was cold. She never had to hear his voice or see his face before they made her kill him. This was a calculated change.

Iron Man lifted a hand to his ear and mumbled something turning back to her and saying, “Stand back. Away from the bars.”

Beatrice didn’t move. Instead, she watched as he slowly lifted a hand, repulsor charging and blasting the bars of her cage. She frowned—the blast pattern never used to change. Now, instead of breaking into poles she could use as weapons, they only bent in sharp, awkward angles with just enough space for Stark to climb through.

This meant … no weapons, and with no weak points to attack hand-to-hand with all that armour—she was in trouble. Ice-cold fear settled in her stomach as he slowly approached.

But he wasn’t poised to attack. He had a repulsor up, but it wasn’t pointed at her—it was pointed at the Dampener. He shot at it, but Beatrice darted out of the way. She scooped up her water bucket and quickly emptied it before swinging wildly at Stark. He was quicker now, too, dodging the bucket with ease. His helmet shot down, covering his face.

“Whoa!” he said, blocking another swing with his arm. “Calm down, kid.”

Calm down. Beatrice almost laughed. She swung the bucket again, hitting him in the back. The sound made her flinch, and he used the opportunity to twist, ripping it out of her hands.

“Hey, same side here! Cut it out.”

Beatrice hesitated, panting. This was one hell of an upgrade—Bea was almost convinced.

“Look,” he said, holding his hands up in forfeit, reaching down and carefully blasting at the Dampener around her ankle.

Of course, Beatrice realised. Just upping the ante. Cross must’ve decided it was time for her to spread her superpower wings—so she did.

She kicked the Dampener across the room and held her hands out before her, summoning as much light as she could, past her pain, exhaustion and hunger. It burned but the sensation was so familiar, so welcoming.

It’s always there, she reminded herself. It’s you.

The light surrounded her, warming her from the inside out, and she called all the heat she could to one hand before throwing a hard punch to Stark’s torso, just missing the reactor. He stumbled, glancing down at the sizeable dent she’d left, and swore.

He blocked her next punch and barked into his comms, “We’ve got a situation.”

So, more Avengers were with him—more Avengers she’d have to kill. Shit. Cross was working overtime.

She threw punches quicker than he could dodge, leaving small dents in his armour. But she was exhausted, quickly running out of steam. It’d never taken her this long to take him down, even without the Dampener.

Bea summoned another fist of heat and aimed for his shoulder joint, but Stark blocked it, hitting her in her bad hip with a short repulsor blast.

Blinded by pain, she stumbled backward, tripping over the discarded bucket and falling to the ground. Two new figures that Beatrice didn’t recognize joined him in the cage.

I’m fucked, I’m fucked, oh God I’m fucked—

She tried climbing to her feet but her legs weren’t cooperating, struggling under the weight of her injuries. She held an arm out, as if that would do anything to keep them away.

“In your own time, Nat,” said Stark, and Beatrice felt the familiar prick at the side of her neck before the world fell dark around her.

Beatrice dreamed of a plane in the darkness. An enormous plane with a bed, comfortable and plush, and gentle people without faces. They kept to themselves, mumbling in a distorted language she couldn’t understand, all while she struggled to move, to lift even a finger. She recognised one of the figures, with her familiar bright red hair braided down her neck. If it had been real, Bea would’ve leapt out of bed at the sight of her best friend. She felt a tear fall down the side of her head as Celia knelt beside the bed, whispering something Bea couldn’t understand and stroking her hair with a gloved hand.

Beatrice was startled awake, pain shooting through her bad hip as she sat up. The world blurred for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the fluorescents before she realised—there weren’t any. Only windows. With a stunning, incredibly detailed view of New York City.

She glanced around, trying to gauge her surroundings—alone, in a strikingly white room that reeked of disinfectant. If she wasn’t still trapped in Cross’s little torture cage, she’d have thought this was a hospital. There were potential weapons everywhere. Had Adrian done that on purpose?

The room was quiet, as was everything beyond the door. This wasn’t a run—at least not yet. Something twinged at the back of her hand. An IV. She followed the line to a pole carrying a bag of saline. She bristled—again, not unrealistic, but unexpected.

Beatrice swung her legs off the bed, which was, again, jarring. She hadn’t felt anything but cement in … She wasn’t actually sure how long it had been.

She sat facing the window now, but paused. It felt about mid-morning from the way the filtered sunlight hit her skin, the cool air around her feeling similar enough to her cold, damp cage. The smell of disinfectant was persistent and she had to rub her nose a little, but it was still a welcome change. For a moment, she thought it was real.

But then the door behind her opened, and Beatrice shot to her feet despite her wounds and bruised ankle—no Dampener, she noticed—and had to clutch her IV stand to balance herself.

“Stand down,” said Stark, hands up in surrender. Beatrice could almost hear his repulsor charging, but he wasn’t in his suit. “Not here for a fight.”

“That’s a first,” she said, her voice horribly hoarse. It burned with the effort, and she coughed a little.

“Sit down, kid. You look beat.”

She felt beat, too. And the hospital bed was comfortable, but she couldn’t risk it. If he were to attack …

“You’re safe here.”

Beatrice laughed before she could stop herself. She wasn’t safe. No, not ever. She wouldn’t be safe until she was dead. She almost told him so, too, but her ankle spasmed and her bad hip gave way, and she was sitting once again in the hospital bed.

Stark eyed her warily for a moment before he shook his head and said, “Let me get Banner.”

Then he left. Just like that. No battle, nothing. Cross is just on the hunt for a reaction, she reasoned with herself. Yes, that was it. He wanted to see what she’d do if she really was rescued.

“Miss Page?” said a gentle voice from the door, where Stark had been only moments ago. She recognised the man instantly, though she was certain that was exactly what Cross was going for. “Nice to meet you. I’m Bruce.” He approached slowly, picking up a clipboard from a side table Beatrice hadn’t noticed. “How are you feeling?”

Beatrice didn’t dare open her mouth.

Dr Banner nodded regardless, searching Beatrice’s face for … Well, she couldn’t tell. “You were in pretty bad shape when you arrived. Do you need a minute?” He tapped the clipboard awkwardly in her silence. “Right, well … You slept a while, about 14 hours. I’ve got you on some fluids, that’s what the IV there is for. We ran some tests, and there’s nothing in particular we need to worry about. Some infection in your wounds, Vitamin D deficiency, Vitamin B-12 deficiency, dehydration, malnutrition.”

Beatrice wasn’t absorbing any of it. How did he make Banner so realistic? Iron Man was one thing, but this …

“You’re also looking at atypical pneumonia,” he continued. “Dr Cho has recommended we start you on a round of intravenous antibiotics, but the best thing for you right now is to just rest.”

He nodded and turned to leave, but Beatrice stopped him. Surely she wouldn’t be punished for testing Cross’s interface, would she?

“Where—where am I?” she asked.

Banner smiled. “You’re at the Tower. Stark Industries. There’s actually a few people downstairs wondering how you’re doing, would you mind if I gave them an update?”

Beatrice’s chest tightened with the want of it, but … No. No, she couldn’t go there. Nothing real belonged in the illusions. And Stark Industries? Could Adrian be less creative?

Bruce shook his head. “You don’t have to worry about any of that now,” he said. “Would you like something to help you sleep?”

“Oh, I get a choice now?” Bea snapped.

“Yes, you do.” Dr Banner nodded as he took a tentative step towards her. “I can give you something in your IV to help you sleep. Or we can just close the blinds, if you like.”

Drugs or darkness, nothing had changed. She glanced out the window, at the detail and the movement.

“How about …” Banner started, glancing at the ceiling. “FRIDAY?”

“Hello, Bruce.”

“Hi, FRIDAY. Can you lower the lights to about 20%? And dim the windows too, please.”

The room darkened considerably, a film on the window blocking out most of the sunlight, but she could still make out the shapes, objects and shadows in the room. Beatrice’s head swam as she tried to convince herself yet again just how good of an illusion this was. Because that’s all it was—an illusion.

“FRIDAY’s always here if you need anything. I’ll leave you to rest, but I’ll be back when you wake up.”

No you won’t, thought Beatrice. You’ll be gone, and I’ll be back in my cage.

Chapter Text

The first thing Beatrice registered upon opening her eyes was the darkness. The familiar yet all-consuming feeling of opening her eyes and still being unable to see.

But then they adjusted and Beatrice slowly took the room in once more. White walls. Soft bed. Medical supplies. A hospital? No, she recalled. The Tower. The illusion. She glanced to her left again at the unchanged view of New York. It was just how she’d remembered it—kudos to Cross. The twinkling city below shone brighter than the stars above.

She wondered what the time was. She hadn’t needed to think about time in … well, a while. But knowing it was dark, that there were people out there and most of them would be at home in their beds, slightly settled the panic in her chest.

Beatrice gripped her IV pole tight and slipped out of bed. Her legs felt much more reliable than they had before, but she didn’t dare risk losing the IV’s support. Step by step, she slowly walked around the room. The linoleum felt strange underfoot, with her calloused feet having grown so used to concrete, and she wondered again how Adrian had managed it all.

Bea stepped closer and closer towards the door. Surely if all this was real, she’d be able to leave. If this was real, the door would open, and—

But the door did not open.

Beatrice rattled the handle, but the lock was stronger than her and didn’t budge. She shouldn’t have been so surprised, so shocked—of course this wasn’t real. This was just the world’s longest fucking simulation.

Her breaths came shorter and shallower until, with horrified realisation, they stopped coming at all. Beatrice clawed at her chest, her throat, knowing that if she could just cry out, just scream, one of Cross’s men would find her and give her oxygen back.

Tears dripped down, landing on the backs of her hands and Bea realised she was on the floor, heaving on her hands and knees, desperate for breath. Could she die in a simulation? Would Cross let her?

The door opened, missing Beatrice by an inch, and she shot back, crawling as far away as possible from the hero who’d haunted her. She saw his mouth moving—was he talking to her?—but the only sound that filled her ears was a high-pitched ringing.

“Please, don’t,” she rasped, barely hearing her own voice as she cowered by the bed. “I can’t do it again. Please.”

He hesitated, still standing by the door, but didn’t come any closer. Instead, he kneeled down, hands in her line of sight so she’d know he wasn’t a threat. But she’d done a run like this before, and he’d fired his repulsors anyway.

But Tony—this Tony before her—caught her eye, and she couldn’t fathom him trying to hurt her. There was fear in those eyes, but more than that, there was concern. For her. He pressed a hand to his chest and motioned for her to do the same. “Breathe,” he said, taking an exaggerated breath in, then exhaling.

So she breathed. With Tony Stark, on the floor of her hospital room that wasn’t real. The illusion that would never end. But eventually, the ringing subsided and she no longer felt like she was about to fall off the edge of the world.

“You’re safe here,” he said. “Just breathe.”

“Stop saying that,” Beatrice hissed, still out of breath. “Why should I believe any of it? I know it’s all scripted, it has to be. You’re not—”

“No one speaks for me but me,” he said firmly. “You’re at the Tower, kid. Stark Industries. You’ve been here before, do you remember?”

Beatrice took another deep breath, starting to feel less panicked. “Twice.”

“You got it.”

“First time,” she continued slowly. “Field trip?”

“Yep.”

“Second time … You … Christ, it was all your fault.” It was. It was all his fault, and now her beautifully built dam was beginning to crack and she had nothing left inside to keep it together. She met his eye, shaking her head. “Your fault, oh my—”

“Page,” he tried to say, shuffling closer.

Beatrice startled backwards at the movement and stood on shaking legs, an accusing finger in his face. “He never would’ve … If you hadn’t … hadn’t—”

“Hadn’t what?”

“Then he killed her, oh my god, he killed her.” The tears streamed down her cheeks, and Beatrice found herself once again gasping for breath, pressing her dirty palms against her eyes. She flinched when Tony placed a hand on her shoulder, but didn’t have the mind to push him away when he sat her down on the bed. “And now she’s dead,” she continued in broken sobs. “She’s dead because of me.”

Because it wasn’t Stark’s fault at all. It had never been because of him. Cross would have found her either way.

“It wasn’t my fault, and it wasn’t yours,” he said, taking a step back and crossing his arms over his chest. “If you don’t wanna hear it from me then that’s fine, but if anyone’s to blame for what happened to you and your family, it’s him.”

Her breaths steadied and her head quietened. Him, she thought. His fault. She tried to settle down, but she was still making this horrible hiccoughing noise, and her face felt as if it was on fire. She wiped her eyes, not quite meeting Stark’s gaze.

“Why’re you out of bed anyway?” he asked, moving back to lean against the wall. “Thought doc’s orders were to rest.”

Beatrice shrugged, picking at her fingernails.

“You hungry or something?”

She shook her head, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “I just … I …” She heaved a sigh. “I wanted to see if I could leave.”

“You can,” he said. “In the morning when Bruce gives you the green light, FRIDAY’ll give you free rein of the Tower, just like everyone else.”

Bea nodded, still not meeting his eye. She didn’t dare let herself consider the impossible, but … “Did you mean what you said?”

“That depends.” He cocked his head to the side, and Bea marvelled again at how new this was. “What did I say?”

“That it’s safe here.”

He frowned. “Of course I did. You’re in the Tower. Only Bruce, Steve and I have access to this room, FRIDAY’s made sure of it.”

Beatrice glanced at the windows.

“Bulletproof glass. Two inches thick. No one’s getting in.”

Or out.

He pushed off the wall and turned towards the door. “We can have a proper chat in the morning. Go to sleep.”

Beatrice scoffed. “Anyone ever tell you how good your bedside manner is?”

“Sarcasm’s a good sign, keep it up.” He stood again and moved to the door. “Siesta time, kid. If you’re not asleep in half an hour, FRIDAY will know.”

“Yeah, got it.”

He hesitated for only a moment before leaving, the door clicking shut behind him.

But sleep never came. Every time she closed her eyes, submitted herself to the familiar, drowning darkness, her skin would prickle and her breaths would quicken until she’d shoot up in bed, gasping for air.

Eventually, Beatrice gave up entirely, opting instead to watch the city below. “FRIDAY?” she whispered to the ceiling.

“Yes, Beatrice?” FRIDAY answered in the same hushed tone.

“Can you lift the tint a little?”

“Dr Banner and Mr Stark have requested you get as much sleep as possible,” she said, lifting the tint anyway. “Shall I notify Mr Stark that you are unable to sleep?”

“No,” Bea said quickly, crossing her legs on the bed. “I just can’t sleep in the dark.” Liar. “This will help. Thanks, FRIDAY.”

Whether it was real or not, watching the slow flow of late-night traffic, the twinkling lights of distant apartments and brake lights and traffic lights, brought her a sense of serenity. She felt at peace, at home.

It also reminded her of the night she’d spent with Spider-Man on the roof, before her field trip. The night she’d explored her abilities properly for the first time—when she’d learned just how far she could go. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Bea missed him. But how could she ever face him? After everything she’d done to the young superhero’s mentor. Would he know? Would he be able to tell? Would Cross make her kill him too?

Spider-Man had picked up on her abilities so quickly. Surely he’d never forgive her if he knew. Then again—she’d never have to face him if this was an illusion. She’d never have to face the real Spider-Man or Peter or the crippling grief she’d stuffed into the back corner of her mind. No, if this was an illusion, she’d be allowed to hold it all off, just a little longer. Nothing she did mattered here.

Her hip twinged, ankle following suit. Her muscles hadn’t stopped complaining since she’d first awoken, but her wounds had been giving her the most grief. Beatrice glanced down at herself and lifted her shirt away to reveal fresh dressings. Bright white and clean, a stark contrast against her dirt-stained clothes. This was likely the longest she’d gone without a tranquilizer-induced blackout change.

The dressings were secure, but it took very little effort to pick at the edge of one and peel it away. The wound honestly looked better. Less red, less inflamed. The worrying yellow-ish fluid that had been seeping from it had subsided, but it still looked revolting.

She shook a hand out before her and watched as her light travelled through her bones to the tips of her fingers. She really hadn’t missed it as much as she’d thought she would, but it was still a welcome sight.

Beatrice winced as she pressed her glowing fingers into the wound. She could feel the light sinking in, fixing her from the inside out, but what she wanted to feel was the sting, the ache of it. She couldn’t reason it in her mind in any way that made sense, but … it felt good. Real.

The wound closed quickly, becoming little more than a scab, and she moved on. Her calf, which had healed decently on its own, and her shoulder, both clean and closed in a matter of minutes.

She pulled her left leg close and ran a cold hand over the scars on her ankle. The cuts and blisters her Dampener had left, and the purple bruises along the joint from her first failed run with Iron Man. It was all so much more than scars and bruises, of course, but that would be for another day. For a reason she couldn’t begin to explain—perhaps she’d justify it later as exhaustion—Beatrice left it alone.

Maybe this was real, or maybe it was still just another run. But Beatrice felt suddenly exhausted, her eyes drifting shut of their own accord. She laid her head back against the too-soft pillow and closed her eyes, hoping more than she’d ever confess to just wake up in the damp darkness of her cage. To finally be certain or something.

Despite everything, she slept soundly—the first night in many she didn’t dream of a dead Tony Stark, a grieving Peter Parker, or a vengeful Spider-Man.

Chapter Text

“I imagine this is the last thing you feel like doing, but we need to know as much as you can tell us about what happened. While it’s still fresh.”

Stark shifted uncomfortably in his seat beside the great Captain Rogers, who looked as stern and serious as he sounded. Dr Banner was still mulling about the room, finding things to do, Beatrice supposed, until she needed him. She was grateful he’d stayed—he’d given her the ‘green light’ earlier that morning, but Captain Rogers wasn’t so quick to let her go.

“Page?” he prompted.

She shifted her gaze from the window to the door, where she was certain Adrian would walk in any moment with his little pet drone, then to Rogers. He was leaning forward in his seat, and it was clear she had his full attention, but she didn’t know where to start.

That was a lie. She knew exactly where to start. She just wasn’t ready to face it.

She cleared her throat. “It was the day I went to—well, came to—Stark Industries. For an interview with Mr Stark,” she said, gesturing loosely to the man on Rogers’ right. “Wasn’t an interview. Then someone drove me home.”

“Happy,” Stark filled.

Beatrice nodded. “I woke up in this cell thing …”

“Sorry,” Rogers interrupted. “Where was Cross when you got home? Inside the apartment?”

She swallowed. “Yes.”

“How many others were with him?”

“Four,” she said. “I think. Maybe six. And Walter, and—” Her voice broke, and Rogers shook his head.

“It’s alright if you’re not ready to talk about that. You said you woke up in a cell?”

Beatrice nodded, and recounted the story for them. Cross, his cage, his pet drone. The illusions, minus the details of course, and minus her suspicions that they weren’t quite over. She mentioned the medical supplies he provided and the laced food, even the buckets. She didn’t dare look at either of them as she spoke.

“And how did you get all these injuries?”

Beatrice froze, her eyes involuntarily flicking to Stark before returning to the window. She shrugged and muttered, “Clumsy, I guess.”

“Your wounds have healed … remarkably,” commented Banner from behind her. “Even for an enhanced.”

Bea turned to look at him, then at Stark. She couldn’t believe it. “You told them.”

The Captain clasped his hands together. “Stark told us everything we needed to know to help find you.”

“Wasn’t your secret to tell.” If looks could kill, this simulation would be over.

Stark bristled. “Would you rather still be stuck there? Experimented on every other day?”

“How do I know I’m not?” she said before she could stop herself, earning baffled frowns from Rogers and Banner. She rolled her shoulders back—no taking that back now. “Nothing you’ve said or done tells me any different.”

“Enlighten us, then,” Stark challenged. “What were we like?”

Beatrice had to bite her tongue, focusing her eyes anywhere but on Stark. They couldn’t know. God knows what they’d do to her if they knew. And, if her suspicions were correct and this was just Cross’s newest, cruellest taunt … There was no telling what he’d think up as a punishment.

“Talking does help,” offered Rogers. “If you’re comfortable, tell us what happened in the cell.”

She hesitated only a moment, staring at her fingers as she started to speak. “There were rescue missions. Simulations. The heroes, come to save the day.” It wasn’t a lie. “I believed it, too, for a little while. But every single time, a switch would flip. They …” She swallowed, and it felt like razor blades. “He made me hurt people.”

The silence was deafening, and she didn’t dare look at them. Stark already thought she was dangerous, and she’d just admitted to hurting them, fighting them. And that was without her abilities.

“I suppose …” she said, quieter now. “Y—They never spoke.”

“Well,” Stark said, matching her demure tone. “Lucky for you, it takes a hell of a lot to shut me up.”

Rogers chuckled and murmured, “Unfortunately.”

“No fighting, either,” Stark continued.

“Absolutely not,” Banner said, slightly amused. “No fighting in the labs, zero exceptions.”

Beatrice’s head swam, and for the first time since she’d woken up in that room, she felt almost sure it was real.

“So,” Stark started, standing. “Now that the good Captain has made you rehash all that … wonderful trauma, Bruce says you’re good to go. You feel up to coming downstairs?”

She paused, glancing at the door. Real. It could be real.

He quirked a brow. “Peter’s here.”

Her eyes snapped to his. “Peter? Really?”

“He’s been here almost every afternoon you’ve been gone,” Tony said.

“Does … does he know about me, too?”

“Yes, but that’s a conversation you need to have with him, I think. If it helps, it’s killing him that he hasn’t seen you.”

Bea nodded, forcing the carousel of killing him from her mind, and swung her legs out of bed. She was still in the white clothes Adrian had given her, and was sure she smelled all kinds of funky, but she didn’t care. Peter was downstairs, and she wasn’t going to wait another second.

“Wait,” she said, as Banner removed her IV, Stark’s comment only just processing. “He’s been here every day?”

Captain Rogers nodded. “Just about. He’s a good friend, you’re very lucky.”

“How long was I gone?”

They all seemed to freeze, glancing at each other nervously before Banner spoke up. “Four weeks.”

The world swayed under her feet. “Four weeks?” she repeated, dazed.

“And three days,” Stark added. Rogers shot him a warning look.

She asked them for the date, and did the math inside her head before coming to the same conclusion. It had been thirty-one days since her life was … normal. It hadn’t felt that long.

“But I’m not there anymore.” The statement—more of a question, really—sounded stupid outside her head, but it needed saying. “I’m at the Tower.”

“That’s right,” Rogers said. “You never have to go back there, Beatrice.”

She hoped desperately that he was right. With one last nod from Banner, her IV was out and she could stand. He handed her a plain white bathrobe that she shrugged on gratefully, and Stark opened the door for them.

She was actually leaving. The room she’d been so convinced was just her cell in disguise actually had an exit, and she was leaving. “After you, kid,” said Stark.

They were all strangely patient with her as she cautiously stepped closer and closer to the door, before slipping past and into the hallway. She glanced back into the room to make sure it was still there, that they were all still there. They were.

“Okay,” she said, nodding a little. Coping—she was coping.

Rogers led her to the elevator, Stark and Banner talking quietly amongst themselves a few paces behind. Beatrice was too busy taking in the Tower to notice or care. It was magnificent. If she’d thought the downstairs was impressive on the field trip, it was nothing compared to the sleek architecture and design of the upper levels.

Beatrice tried to ignore the tightening of her chest as they all stepped into the elevator, the doors closing on them. She closed her eyes as Stark spoke to FRIDAY, trying to think of anything but the intense claustrophobia she was feeling.

But, Peter. Peter was there.

The doors opened and there he actually was, in the flesh. He looked pale—almost worse than he had on the field trip—and he was sat on the very edge of the sofa, hands in his hair. Real.

He was sitting with someone Beatrice didn’t recognise, trying to distract him with conversation. It didn’t look like it was working.

Bea’s breath caught in her throat and he looked up, straight at the elevator—straight at Beatrice.

His jaw tightened and he stood, moving quicker than she’d ever seen. She found his eyes as he raced towards her and for a horrible, gut-wrenching moment, the grief in them looked so familiar, she was certain he was going to yell at her, scream at her, ask her why she did the horrible things she did.

But he never said a word as Beatrice took tentative steps out of the elevator, meeting him some of the way, and he pulled her into the world’s tightest hug. He was warm and smelled like his apple shampoo, but also like chamomile and the thick tang of engine oil.

“I thought I lost you.” He held her tighter, somehow, as if he was trying to put all the pieces of her back together.

“It’s really fucking good to see you,” she whispered, throat tight as more tears threatened to spill. She buried her head into his shoulder, barely registering Rogers, Banner and Stark shuffling past them.

“Hey, Pete,” said Stark. Peter pulled away but kept a gentle hand on her arm. Stark was standing by the couch, some of the other Avengers, including Captain Rogers and Dr Banner, with him. “I need to have a chat with this lot, mind giving Page the grand tour?”

“Sure,” Peter said, still looking a little dazed. He nodded, looking back at Beatrice. “Yeah, let’s do that. We, uh—we set up a room for you.”

“Really?” Bea asked, and just as he was leading her through the kitchen, she paused, glancing back at the Avengers she hadn’t even said hello to. “I don’t want to be rude.”

“We’ll do the meet and greet later,” said Stark, waving them off.

Beatrice nodded and turned back to Peter, who took her by the hand and led her down a hallway, then another hallway. He didn’t say a word, and Beatrice was beginning to worry. They finally stopped before a door near the end, much to the relief of Beatrice’s bad ankle, and Peter gestured for her to open it. With a wary hand, she pushed down on the handle.

The room was large, bigger than anything she’d ever seen. An entire wall of windows lined the far end of the room, a full-size bed on the wall beside it. She spotted some familiar pieces of furniture, some books and records stacked neatly on a shelf, and an open door past her closet that led to a bathroom. “Oh my god,” she said, awed.

“Mr Stark had to replace some stuff, but he got as much as he could from your place.”

“This is too much,” she said, shaking her head as she walked in. It felt … permanent, almost. “Do you know what happened to the apartment?”

Peter looked grave. “Mr Stark’s covering the rent. No one’s living there, but your stuff is all there still.”

“He doesn’t have to do that,” she said, stomach flipping at the thought. So much money. “He didn’t have to do any of this, I mean …” She wanted to say that she wasn’t anyone special, but she knew perfectly well why Stark was doing all of it. Beatrice wandered through the room and sat down on the bed, fighting the urge to massage her aching ankle. “So … you know, then, right?”

Peter sat at her desk. Her old desk now had a new chair, and a new laptop. Beatrice chewed her lip. “About what?” he asked.

“You know,” she pressed, before lifting a hand, willing the light into her fingertips. She twisted it round, admiring it disdainfully. “That.”

He seemed to shrink a little. “Yeah. Is, uh—is that okay?”

“Is it okay?” Beatrice was baffled. “I should be asking you that.”

“Of course it’s okay. It doesn’t change who you are, you know. You’re still Beatrice. It’s my favourite part about you.” Peter was sincere, but he didn’t meet her eye when he said, “There’s actually something important I need to talk to you about.”

Beatrice tensed. “I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you.”

His head shot up. “What? No, don’t be sorry. It’s okay, I get it. That’s not—uh. No, I … Okay.” He shook out his hands and rolled his neck before looking her in the eye.

“Should I be worried?”

“Bea, I … I’m Sp—” He froze, panic in his eyes, before chuckling awkwardly. Bea frowned at him. “I’m, uh, spending a few days here at the Tower.” He scratched the back of his head. “Mr Stark thought it would be good for you to have a, uh, familiar face around.”

Beatrice nodded. “You staying in a totally pimped-out room like this?”

“I actually have a room here, so, yeah.”

“Wait, seriously?” she said. “You must be one heck of an intern.”

He shrugged, chuckling a little.

“He was right, though,” Bea said softly. “I don’t think I could do this without a friend.”

“Speaking of friends,” he said, leaping out of the chair and charging for her bedside table, where a StarkPhone sat. “Ned and Celia know you’re safe and that you’re here, but I haven’t told them you’re awake. You were in the Med Bay for a few days, and Dr Banner said no visitors.” He handed her the phone, sitting on the bed beside her.

“Is this mine?”

“Mr Stark thought you might need a replacement.”

Bea just sat there, staring at the black screen, trying to piece Stark’s kindnesses together in her head. He’d rescued her, helped her recover, given her a safe place to stay, and what had she done? Murdered his likeness for four weeks and three days straight. She didn’t deserve any of this.

Peter stood. “He said that we need to keep things quiet for a while, at least until we figure everything out. But I signed an NDA, and so did Celia, Ned, May, and MJ.” Bea figured she probably shouldn’t mention that she’d never had a proper conversation with MJ in her life. “Means we can’t, and won’t, tell anyone you’re here, or that you’re … Well, you know. All our numbers are on that thing, and I’m sure Celia is dying to hear from you.”

Celia. She remembered Celia being there with her, stroking her hair—it must have been a dream. “Does … Does she know that I’m …” She gestured to her hand, not bothering to summon her light. “Well, you know,” she said, imitating him.

He shook his head. “Neither of them know. But I don’t think it would be such a bad thing if they did, do you?” She was quiet. “They really care about you, Bea. I think it would be okay.”

She nodded, glancing back down at the phone.

“I’ll be out there,” he said, pointing over his shoulder. “Ask FRIDAY if you can’t find me, okay?”

“Thank you, Peter.”

Chapter Text

Beatrice stared at the chat box for what felt like hours. What does one say to their best friend after being kidnapped for four weeks? ‘Hey’? ‘Surprise bitch, I bet you thought you saw the last of me’?

She didn’t even know if she wanted to talk to Celia. Of course she did, but … maybe not yet. Was Bea even the same person anymore? Would Celia take one look at her and know? She deliberated, finger hovering over her number on speed dial but the fluttering of her heart made her reconsider, and instead, she began to type.

bumblebea: bad news, i am alive

oh_celia: YOU ARE ALIVE

In a matter of seconds, the chat was gone and in its place appeared the worst selfie Celia had ever sent her. Either Tony Stark was a nosy bastard with a bad sense of humour, or Peter knew them better than she thought. “Beatrice!” screamed Celia when she’d accepted the video call. “Oh my god, Bea! I thought you were gone!”

Her eyes were irritated, and her breaths hitched like she’d just been crying. Her beautiful red hair was fixed, thrown into a high bun, but with too many loose tendrils as if she’d been running her hand through her hair over and over. There were stains in her shirt and spots on her cheeks, but Celia—actual, real Celia—was the most beautiful thing Bea had seen in weeks.

“Gonna take a bit more than that to get rid of me, I promise,” Bea said through the tightness in her throat. “Me and my single brain cell, we got through.”

She laughed wetly. “Are you okay? How are you? Are you hurt?”

“I honestly don’t care,” Bea said, starting to tear up herself. “I can’t believe I’m looking at you right now. I think I forgot what you looked like.”

“When can I see you?”

“Soon. Well, I wanna say soon, but I honestly have no idea what Stark will say. I’ve literally just left the—what did Peter call it? The Med Bay? I don’t know, it was like a hospital.” Celia nodded. “I missed so much, be a doll and fill me in?”

“Uh, let me see … Bread & Butter shut down?” Celia offered. “Like, two weeks after you were gone. Didn’t say a word, just shut their doors.”

“Oh. Alright, so new job. Not totally high on the priorities list, but then there’s school to think about, too.”

“Seriously, don’t worry about it. Stark’s got a plan, it’ll all work out. He made us sign NDAs, I think the plan is to keep it quiet until they have a better idea. Peter said Stark’s got the SI legal team sorting through everything so you don’t have to think about school, or money, or social services, or anything, not for a long while yet.”

Social services. God, were they going to take her away? Where would she live?

But an even worse thought struck Beatrice, and she tensed. Celia seemed to feel it too, and Bea was sure it wasn’t hard to guess why. “Did my mom get a funeral?”

“Yeah, she did,” Celia said, wiping her eyes as she nodded. “It was beautiful, but I hated that you weren’t there. Peter organised the flowers and everything, got me and Ned and MJ to help out. I think he convinced Stark to help him or something.” Beatrice chewed her lip, nodding. “I’m so sorry, Bea. I didn’t know her all that well, but I know she loved you so much, and she always wanted the best for you. And once things are all back to normal, we can take some flowers down together and have a proper ceremony.”

Bea’s throat tightened, more tears threatening to spill, but she swallowed it down.

“God, I wish I could hug you,” Celia said.

“I know, me too. I … Shit.” There was no holding the tears back now. “Listen, um—sorry, Ce, I think Stark’s looking for me. Can I call you back later?”

“Of course. Call me any time, day or night, I’ll always answer. I love you, Bea.”

“Love you, too.”

Beatrice ended the call and tossed the phone on her pillow, clasping a hand over her mouth to stifle her sobs. Her tears came like a broken dam, and she hadn’t the slightest idea which part of the conversation had triggered it. She’d missed Celia more than she’d let herself think, but the idea of her life returning to … normal? No, nothing would ever be normal ever again.

What would happen if Bea found out what she did? Peter, Ned? They would never forgive her. Never look at her the same way again, she was certain of it. Bea wasn’t sure she could even forgive herself.

A knock broke her from her thoughts. “Beatrice?” said Peter from the other side. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart and spasming lungs. She stood, collected herself as best she could, and made her way to the door, wiping her cheeks one last time before opening it.

“What’s up?”

He definitely noticed her damp cheeks and irritated eyes. “Mr Stark’s ordering dinner soon, I think we’re getting pizza. Any requests?”

“Uh … I’m not really that hungry.”

“You should eat, Beatrice.”

Oh, should she now? She had to fight her sudden disdain for Peter—he was the reason she wasn’t homeless, after all. “I guess I’ll just have a slice of whatever you’re having,” she said. “If that’s okay. I mean, I can make a sandwich or something—”

“No, that’s cool,” he assured her. “Pepperoni sound good?”

“Okay,” she said, and gestured in the bathroom’s general direction. “I’m going to get cleaned up.”

Peter nodded. “Well, uh … Everyone’s gone, it’s just me and Mr Stark and Colonel Rhodes in the living room. I think they’re watching a movie, but you can come and watch it with us if you want. Mr Stark says everyone’ll be coming back for dinner, so you can meet them then. If you’re feeling up to it, obviously.”

“Okay,” said Beatrice, swallowing the growing lump in her throat.

He stood there for a few seconds too long, studying her face. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No.” Her voice cracked. “I’m fine, really. Gonna shower.”

With that, she closed the door on his stupidly concerned face, and slapped a hand over her mouth again, begging herself to calm down. To go more than a minute without having a meltdown.

But even showering was difficult. Despite her complaining ankle, she spent ten minutes just standing under the steady stream of water watching the brown muck fall out of her hair, off her skin and out from under her nails, and down the drain.

It took her a while to convince herself to shampoo. It was her mother’s bottle, a home brand, probably taken from their apartment with all her other things. The conditioner, too, only it was closer to empty. When she cracked the lid and all she could smell was Mom, a sadness buried itself deep in her chest, but for the first time all day, the tears didn’t come. She slid down the wall and sat on the shower floor, letting the warm water wash over her body—this new, too-thin body that she barely recognised.

Despite Peter’s kindness, and Celia’s familiar smile, and Tony Stark making sure she was safe, healthy, cared for—all she wanted was to be home. Home, with her mom. Walter could stay dead on the kitchen floor for all she cared, but her mom … Bea felt an all-consuming longing in her heart for nights on the sofa, watching bad movies with burned popcorn, lying with her head on her mom’s lap, fingers brushing through Bea’s hair. And the idea that she’d never have it again—it broke her heart in two.

Her first shower in a month lasted about forty minutes, and was followed by a plethora of other strange, disgusting firsts. First time brushing her teeth again, with a toothbrush and actual toothpaste. First time trimming her nails. First time seeing herself in the mirror—she barely recognised herself. Dark rings circled her eyes, and her complexion looked almost grey. Her ribs and hips visibly stuck out, and her joints were far sharper than they used to be.

She pulled on a pair of black Stark Industries sweatpants, tying them close to her waist and tucking the loose drawstrings into the trousers. A matching sweatshirt too, to hide her gaunt figure. She found a pair of socks in the bottom of a drawer for her ice-cold feet, deciding after a moment that two pairs of socks would just seem dramatic.

All her skincare was laid out on her dresser, but she could only stare at them. It seemed like so much effort now, all the serums, creams and gels. She used to care for her skin. She used to care for the way she looked, how she presented herself in life. Nothing seemed less important now.

Beatrice decided on just a small amount of lotion, and made sure to deodorise and apply a heavy spritz of perfume to cover any of the surviving four-week stink. Her wide-tooth comb was there too. She ran it roughly through her hair, twisting her curls off into strands to dry.

She was moving as slowly as she could, and by the time she was finished, it was dark outside. Beatrice didn’t want to watch a movie with Peter and Stark and whoever else was out there. She didn’t want to have dinner with the Avengers, or make small talk over pizza, or dance around the subject of her last four weeks. She didn’t want to think about how she’d missed her mom’s funeral, or that her best friend expected her to bounce back from everything and go back to the way things were. But Bea knew if she let herself wallow as she was so desperate to do, Peter would worry.

She hated him for it, but … she didn’t. At all.

And because she didn’t, she convinced herself to stand, to take another deep breath, and to leave her room. The Tower was truly a maze without Peter as her guide, but FRIDAY was there. Small lights on the walls flashed when she needed to turn left or right, and soon she could hear the TV.

She paused in the hallway, glancing around the corner. Peter was sitting on the sofa with his back to her, Stark by his side and another figure in an armchair to their left. There was another chair free on the right, and if Beatrice played her cards right, she could slip in and sit down while they were all still engrossed—

“Ah, wonderkid, perfect timing,” said Stark, who’d turned and spotted her. She swore under her breath and approached. “Pizza’s here in 10 minutes with everyone else. And lucky you, you managed to miss the Titanic of all movies.” He switch the TV off just as the main character was about to sacrifice themself. Peter and the other one groaned in protest. “Figuratively speaking, not the actual Titanic.”

He passed her and moved into the kitchen, reaching into a drawer to pull out some plates.

“Let me,” she said, rushing to take the plates off him. “I’ll set the table. How many?”

“Uh …” He counted on his fingers, before saying, “Ten, maybe?”

Ten. She rarely had to set the table at home, but it would only ever be when Walter was gone, so two at the most. She’d never eaten with nine other people before. But she got to work, setting down plates and cutlery and napkins while Peter and Tony sorted drinks.

“Beatrice, right?” said the other figure. She’d forgotten he was there.

Bea set the last napkin down and turned to him. “Yes, sir,” she said.

He stuck out his hand and she shook it. “Colonel Rhodes, but just call me Rhodey.”

“Alright,” she said with a nod. “Rhodey.”

Rhodey turned to Peter, and stuck a thumb out towards Bea. “See, kid?” he said. “Not so hard for this one to cool it with the honorifics.”

Peter ducked his head, laughing as he carried a few glasses of water over. “Fine, fine,” he said. “Rhodey, then. Happy?”

“No, Happy’s still downstairs,” joked Stark, eyes on his phone. “But good news, pizza’s arrived. So, when are you gonna start calling me Tony, kid? It’s been long enough.”

Rhodey laughed, and said, “When Beatrice does, by the looks of it.”

Peter and Tony laughed, but Beatrice only flushed. But lucky for her, the elevator doors opened before she had to say anything. Mr Hogan walked in carrying a small mountain of pizzas.

“Let me help,” she said. Her ankle twinged only slightly as she hurried over to take half the pile. He paled when he saw her face.

“Tony said you were back on your feet. How are you doing?”

Beatrice frowned, honestly surprised he remembered her. “Uh … yeah. Doing just fine. Thank you.” She set the pizza down on the counter, Happy following suit, but he didn’t let up.

“I wanted to apologise. I should’ve waited to make sure you got inside okay.”

Christ. Did he feel guilty? Bea noticed just how quiet the room had fallen, and just how hot her face had gotten. “I did get inside okay,” she said. “I was perfectly fine after you dropped me off. Were you really supposed to wait until I got all the way to my apartment, and then another ten minutes? Really, it’s fine. No one’s fault.”

He seemed to accept that as he nodded and turned away.

“You staying for pizza?” asked Stark, carrying another round of water glasses to the table. “The whole gang’ll be here.”

“No thanks,” Happy said, giving Beatrice a friendly wink. “Don’t need that on my conscience. See you tomorrow.”

He waved them all goodbye and he left, quickly replaced by three figures that seemed to tower over Beatrice. “You must be Beatrice,” one of them said, reaching a hand out to shake hers. “I’m Sam, you know Steve, and this is Clint.”

She knew them all, of course—she hadn’t been living under a rock, at least not before the cage. Sam Wilson and Clint Barton. Beatrice felt like she should’ve been a bit more starstruck. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said.

“Glad you’re feeling better,” said Clint, shaking her hand. She was not feeling better. “You had us a bit worried when they brought you back.”

She wracked her brain, trying to remember. She looked at Rogers. “It was you and Stark, right?”

“And Nat,” he said, before correcting, “Natasha. Black Widow.”

“That’s my name,” came a woman’s sing-song voice. “Don’t wear it out.”

Natasha and Dr Banner rounded the corner, joining the men in the kitchen. She was beautiful, her red hair in a low braid and striking green eyes studying Beatrice closely. She must have just finished training, she was still in her workout gear. Bea felt insanely outnumbered.

“Beatrice, right?”

“Yep.” She took a deep breath, but it sounded more like a sigh. “Thank you for everything you did,” she said, before glancing back at Steve. “Both of you.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Natasha. She found Clint and clapped him on the back, passing Beatrice to get to the pizza.

“How are you feeling?” asked Bruce as the others followed suit.

“Just peachy,” Bea said, and regretted her sarcastic tone immediately. “Uh, no aches or pains. Fit as a fiddle.”

“That’s only your physical well-being, though. Lot more to the healing process than that.”

Beatrice nodded, and Bruce seemed to sense she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. He ducked his head as he passed, heading for the table with the others.

“You okay?” came Peter’s voice as she washed her hands at the sink.

“I wish everyone would stop asking.”

He pumped some soap on his hands and stole the tap. “They just care. But, if you want, I can answer for you from now on.”

Beatrice smirked, drying her hands on a tea towel as Peter washed his. “Good old-fashioned passive aggression. I can get behind that.” He flashed her a grin as she handed him the towel. “They’re all a bit intimidating, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” he said. “And about half of them are eavesdropping on our whole conversation right now, so why don’t we just head on over and get some food.”

The Avengers looked somewhat sheepish as Peter and Beatrice sat down between Tony, at the head of the table, and Natasha, on Bea’s right. Pepper Potts had also arrived at some point that she had missed, and the sight of her made Bea freeze.

“It’s so good to see you again, Beatrice,” she said, pulling a slice of pizza onto her plate. “How are you feeling?”

“Not bad,” said Peter through a mouthful of pepperoni and cheese. “Thanks for asking.”

Pepper blushed a little, but Stark only laughed. The table broke into small conversations, the focus finally off Beatrice and how she was feeling. She picked up a slice of pepperoni. It looked strange—she forgot how weird pizza looked. And felt, she noticed, setting it down on the plate and wiping her greasy fingers on the napkin.

“It’s not gonna bite you,” whispered Sam from across the table, reaching for his own slice.

Bea laughed awkwardly, and took a bite. It was good—well, it wasn’t Ray’s—but it made her stomach flip, and not because of the astronomical dairy content. By the time she’d choked down one slice, Peter was on his fourth and Natasha beside her was starting her third. Were they going to think she was weird for only eating one slice? Should she—

"So, Beatrice,” said Steve, wiping his hands on his napkin. “Peter here tells us you’re somewhat of a prodigy.”

“Somewhat,” Bea said quietly, a small smile on her face as she glanced at Peter. He blushed.

Clint scoffed. “I’ve seen the homework Peter brings home. I can barely do my kids’ middle school work, let alone the gibberish they give you.”

“You have kids?”

“Three,” he said with a nod, picking up another slice. “All very happy dummies.”

Nat laughed. “That’s a lie.”

“Yeah, that’s a lie,” Clint agreed, grinning.

“The happy part or the dummies part?” asked Bea before she could stop herself. Peter and Tony laughed through their mouthfuls of pizza, Pepper giving Tony a chastising tap on the arm, but even Clint looked amused.

“Well, they’re pre-teens, so touché, kid,” he said, raising his glass to her.

She was doing well. Being friendly, not exactly making friends, but that was alright. She sounded almost normal for someone who’d just spent thirty-one days trapped with only their thoughts for company. Tony and Rhodey were trying to tell a story about an old mission and, to their credit, it sounded great, but Bea’s head was swimming and it was insanely hot in the room.

Everyone’s voices were overlapping, she couldn’t focus on any single sound. And the weight of all the sidelong glances the Avengers were throwing while they thought she wasn’t paying attention made her shoulders ache.

Bea felt like screaming. These people didn’t trust her and she didn’t trust them, but they had saved her. Welcomed her. She knew she sounded ridiculous and paranoid and reactive, but she couldn’t help the dread that settled in her stomach with the too-greasy pizza every time she looked at Tony. The voice in the back of her head was adamant that it would be any second now, and she’d have to fight for her life and lose—

She stood abruptly and the whole table fell quiet. “Sorry,” said Beatrice. “I, uh … I’m a bit tired, would you mind if I had an early night?”

“No need to ask, kid,” said Stark. “Sleep tight.”

Beatrice nodded, and said, “Excuse me.” With that, she carried her dishes into the kitchen, washed them under the tap and stumbled off down the hallway to her room. She could feel Peter’s worried gaze on the back of her head all the way until she turned the corner and could breathe again. Conversation picked up at the table again, and she was in the clear.

Chapter Text

They’d drugged her.

It was the only logical explanation. It was the goddamn pizza, and Stark must’ve been the one to do it too, while Beatrice was meeting everyone. She was going to kill him—properly, this time.

But first, the room needed to stop spinning on its axis every time Beatrice blinked. She’d been sitting cross-legged on her bed atop her covers, the lights set to a manageable 20%, for the better part of an hour while she assessed her body and made sure she wasn’t going to be sent to sleep. So far, she was still awake, but …

She stumbled towards the bathroom, clutching her throbbing head and splashing cool water on her face. She ran her wrists under cold water, and scooped some to her mouth—it helped, but she still felt as if her insides had been shoved into an Easy-Bake Oven.

As she was coming out of the bathroom, wiping her face on her sleeve, a flash of red on her balcony made her jump. Spider-Man.

Her head cleared for only a moment as she crossed the room and opened the door. Stepping out onto the balcony, the cool night air—it was a comfort, but nothing like the way he held her when she threw her arms around him. “It’s you,” she whispered into his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, burying his masked face in the crook of her neck. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“I don’t care,” she said, throat tightening. “You’re here now.”

They sat down at the chairs Stark had out there for her, and simply watched the city. The darkness wasn’t so isolating with the cars, small as ants, navigating the huge city below. Her head swam with how high they were, but there was nowhere she’d rather be than there on that balcony with her friend.

“I heard about your interview with Mr Stark,” he said quietly after a moment.

“It wasn’t much of an interview.”

He turned to look at her. “I was coming over to ask you how it went. Your room was turned upside down, the rest of your apartment too, and I was worried you were hurt but I couldn’t find you anywhere.” Beatrice reached over and took his hand. “I found your mom, but I couldn’t help her. I was too late. I … I could’ve stopped him.”

Her voice wavered a little when she said, “It’s not your fault.” Adrian Cross still echoed in her mind, and he was getting harder and harder to shut up.

“I should’ve been there.”

“You were.” She squeezed his hand. “Really. So many times.”

“But this was the one that counted. I’m not looking for consolation here, I just … I’m so sorry, Beatrice. I messed up, but it’ll never happen again. I promise.”

Bea was too tired to argue with him. “You know,” she said quietly. “If you’re going to apologise about anything, maybe start with outing me to Peter. And literally all the Avengers.”

He flinched, looking down. “I really am sorry.”

“It’s alright. No harm in it, I suppose.” She let her eyes close. They were getting so heavy, and the sounds of the city below were so soothing. She never realised silence could be so loud.

“We … I—I looked for you. Every day. You know that, right?”

Her eyes shot open and she glanced at him. “You looked for me every day?”

“How could you think I wouldn’t? Of course I did, Bea.”

Then why did it take four weeks and three days?

But Beatrice didn’t say that—Beatrice didn’t say anything at all. The throbbing in her head had reached an all-time high, the sweat pooling on her brow as she tried to even her breathing.

“Beatrice? Hey, you aren’t looking so good,” she heard him say, then his hand was on her face. “Oh my god, you’re burning up. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“M’fine.”

“You’re not fine. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

She wanted to stay outside, she liked how the night air felt cool on her skin. “I don’t—”

But Spider-Man had stood and had one arm behind her back, the other behind her knees, as he scooped her into his arms like a baby. “Come on,” he said, carrying her inside. “I got you.”

Beatrice relaxed into his chest. She could feel his suit warming where it touched her skin, the blistering heat rolling off her in waves. But she didn’t feel sick, she just felt tired. And hot, so incredibly hot.

“FRIDAY?” he asked.

“Yes, Spider-Man?”

“Can you get Mr Stark? I think Bea is sick. And Dr Banner, if he’s still awake.” Beatrice tried to protest, but Spider-Man wasn’t hearing any of it. He set her down on the bed, and she couldn't help but sigh with relief at how cool her sheets were. Like the cold side of a pillow, but everywhere.

“Of course.”

It wasn’t late, barely ten o’clock, so it came as no surprise when both Stark and Banner appeared in her doorway. “What’s up, wonderkid?” Stark said, before his eyes found Spider-Man’s. “Spider-Kid.”

“I’m fine,” Beatrice sighed. Banner crossed the room and knelt down before her, setting a black bag down and taking her temperature. She couldn’t figure out whether her racing heart was because she was sick, or because the black med bag was identical to Cross’s.

“Yeah,” mused Stark, crossing his arms over his chest. “You definitely don’t look like crap.” Beatrice shot him a warning look, but it was a struggle to keep her eyes open.

Banner clicked his tongue. “100.4.”

“FRI, anything we don’t know about?” Stark asked.

“Beatrice has an acute ankle sprain that has worsened since her arrival.”

Bea didn’t look at any of them.

“Any virus symptoms?” Banner asked. “Has she been sneezing, coughing?”

“No, Dr Banner.”

“Could still be an infection,” Banner said quietly, seemingly to himself before glancing up at Stark. “I’ll run some tests, see what I can come up with.”

“Right,” Stark said with a nod. “Webs, with me.”

Spider-Man gave Beatrice one last look. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?” And then he was gone, leaving with Tony Stark.

She turned back to Banner who flashed her what she assumed was a comforting smile. “I’m just taking some samples so we can figure you out, okay?”

“I remember you,” she said stupidly.

“I remember you, too. You had a slice of pepperoni.”

She breathed a laugh as he unpacked some supplies. “I mean I remember your talk.”

“On your field trip, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You guys were great. Lots of good questions.”

“Lots of stupid ones, too,” Beatrice chuckled, wiping the sweat off her brow.

He nodded. “Flash, right? Peter’s told us a bit about him. I don’t think his question was stupid, though.” Bea raised a brow. “Lean your head back for me and say ‘ah’, I’m going to take a swab.” She did as he asked. “I think he’s smart, like all of you at that school, but perhaps a little misguided. I knew plenty of kids like him in my time.”

He took his swab and stuffed it into a tube. Bea shrugged and said, “He’s old enough to know better, I think.”

“Maybe,” Banner said, nodding. “I’m going to take a few blood samples too, if that’s alright. Check your cell counts so we can rule out anything viral.”

She didn’t watch as he stuck her with the needle, instead trying her best to keep up the conversation. “You know, Ms Warren has a photo of you on the wall.”

“Should I be worried?” he said with a laugh. “Who’s Ms Warren?”

“Physics.” Bea was struggling to keep her head up now. “It’s not just you, that would be weird. No, she’s got all the greats up there, think she’s got a crush on you, though. Not that you’re great. I mean, not great. Not that you’re not the greats.”

Banner put a hand on her shoulder, and she looked up at him. “I’m all done, you should get some sleep.”

Bea nodded and fell backwards onto the bed, shifting around until a pillow was under her head. She was on top of the covers, but every muscle in her body was aching and there was no way she was moving again. But Banner picked up the throw blanket at the end of her bed and covered her with it.

“Night,” she said, eyes closing of their own accord.

“Goodnight, Beatrice.”

Banner waited until she was asleep before collecting his things and making his way to the door. Stark was there, waiting in the hall, seemingly having dismissed Spider-Man. “How’s the kid? She gonna live?”

“Yes, she’ll live.” He quietly closed the door as they left. “Really came out of nowhere, though. I almost figured since she’s enhanced, she wouldn’t get sick. Not like this.”

“Eh, she’ll keep us on our toes.”

“Any news on Cross? Beck?”

Stark shrugged as they approached the elevator. “Steve says he’s working on it, but nothing so far.” He shook his head. “He was right under our noses the whole time. Who knows what he’s planning with the tech he stole.”

“Don’t do that, Tony,” Banner said. They stepped into the elevator, and Stark asked FRIDAY for the labs.

“Do what?”

“Blame yourself. They were gone before you even showed up, they were tipped off.” Stark didn’t argue with him as they stepped into the labs. Banner headed straight over to test Bea’s samples. “How’s Peter?”

“Smitten. Entirely. It’s actually painful to watch.” He tapped twice on a holodesk, and his latest project lit up. “He wants to tell her the big spider secret.”

“I’m surprised he hasn’t already.”

Stark shrugged. “Kids these days, I guess.”

They worked in silence for a while before Stark put some music on, drowning the labs in AC/DC and Led Zeppelin. He was working through a glitch in Rhodey’s suit. He’d broken the scanner on his last mission, and the UI needed an update anyway. He was complaining too about lag, and Stark’s mind once again wandered to the kid.

Recalibrate the program to incorporate everything in one sequence rather than separate sequences. He had thought of it then, of course, but he’d assumed the solution was more complicated. He ran it again on Rhodey’s suit and, with very little surprise, it worked.

Banner swore from across the room, and Tony told FRIDAY to cut the music. “So?” he asked, crossing the room. “What’s the word?”

Bruce shrugged. “Nothing. Technically, I mean. Nothing viral, nothing bacterial, her tests are clear.” He looked up at Tony, who was frowning. “She’s healthy.”

Chapter Text

Beatrice was in the cage. And she wasn’t alone.

They surrounded her. She didn’t recognise any of them at first, then the details drifted in. Natasha and Clint in tactical gear, Sam and Rhodey in gym clothes, Steve and Tony in their full getups, and—and Spider-Man, only his mask was off and Peter was underneath.

“Please,” she said, her voice coming out in a light whimper. “Don’t.”

All the faces that had just started to become familiar, faces she thought could one day be friends, all stared back at her with empty eyes. Then the deafening roar of charging repulsors filled her ears, and every one of them lifted a glowing hand, aimed straight at her—

“Beatrice,” came a voice, and she closed her eyes. “Bea, wake up.”

She woke with a start, forcing herself to sit up. Sweat clung to her, soaking through her clothes. Disgusting. But Peter was there, sitting by her bed. “You were having a nightmare.”

She wiped the sweat from her eyes and tried to catch her breath. “Mm. You don’t say.”

“Here,” he said, handing her a cold bottle of water and some aspirin. “You’ve been asleep all day, I figured you’d be thirsty.”

She fell back on the bed, but took the water bottle and held it close to her chest to cool her skin. “You worry too much.”

“I worry just the right amount, actually.”

She cracked a smile, and took the aspirin with a large mouthful of water. Some dribbled down her cheek to the back of her neck, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She handed it back to Peter, who put the cap back on for her and set it down on the nightstand.

“Go back to sleep,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“‘Kay. G’night,” she mumbled, already halfway there. She turned on her side, sinking into the pillow, and said, “Love you.”

“Love you too, Bea.”

Dreams came and went, as did the nightmares, but Beatrice didn’t wake again.

When her eyes did eventually pry themselves open, it was dark, and Peter was gone. She checked her phone—three o’clock in the morning. Poor dude probably wanted to get some sleep.

She crawled out of bed and stretched, her joints stiff and cracking a little. The bottle of water was still beside her bed in a ring of condensation, and she finished it off. Bea felt exhausted still, but she couldn’t bring herself to go back to sleep. She needed a change of scenery. But, more pressing than that, she needed a change of clothes.

Beatrice stood and moved to the closet, where she found grey sweatpants, a matching hoodie, and a pair of green fluffy slippers to replace her sweat-soaked clothes. She probably would’ve done well with a shower, but it seemed a little beyond her abilities at that very moment. She dressed, tucked her phone into her pocket, and left her room without a sound.

The hallway was pitch-black and Beatrice paused, but FRIDAY seemed to sense her. Small lights appeared on the floor to guide her way. She tiptoed into the kitchen and living room, where both, to her stupid surprise, were empty. “FRIDAY?” she said quietly, opening the fridge in search of another water bottle.

“Yes, Beatrice?” FRIDAY responded just as quietly.

“Is anyone awake?”

“Mr Stark is working in the lab if you’d like to join him.”

She pulled out a bottle and closed the fridge. “Do you think he’d mind?”

FRIDAY was quiet.

“Are you asking him? Please don’t—”

“Mr Stark said he wouldn’t mind the company.”

Beatrice swore under her breath. Though, she supposed, it would be interesting to see what he was working on. And it was either spending time with multi-billionaire and renowned genius Tony Stark, or back to the bed she’d been stuck in for however many days now. It really wasn’t much of a choice.

So she followed FRIDAY’s guidance to the elevators, which took her down two levels to a high-tech laboratory, where scrap metal, paper and tools were scattered over every surface. It was nothing like she imagined Tony Stark’s personal lab to be, but at the same time, she wasn’t surprised in the slightest.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Stark said, head buried in the top half of an Iron Man suit. Her skin crawled with the memory of saying those exact words to him, however long ago.

“Glad to be back,” she said as coolly as she could manage, and took a seat at one of the desks, cradling her cold water. “What’cha workin’ on?”

“Just tinkering.”

“Riveting.”

He glanced up at her, but continued working. “You look better.”

Beatrice shrugged, tapping her bottle absentmindedly. The desk she’d chosen was somewhat of a dumping ground but, then again, the entire lab seemed to be much of the same. Bits and pieces of this and that were strewn everywhere—discarded papers, broken pens, spare parts.

“Did Dr Banner figure it out, then?” she asked. “What was it, monkey flu? Some weird alien virus that’ll mutate and wipe out the whole planet?”

“Psychogenic fever,” Stark said. “Pass me the 0.8 hex, will you?”

Bea found the screwdriver beside her, slid off the desk and crossed the room to hand it to him. “So … weird alien virus?”

He huffed a laugh, taking the tool. “Close. It’s the body’s reaction to extreme stress and emotional events. You know, like being psychologically tortured by your deranged deadbeat dad.”

Beatrice shrank, and she toyed with the cap of her bottle. “You make it sound worse than it was.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.” She willed herself to sound a little less weak. “Barely any different from how things were before. If anything, living here is more of a shock to the system.”

“It’s pretty great, right?” Stark stopped tinkering, and met her eye. “But, you know, that right there is called minimisation. Happens to the best of us, don’t get me wrong, but kid, you gotta see it for what it was.”

“Surely it wasn’t bad enough to give me weird alien trauma fever.”

He cocked his head, grimacing a little. “Uh, yeah, I think it might’ve been.”

He went back to his tinkering project, and Beatrice, with nothing witty to say, fell silent. She wandered around the room, studying scrap pieces of paper, screws of all sizes … But, for the life of her, she couldn’t get it out of her head. A fever because she was … emotional? It sounded ridiculous. Stark must’ve thought she was going nuts.

“Does it make me …” she started quietly, brushing her fingers over the desk.

“Weak?” Stark finished, and she tried not to wince. “I don’t think so. I saw the conditions you were living in. I’m honestly impressed that you’ve only had a fever.”

“Well, it’s only been two nights. Anything could happen.”

“We’re actually on night five,” he said. “You slept a while when you got here.”

Despite herself, she chuckled. She’d lost all concept of time in the cage. Not that it mattered much now—she had nowhere to be, no one to see. Nothing to do except recover.

“You were kidnapped once, right?” she asked.

He sighed. “Oh, goodie, I was hoping you’d bring this up.”

“I’m just having a hard time understanding. You nearly died.” She held up a hand to count the facts. “You had to build an arc reactor for yourself out of practically nothing just to survive after open heart surgery in a cave, and then you rescued yourself. I mean, you literally built the first Iron Man suit there … And I guess there was a whole lot of bravado when you came back, but did it affect you? Like this?”

He dropped his tools down on the table beside him. “Kid, how old are you?”

“Uh … sixteen.”

“Sixteen, right. I was thirty-eight. I think that warrants a bit of a different reaction.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Your family died. You were trapped in a cage with no light, barely any food, and barely any clean water.”

A wave of nausea hit, and Beatrice swallowed. “That’s an exaggeration.”

“No, kid, those are facts. You couldn’t tell the difference between illusion and reality and it took us four weeks to find you, let alone come up with anything decent to get you out of there.”

Beatrice’s throat tightened. “But you did and I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.” The lie came a little too easy. She chewed her lip, turning the question over in her mind before saying, “Does it … Does it ever get easier?”

“No,” he said. His expression was unreadable, jaw tight as he turned back to the armour. “No, you just learn to make room for it.”

He nicked a wire somewhere deep inside the suit’s right shoulder and swore as the arm came to life, the charging repulsor’s bright white light filling the lab. That’s when Beatrice realised it wasn’t any suit—it was the suit. She could see the indent her fist had made in the chest piece.

Bea tensed all over as the same sickening sound that had plagued her for four weeks and three days filled the room, now so much louder in reality. Her water bottle slipped through her hands and fell to the floor as she gripped the table before her, as if her legs would give way any moment and she’d fall right through the floor and back into her cage if she dared let go.

Stark muttered something, deep in the suit, and it took two excruciating seconds for him to cut the repulsor’s power.

Beatrice was so tense she thought she might actually snap in two as her body froze in indecision between fight or flight. She forced herself to stand, picking up her water bottle as she went, and smile as if nothing was wrong.

“Oh, look at the time, I’m knackered, gonna call it a night,” she said too quickly, forcing a yawn for good measure. “Thanks for the chat.”

“Alright,” Stark said, entirely oblivious. “Night.”

“Night.”

Beatrice could not have left any quicker, almost sprinting to the elevator. FRIDAY was very intuitive for an AI—something Bea was incredibly grateful for now she couldn’t force the request past the lump in her throat.

She was fine. She was safe. This was real. Her hands trembled as her fingers found themselves, pinching each fingertip as Bea counted. One, two, three, four, five. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Deep breaths. Everything would work out just fine. Iron Man wasn’t going to kill her. She wasn’t going to have to kill Iron Man.

She was safe.

The elevator doors opened and Bea stepped out. Her hands still shook, but her breathing was even and measured, and she finally felt in control of herself.

She glanced towards her bedroom door at the end of the hall but didn’t make any advances towards it. She couldn’t quite bring herself to go back into a dark room full of furniture from a life she didn’t have anymore. To shampoo that smelled like Mom, to books and records she’d been gifted over countless Christmases and birthdays. To memories that were still too painful to bear on her own. Beatrice swore.

Maybe, just for tonight …

“FRIDAY?”

“Yes, Beatrice?”

“Uh, do you … Is Peter awake?”

“Peter is currently sleeping. I can wake him, if you like.”

“No,” she said quickly. “Uh, no, that’s okay. Um … Do you know where his room is?”

“I do.”

“Do you think you could … show me?”

Even before she’d gotten the request out, small lights on the floor began to show her the way. She followed them down the hall and left, to a door on the right. It wasn’t too far from her own room, actually.

“Do you think he’d mind if I went in?” Bea asked, unsure if the AI was even still listening.

“Peter asked me to give you full access to his rooms at all times.”

It wasn’t really an answer, but the AI’s response warmed her heart. She thanked her quietly, before pushing down on the handle and nudging the door open. A small voice in the back of her head begged her to turn around, to go back to her own rooms. She’d hate to be woken up so late, what made her think—

But there he was, under the covers with an arm behind his head. His face was tilted towards the door, towards Bea, but he looked so peaceful, she was certain he was fast asleep.

“Peter?” she whispered into the room. He stirred a little. “Pete.”

“Hm?” He blinked awake, frowning against the dim lights in the hallway. “Bea?”

“Could I stay with you tonight?” She felt like a child, waking her parents after a bad nightmare, but the thought made something ache inside her chest and she shoved it away. “I … don’t want to be alone.”

“C’mere,” he said gently, and Bea slipped into the room. “FRI,” he murmured, “lights to 10%, please.”

Bea didn’t know how he knew, but the knots in her gut seemed to unravel as the pitch-black room grew shadows, corners, shapes. There were clothes on the floor and papers on his desk—it was lived in. This was a home.

Peter shuffled over in the twin bed until there was enough room for her to slip under the covers. The bed was warm where he’d been, and he couldn’t help but breathe in the smell of him. Deodorant and apple shampoo, with a hint of musk.

“Sorry for waking you up,” she whispered, doing her best to take up as little space as possible. She fidgeted until she was semi-comfortable but not touching Peter, worried at what he might think.

“M’not,” he said, clearly struggling to keep his eyes open. His hand reached out, snaking around her waist and he pulled her close, letting his chin rest atop her head. “Get sm’sleep.”

“Promise me you’ll still be here when I wake up?”

“‘Course, Bea. Stayin’ right here.” His warm hands ran up and down her back, soothing her.

It reminded her of their sleepover. Waking up, to find their bodies pressed close, holding each other … But rather than wanting to bury herself alive, hiding herself in the bathroom and vowing to never set eyes on him again, Bea settled into Peter’s touch. She slid her own arm around him, breathing in his scent, and relaxed into his warmth.

This—this is where she was safe.

Chapter Text

“You’re leaving?”

Beatrice sounded pathetic. She felt pathetic, yes, but having a witness to it was just the icing on the cake. It had been three days since her weird alien trauma fever spell, but she’d spent every second glued to Peter’s side. He had been her comfort, her only familiarity in weeks, and now he was leaving.

“Not for good,” he said, tucking his leg under himself on the sofa and turning his body towards hers. Their movie played on in the background, entirely forgotten. “I just … I have school. Mr Stark has given me more time than I thought so I could be here with you, but … midterms are coming up and he’d kill me, May would kill me, if I stayed away.”

Beatrice resisted the urge to kick herself. Pete had a family, friends, and school to go back to. He couldn’t hold Bea’s hand through all this, he had … responsibilities. Not for the first time, she wondered what Stark’s plan was for her. Would she have to go back to school like Peter? Bea wasn’t sure she was ready for that yet.

“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “No, obviously. Don’t mind me, I’m just … still adjusting.”

“I’m going to visit as much as I can, Mr Stark says I can stay whenever I want as long as it’s okay with Aunt May, and when it comes to you … everything’s okay with May. I still have my Stark Internship, so I’ll be here at least twice a week on Wednesdays and Thursdays, but I think Mr Stark will let me spend time with you instead.” He was rushing to get his words out. “And there’s so much to do here, you won’t even notice I’m gone. Have you checked out the pool?”

Bea blinked. “There’s a pool?”

“Didn’t Mr Stark give you a tour of the private floors?”

“Not really,” said Bea. “They brought me straight here from the Med Bay on that first day, and I’ve only seen Tony’s lab since then.”

“Oh! Well, I can show you around now?” He stood, offering his hand to her, before remembering they were halfway through their film. “Unless you want to finish the movie?”

In all truthfulness, Bea hadn’t been paying attention to the movie—she’d been too preoccupied with the way Peter’s leg brushed hers, the way his arm wrapped around her shoulders when she leaned into him.

“No,” she said with a soft smile. “Let’s go.” She took his hand and he led her past the kitchen to the elevator.

They didn’t pass a single person on their exploration of the Tower, Avenger or otherwise. Peter explained that Mr Stark always had meetings to be in, they were lucky to have Pepper at the Tower in the first place with how much she travelled, and most of the other Avengers preferred the Compound over the Tower for things like missions and training. “I think Mr Wilson is still around, and Dr Banner’s here. Will be until you’re feeling better.”

“I am feeling better,” said Bea, almost defensively. Peter only gave a knowing look.

In classic Stark fashion, the pool was enormous, larger than any pool she’d expected to find in a high-rise building. It was an entire storey deep, with an enormous balcony view of the Avengers training centre. It had six lanes, deck chairs surrounding the edges, and a kitchen in the far corner. She listened as Peter explained that the pool didn’t get used all that much, but he came here sometimes when he needed to think.

“And,” he added as they moved towards the edge of the balcony overlooking the training floor, “it’s pretty cool watching the Avengers train.”

“Did you really know all this was here when we did that school tour?” Bea asked, leaning against the railing. The view really was magnificent—most of the space was empty, but there was a wall of high-tech gym equipment and several doors along the right side that led to who knew where. Most of the far side was just tinted glass, with a breathtaking view of the city. “I can’t believe there was so much we didn’t get to see.”

“Yeah,” Peter nodded. “I’ve been working with Mr Stark for a while.”

Beatrice chewed her lip, unsure of how to begin. “All this … It’s not just an internship, is it?”

His head snapped to hers, and he huffed an awkward laugh. “What do you mean?”

“You have a room here, Peter. Mr Stark treats you like his own kid, you’re friends with the Avengers. You’ve got access to this whole Tower.” Bea shook her head, confused. “You’re a teenager, it doesn’t really make sense.”

“Bea—” Peter started, but froze, swiping a hand down his forearm as if he’d just gotten the chills. Below, Sam had appeared with Tony by his side, talking quietly as they walked through the gym equipment. Bea couldn’t make out their words, but Peter looked as if he were listening intently.

But then Peter called out, “Mr Stark!”, and Beatrice wanted to smack him. Were they even allowed to be there? Would Tony get mad? What would he say about them eavesdropping? The man looked up, searching the balcony for Peter, and grinned once he spotted the pair of them.

“Get down here, you two.” His tone wasn’t unkind, but that did nothing to stop the prickle of unease down her spine. Peter offered a reassuring smile and walked her down a staircase she hadn’t spotted before, which led straight to the floor of the training centre.

Sam was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, his face unreadable. She and Peter had clearly interrupted something, but Sam wasn’t letting it show. The second they were within distance, he slapped a friendly hand on Peter’s shoulder and said something about owing him a sparring session.

“Wilson,” Tony started, eyes on Beatrice. “Why don’t you and Pete unbox those new weights, they’re out the back. I just need a minute with the wonderkid. You don’t mind, do you?” Tony thanked him with a pat on the arm before he could say anything, but Wilson laughed it off good-naturedly and left, an arm around Peter’s shoulder, mumbling something along the lines of did you even know they make half-ton weights? I’d pay to see you give them a go.

Alone with Tony, Bea was begging her heart to beat normally. She could barely breathe with the barrage of thoughts in her mind. He knows. I’m too dangerous to be here, he’s going to kick me out and I’ll be homeless and Peter will never forgive me—

“Do me a favour?” Tony said, positioning himself directly in Beatrice’s line of sight. “Breathe. You’re not in trouble, you’re safe here, remember? You and me just need to talk logistics for a second.”

“Logistics?” said Bea, breathless. But his attempt at reassurance had done the trick, and her heart was beginning to beat as it should. “Like school?”

“Yeah, like school. Come sit.”

She followed him to the weight benches where they sat directly opposite one another. Tony looked like he was having trouble starting, so Bea filled in for him. “More than school, right? Social services.” The memory of her conversation with Celia flashed in her mind.

“Social services,” he said, nodding. “Bureaucracy at its finest. But, the thing is … No one knows you’re alive. Your friends, Pete’s aunt, we had them sign NDAs to keep it that way. Look, I know, not the most responsible way we could’ve done it, but—”

“Wait, seriously?” Her head swam. “Celia said you were keeping it quiet, but are you saying I’m technically … still missing?”

“Technically.”

“Why?”

“We thought it would be … easier.”

“For who?”

“Everyone.”

Bea stared him down. They both knew full well that wasn’t a good enough answer.

“While you were missing, we pulled out all the stops. Nat tracked all your information down, at least everything I didn’t get from that bio-scan on the field trip, and she confirmed your only living relative is Adrian Cross. After what he did, you don’t have anyone else but him to tick the Parent-slash-Guardian-slash-Caregiver box, and what happens when social services find that out? You’d be back in the cage in the blink of an eye, only this time it’d be legal.”

She was going to be sick.

“So,” he continued, “if we were to look at options, one would be to get you a new guardian.”

“Logically.”

“But you’re not exactly spoiled for choice here. We’d either have to place you with a stranger, which is dangerous enough without the evil deadbeat father, or with one of us, but I don’t know a single competent judge who would appoint an Avenger, especially me, the guardian of anyone, let alone someone who’d been through what you’ve been through.”

Bea nodded, struggling slightly to keep up. “Okay, yeah, I … I can understand that.”

“Then we considered May Parker, but Pep made the point that it would only create a media circus that we wouldn’t be prepared for, and the attention would just put you in more danger. Not to mention, we don’t have enough intel yet on Cross or whoever is working with him to know we wouldn’t be letting the big guns slip away.”

Her head swam. “You’ve really thought about this, huh?”

“It’s not like we haven’t had the time,” he said bitterly.

“You said that was only one option. What’s the alternative?”

“This. Keeping a low profile, letting you recover. Cross will never out himself just to get you back, he’s kept his own low profile for too long to risk that.”

“You mean … indefinitely?” she asked. “Like, I’ll never go back to school?”

He shook his head. “I’m not saying never, just … We’re running on a day-to-day basis here, kid. I can’t tell you what tomorrow looks like, let alone a month from now. But all I can promise is that your safety is a priority, and until we have more information on Cross … there’s not much else we can do.”

It sounded safe. A good plan. But Bea couldn’t help but wonder if there was an alternative they hadn’t considered, a better option that could let her get back to … To what? Normal? She was certain nothing in her life would ever be normal again.

“Don’t think this is your Get Out of Jail Free card, now,” he said with a smirk. “Peter’s agreed to share his school work with FRIDAY, so’s your friend. And FRIDAY’s putting a curriculum of sorts together for you, so you don’t get bored.”

“God forbid,” said Bea, sarcastically.

Tony ignored her. “What’ve you got for her so far, FRI?”

“Peter has kindly shared your old timetable with me, so I’ve created a similar curriculum with science, English, mathematics, and history topics to keep you up to speed.”

A weight settled in her stomach. What on earth was the point of science, English, maths, and history, after everything she’d seen? They certainly hadn’t helped her when …

Well. That.

“Thank you, Friday,” Bea said, regardless. Whether this was Tony’s way of showing he cared, or whether it was just him fulfilling his duty as someone with a minor living under his roof—it was a kindness she didn’t deserve. She still couldn’t quite bring herself to meet his eye. “So what happens now?”

“More of the same. You rest and recuperate in the most aesthetically pleasing skyscraper in Manhattan, if I do say so myself. And you find your feet again.” He looked at her earnestly now. “On your own terms, kid, I mean that. Within reason, of course, but you take as long as you need.”

She began to pick at her cuticles to hide how badly her hands were shaking. I stabbed him in the shoulder. I stabbed him in the knee. I stabbed him in the heart. If he only knew.

“And when does Peter leave?” Bea asked.

“Later this afternoon,” said Tony. “He’s spending the weekend at his aunt’s before Monday. Apparently May said something about new shoes and another new backpack.”

This afternoon. She glanced up and found a clock on the far wall—it was already two o’clock. What was she supposed to do without Peter there? He’d been her buffer for days, the person she could hide behind when an Avenger walked in, an excuse to stay in her room, to help herself in the kitchen. Peter was so comfortable at the Tower, she almost felt comfortable by proxy.

He had been a true comfort, especially during the nights. Bea hadn’t slept in her room since her fever broke, only going in for a shower and a change of clothes. It should have been strange, being so close to him after so many years, but it wasn’t. Not even close.

“Well. Good chat,” she said, standing, and he followed suit. “I might go spend some time with Peter before he leaves.”

Tony nodded. “FRIDAY, where’d those two end up?”

“Sam and Peter are in the kitchen. I believe they’re preparing lunch.”

Chapter Text

Beatrice couldn’t sleep.

Back in her own room, in her cold bed with the lights at 20%, all she could do was stare at the ceiling. Saying goodbye to Peter had hurt more than she’d ever admit, and the fear in her chest hadn’t yet subsided. Wednesday seemed so far away, but she’d made it thirty-one days without Peter—she could manage five more. She raised a hand and wiggled her fingers, her light turning the tips of her fingers amber.

Peter is at home. I’m at the Tower. I am safe.

Her hand flopped back on her stomach as she let out a sigh. Her phone’s lock screen read 2:38am. She debated getting up, going to the kitchen for a bottle of water, or asking FRIDAY if anyone was awake, but she didn’t feel like talking to anyone, either.

Bea rolled over, pulling the sheets with her until she was perfectly cocooned, and tried closing her eyes. The lights in her room were bright enough that she could still make out shadows from behind her eyelids, but the memory of the cage was still overwhelming. The darkness that had once been her only respite from Cross was now the thing that brought her right back to him.

The memories were easier when she was with Peter. The nightmares, too—with him by her side to wake her up before they got bad, she slept more, slept better. Peter was always going to go back to his life, it shouldn’t have been so surprising. But in all the days they’d spent together, she hadn’t let herself worry about the nights alone or how she’d cope, and now that he was actually gone … she should have.

The cage was exactly how Bea remembered—the damp floor, the cold air, the gleam of the metal bars under the fluorescents. Only, this time, she wasn’t alone. A single chair sat in the middle of the room, and there sat her mother. Blood dripping from a wound on her brow, eyes full of terror and not for herself, but for Bea. A black gag tied tight around her mouth, wet with saliva and tears as she sobbed, begging and screaming for Bea to run, but Bea couldn’t hear her over the hum of the lights and the whirring of Cross’s drone, somewhere above.

Bea struggled to her feet, trying to get to Mom, but a weight on her ankle stopped her. The clanging of metal made her realise she was chained to the wall by her foot, where the Dampener sat heavy on her bruised joint. Only, this Dampener was different—scarlet and stunning gold, with a white logo on the side. Stark Industries.

No, no, no, no, n—

Iron Man was there then, standing over her mother who was writhing in her bonds, and Beatrice still couldn’t move. His face plate flicked up and Bea readied herself for Tony Stark, but Adrian’s face appeared instead, his cold eyes filled with amusement as he raised an arm, repulsor charging. The sound had Bea on her knees, tears streaming down her face.

All she could do was watch as the repulsor fired—not a beam of heat, but a single bullet. Her mother slumped forward, silent and unmoving.

Dead.

But the muffled sobs and screams still filled the room, and it took Beatrice a moment to realise it was coming from her. Cross turned towards her now. Bea expected to feel the familiar sting of a needle, the burn of a tranquilliser filling her system, but Cross only stared. The lights were silent, the drone was silent—all she could hear was herself, sobbing in the quiet.

A loud knocking filled the room, but Cross didn’t react. It came again and Bea felt herself being pulled away, but it was the lights that did it. The fluorescents flashed, burning bright white, so blinding she had to turn away, and something damp touched her cheek.

Bea woke in her bed, her pillow wet with tears, and noticed FRIDAY had turned the lights all the way on. She blinked in the brightness and saw a figure in her doorway. Tony.

“Kid,” he breathed. His brows were furrowed with concern, and she could tell by the rapid rise and fall of his chest that he’d come quickly. Maybe she’d woken him up. Christ.

Beatrice forced herself to sit up and dragged a trembling hand down her face, drying her tear-stained cheeks and trying to school her expression out of the panic she’d woken from. “M’fine,” she said, her voice hoarse. Had she actually been screaming?

“Can I come in?” he asked. Despite everything, she felt relieved to see his face, to hear his voice. His image may have taunted her for weeks, but it also meant this was real. Her dream had just been a dream.

Bea didn’t reply, only nodding her head slightly as she pinched the bridge of her nose.

“FRIDAY, cool the lights a bit.” The room dimmed slightly, and Bea found she could see again. Tony crossed the room and took a seat at the edge of her bed, passing her a water bottle. She cradled it in her hands, letting herself feel the coldness, the wet condensation. Bea couldn’t look at him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Sorry for waking you.”

“No, don’t apologise,” he said quickly. “That … that must’ve been some nightmare.”

Bea shrugged, cheeks warming. A rogue tear fell onto her blanket, and she wiped furiously at her eyes. She was tired of crying, but more than that—humiliated at the state she was in. The state Tony Stark was witnessing right now.

“I …” she started, swallowing once. “I haven’t really let myself think about it yet.”

“Not the best coping mechanism, but good to hear you’re working through your options.”

She was grateful for his attempt at humour, but the grief in her chest ached like a wound. Every time she blinked, she saw her mother slumped in the kitchen chair, a gag over her mouth, bleeding from her brain. If the universe let her, Bea would probably give anything to go back to the way things were, Walter and all.

But right here and right now, Tony was still there. Still waiting.

Bea twisted the water bottle in her hands, debating voicing the thought that had been barrelling around her mind. “Why did he …” She hesitated. “Why did he keep me alive?”

“Cross?”

She nodded, another round of tears welling. “I don’t want to be alive.” Bea looked up at Tony’s crestfallen face. “I don’t want to do this without her.”

Tony was quiet, but Bea didn’t mind—she had no idea what he could possibly say to make this better. Didn’t even know if he knew what she was talking about. He took a deep breath, shuffling closer. “I’ve had my own share of nightmares, you know,” he said. “Peter, too. Rhodey, Steve, Sam, Nat. We’ve all seen things, been through things.”

“I know I’m not special, I get that—”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” he said firmly. “I’m saying, you’re not alone in this. You’re here for the long run, by the looks of it. We may not understand everything you’re going through, and I can tell you right now, there’s no quick fix for any of this, but … You have people here, friends who want to help. Let us.”

The door creaked, and Bea could just make out a woman’s silhouette from the light in the hall. Pepper. Bea turned her face away in shame, wiping her eyes yet again, and Tony turned toward the door to give her a quick just a second gesture.

Then a gentle hand rested on her shoulder, squeezing once for comfort. “Try and get some rest,” Tony said. He stood and started towards his fiancee but paused, turning back one last time. “Are you gonna be able to sleep? Do you need Pep to get you something?”

“No,” Bea said quickly, a little too firm for how kind he had been. A dreamless night was tempting, she wouldn’t lie, but the thought of being forced into sleep as she had been so many times … No.

“I meant like tea,” he said calmly. “We have chamomile?”

“Oh.” Beatrice gripped the water bottle tighter. “Sorry. No, thank you. I’ll be fine.”

He reached the door now, starting to close it behind him. “You just let FRIDAY know if you change your mind. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He retreated, but Pepper poked her head in before the door closed. “Goodnight, Beatrice,” she said softly.

Still completely humiliated, Bea mumbled a quiet, “G’night,” before sinking into her mattress and rolling over to face the window.

Pepper closed the door with a quiet click, and turned to Tony.

“I know,” he said before she could start.

“What are we gonna do?”

Tony only shook his head, brow furrowed in concern.

Pepper took his hand and intertwined their fingers as they started back to their bedroom. “She was doing well with Peter here. Maybe it’s time we find her a professional to talk to.”

“Wilson’s agreed to sit her down, have a chat.”

“Okay, hon, but Beatrice is sixteen. Do you really think Sam is the best option?”

“Worked for Pete,” he said with a shrug. They’d made it back to their room now, and Tony flopped down onto the bed, exhausted. FRIDAY’s alert had sent him into a panic, and he’d been all the way down in the lab. Pep had heard it all for herself though, and had been waiting in the hall for him, wringing her hands.

“I don’t know Beatrice that well,” she said, “but I think she and Peter might be a little different.” She sank down into bed beside him, warm and comforting. “Maybe she just needs a friend.”

“Pete can’t be here all the time,” Tony murmured. “Trust me, as much as I’d love to have the Spider-Kid around 24/7, his aunt comes first. School comes first.”

“Sure, Peter, but her other friends, too. I bet Ned and Celia would like to see her. Why don’t you try organising a day for them?”

Tony let out a heavy breath, though Pep’s idea was a good one. “We’ll need backup.”

“Backup?” she repeated with a laugh. “They’re just teenagers.”

“Just teenagers?”

“Fine. How about … Peter will be here Wednesday after school, since he’s not been patrolling as much anymore. Maybe they could come then? I’ll be out in California by then, but Steve will be back and Bucky will be here, that should be backup enough for you.”

Tony’s skin prickled, and Pepper ran a soothing hand down his arm.

“I know,” she whispered into his neck. “Those wounds need time to heal, but he’s better now. You agreed to give him a chance.”

“I can still gripe about it.”

She breathed a laugh, it was warm against his skin.

“So, Wednesday?”

Pepper nodded. “I think it’s a good idea.”

He kissed the top of her head, pulling her closer. He had lucked out beyond belief with Pepper—there was no telling where he’d be without her. But, for all that, his last thought before sleep enveloped him was of the kid from the cage.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Beatrice rose rather than woke, and after putting it off for as long as she could, emerged from her cocoon of a bedroom at eleven.

The comfort that came with isolation—or solitude, rather—had not left. The darkness that she’d once found peace in was once again full of monsters and memories, and she hated all of it. She hated the cage, and Cross and the drones and whoever else had been behind everything. She hated Walter and was glad he was dead, and she hated her mother for dying. She hated Tony for saving her when she couldn’t save the one person who loved her, and she hated the Tower for being just another cage to keep her in. She even hated Peter. For leaving. For caring.

But despite all that anger, beneath her burn for revenge, she was tired. So unbelievably tired.

The kitchen was empty when she approached, glancing around any corner. It occurred to her she could just ask FRIDAY, but the risk of anyone else hearing was humiliating enough to keep her quiet.

With years of practice under her belt, she manoeuvred about the kitchen in perfect silence, fetching a bowl, cereal, milk and a spoon, but before she could prepare much of anything, Pepper Potts rounded the corner. The sight of the woman made Bea jump, and she dropped her spoon on the counter.

“Oh!” said Pepper, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She was in full business attire, despite it being a Saturday, and it was clear she’d been up for hours. Bea’s face burned at the realisation she was still in the clothes she’d slept in. “I didn’t mean to startle you. How did you sleep?”

Peter’s text with the exact same question had been sitting unread on her phone all morning.

“Sorry,” Bea said on impulse, hurrying to tidy the counter. “I’ll get out of the way.”

“You’re not in the way,” Pepper said gently, moving behind her to get a bottle of water from the fridge. “I was thinking you and I could spend some time together today.”

Bea froze as she poured her cereal, then her milk. Some spilled onto the counter and she was quick to wipe it away. In all honesty, all Bea wanted to do was hide in her room. Away from the Avengers, away from Tony and the lack of Peter.

Pepper opened her mouth to continue, but Rhodes walked in, an empty plate in hand, flashing them a welcoming smile. “Making plans?”

“Shopping,” Pepper said. “Interested?”

“Depends on the shopping.”

Pepper winced apologetically. “Clothes.”

Bea’s brow furrowed. “You want my help shopping for clothes?”

“Of course,” Pepper said. “They’ll be yours, after all, I don’t want to assume.”

A silence fell, thoughts buzzing around Bea’s head, before Rhodes let out a heavy sigh. “Yeah, might pass on that one.” He passed Bea to drop his plate in the empty dishwasher, before clapping a hand on her shoulder. “Good luck, kid.”

She tried her hardest not to recoil. The wounds from the cage had well and truly healed, thanks to her abilities, but the memory of it still made her skin crawl.

“Don’t be like that, Rhodey. We’ll have fun,” Pepper assured as Rhodes disappeared back down the hallway, barking a laugh. “Shall we organise a time? Unless you’re free now?”

Bea was always free, but she wasn’t about to mention that. “I might finish my cereal first, and I haven’t showered yet …”

“That works perfectly, I have a few emails to get through. Will we say 1:30?”

“Okay,” she said quietly.

Pepper seemed to be able to read her like a book. “When you’re ready, just ask FRIDAY where to find me, and she’ll let me know you’re on your way. You won’t be interrupting anything, either, I technically don’t work weekends so I don’t need to be anywhere. Even if you want to do it tomorrow, I’ll be free whenever you’re ready.”

Bea relaxed a little at that, and nodded. “Thank you, Ms Potts.”

“Oh, call me Pepper. Please.”

“Okay. Thank you, Pepper.”

Pepper seemed content with that and said her goodbyes before taking her water and a banana to the elevator, disappearing upstairs.

The kindness of it was almost overwhelming, but why did she need clothes? Tony had stocked her up with more than enough Stark Industries merch. She may not have had any of her old clothes, but it’s not as if she was dressing to impress these days. Sweats would do.

But, as if the universe was trying to prove her wrong, another figure—a very tall, toned, triangular one—appeared in the kitchen and greeted her with a smile.

“Morning, Beatrice,” Steve said. He had a huge duffel bag in hand, and a cap on. “I’m glad I caught you.”

“You are?” If she forgot the circumstances, she would be jumping for joy at the fact that Captain America knew her name.

“I am. I’m actually heading out this morning, going to stay at the Avengers Compound for a few days.”

“Okay,” she said. And?

“Wanda and Vision are due back on Monday and I want to be there to greet them. They’re actually planning to spend a couple of days here at the Tower.”

He paused, as if to gauge her response, but she only stared. She couldn’t seem to understand why he was telling her and not someone like Rhodey or Tony. But then—her magic. Wanda. Of course. She did a quick head count of all the Avengers, and Wanda was really the only one with abilities even remotely similar to hers. Was Tony going to make her work with Wanda? Would she get to learn how to use her magic?

“Oh. When will you be back?” Bea asked. A flash of relief that she’d understood flashed across his eyes.

“Tuesday morning. Me, Wanda, Vision, and my good friend Bucky.”

“Okay,” she said again, more sure this time. “Travel safe.”

“Appreciate it,” he said, flashing a warm smile, before following Pepper’s trail and disappearing inside the elevator.

Bea’s cereal had turned soggy, forgotten in the minutes since she’d poured her milk, and she scrunched up her nose. It was thick and congealed now. Disgusting.

Once, she’d have felt awful about the wasted food, but now she couldn’t care less. She emptied her bowl into the sink, switching on the disposal as she rinsed it and placed it into the dishwasher, beside Rhodey’s plate.

She went to the fridge instead and fetched a bottle of water, before returning to her room. Showering felt like a lot of work, and she really was quite clean compared to how she had been. Perhaps she could get away with just a bit of deodorant and perfume ...

Another text lit up her phone on the nightstand as she deliberated—she didn’t have to look to know it was Peter. He was worried, which was fine, but Bea wished she didn’t miss him so much.

pedroparker: just checking you’re okay.

It was nice. He cared. But that also meant it made Bea weaker. Cross might not have known the ins and outs of her friendships with Peter and Celia, even Ned, but he knew what her mother meant to her. He knew what Iron Man meant, and he meant far less to her than Peter. Caring was as good as killing, for Bea.

She ignored the text and went into her closet to change.

Ping. It wasn’t important. Ping. Peter could wait. Ping. Bea threw her sweater to the floor. What the fuck does he want.

But before she could pick up the phone to check her messages, his photo filled her screen and it began to ring. “What?” she snapped as she answered. The sound of her own voice, so harsh, made her jump. “Sorry. I—I didn’t mean … Hi, Peter.”

“Hey,” he said softly. “Sorry, is this a bad time?”

Yes, she thought, but then … “No, it’s fine. What’s up?”

“You weren’t answering my messages, I got worried. Mr Stark mentioned you had a rough night and I just wanted to … check in, I guess.”

Christ, was nothing sacred? Could she not have any secrets anymore? Not that she would’ve kept this from him, but to have the choice taken away—fuck Tony.

“I’m fine,” she said coldly, sitting down on the edge of her bed. “I mean, it was nothing, just a bad dream. No big deal.”

His silence told her he knew damn well it was a big deal, but thankfully he let it slide.

“I, uh, bet you’re glad to be home.”

“It’s not home, not really. Not since you’ve been gone.” Her heart fluttered, but she refused to let the memories in. “May’s glad to have me back. She’s looking forward to seeing you too, soon.”

“Well, I bet it’s quieter at least,” she joked.

He laughed. “Way quieter. But it’s the wrong kind of quiet, like when the canaries stop singing in the mines.”

“You calling me a canary? That’s pretty poetic for you.”

She heard him suck in a sharp breath and let out a laugh. “Harsh, Page.”

Her chest bubbled with warmth at the sound of his laugh. “What’re you up to today?”

“I need a new backpack, and some new pens for school, so … shopping. You?”

“I’m flying to Paris in half an hour and then I’m having high tea with the President this afternoon because I’m definitely not confined to a highrise until Earth’s Mightiest Heroes defeat my evil supervillain father.” Peter huffed a laugh at her attempt at humour. “Actually, I think I’m doing a bit of shopping myself.”

“Really?”

“Ms Potts—Pepper, that is—she’s asked me to sit down with her and pick a few things out.”

“Oh! Right, Mr Stark mentioned something along those lines, but I’m glad Pepper’s on the job. Mr Stark’s taste is … niche.”

“How so?”

“I stayed for a weekend at the Avengers Compound for a Spider-Man project and I forgot to pack pyjamas,” Peter said. “He bought me Iron Man pyjamas. Flannel ones with his face all over them, it was humiliating.”

Bea couldn’t help but laugh at the thought. “Do you still have them?”

“Maybe. Okay, I definitely do. They’re so cozy, I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of them!”

“I have to see them in person. Let’s do a movie night soon and you can model them for us.”

“Us as in just you and me, right?”

The butterflies in her stomach fluttered. “I was actually thinking we get the whole Tower involved. We could get Tony some Captain America pyjamas, and Captain Rogers some Spider-Man pyjamas.”

“Do they even make Spider-Man pyjamas?”

“I’ll see what I can find.”

“You do that,” he laughed. “I gotta go, May’s ready to head out. Chat later?”

Bea made a small noise of agreement and tried to stifle the disappointment that came with the disconnected call. She tossed the phone down on her pillow and wished for a moment that she could join it, and just go back to sleep.

But her discarded sweater still lay crumpled on the floor, she still smelled bad, and her hair was in desperate need of a deep condition. Without letting herself reconsider, she stood, folded her sweater, and brushed out her hair, before forcing herself into the ensuite to start the shower. The washing and sudsing and rinsing was entirely tedious at this point and it was easy enough to get through it all, but the moment she cracked the shampoo cap open, the spell was broken.

Ah. Well. Perhaps another day.

Yes, she would have to wash her hair another day. For now, just a bit of water would do. Enough to diminish the frizz she’d caused by brushing, but not enough to soak. Yes, that would do.

Bea stepped out and dried, before changing once again into a black Stark Industries sweater and matching sweatpants. It wasn’t cold—the opposite, actually, with the sun shining bright and high over the city—but Bea’s body didn’t seem to get the memo lately. Her joints still ached, her muscles unused to such soft furniture, soft clothes, and no matter how often she showered or how much perfume she used, the memory of her stink lingered.

She gave herself a few good sprays for good measure, before tucking her phone in her pocket and starting out the door. It was closer to two o’clock now, but hopefully Pepper wouldn’t mind.

“FRIDAY?”

The AI’s voice was almost a comfort. “Hello, Beatrice.”

“Hi. Um, where can I find Pepper?”

“Ms Potts is currently in her office. Would you like me to show you the way?”

Bea nodded, stepping into the elevator. She had half a mind to step right out again and go straight back to her room rather than spend the next however many hours picking out clothes with Pepper freaking Potts.

But then came FRIDAY’s voice again. “Ms Potts requested I notify her once you were on your way. She’s expecting you.”

“Jesus,” Bea muttered as the elevator began to move. “Did Tony program you to read minds too, or something?”

“Telepathy is not part of my programming, no.”

“Ha ha,” said Bea, facetiously.

The elevator doors opened to a long hallway, similar to the one she’d seen before her interview with Tony, and FRIDAY’s lights led her to a door at the very end.

Bea knocked twice and, ignoring the doubtful voice in her mind, opened the door.

Chapter Text

“Beatrice,” Pepper greeted warmly, standing up with a tablet in hand. “Hi. Glad you could make it. Please, come in.”

Bea closed the door behind her and stepped into the large room. Pepper had a wall of windows behind her desk, and bookshelves lining the walls to her left and right. Despite the grandeur, it was a cosy room with soft decor and flowers on almost every surface. Pepper noticed her curious gaze and laughed.

“There’s a bouquet in here for every apology,” she said, taking a seat on the sofa in the corner. She gestured for Bea to join her. “Tony’s love language is gift-giving if you couldn’t tell, and they’re all still fresh if that tells you anything.” She waved a hand at the beautiful vase of tulips on the coffee table, “This one was for bringing you here without discussing it first.”

Beatrice pinked, sitting down. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Oh, no!” Pepper said quickly. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. It all happened very quickly and I was at a press conference in Geneva. Trust me, I’m glad it all worked out the way it did.”

Pepper pressed her fingers to the top of the tablet and opened her mouth as if to continue, but stopped herself. Instead, she lifted the tablet and gave a few taps before a hologram appeared before them, like a flatscreen in mid-air.

Beatrice swore and Pepper clicked her tongue, chastising.

“So,” Pepper started. “Shopping. Can be fun, can be a pain in the backside, but I’ll try to make this whole thing as painless as possible. I’m thinking we could get you some nice summer tops, some essentials, some denim. Tony packed up all your clothes from home, but there wasn’t a lot.”

“I don’t need a lot,” Bea said quietly.

“Of course not, but there’s no harm in adding to what you have.”

Bea had seen her old clothes in the back of her closet. Her leather jacket, some band tees, the hoodie she’d worn on her field trip. The only pair of jeans she’d ever paid full price for, and the sneakers she’d worn to death. All that was missing were the dress pants, blouse and grey blazer she’d worn to her interview, and the too-big dress shoes she’d overspent on—Cross must’ve kept those.

But Bea hadn’t been able to bring herself to look at the clothes, let alone wear them. Almost as if they belonged to someone else entirely. She would rather wear the entire Stark Industries line before stepping back into a life that had been so brutally torn from her.

Maybe new clothes were a good idea.

“So, where do you like to shop?”

Bea toyed with her hands. “Goodwill. Savers. Old Navy, sometimes.”

“Well,” Pepper said, without missing a beat. “The thing is, all this will be going on the corporate card, and for Finance to approve the funds without creating too much of a headache, we’ll have to limit ourselves to higher-end brands. That okay with you?”

Bea didn’t know what to say. She knew Tony could well and truly afford it, but the thought of money being spent directly on her still left her feeling sick. But if they had to …

She shrugged, and Pepper grinned. “Tragic, isn’t it? Okay, let’s see. We might start easy, get you some Levi’s.”

“Like jeans?”

Pepper smiled kindly. “Like jeans. Why don’t you stand up for me, and FRIDAY can take your measurements.”

Bea did as she was asked, and soon FRIDAY’s voice filled the room. “Scan complete. Beatrice’s measurements have been noted.”

“All we have to do is pick out the styles you like,” Pepper explained, “and when we order, FRIDAY will make sure it’s the right size.”

“She’s so cool,” Bea said before she could stop herself.

“You are very cool too, Beatrice.”

And so they began. Pepper scrolled through a whole catalogue of high rise, low rise, mid rise, bootcut, straight, skinny, loose, and Beatrice honestly liked them all. That was, until a pair came up that looked like the perfect combination of comfortable, flattering, and simple—Bea gasped.

“Ooh,” Pepper said, selecting the jeans that had caught Bea’s eye. “You like the vintage style? I should’ve guessed, great choice.”

They went through the painstaking process of selecting a wash, and Beatrice debated back and forth with Pepper over the fact that denim should not be this expensive, who is paying $90 for jeans! But Pepper was hearing none of it, simply asking FRIDAY to add them to her cart.

Half an hour later, they had three pairs in the cart and Bea was ready to call it a day, but Pepper was only just getting started. Now she had a basic understanding of Bea’s style, there was no going back. They clicked their way through Adidas and Converse for shoes, H&M for basics (Beatrice almost fainted at the prices for basics), The Ordinary for skincare—and then, as if Bea hadn’t had enough financial shock for one lifetime, Oscar de la Renta for some ‘nicer things’.

“Just in case,” Pepper said, but Beatrice was bewildered.

“What, in case the Queen visits? In case I’m invited to the next Met Gala? Pepper, I’m not leaving this Tower for the foreseeable future. There’s really no need.”

“Maybe not,” she said with a smile, “but there’s no reason not to.”

But the high-end site didn’t bother Bea as much as the others had—apparently having lots of money meant you don’t have to see the prices.

And the clothes were nice.

They picked out beautiful, clean-cut dresses, blouses, skirts, and jewellery that made Bea feel grown-up. All in record time, too, now that Bea didn’t have to fight her conscience, though she knew it would have cost more money than she’d ever seen. And she wouldn’t even get the opportunity to wear any of it.

Eventually, Pepper was satisfied and put the tablet away, the hologram disappearing with it. “I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I’m hungry. That was a hard day’s work.”

Bea laughed and agreed. She hadn’t eaten since that morning, and … Well, she hadn’t eaten. “Yeah, I could eat.”

“Let’s get some food, then. Come on.”

With that, the two left the office, being sure to ask FRIDAY to complete the order for them with Beatrice’s sizing, and headed down to the kitchen. Neither had to give FRIDAY directions as they stepped into the elevator, chatting all the while, but Bea had the strangest moment of clarity in realising that she almost felt … normal. Almost.

“Peter said it was a good thing I was shopping with you, not with Tony,” she said.

“And he’s right!” Pepper laughed. “Did Pete tell you about the Iron Man saga?”

“Saga?” Bea frowned as they stepped out of the elevator. “He told me about the pyjamas.”

“Oh, it wasn’t just pyjamas, Tony went so overboard. I remember there was something new for every day of the project. There was an Iron Man mug, the pyjamas … I swear he got him an Iron Man wall calendar, and … Oh, what was the fourth thing?”

“There was a prayer candle with Iron Man on it,” came Tony’s voice as they turned the corner into the kitchen. “Saint Tony Stark.”

Bea smirked. “True divinity, I’m sure.”

“Peter thought so.”

He greeted Pepper with a kiss on the cheek, before she opened the pantry to inspect.

“So, how’s the shopping going?” he asked, and Bea froze. They had just gone and spent however much of Tony’s money on useless crap—half of it Bea would never have the reason to wear and the other half entirely unnecessary, considering she had a perfectly full wardrobe of her own clothes and Stark Industries apparel. Tony was probably pissed—Bea would be.

“We’re already done,” said Pepper proudly. “FRIDAY’s processing the order for us as we speak. Beatrice, how does pasta sound?”

Bea’s face burned as Tony raised a brow and said, “Already?”

Had they bought too much? Should they have reviewed, perhaps culled a little before letting FRIDAY order it all? Tony had initiated the shopping spree, sure, but maybe it was just out of politeness. Maybe it was a test and she should have turned him down. He loved Pepper, from what Bea had seen, but did that mean he would get mad at Bea? She wasn’t sure she could stand up to him like she had with Walter, not after everything—

“Beatrice?”

Bea snapped out of her thoughts and looked up.

Pepper held up a box of rigatoni. “Pasta?”

“Oh,” she said. “Sure.” She turned to Tony. “Listen, I’m sorry if I went overboard in there. I didn’t get to see the bill, but I assume was enormous—if the order’s already gone through, I can return things after they get here.”

Tony frowned. “What for?”

“A … refund?” Bea couldn’t see Pepper’s face from where she stood, but she saw the woman’s shoulders droop a little.

“Why would I need a refund?”

Bea blushed. “Because I won’t be able to pay you back. For any of it. Like … ever.”

“Didn’t Pep …” He glanced over his shoulder at Pepper, but quickly turned back to Bea. “Kid, you don’t have to pay it back. Not sure where you got that idea, but it’s a gift.”

“A gift?” Bea toyed with her fingers.

“A gift.”

“Right,” she said, still unsure. She had been raised to be independent, anything but a burden, and then when things got bad? She didn’t have a choice—it was independence or a life tethered to a man like Walter. Even having a place to call home with people she could call friends after everything that had happened was still difficult to come to terms with.

Maybe she just needed to give herself time. Time, and permission to accept … gifts. “Okay.”

“Money’s a nonissue, kiddo,” Tony assured. “We’ll probably make back whatever you spent within the day.”

“Less,” Pepper said over her shoulder, humorously.

“Less? Jeez, kid, what are you worried about?” He laughed, and Bea finally took a breath. Okay. This was fine. Things were fine.

Tony poured himself a coffee and planted a kiss on Pepper’s temple before announcing, “I’m off to the lab if anyone needs me.”

“Don’t be too late tonight,” Pepper said, and Tony promised, “Of course not.”

Bea watched him leave, her head swimming with the strangeness of it. She had never seen domestic bliss like this—forehead kisses and kind words were entirely foreign.

Pepper smiled at Bea. “Can you start boiling some water and I’ll get started on the sauce?”

She nodded and got to work. Watching Pepper cook was like an art form—she set fire to bell peppers and then blended them up, tossing in bits and pieces she’d pulled from the fridge until the concoction was smooth and smelled divine, spiced and flavourful.

They boiled the rigatoni until al dente, a term Bea had always thought was a joke since her pasta always ended up chewy or mushy. But, apparently, pasta cooked right could be delicious.

Pepper walked her through each step and never once sounded patronising or condescending. Bea had never had much opportunity to cook for herself before, but Pepper was gentle and never once made her feel stupid.

“Oh, look at that,” Pepper said delightedly, spooning the finished meal into their bowls and giving a light sprinkle of parmesan cheese. “Basically gourmet.”

“This is amazing. How did you learn to cook so well?”

“My mom, mostly, but this recipe is actually Tony’s.”

Bea raised a brow before she could school her expression. “He doesn’t seem like much of a cook.”

“True, he doesn’t cook often,” Pepper agreed, taking their bowls over to the dining table while Bea fetched their cutlery and water. “But he and pasta work together so well.”

And then there they were, sitting across from one another at the dining table, and Bea realised her mistake. Scratch that—mistakes.

She hadn’t sat at the dining table since that night she’d come down with her fever. Drugged, she remembered thinking, but how could any of them have drugged her? She wasn’t in the cage anymore, and these were good people. Despite everything, the doubt in her mind still lingered and she knew perfectly well that her caution was logical. Unnecessary, sure, but logical.

Cross was still out there, after all. Still waiting for her.

But worse than that, looking down into her large bowl of pasta, Bea realised she wasn’t sure she could eat. Each piece of pasta itself was enormous, and she could already feel the uncomfortable weight of it in her stomach. Her throat tightened.

“I used to be the same, you know,” said Pepper, taking a bite of her food.

“What?” Bea asked, dazed, her train of thought broken as she looked up at the woman.

“When I first met Tony, just the idea of accepting his money …”

Oh. Right.

“I started as his assistant,” she continued, spearing another piece with her fork. Beatrice mimicked her, and soon began chewing. Christ, it was good. “And we were spending money like nothing else. He wanted a car, he bought a car. He wanted a house, he bought a house. Blew my mind completely.”

Pepper took another bite, and so did Bea.

“And then things kept moving and suddenly he’s buying me a fifteen-foot bunny for my birthday, and it becomes funny rather than terrifying.”

“A fifteen-foot bunny? Like, a stuffed one?”

Pepper snorted, which made them both laugh, and nodded. “Yes, a stuffed one. This was back in Malibu and I couldn’t even get it through the door.”

“Why did he think that was a good idea?”

Pepper shrugged. “Who knows what goes through that head of his.” She went quiet then.

“Do you really like rabbits?”

They both laughed at the absurdity of the question, and Pepper shook her head. “No. Well, I don’t dislike them, but they wouldn’t be on my list of favourites. I used to have a dog, a big, beautiful bulldog. I mean, he wasn’t beautiful, but he was to me.”

Bea cringed. “They slobber too much.”

“Not Socrates. No, he would just lick you to death, he didn’t have time to slobber.”

“Ew!” she laughed.

“What’s your favourite animal?”

Bea thought for a moment. “Dogs are fine. Bunnies? Not sure. I like cats. There’s this deli near home, Delmar’s. He’s got a cat, his name is Murph and he’s the sweetest boy.”

“You know Bucky, Steve’s friend?” Pepper started. “He has a cat. I’ll see if Alpine might be up for a trip to the city when they all come back on Tuesday.”

Bea brightened slightly, nodding. “It’ll be good to have something to look forward to.”

Pepper gave her a curious look, one with a hint of sadness, and Bea looked away. Down, in fact, to her bowl, only to find it empty.

Empty.

She’d finished the whole thing and hadn’t even noticed. Her shoulders were tense at the realisation and her stomach flipped, but she didn’t feel sick. Rolling her shoulders to play off the panic, she said, “I’m stuffed. That might’ve been the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Beatrice,” Pepper said, also having finished her lunch. She reached over and took Bea’s empty bowl, carrying them to the sink. “Thank you for all your help today. Shopping is usually a chore, but I had fun. And lunch was a breeze with an assistant.”

There was a satisfying warmth in her belly. Pepper rinsed the dishes and dried her hands, smiling all the while, and Bea didn’t dare meet her eye when she said, “You didn’t have to keep me company today, but I’m grateful you did.”

“You’re good company, Beatrice. Let’s do it again sometime?”

Bea beamed. “I’d love to.”

Chapter Text

Mondays had always left a bad taste in Bea’s mouth, but always for trivial reasons. The first day of school, the start of a new week, the birthday she wouldn’t get to celebrate for five more days.

But this Monday was different. New, if she wanted to be optimistic about it—as if optimism was difficult when you were waking up each day in the Avengers Tower. FRIDAY woke her at seven o’clock with daylight and birdsong, and didn’t say a word when Beatrice swore at her. She hadn’t managed to wake up any earlier than ten in the days she’d been there, but now that it was Monday, apparently things had to change.

“Mr Stark has requested I retain as much of your regular schedule as possible in order to form a healthy routine.”

“Well you can tell Mr Stark to shove it right up his—”

“Ms Potts has prepared breakfast.”

Bea let her head fall into the pillow, and groaned. Trust Stark to create a manipulative AI.

Despite her protests, Bea eventually pulled herself out of bed and changed into yet another Stark Industries tracksuit. Her old clothes still hung, untouched, in the back, growing more and more forgotten each day. But the memories they held … Bea was ready to admit that maybe she did need new clothes.

Pepper had been so kind through the whole process and, Bea supposed Tony, by extension, would have to be included in that. All the beautiful dresses they’d found, all the jeans and tops and shoes—Bea couldn’t wait. She hadn’t expected the excitement, but having something to look forward to had really sparked something inside.

Bea stepped into her fluffy green slippers, fetched her phone from the nightstand, and left her room. It seemed like every window in the Tower was open, with the gentle morning light flooding every crevice. It was slightly cool too, like the familiar early spring mornings in Queens—a promise of a warm day, but not for a short while yet.

“Morning, Bea,” Pepper greeted from the stove, stirring a pan of scrambled eggs.

Bea couldn’t help but brighten at the nickname, but she stopped in her tracks as she turned the corner. Rhodey and Tony were sitting at the dining table, chatting quietly between themselves. Rhodey spotted her first, making a troubled noise.

“Rough night?” he asked, looking her up and down.

Bea frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” Tony piped up. “You’ve just got this early morning avant-garde thing going. It’s an art, really, you should be proud.”

Bea knew she must have been a sight to behold. Entirely unkempt hair, unwashed and barely brushed, dark rings around her eyes, and the shapeless Stark Industries clothes … This new wardrobe couldn’t arrive soon enough.

“It’s an acquired taste,” she bit back facetiously before she could stop herself. “Not everyone can properly appreciate such authentic beauty.”

Rhodey held his hands up in surrender. “I take it back. You know what you're doing.”

“Just doing my part to keep bedhead in Vogue.”

Tony gave a dramatic salute, and Rhodey said, “Your contribution is duly noted.”

Bea rolled her eyes at the both of them, turning instead towards Pepper who was holding back a laugh.

“I, uh, Hope you like eggs,” Pepper said, beginning to dish out scrambled eggs onto four plates with sides of bacon, grilled tomato and spinach.

“This looks delicious,” said Bea. “Thank you.”

They each took two plates over to the table, serving up and sitting down opposite the men. “Tuck in,” Pepper encouraged. Clearly it wasn’t for Rhodey and Tony, as they’d already begun feasting, so Bea nodded and began picking at her food.

“Please don’t forget that prototype needs to be done before I leave for LA this afternoon,” Pepper told Tony. “You’re already six weeks behind deadline, they’re expecting me to arrive with it.” He only nodded, noncommittally, and Pepper sighed. “You’re not still working on that quantum singularity generator with Peter, are you?”

“Quantum what?” Rhodey asked.

“Maybe, and so what? We gotta do something for his intern hours. It’s technically still a toaster and was absolutely the kid’s idea. Kept going on about ‘imagine having infinite toast’ and he may or may not have been onto something.”

Bea couldn’t help her crooked grin at the mention of Peter. “I’m leaning towards not.”

“You haven’t even seen it, missy, what do you know.”

“I know that Peter once tried making a projector out of a DVD player and his uncle’s spare glasses and nearly burned the apartment down.”

Tony’s shit-eating grin was like nothing else. “He didn’t.”

“He did. The Fire Department got called and everything, it was very embarrassing for him. Had to explain the whole thing. I’m sure he’d hate it if you ever brought it up.”

“FRIDAY, remind me to ask Peter about the DVD projector.”

“Noted, Boss.”

Pepper stifled a smile and turned back to Tony. “You’ve got a free day today,” she said slowly. “I want a completed prototype on my desk by tonight.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Bea’s phone buzzed in her pocket and she pulled it out, tuning the conversation out as she read.

pedroparker created the group.
pedroparker named the group: citizens of peanemelia

pedroparker: how has it taken us this long to make a group chat
oh_celia: wtf is peanemelia
pedroparker: all our names duh
nerd.leeds: hey guys! happy first day back
jonesmichelle: it’s not even 8am go away
oh_celia: i hate today :(
pedroparker: @bumblebea wish you were here

Bea felt the small ball of love for her friends swell in her chest, and she couldn’t help but smile. Something in the back of her mind flagged MJ’s presence, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

bumblebea: suckas gotta go to school
bumblebea: turns out getting kidnapped has its silver linings. 10/10 would recommend
oh_celia: i can’t believe you’re cracking jokes but also ??? i can
nerd.leeds: how are you doing?

Bea stared at the screen for a moment, the others’ conversation drowning out any possibility of crafting thought. She was fine, but they wouldn’t believe that, and if she said she wasn’t fine? Party pooper. After a moment, she wrote:

bumblebea: missing you guys. wish i was there too.
pedroparker: always in our hearts
oh_celia: gone but not forgotten
oh_celia: @pedroparker i still need clarification on peanemelia
pedroparker: seriously ?? come on
pedroparker: p[eter][b]eane[d]m[j][c]elia
pedroparker: peanemelia

The chat was quiet for a moment.

jonesmichelle: be honest how long did it take you to come up with that
pedroparker: literally all weekend

Bea laughed, slapping a hand over her mouth.

“Ooh, who are you texting?” Tony teased, finishing his plate. “Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Secret admirer?”

Bea blushed, face flaming with the embarrassment of getting caught out. She stuffed her phone back in her pocket and focused on her still-full plate. “What? No, it’s just …” She pushed some tomato around. “School stuff.”

Rhodey raised his brows. “Might be showing my age here, but my school experience was very different.”

“Must be some fascinating curriculum,” Tony said, leaning back and sipping on his coffee. “FRIDAY deserves a raise.”

Pricks. Bea softened her death-ray gaze at them both when she said, “Fine, not school stuff. It’s just Peter. First day back, you know. I actually haven’t even looked at FRIDAY’s work yet.”

“Just Peter,” Rhodey mimicked, standing and taking his and Tony’s empty plates up to the kitchen.

Bea’s jaw dropped. “Are you insinuating what I think you’re insinuating?”

“I am but a lowly, entirely objective third party,” he defended. “Why, what do you think I was insinuating?”

Tony looked far too amused, and Bea liked Pepper too much to even look at her at that moment, in case she’d have to change her opinion. “For the record, Peter and I are friends. And, also for the record, it’s not just Peter. He’s made a group chat with Ned, Celia, and MJ, too.”

“Sure, kid,” Tony said, finishing his coffee in one clean shot.

Bea shook her head, face burning. Something unfamiliar had settled itself in the back of her sternum, and Bea couldn’t shift it. Peter was just a friend, but … this wasn’t about Peter. Had she finally made herself at home here? Part of her knew it was about damn time, but another worried she was overstepping. Bickering with Tony Stark like this over her texting habits, joking with Rhodey about her bedhead. It all felt very … Domestic.

Pepper swore under her breath, and Bea blinked in surprise. “I have to go, I’ve got a meeting in fifteen,” she said, standing and carrying her plate to the kitchen before hurrying back to Tony. “Prototype. Don’t you dare forget, and I want it before five, not at five.”

“Yes, dear,” Tony said, smiling dazedly as she kissed him goodbye. “Don’t work too hard.” But then he considered for a moment, and said, “Actually, do.”

Pepper rolled her eyes, smiling, and went back to the kitchen to help clean up. Bea fed herself a few mouthfuls of her now cold breakfast as she and Rhodey went back and forth about letting him tidy up, before she left with a hurried, “Thanks!”

“I should head off, too,” Tony said then, slapping his knees decisively. “Might get started on that prototype. Finish your food, kid, then get to work. I’m sure FRIDAY’s got a lot to keep you busy.”

“We’ll see,” Bea mused, popping another piece of grilled tomato in her mouth.

Tony quirked a brow but said nothing else as he dropped his coffee mug into the dishwasher. He and Rhodey gave their goodbyes as they, too, left and Bea was alone.

Looking down at her plate, she still had almost a full portion of eggs, both rashers of bacon, and half a tomato left to go. But the food had turned cold, and she wasn’t even hungry anyway, not this early in the morning.

So she stood and began the tidy up, emptying her plate in the bin, giving it a light rinse and stacking it in the dishwasher. She scrubbed the dirty frying pan and wiped down the counters, even going as far as fixing the dish towels hanging off the oven.

It was nice, being in the kitchen on her own, tidying as if this were her own place. She never had much opportunity to be in her old kitchen. She could barely even remember what it looked like—there was the floor, all filthy linoleum that never did look clean, their dingy chairs and table, and the decades-old fridge with the broken handle.

She could actually see it then, clear as day as she recalled it all. Blue cabinets and drawers with off-white trim, a stained ceramic sink, and scratched-up counters. Beer bottles in most corners, trash overflowing, and Walter, dead on the floor, blood staining the lino, her mother tied to a chair right there—

No.

No.

Not today. Not after such a nice morning. No.

The words rattled around her mind as she continued to tidy. Putting the paper towels back where they belonged. No, not today. Tucking all their chairs back in. No. Wiping down the dining table. No.

But soon there was nothing else to clean, and it still felt as if the memories were right there, like she was teetering on the edge of a cliff and would fall at any moment.

She had school work to do. School would help.

The desk she’d sat at for so many years was a welcome comfort, but although Tony had been kind enough to buy her a new chair and a new laptop, she hadn’t ever found a moment to sit down at it. This wasn’t an avoidance, like her old clothes, but she couldn’t help but wonder nevertheless. Even then, with actual incentive to get to work, she hesitated.

Her space was messy. Yes, that was it. How could she get any work done with the window shades on and her bed unmade?

“FRIDAY, could you lift the window tint? All the way, please. Be good to let some natural light in.”

The AI didn’t respond, only lifted the tint until the same warm sunshine was filtering in, just as it was at the dining table. She moved to the bed and flicked her covers until they lay flat and smooth, fluffing her pillows for added effect.

Once there was not a single thing out of place, and Bea knew for certain she had nothing else standing between herself and full concentration—only then did she finally take a seat at her desk and open her laptop.

It was brand new. Not just new, brand new. She was starting it up for the very first time, and had to go through the entire process of linking her StarkPhone, her email account, the WiFi, to which FRIDAY kindly shared the password. She gave FRIDAY access to the computer, and FRIDAY managed to set everything else up for her.

Then came the workload. The AI had been meticulous, following on from things Bea had already learned at school, and collating them in a syllabus that outlined about four weeks’ worth of catch-up work, as well as real-time work so she would be able to keep up with school.

FRIDAY estimated that Bea could complete her catch-up work within three weeks and would be back on track in a month, but she wasn’t so sure. If she really wanted to, Bea figured she could probably be caught up by the end of the week.

The time passed remarkably quickly once Bea really got to work. She started easy with an English essay she’d already written before the cage, practically writing from memory, and working through the last of Mr Davis’s weekly math quizzes. She understood Shakespeare and Pythagoras well enough, but it still took the better part of an hour to cross those off the list.

Every ten minutes, she had the insatiable urge to check her phone for messages from the group chat, or to scroll through social media. That was when she realised just how quiet it was. Her entire life, she had studied with the soothing background noise of drunken fighting matches or a too-loud television in the next room. She’d never mastered studying with music—the lyrics always messed with her train of thought—but the silence was worse.

And, she realised grimly, now she was aware of it, there was no escaping it. The roaring in her ears from the air in the silent room was almost deafening, and her thoughts were no respite. It was as if she were walking on eggshells in her own mind at the risk of upending herself so abruptly into another memory.

Frustrated, she slammed her laptop closed and stood, sending the chair rolling backwards. She collected her notebook, the laptop and her charger, as well as her phone, and headed out the door. The floor was still empty, with Pepper likely in her office and Rhodey off who knew where. Steve was gone, she remembered, but there were others. Clint, for one, and Nat. Bruce, she was sure, was around somewhere, but hadn’t she met someone else?

The Tower was enormous, they could be anywhere, but none could help her little predicament. She considered planting herself at the dining table, but it was still too quiet—she needed noise.

A thought stopped her in her tracks. Tony was here. Working in the labs. On what, she didn’t know—either a prototype or a quantum toaster, but both sounded suitably noisy. She considered asking FRIDAY for permission first, but found herself waltzing right into the elevator before she could.

He was hunched, rather unbecomingly, over his desk, welding two pieces of iron together. Three cold, half-finished cups of coffee littered his desk, among tools and wires and scrap metal.

“Rhodey, I swear, the suit’s not flight compatible yet,” he murmured, not looking up. “Give me a—”

“Sorry,” Bea said quickly, and Tony looked up. “It’s just me.”

“Hey. You good?”

Looking him in the eyes now, Bea felt all the confidence that had fuelled her into walking in unannounced abandon her, right there in the doorway. “Yes. Good, fine. I just … I know I’m interrupting and you have a lot to do, but I was trying to get through my school work and the silence was just so loud, I needed a change of scenery and I work better with background noise, so … I guess I just wondered if you maybe were up to having some, uh, company?”

His expression was unreadable as he considered her. She couldn’t blame him—even a week ago, the idea of being alone in a room with Iron Man again would’ve been completely out of the question.

“Why not?” he said. “You’re not bad company. Bit of a chatterbox, can’t seem to get you to shut up, so if you’re working in here, I’ll need you to not be such a distraction.” Bea guessed he was being sarcastic, but she wasn’t sure. He pointed a screwdriver at an empty table in the back corner. “You can set up over there.”

She started over to the table, mumbling her thank you’s, but Tony stopped her.

“Easy there, Speed Racer, there’re rules.” He held up a finger. “One. No touching anything unless I say so. Not everything in here is as harmless as Dum-E.” Bea hadn’t noticed the sulky robot in the corner until then. “Two. No solo lab time. You’re welcome to work in here anytime, day or night, but if I’m not here, you’re not here. If I leave, you leave. And three, no food or drink near the reactive stuff. Make a mess, clean it up, etcetera.”

Bea nodded, glancing around the room. “Yeah, okay. Do you ever follow your own rules?”

“Between noon and lunch, every sixth Tuesday.”

“I can really tell, you’re practically Marie Kondo in here.”

“It’s a controlled chaos,” he conceded, turning back to his project. “Make yourself at home. In your corner, obviously, and try to keep it contained. I’m not here to help with your homework either—if you want brownie points, you'll have to ask FRIDAY.”

Beatrice nodded, starting towards her corner. “Thanks, Tony.”

Chapter Text

“I’m begging you, Tony,” Beatrice said, forehead on the desk. “Give me something to do.”

It was past noon and FRIDAY’s checklist was complete, save for a few essays that needed revising. So much for three weeks’ worth of work. She’d be able to finalise those essays this afternoon, and then she’d be completely caught up.

All morning, Tony had been drilling and welding and cursing quietly under his breath, and Bea was convinced he’d forgotten she was there. She watched him for a while after she’d finished, quietly pretending she was still working, and he was a marvel. She could only predict what he would up do to a certain point, but she knew his brain was working ten steps ahead, probably more. Not for the first time, she wondered what it was like being Tony Stark.

“Quit staring, kid, I can feel your eyes burning into my skull,” he said without looking up. “Don’t you have work to do?”

Bea clicked her tongue. “I have a couple of essays to review before they’re finished, but … yeah.”

He looked up then, assessing her for a few moments. “You’ve finished the work FRIDAY set for today, or all the catch-up work?”

“Um,” she started. His tone was different—he sounded mad. “All the work. All the catch-up work.”

“Right.” He nodded, absentmindedly twirling a small wrench like a drumstick. “FRIDAY?”

“Seriously?”

“Beatrice has successfully completed the workload set in order to bring her up to date with the Midtown School of Science and Technology sophomore curriculum. However, she has yet to submit two completed essays.”

“I just need to look them over one last time. They’re done, like she said,” Bea defended hotly. “You don’t believe me.”

“No, I believe you.” He crossed his arms over his chest, looking rather amused. “Just surprised.”

Bea chewed her lip. “I work better with background noise.”

“You said. Alright, get over here. Since you’re on a roll, you can give me a hand.”

Bea unplugged her laptop and quickly tidied her things before heading over to Tony’s table with her computer. He kicked a rolling chair out from underneath a nearby table and gestured for her to sit down. A rather beat-up looking circuit board sat discarded before her, the welded wires chipping and fraying.

She peered closer, scrunching her nose at the bite marks on the wires. “It’s like Remy the rat got into STEM.”

Tony sighed. “Gonna pretend you didn’t say that. This is one of Pete’s, brought it in ages ago claiming he’d do something big with it.”

Bea glanced up at him. “Was this before the quantum toaster?”

“This is the quantum toaster. At least, it will be. Once he finds a toaster.”

“No, it won’t,” she smiled. “Christ, I didn’t think he was dumpster diving anymore.”

Tony laughed at that, clearly well aware of Peter’s old tech outsourcing habits. He told her to open up her laptop as he gave a few taps on his holodesk. Long lines of code appeared before him, and soon he had control over her screen.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Setting you up in our system.”

Bea paused, weighing his words. “You mean … the Stark Industries system?”

“No, NASA.” He gave her an incredulous look. “Yes, with Stark Industries. I don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

“Don’t you dare, of course I do.” She shuffled closer to him. “For … what reason, exactly?”

Tony didn’t stop typing as he spoke. “You’re into coding, right? We’ve got a huge R&D team working from the Tower, and part of that team is our Coders. They’re responsible for creating code, reviewing, troubleshooting, whatnot, but they can’t always keep up with the demand and we're usually working with a decent backlog. We can always use an extra pair of hands, especially from natural talents like you.” He paused, turning to her. “Might as well, don’t you think?”

Bea nodded enthusiastically.

“Don’t let it get to your head, it’s just a glimpse behind the curtain. For now, I’ll give you access to view the main discussion forum. You won’t be able to make contact with other staff—if you wanna go ahead after the trial period, they’ll eventually be able to reach out to you, but for now you’ll just be assigned three projects. How does that sound?”

“That’s way more than I could ever ask for.” But something occurred to her, and she paused for a moment. “How does this work with the whole … situation.”

Tony shrugged. “We have contract workers in all the time to take on some of the work, this’ll be no different. Totally remote, you won’t be going downstairs to the actual labs. No one will know it’s you.” He turned serious, then. “They can’t know.”

“Right. Top secret.”

He gave a few more quick taps, and said, “There we go. Welcome to the R&D network, Miss Maria Morgan.” Her laptop screen dimmed to black, restarting. “Have fun, let me know what you think, and we can talk about next steps. Remember, this is a two-way street alright? You contribute, you learn—no free rides.”
Bea nodded. “Thank you. Really.”

“You know, most kids wouldn’t be thanking me for giving them more work to do. You should really get that checked out by a professional.”

“Ah, yes,” she said, rolling back to her own desk. “Because an overcommitment to my education is the only thing I need to get therapy for.”

He laughed then, and she focused on that. She made him laugh. He wasn’t worried about her trauma, so neither was she.

He let her work there beside him for the next few hours as he continued to tinker and build, swearing every now and then as he touched something that was still hot, or threaded another screw. She couldn’t figure out exactly what he was working on, but she hoped for his sake that it was Pepper’s prototype. Then again, looking at the experimental mess on his worktable … she hoped not.

Bea, meanwhile, was having an absolute blast. As Tony said, she had three projects, but they were all magnificent. She had very limited information to work from—only the engineer’s name and the title of the project—but from the looks of it, she was working on some pretty advanced tech. If she had to hazard a guess, one of them was even working on a Controlled Communications Network, with gesture control and voice activation.

Every piece of code was sophisticated and clean, and it took her a few run-throughs to properly diagnose any issues at all. She was in the zone, thriving and typing away as she finalised her diagnostic report and recommended changes, when Tony cleared his throat.

“Listen, something's on my mind and I gotta clear it up." He wheeled back from his table, tapping a screwdriver against his knee. "You finished weeks' worth of missed school work in less than a day.”

Bea frowned at him. “We already had this conversation.”

“Yeah, right, we were both there. So, Spider-Man—you’re familiar with him? Well, a little spider told me he once helped you out with your physics homework.”

“Only once,” she said, doing her best to dodge the memory. “He helped a lot, but we were kind of interrupted.”

“Yeah, lovely, what I’m wondering though—was that just a load of bullshit? You clearly know what you’re doing, were you just stringing him along?”

Bea’s face fell. “No, absolutely not. I … Okay, for your information, he was helping me with quantum physics, which actually still makes zero sense to me since, you know, it doesn’t matter how well you understand it, the outcomes are always uncertain. We only spent a couple of weeks on it at school because some of us are taking the class next year, and Ms Warren wanted us to know what we’re getting ourselves into. I can do regular physics just fine, thank you, and I would never do anything so useless and mean as string someone along. Especially not him.”

Tony gave a heavy sigh. “Good lord, you’re defensive. Are you always so defensive? You know, there’s this amazing spa just a few blocks away—”

“I’m defensive?” Bea said, only half-joking. “Well, you’re rude. And annoying. And interrupting my good, hard work.”

Tony grinned. “I’ll take it. Rude and annoying is better than scary.”

Bea paused, hands hovering over her keyboard, and Tony’s smile dimmed. Of course, he was right—not so long ago, he had been scary. She had been scared of him, because something terrible happened to her. She had done something terrible to him. Lots of somethings.

Bea met his eye and he frowned at her expression.

She had let her guard down so easily. She had become so comfortable in the last few days, she almost considered them friends just for showing her kindness, but what would happen when they found out what she did? She may not have had a choice, but they likely wouldn’t see it that way—she still did it, and no one would want her around once they found out.

“Kid?” he asked. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Her breaths were coming short and sharp now. She did her best to keep her cool, pretending the hurricane inside her chest was just a light breeze, but her ears were ringing and her heart fluttered, erratic, painful. She pressed a hand to her chest.

Tony stood and grabbed her elbow, pulling her chair away from the desk and towards him. “FRIDAY?” he asked. “What’s going on?”

“I believe Beatrice is experiencing an anxiety attack. Symptoms include increased heart rate, shortness of breath—”

“Alright, alright,” Tony snapped, and the AI stopped. “Kid, you gotta calm down. Come on, breathe in through your nose.”

Bea tried and failed.

“And breathe out through your mouth.”

Again, her breaths came four at a time and it felt as if the oxygen had barely touched her lungs.

“Again, Page, come on. In through the nose, out through the mouth.”

It wasn’t working. Tears welled, and stars filled her vision—enormous black and white spots all through the air until she felt the tension leave her shoulders, her body feeling heavy as lead.

“Kid, you have to work with me here. Get your head between your knees and breathe for me.”

Bea fell forward with very little prompting, holding the backs of her thighs and resting her forehead on her kneecaps. The stars disappeared almost instantly and the pain in her chest subsided, and she could finally take and release a full breath.

She pressed her eyes closed, humiliated. Would Tony Stark have to bear witness to every embarrassing moment of her life from here on out? Tears wet her lashes but didn’t fall, as she focused on breathing.

Tony was rubbing small circles on her back. His hand was warm and grounding, and her breath hitched at the small comfort. “I’m sorry,” she whispered into her knees.

“Don’t apologise. Just breathe.”

They stayed like that for longer than Bea would ever admit, until she could finally just bite the bullet and sit up. To face him.

She quickly wiped her eyes. “I didn’t mean to get all weird like that.”

“Anxiety’s not exactly something you can control,” he said, looking genuinely concerned. “Trust me, I get it.”

“You do?”

“Comes with the territory. I’d ask if you want to talk about it …” He nodded at her sullen expression. “So I won’t ask. I need you to tell me where all that came from. What just happened?”

Bea dropped her face into her hands. He deserved an explanation, yes, but she wasn’t ready for him to know yet. She had to be smart about this.

“There are things that happened,” she started, folding her arms but not daring to look at him, “that no one knows about. Things that I’m still … not ready to share.”

He remained silent, waiting for her to continue.

“I guess … Well, you said being rude was better than being scary, and it just reminded me that I did think you were scary. It sounds dramatic, but I think there are things that I did in … that place that you would really hate me for.” Her voice was thick and wobbly now, and she hated it.

Tony took a breath, seeming to choose his words carefully. “You’re right, I have no idea what happened. I can only guess, and I truly hope it’s not as bad as I think, but I’m not here to judge you, none of us are. We all have our skeletons.”

She looked up at him then, and saw just how earnest he was being.

“But you can’t keep this up forever. If you need to talk about it, talk about it. If you can’t talk to a friend, tell me and Pepper will get some weirdo professional to sign the world’s longest NDA and you can let loose.”

Bea laughed wetly, and wiped at her nose.

He didn’t let up. “I’m gonna tell you something I really needed to hear after Afghanistan, and it’s gonna sound goddamn cheesy, but I need you to hear me on this. The things you had to do to survive in that place don't define you. Never will. But carrying it with you like this? It’s not sustainable. You need to deal with it.”

She nodded, looking away. She knew all this. She knew it more than well enough, but she also knew she was too much of a coward to do anything about it. Maybe it was her karma, to live with the things she’d done.

As if reading her mind, Tony placed a heavy hand on her shoulder and looked her dead in the eyes when he said, “You deserve to come back from this.”

And for just a moment, Bea believed it.

Chapter Text

How did that saying go? Curiosity killed the cat?

Lying there, in the middle of the night with no company but her own thoughts, Bea wished she were the cat. She had spent the last twenty minutes breaking into the email account Tony had set up for her coding work so she could create a fake Instagram account under the same fake name—Maria Morgan.

But now, in the middle of the night, doom scrolling, she wished she had just rolled over and faced her nightmares.

Some posts weren’t so bad. In fact, a lot of them were rather kind. She only recognised a handful of the accounts posting her photo, but her entire feed was … her. Her yearbook photo from last November, and she hadn’t liked it then, either. A close-lipped smile, tired eyes and unwashed hair. She’d been so stressed that morning, trying to find something to wear—she hadn’t slept a wink because of Walter. Yet another drunken night taken out on her mother, and Bea was left to pick up the pieces. She’d spent hours trying to heal her mother’s fracture.

And now that awful photo was everywhere. The police had used it in her Amber Alert, to Bea’s absolute dismay, and it seemed everyone had taken that and run with it. Some were less subtle, taking photos she recognised from her friends’ Instagram accounts—a birthday post from Celia with Bea blowing out her thirteen candles, Flash’s post from their field trip where Bea was talking with Peter, and …

This one she hadn’t seen before, credited to Peter’s photography account. For a moment, she wasn’t even sure it was her. She stood against the setting sky, looking at something in the distance, with her curly hair golden in the sunlight and dark skin glowing as if she were summoning her light to every part of her. When did he take this?

She took a screenshot and continued scrolling to read the captions.

justice4pluto: We are all still praying for Beatrice’s safe return. Sending love and positive thoughts to the family during this time. We miss you, girl! Stay strong, wherever you are #BringBeaBack

pascalprose: my heart is breaking for bea. y’all should be ashamed about these rumours circulating, we shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions based on someone’s race in this day and age. our families don’t define us. #bringBeaback

ok.jody: first day back and no beatrice :( fly high gorgeous, we love you <3 #bringbeaback

She didn’t know any of these people, wouldn’t be able to pick them out of a lineup. The backhanded compliments, the we miss you, we love you. Bea rolled her eyes. Fly high? Was she dead to them already?

Another post caught her eye, and her heart sank.

brandonj: beatrice page works hard but karma works harder lmao #BeaBehindBars

Everything in her told her to put the phone away, leave it, not to engage, but she couldn’t help herself. She clicked on the hashtag. 100+ posts.

The photos were remarkably different now. Older photos, shots of security footage from her school. She looked like a criminal. The newest post looked scarily official.

thedailybugle: ATTENTION READERS: It is our duty at The Daily Bugle to bring you the TRUTH! Recent events have left us all wondering: Who was Beatrice Page? What really happened? Well, WE HAVE THE ANSWERS. Sources indicate Page was close to notorious vigilante and public menace, SPIDER-MAN. Tune in tonight as we uncover the TRUE FACTS of the case so we can finally put #BeaBehindBars.

It should have been funny. Bea should have laughed, should have put the phone away and called it a night, but the dread sat in her stomach like tar. She couldn’t stop reading.

nelson_knows: Stop #/BringBeaBack. The police have NO evidence that she was ever kidnapped, in fact Beatrice Page should be their 1st suspect! All evidence clearly points to her murdering that poor couple and now she’s on the run. Open your eyes!! We need to put #BeaBehindBars NOW

A loud knock made her jump and she looked at the door, but no one came in. The knock came again, and she realised this time it was coming from her balcony. Spider-Man.

She rushed to open the door and let him in. “Hi.”

He looked her up and down, noticing the phone in her hand. Without a word, he grabbed it from her and started scrolling through the posts.

“What are you doing? Give it back.”

“Why are you looking at this stuff?” he asked, and she noticed how out of breath he sounded.

Bea shrugged. “It’s a free country, isn’t it?”

His freaky bug eyes squinted at her before he pushed past her, still scrolling as he sat down at the end of her bed. “I thought Mr Stark was keeping you offline.”

“He is.” Bea joined him, but the weight of him on the mattress sent her leaning into his side. She reached over and tapped on her account profile. “Maria Morgan, on the other hand …”

“Bea, you shouldn’t be looking at this stuff.”

Was he serious right now? “I’m so tired of people telling me what I should and shouldn’t do. Isn’t it good that I know what they’re saying about me? About my family?”

“Bea, no,” he said, almost pleading. “It’s awful what they’re saying, and none of it’s true. I just saw what The Daily Bugle wrote, that’s why I’m here. I hoped I’d beat you to it, but apparently not.”

Bea took her phone back, still frowning at him. “I’m not fragile, you know.”

“I do,” he said. “I do know. But we all need friends.”

They sat in silence for a moment, Bea twisting the phone in her hands. “You’re only here because of J. Jonah Jameson?” she asked quietly.

“No, I—”

“I haven’t seen you in nearly a week.”

“I’ve been … busy.”

“Busy.” Bea raised a brow at him, before remembering. “Oh, shit. Right. First day of the new term. You’re back at school.”

“Among other things.”

She shook her head at him, entirely bewildered, and stood. She took two thoughtful steps before saying, “You know, friends are supposed to tell each other things. You know just about everything about me. You know all my friends, you figured out my …” She raised a hand and flexed it slowly. “Whatever this is. My point is, you know all my secrets, and I don’t even know your name. I don’t know what school you go to, I don’t even know what colour your hair is. All I know is that you’re white, smart, stupid, and incredibly accident-prone.”

Spider-Man was quiet. Bea could convince herself it was a guilty kind of quiet, but she knew better than that. If he wanted her to know, he would’ve told her by now.

“You always told me to tell my friends about myself, to open up and let them in,” said Bea. “But I don’t see you doing any of that. You just show up when it suits you, and tell me what to do.”

She didn’t know why she was getting so worked up about this—he hadn’t done anything wrong. In fact, he’d done her a kindness by being there tonight to make sure she was okay. Why was she taking this out on him?

“Brown.”

“What?”

He looked up at her. “My hair. It’s brown.”

That made her pause. Not for the first time, she tried to imagine what he looked like. Some part of her knew he had brown hair, maybe brown eyes too, but she was never sure about the rest. He was fit, muscular, she knew that much. She pictured eyes like honey and a smile just as sweet. A gentle curve to his nose and a sharp one to his brow. Handsome.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That wasn’t fair. I respect your secret identity thing, it’s not my business. The last few weeks have just been … long.”

He was quiet for a moment, before holding a hand out to her. “Come with me.”

“Wait, what? Where?”

He tilted his head towards the balcony.

“No, Tony says I can’t leave the Tower.”

“We won’t,” he promised. “And Tony will never know.”

Bea’s face burned a little as she took his hand. He led her outside where she thought they were going to sit down as they had that very first night, but he surprised her by pulling her into his side and wrapping an arm tight around her waist. Their faces were only inches apart, Bea’s breath catching in her throat, and he tilted his head. “Hold on.”

She realised his plan a second too late, and before she could say don’t you dare, they were swinging their way up the side of the building, her demands of let me go if you know what’s good for you lost to the night breeze.

Arms locked around his neck and legs around his waist, she buried her head into his chest as he shot web after web into the sky without a single guarantee that the next would stick and they wouldn’t plummet a million and one feet to their deaths. Bea wasn’t religious, but god damn, she was praying tonight.

“Bea,” he said, voice barely reaching her ears. “You’re on solid ground, open your eyes.”

She trusted him, she did, but it still took her a moment to relax her muscles and open her eyes, but when she did … The view from the top was breathtaking. The streets below had become familiar in the time she’d been living at the Tower, but it was like seeing a friend from a new angle. Tonight was so much clearer than that first night had been, so long ago.

Spider-Man was strangely quiet as he sat down behind her. Was it an expectant quiet? An angry quiet? As she moved to sit beside him, she felt the air shift. It was a troubled quiet.

“Tell me about your day,” she said. He glanced at her, and she smiled encouragingly. “Your first day back at school, tell me about it.”

“Not much to tell,” he said, putting his cool, calm, collected persona on like a well-worn jacket. “It was good to see my friends again, but there were other places I’d rather be.”

“Right,” said Bea, remembering. “Swinging through the streets, stopping crime in its tracks. Kicking ass and taking names, a true vigilante slash hero.”

His cheeks curved and she knew he was smiling. “Something like that.” They locked eyes for barely more than a beat before he said, “Don’t listen to all that social media crap.”

“Uh, language.”

“I’m serious. They don’t know what they’re talking about, and that’s the whole point. Mr Stark has taken some pretty serious measures to make sure no one knows you’re here. Not just the people who took you, but everyone else too. He’d flip his lid if he knew we were out here.”

Her throat tightened, and she willed her childish sadness away. “I’m very aware of how stuck I am, thanks.”

“I’m just saying, you … You know the truth. You know what happened. Don’t let those assholes try and rewrite your story.”

“I really don’t think I’ve heard you swear this much before.”

“Did you not read what they were saying?” he said bitterly. “It’s disgusting.”

Bea only shrugged, picking at her fingernails.

“Has …” Spider-Man started tentatively. “Has Mr Stark told you anything about your case?”

“My case?”

“Cross. The cage.”

Bea’s brain whirred. Were there things she didn’t know? Wait, of course there were. These were the Avengers they were talking about. “No. No one’s told me anything.”

You know the truth. You know what happened.

Something ice-cold burned in her stomach. She didn’t know anything, not about Cross or whoever was working with him, not why they’d taken her, not even about where they had been keeping her. Stark had kept her in the dark, no more aware than she had been in the cage.

She saw it then, in those freaky, too-large eyes. Guilt. “What do you know?”

“Nothing,” he said a little too quickly, before correcting, “Nothing for certain.”

“Tell me anyway?”

“When I'm sure,” he promised, but she could almost hear it break as he spoke it.

Defeated. That’s what she was. She didn’t know anything and she couldn’t do a single thing to help her case. At least, not from here. Not with Tony Stark’s watchful eye over everything she and everyone else did. If the Avengers couldn’t deal with this, who could?

She rested her head on his shoulder, staring out over the city. “Please don’t keep me in the dark. I spent a lot of time there, and I don’t want to go back.”

He leaned into her touch and snaked an arm around her shoulder. “I promise, Bea.”

None of this was over, not while Cross was still out there. The Avengers, for all intents and purposes, were twiddling their goddamn thumbs, and Bea hadn’t even considered asking questions. Making demands.

If Bea was going to do this properly, she needed a plan.

Chapter Text

“Absolutely not.”

Bea wasn’t sure what she had been expecting. Compassion, perhaps? A stupid move on her part, of course. Tony had been standing in his lab the following morning with his arms crossed over his chest, ticked off about one project or another, when Bea had asked him.

“Why not?” she demanded, matching his stance. “How could it possibly make things worse?”

“Kid, being enhanced is one thing, but letting you train with the Avengers? Teaching you to fight? If the media ever got wind of this—”

“Which they won’t—”

“Of course not, but if they did, it’d be my head on the chopping block. I’m as good as your guardian while you’re here—unofficially, obviously—but I won’t be responsible for you trying to kill yourself up against a goddamn Super Soldier.”

“As if I’d be able to talk any of them into it.”

“The answer is no.”

Her cheeks flamed with the unfairness of it. “You’re being ridiculous,” she said.

“Oh, am I now?” he scoffed. “Well, in that case, the new answer is definitely no, and I won’t hear another word out of it from you.”

She opened her mouth to retort, but he held a hand up.

“No! Zip it kid, conversation over.”

Bea wouldn’t have been surprised if the ground under her feet was left scorching as she turned on her heel and stomped out of his lab. She took the stairs back up to the living space, needing to let off some steam, but stopped in her tracks when she spotted people on the sofa.

Well. One person in particular. He had long, brown hair and a white cat was resting on his shoulder—made of pure black vibranium. She recognised him immediately from the news.

“Beatrice,” greeted Steve, who stood and beckoned her over. “Good to see you again.”

“Oh,” she said stupidly, her anger ebbing a little. “Right. Welcome back, Captain.”

“Jesus,” said Barnes. “Captain. It’s like meetin’ Pete all over again.”

Bea frowned. “You know Peter?”

“‘Course we do,” he said, shifting the cat so he could sit forward. “Met in Germany, kid nearly—”

“Beatrice, this is Bucky,” Rogers interrupted. “Bucky, this is Peter’s friend, Beatrice. She’s staying at the Tower for the time being.”

“Whoa,” said Bea, tone dripping with sarcasm. “Is this someone who doesn’t know every single thing that’s ever happened to me?”

To his credit, Steve looked guilty when he said, “Unfortunately not. Bucky has been briefed about your case.”

“Condolences,” said Bea. Bucky smirked a little and cocked his head.

He glanced at Steve and said, “That’s what you get for being polite.” They shared a look that must have spoken magnitudes, before Bea cleared her throat.

“Who’s your little friend?” she asked.

“This is Alpine.” The cat looked disgruntled to be moving around so much, but didn’t complain as Bucky picked her up and held her out to Bea who immediately moved in.

“Pepper mentioned you,” she said quietly, a hand out for the cat to sniff. She pushed her little head into Bea’s palm and began to purr.

“She likes you.”

“Unfortunate, considering my track record,” she said, only half joking. She scratched behind the sweet cat’s ear. “Nice to meet you, Alpine.”

“Where’d you just come from, anyway?” Steve asked. “You seemed upset.”

Bea let out a sharp breath. “Ask Tony.”

Bucky’s expression settled into something unreadable, but Steve nodded understandingly. “Whatever it was, I’m sure he’ll come ‘round.”

“Wouldn’t bet on it,” Bea said, before starting towards her room. “I should get some work done. Nice meeting you, Barnes. Captain.”

Bucky’s brow twitched, before matching Steve’s relaxed smile and waving her off.

Closing her door behind her, she almost wished she hadn’t run into Barnes and Rogers. She’d been so angry before, and while it was frustrating, the simple feeling had been a nice change. Her emotional range had shrunk immensely after the cage. After weeks of sadness, anxiety, grief, and the occasional glimmer of joy—anger was surely welcome.

With a deep, slow breath, she sat down at her desk and began.

But two breaks and four hours later, she was still thinking about her argument with Tony. After everything she’d been through, he was going to say no to her learning to fight? What an ass.

Unable to focus on chemistry any longer, Bea slammed her laptop shut and left her room. Part of her hoped no one would be in the kitchen or living room, but when she was met with the empty quiet, she felt slightly disappointed. “FRIDAY?”

“Hi, Beatrice.”

“Where is everyone?”

“Sam, James, and Steve are in the Training Centre, and Tony is still in his lab.”

Bea nodded, fetching herself a bottle of water. “What are they doing in the Training Centre?”

FRIDAY hesitated for just a moment. “Training, I believe.”

“God,” Bea said, rolling her eyes and clicking her tongue. “Sometimes I forget Stark programmed you.”

With her water in tow, she started down to the Training Centre. FRIDAY only had to help a little when she took a wrong turn on her way to the pool, but she’d remembered most of the route from her exploration with Peter. Nerves bubbled up inside at the thought of seeing him again tomorrow—she missed him more than she thought.

The pool was empty, as expected, but rowdy voices were travelling up from the training floor. Her footsteps echoed a little as she slowly made her way around, just enough to peer over the edge of the balcony. Steve was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and an amused look on his face. He was watching Sam and Bucky tackling each other like kids, laughing and bickering just the same.

A loud meow caught their attention, and something small and white darted across the mat and up the stairs. Alpine slinked around Bea’s ankles, tail curling around her leg as she purred.

“Who’s that, then?” Steve called.

Bea blushed. What was she even doing there? She had no reason, except for being bored, and they’d surely find her weird for that. “Sorry,” she called back, approaching the balcony. Alpine followed.

“I think you’ve been replaced,” Sam teased, turned towards Bucky.

“Oi, Alpine,” Bucky barked. “Leave her be, you weirdo.”

But Alpine went in the opposite direction and instead pawed at Bea’s sweatpants, asking to be let up. Bea gladly obliged, and lifted the cat up to cradle her like a baby.

Bucky let out an exasperated noise. “It’s like I don’t exist.”

“Sure you do,” said Sam. “I was kicking your ass only a minute ago.”

“Oh, really?” Bucky laughed. “I remember different.”

Sam and Bucky started up again, striking and dodging, and Steve rolled his eyes. He smiled up at Bea, shaking his head. It was a warm and welcoming smile, but something in Bea’s gut knew it felt wrong—like she still didn’t belong. And, if she was being honest, she didn’t. She was a parasite here; just a person with nowhere else to be, living off them all. A person who could put all these other people in immense danger, just by existing. A target.

Alpine seemed to sense her unease and started pawing at her cheek. Gently, as if to say shut up those thoughts and pay attention to me, silly. Bea smiled and scratched her ears.

Half an hour later, Alpine was finished with her and left her alone there on the balcony, cross-legged, watching the Avengers below train and laugh and bicker.

“Hey, come back,” Bea whined with her arm outstretched, but Alpine slunk away, back down the stairs.

“Never liked cats,” came a voice, and Bea understood exactly why Alpine had left. Wished she’d left with her.

Tony approached the bannister and Bea pulled herself to her feet. “Not totally convinced she is a cat,” Bea said, tone bitter and cold. “Acts more human than some people.”

“Guess I deserve that.”

Bea tapped her fingers against the railing, not meeting Tony’s eye. Give him a break. “You know, it’s still weird,” she said. Olive branch. “Being here, with the Avengers.”

“Why’d you have to say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Avengers.”

Bea frowned. “Because you are?”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to pronounce the capital letter like that.”

“I do, that’s my point,” she said with a sigh. “You guys are superheroes. You’re the leading name in technology and engineering. And you’re all … normal? You guys have family dinners. Christ, Steve eats Captain Crunch for breakfast.”

“He’s actually more of an oat bran guy.”

She gave him a pointed stare.

He cleared his throat, avoiding Bea’s eye. “Shouldn’t have gone off at you like that this morning.”

“Does that mean you changed your mind?” She hated how hopeful she sounded.

“Absolutely not.”

Bea scoffed. Her olive branch withered and died right before her eyes.

He shook his head, turning to look at her now. “Why do you wanna learn to fight so bad?”

Bea watched Bucky and Sam on the sparring mat. They had been going for a while now, but were still moving strong and quick, their hits clean and decisive. They knew what they were doing.

“Why do you think,” she said.

Tony shook his head. “Don’t know how many more times I can tell you this, but you’re safe here.”

“Yeah, thanks, but what happens after?”

He gave her a quizzical look. “After?”

Bea huffed a disbelieving laugh. “You don’t expect me to stay here forever, do you? Cross is still out there. Don’t know what you’re doing about that, but you can bet I’m not going to be sitting on my ass for the rest of my life, waiting for the threat to pass.”

Stark was quiet, but she could hear his brain moving a mile a minute. “That won’t be your battle to fight.”

“In what universe is that not my fight?”

“You’ve done enough.”

“I’ve done nothing,” she spat.

Steve was glancing up at them from the training floor. Sam and Bucky were kindly pretending to ignore the raised voices.

“Look, kid,” he started wearily. “I get it. But whatever that was, it wasn’t nothing. You’re done, there’s nothing else you need to do. Okay?”

“Fine. Whatever.” Bea threw her hands in the air and moved to leave, but Tony stopped her.

“Let me finish.” He turned towards her, still leaning on the balcony. “I refuse to teach you how to fight. That is not why you are here, my job is to keep you safe. But—” He paused a gave a great sigh. “—I wouldn’t be opposed to training you in self-defence.”

Bea frowned, watching his expression for any indication that he’s just stringing her along.“Really?” she asked. “You’re being serious?”

“Don’t tell Pepper.”

“Why?”

“She’ll start to expect it.”

Bea couldn’t help the small huff of a laugh, but a thought crossed her mind that made her freeze. “Will, uh …” she started. “You’ll be the one training me?”

She didn’t know how to tell him she’d rather be locked up in the basement of Stark Tower with two buckets than have to face him on the sparring mat.

“No,” Tony said, and Bea felt like she could breathe again. “Probably Sam. Steve and Bucky have a lead they’ll be out investigating next week. Everyone else is either off or based out at the Compound for now.”

Bea nodded and watched Sam below, working his way out of Bucky’s headlock—at least he was using his human arm. “Not Wanda, then?”

It was a dig, she knew it, but she didn’t regret it. Not until he said, “Why Wanda?”

“Didn’t you … No? Huh. Well, Steve mentioned it before he left for the Compound last week. Said she’d be staying at the Tower, could give me a hand with my …” She flexed a hand. “That.”

She’d clearly caught him off guard, the gears in his head turning quicker than ever, but he played it off coolly.

“All that’s still up in the air. Haven’t actually asked her yet, but might be a good idea.”

“Yeah, okay, so when can I start training?”

He gives her a sidelong look that says I hope you’re joking.

“What?”

“You’re still recovering.”

“I am not,” she retorted. “I’m fine. Up and about. Shopping, even.”

He tilted his head, shrugging. “I’d like you to heal up a bit more before Sam has a round with you.”

“You think I can’t take Sam?” She raised a brow at him. She’d done worse to him a dozen times or more, she could certainly take Sam. “Also,” she started, brows pinching together. “You forget healing is literally my only job.” Pointedly, she summoned her light to her fingertips and clicked her fingers.

“Not what I meant.” But, after a heavy sigh and a pinch of the bridge of his nose, he relents. “Soon. You can start soon.”

Chapter Text

It was three o’clock in the morning when FRIDAY told them off. Bea had holed up under the comfortable, warm lights of Tony’s lab, tapping away on her keyboard as she worked through a particularly difficult project. Tony had let her stay as a show of good faith after their little spat earlier, but she was convinced he’d forgotten her again as he hummed along to a song in his head, one she couldn’t place.

“Boss, your next meeting is in six hours.”

Tony didn’t flinch. He continued tinkering.

“A friendly reminder that you haven’t slept in thirty-six hours. It would be a good idea to get some rest before meeting with—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, sitting up straight and rolling his neck. “Message received.”

Bea frowned. “Is that true?”

“Hm?”

“You haven’t slept since before yesterday?”

He gave her a dry look. “What are you, the sleep police? When was the last time you slept?”

Bea rolled her eyes, no intention of answering, but she didn’t have to.

“Beatrice has been awake for twenty-three hours.”

“Snitch,” Bea hissed. She shook her head and went back to her work.

Tony was moving around now, stacking mugs, sorting papers and closing files on his holodesk. “Oi, kid,” he said, and slipped his phone into his pocket. “Remember the rules? Move it.”

“I’m not tired.”

“I don’t care. No solo lab time."

Damn it. She saved her work one last time and closed her laptop, collecting her things to meet him at the door. He waved her through and the door closed, lock clicking behind them.

“Seems like a tough project,” he said as they started towards the lift. “You handling it?”

“I guess so,” she shrugged, but the nonchalance she was aiming for looked far more like I’m exhausted and I give up. Which, actually, she was, but she didn’t really like the idea of Tony knowing that, too.

“How about I take a look at it tomorrow.” The offer didn’t sound too serious—in fact, he also sounded very I’m exhausted and I give up—but the offer warmed Bea’s cold little heart just a bit.

The lift was slow, as if FRIDAY was running on empty just like the rest of them. Bea certainly was feeling the effects of her sleep deprivation, but sleep wasn’t an option. She was wired—after all, she couldn’t have nightmares if she didn’t sleep. Right?

The lab had become one of her comfort places in the past weeks. It was strange, the space should have reminded her of the cage with its lack of natural light, the artificial lights drowning them, but it didn’t. It was warm and the lights were gentle on her eyes, and even Tony was welcome company.

They stepped out of the elevator and started down the hall.

“Not sure what to do with myself for the next few hours,” Bea sighed tiredly. She ran a rough hand down her face, willing her eyes to stay open.

Tony turned to her with an incredulous look. “You’re gonna get some sleep is what you’re gonna do. Obviously.”

She made a noncommittal sound, shrugging again. “Obviously.”

But sleep hadn’t come easy since Peter left—the nightmares had only gotten more intense, more difficult to decipher, and they always left her in a cold sweat. And her mom … She’d barely had the opportunity to miss her with how often she dreamt of her.

Tony huffed a sigh. “Listen, kid. If you ever need to … talk about it, I’ll listen. And if you don’t wanna talk to me about it, no skin off my nose. I’ll get Pep to find you a real shrink.”

“I’m supposed to be dead, remember?”

“Missing,” Tony corrected. “And Pep’s always good at finding the discreet ones, don’t worry.”

He started towards his room and, before she could even begin to talk herself out of it, she said, “Thanks, Tony.”

He waved a hand over his shoulder. “Get FRIDAY to wake me if you need me. But also, don’t.”

He was joking. At least, she thought he was.

They said their goodnights and Bea retreated to her bedroom. FRIDAY knew the drill and kept the lights low, but bright enough for her to see.

It was a sleepless night, but she had known not to expect much else. She had tossed and turned to the point where she had twisted the sheets from the mattress, and had to remake the whole bed come morning. She made herself shower and dress and eat something small before sitting down to do her work.

Bea needed to be on top of it today, because Peter was coming.

In about five minutes, if the clock ticking away above them was correct. He would’ve finished school at quarter to three, and wouldn’t have wasted any time getting his way to Manhattan. Happy might’ve even picked him up. Either way, he was coming. Soon.

The Tower had been awfully quiet all day, as if everyone was waiting with anxious anticipation like Bea. Tony had collected her only ten minutes ago and walked her down to the conference floor, tapping away on his phone. Better than small talk.

But now she was doing nothing more than twiddling her thumbs, staring at the door as if she could will him to appear. She bounced her leg nervously, unsure what to do with all her energy.

It hadn’t even been a week since she last saw Peter, but even before everything that happened, she never went that long without at least interacting with him. Saying hello on the way to the garbage chute, spotting each other on the train to school. She would sometimes even spot him walking past her bakery in the afternoons, backpack slung over one shoulder, always looking like he had something on his mind.

The room was so quiet her shallow and anxious breaths sounded like a distant hurricane, and so plain that Bea thought she might’ve stumbled into a facility. Of what kind, she wasn’t sure, but someplace with the word Facility in the name. It was all beige, bone, and white, but the view still took her breath away—she could almost pretend she was a bird this high up, with such large windows.

The elevator pinged, and Bea’s heart almost stopped.

In her peripherals, Tony looked up and slipped his phone away into his jacket, and Bea knew this was it. Play it cool, play it—

But then the doors opened, painfully slowly, and Bea had to hold a hand to her mouth to stifle the gasp. She stood and took a tentative step forward as her brain processed the sight. Faces—plural—that she hadn’t seen in months came into view. First Peter, who she had missed more than she thought if the stabbing in her chest was anything to go by; then Ned, who looked exactly how he should; then MJ, who Bea had only ever spoken to in passing; and then … the face that made her tears finally spill.

Celia crossed the room at a sprint and barrelled into Beatrice, holding her tight as her words spilled out like water from a burst main. “I probably shouldn’t be hugging you, I should be asking how you are and if you’re okay and if it’s okay if I hug you but fuck, Bea, I missed you so much, I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“You didn’t see us for two weeks over the holidays and we didn’t get this welcome,” Ned joked as the group made their way over.

Peter said something to Tony, who clapped him on the shoulder and started to the elevator. Bea watched as Bucky also stepped out of the lift, Alpine around his shoulders. She couldn’t hear the brief, apparently terse, conversation between them, but Tony nodded and left, and Bucky took a seat by the window in the far corner.

“Celia clearly just loves me more,” Bea said. Celia released her, wiping her cheeks and laughing, but Bea wasn’t free for long. Ned stepped forward and hugged her tight.

“I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“I’m also glad you’re not dead,” MJ said, hugging her next. The sentiment alone was surprising, but the hug? Nevertheless, Bea hugged MJ back.

And then there was Pete. It was almost funny to Beatrice how averse she had been to touching and physical affection before, but now … She hugged Peter and it felt right. She had missed him terribly, and couldn’t help breathing in his apple-scented shampoo.

“I can’t believe you’re all here,” she said when they stepped away. “I really only thought Peter was gonna be here.”

“Mr Stark organised it. Thought you’d like the company,” Peter said.

The idea surprised her, but then again … Bea had always framed Tony Stark in her mind as a narcissistic billionaire, exactly as the media portrayed him, but she’d really grown to know him in the past few weeks.

Her heart felt more full than it had in weeks.

She took a step back and just admired them all. “Thank you for coming,” she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “Come on, tell me everything. You already know all my stuff, I wanna hear about you guys.”

They sat on the floor, all facing one another, and just chatted. Bea heard all about their new homeroom teacher and the current drama between Betty and Flash—apparently there was a party before the holidays and those two had been victims of spin the bottle. Rumours had been floating around that they were an item now, but Celia and MJ were certain Flash has circulated the rumours himself.

“We’re all very aware of how bullshit rumours can be,” MJ said, meeting Bea’s eye dead on.

Bea rubbed her wrists, thinking back to her night with Spider-Man. “So, you’ve seen.”

“Everyone’s seen,” Ned said.

Celia gave him an incredulous look and hissed, “Ned.”

“What? It’s all over the news, it’s all anyone was talking about yesterday.”

“I know,” said Bea. “It’s … a lot. But nothing. Everyone’s got an opinion, you know.”

Celia reached over and took Bea’s hand.

Peter rubbed the back of his neck, shrugging. “It’s not nothing, but it’s hard. Stark made us sign those huge NDAs, we can’t talk to anyone about anything. Not even each other, really.”

Bea frowned. “They’re not harassing you, are they?”

“Not anymore,” Celia said. “Some paparazzi were waiting for us outside school yesterday, but Mr Stark sent Happy to deal with them.”

“He didn’t say anything about that.”

Ned beamed. “It was so cool, like we were famous.”

“You kind of are,” Bea said, smiling a little.

“No, you kind of are,” he said. “What’s it been like?”

“Ned,” MJ said, matching Celia’s earlier tone. Bea imagined them the whole way here from school, talking about what they could say, what they couldn’t say. What they shouldn’t say. For the first time, Bea realised this wasn’t normal. Her friends were walking on eggshells. For her.

Peter met her eye and she knew in that instant he could see the shift. And then, as if ice water had been doused on her, she remembered. Peter knew more than the others. Peter knew what she was.

Celia’s hand felt hot in her own. Her best friend, who trusted and loved her—Bea hadn’t been honest with her. Even Ned and MJ, who she felt less close to …

If they’re really your friends, if they really love you—then, well … the bad things, whatever they are—they shouldn’t matter.

That’s what Spider-Man had said. He had been under the impression she should tell them. Be open. That choice was taken away pretty fast.

I don’t think it would be such a bad thing if they did know, do you? Peter had said. He had no idea how sick the thought made her, but he was so sure she should tell them. They really care about you, Bea. I think it would be okay.

It would be okay. They care. They wouldn’t be here if they didn’t care.

“Listen,” she started. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to … bring up.” Her heart thundered in her chest. How much worse could her situation get? If she lost her friends now, she wouldn’t be much worse off. Right? “I—”

“We should probably get going,” Peter interrupted, looking anywhere but her. “Last train leaves soon.”

“Didn’t Happy—” Bea started, but Peter shook his head. She frowned at him—he had encouraged her to tell them. He would’ve known exactly what she was going to say, and yet …

Celia checked her watch. “Christ, we’ve been here ages. I have to go too, I’m sorry, Bea.”

“Big plans tonight or something?” Bea said brightly, doing her best to brush it off.

“Dad’s got a meeting tonight and wants me to sit in. Something about taking more responsibility.”

Bea watched Peter bristle, and reminded herself to ask him about it when he visited tomorrow. They all stood and collected their things.

“Oh,” Pete said, turning to Bea as the others readied themselves to leave. His eyes were apologetic—Bea braced herself. “We got this huge school project yesterday, so I won’t be able to come tomorrow for my Internship. It's a ton of work to do, you know what it's like.” She didn’t. “Mr Stark’s already given me the night off, but I thought he might not have mentioned yet. I’m hoping to visit on the weekend, maybe? If you’re free?”

Bea couldn’t have warmed her tone if she were on fire. “I’m always free.”

“Right. I could bring May?”

She softened then—he was trying. He was hiding something, yes, for whatever insane reason, but he was trying. “Okay,” she said, a little softer. “That sounds good.”

He took her hand and squeezed it, but she couldn’t read the look in his eye. He turned and started towards the elevator with MJ and Ned, but Celia dawdled behind.

“You okay?” Bea asked.

Celia put a hand on her arm. “I should be asking you that. Wish we’d had more time to talk today.”

“I know. Miss you heaps, you know.”

Celia hesitated.

“What is it?”

“I’m worried about you.”

Bea laughed. “That seems pretty standard after everything, don’t you think?”

“No, of course I’m worried about you, but I’m … worried. Have you been eating? Sleeping?”

She couldn’t meet Celia’s eye on that one. “I’m fine.”

“You know that never worked before, it won’t work now. I haven’t heard from you since that first night, and I just want to make sure you know that you can call me, text me, about anything. Literally any time.”

You want me to be normal, Bea wanted to say. I love you, but I can’t be that for you.

“I do know,” she said instead, taking Celia’s hand off her arm and squeezing it. “I promise.”

Celia gave her a look, and Bea nodded.

“You’re right, I haven’t been sleeping great, but things are good. Tony—Stark, I mean, he’s helping. Peter’s helping.” She sucked in a breath and shrugged. “You’re helping,” she added. “I’m really fine, I promise.”

“For the record, I don’t believe you, but you sound way better than you did before.”

Bea forced a laugh and said, “I bet.”

Bucky cleared his throat—she'd forgotten he was there. “You kids better head off,” he said and Alpine meowed loudly. “Before it gets dark.”

“Thanks, Bucky,” Bea said as Peter gave him a polite nod, and her friends piled into the elevator. “I wish I could come down with you. Say goodbye properly.”

Tony would probably skin her alive if she dared go down another floor.

“This is a proper goodbye,” Peter assured and MJ gave her a rare smile.

“See you soon, Bea,” Celia said, and Ned waved as the doors closed on them. She heard the mechanical whirring of FRIDAY taking them down to the lobby.

Bea stayed like that for longer than she’d admit, just staring at the closed doors. Bucky didn’t say anything, and she was grateful for it. No small talk, no are you okays—they’d become the bane of her existence. No, he only leaned forward and pressed the button.

They made it back up to the main floor without a word, only Alpine’s quiet, comfortable purring filling the air.

“I’m gonna …” she trailed off, gesturing towards her room. Bucky nodded, and watched her go with a pensive look on his face. Then again, she didn’t know him too well—maybe that was just his face.

And, then again, maybe Peter’s face earlier had just been Peter’s face. Why had he interrupted her? He knew what she was going to say. He knew how important that was. Asshole.

She closed her door behind her and perched at the end of her bed and, hours later, she snapped out of a daydream to find herself in the exact same position. Perched at the end of her bed, cradling her phone and staring into the darkest corner of her room.

They were her friends. She’d had fun. It had been so good to see them. But why couldn’t she move? Why couldn’t she bring herself to even kick her shoes off and crawl under the sheets?

She tapped the screen of her phone. 11:38pm. There was a missed text from Celia.

oh_celia: i’ve just got home and realised that today might’ve been a lot. pls don’t feel like you can’t tell us to give you space if you need it. i have no idea what you’re going through and i want you to be able to talk to me when you need to but ik that’s probably overwhelming. i’ve got your back through this.

The text only grew blurrier the longer she looked at it, until a fat tear fell onto her screen. She wiped it away furiously, pulling up another missed text.

oh_celia: also i forgot to tell you, a duck walked in to school today and it made me think of u. he was just waddling through the halls for most of the day and mr harrington had to chase it out.

Bea laughed as another tear fell. Stupid Celia making her laugh. Always making her laugh.

She typed out a reply.

bumblebea: what would i do without you x

Chapter Text

Beatrice found seventeen errors in the new project Tony had assigned her. Seventeen. And, not to be rude or anything, but weren’t these people supposed to be Stark Industries employees? The best of the best?

Her fingers danced over the keys as she politely outlined each mistake and sent the project back to the engineer. She hadn’t left her laptop all day, refusing to let herself wallow after finally getting to see her closest friends again. Her eyes ached and her head throbbed but she preferred to keep busy. Stop herself from thinking about just how messed up her situation was, and all the awful things that had led her there.

No, work was better.

She was on top of her school work for once in her life, and aching for a new project. The code troubleshooting was interesting and gave her ideas for small side projects she could do, but it was just filler. She missed being able to work with her hands.

Bea closed her laptop and stretched, feeling a few muscles in her back pop with the effort. Surely it was time for a break. She stood and left her room in her usual attire of Stark Industries gear, caring less and less about her appearance with each day, and smiled at Tony as she reached the kitchen.

“She’s alive,” he said with mock surprise, munching on a cold spring roll straight from the container.

“She certainly is,” Bea retorted. “She’s been working her ass off all morning.”

Tony chewed quicker before saying, “You don’t have to shut yourself up in there. Tower’s yours to roam, you can work from anywhere, you know.”

But before Bea could politely turn him down like she was supposed to, because this was just Tony being kind, after all, a flash of red and blue burst into the living room from the balcony. She had practically jumped out of her skin before she recognised the familiar face, but Tony tensed and stayed that way.

“I know you know I have a front door,” he said, his tone cold. He put the takeout container down. “Care to explain?”

Spider-Man was panting, as if he’d just swung across the city. “I need to speak with you in private.”

Tony was quiet for a beat, deliberating whether or not to put the poor kid out of his misery, before nodding and leading Spider-Man towards the elevator.

Bea stepped forward and opened her mouth to say something, but she had no idea what. Worry settled in her chest—Spider-Man was her age, he should have been at school. Was he in danger? Had something happened? He hadn’t even glanced her way yet.

His mask hid a lot, as she knew well, but she prided herself on still being able to read him. The slight upturn of those creepy white eyes when he became thoughtful or was trying to comfort her—he looked this way more often than not, she realised. Other times, it was the downturn of his eyes that gave him a cheeky, mischievous look, or the way they squinted when he was angry or focused. But now his eyes were hard and even, his gaze direct ahead as he followed Tony down the hallway and into the elevator.

Bea trailed close behind and watched as the elevator doors closed on the two heroes. Spider-Man’s big white eyes met hers at the last moment, and softened.

Inside the elevator, Mr Stark was silent and Peter knew he was in for it. True, he should have been at school, and true, he should have used the front door, and true, he wasn’t supposed to know anything more about Bea’s case than he was supposed to, but what did Stark really expect? Was Peter supposed to sit around and do nothing while one of his best friends suffered?

Not that Bea needed him like that. She was doing better, he could tell that much. They’d really surprised her with their visit yesterday—Mr Stark had texted him afterwards to say that Bea had been in a really good mood, she’d even joined them for dinner.

Peter was sweating in the suit by the time the doors opened—he hadn’t thought of a single thing he could say to defend himself, his brain was still whirring from the intel he’d just acquired.

Mr Stark stepped out first and Peter dutifully followed, turning corners and bends until reaching an empty office. “FRIDAY, secure the room,” he said and the AI got to work. He turned to Peter. “Is it Beck?”

Peter nodded. “And Cross.”

“FRIDAY, get Rogers down here for me. Nat, too.”

“They’re on their way, Boss.”

Mr Stark turned on him now. “While we wait, d’you mind telling me what the hell you’re thinking? You’re supposed to be at school, we had a deal. And I had to hear it from FRIDAY that you skipped your Physics pop quiz? I was going to let you off the hook after the last few weeks, but you’re out there doing this?”

Peter pulled his mask off, red-faced and sweaty, his hair sticking up all over the place. “Mr Stark, I’m sorry—”

“As you should be. I have a right mind to confiscate that suit. I thought you were more responsible than this, I thought I could trust you with this.”

“You can,” Peter argued, voice almost pleading. “But I can’t just sit in a classroom when I know what’s happening out there. Bea, she’s … She looks like she’s fine and she talks like she’s fine, and she really does seem better, but she’s so not fine.”

“You’re telling me.”

Peter nodded. “And I don’t know how to just sit by and not help when she’s going through all that. When you can do the things that I can, but you don’t …” he trailed off, and Stark nodded as if he understood.

The door opened to reveal Captain Rogers and Ms Romanoff, looking stern and serious. The Captain nodded once in his direction as the door closed again behind them.

“We’re not even close to finished,” Stark said, jutting a stern finger at him before turning to the others. “Go on, kid. Spill the beans.”

So he did. He explained it all, even the parts he should’ve left out, like the way he’d stuck himself to the side of that semi-trailer to keep Karen within range, so he could hear every last word. And the part where they noticed him and started shooting.

If looks could kill, Mr Stark would’ve ended Peter seven times before he finished explaining everything, but there was no way he was going to leave out a single detail—not with what Cross and Beck had planned for Bea. He would walk barefoot through a forest fire if it meant protecting her.

And despite some of the details making his skin crawl, Stark set straight into motion, looking directly to Captain Rogers and Natasha. “Go, and take Barton with you. Scope the area, confirm Pete’s information, but I’m telling you, don’t engage. Intel only. We don’t want to scare the guy off, or have to clean your guts off the floor.”

“Loud and clear,” Steve agreed. “We’ll leave immediately, we’ll take the quinjet, keep the team small. I’ll see if Bucky’s up for a bit of travel.”

A muscle in Stark’s jaw flickered.

“We’re not taking any chances here, but Tony,” Rogers implored. “It took us far too long to track Cross down in the first place, and this is the first we’ve seen of him since then. This may be a trap, a ruse to get Page into the open, so going after him like this is only going to confirm that she’s with us. We know he’s smart and we know he’s determined, right? What we need is a plan of attack for when we do eventually take this guy down.”

Stark nodded, solemn and serious, and said, “I’ll figure that out. Go.”

Rogers and Romanoff hurried out the door, the Captain with a finger to his comms asking for Bucky. That was his cue—Peter pulled his mask back over his face and started to leave, but Stark stopped him and yanked his mask right back off.

“Not so fast. Give me one good reason I should let you keep this suit.”

Once upon a time, Peter would’ve argued that he was nothing without the suit. And that may have been true, once upon a time. But instead, he said, “Because I’d just do it anyway, and I’d be in way more danger without it.”

Stark looked like he wanted to burn the suit, but Peter knew he understood. Peter was Spider-Man, with or without the tech.

“We had a deal, kid.”

“I know, Mr Stark, and I’m sorry, but these guys, they can’t get away with—”

“They’re not getting away with anything. You don’t need me to tell you how invaluable this intel is, but we have a team of agents out there who are probably going to walk in within the hour and deliver that exact same information. You’re sixteen, this part isn’t your job. Your job is to go to school so your Aunt doesn’t castrate me.”

“Yes, sir,” Peter said politely.

“Go on,” he said, tossing the mask back at the boy who yanked it on. “Back to school.”

Peter hesitated. “They think I’m home sick.”

"Then go home.”

He hesitated again. “May thinks I’m at school.”

“Yeah, well, not anymore,” Stark said, and gave his phone a little wiggle in the air. “Texted her when you got here so she'd know you were safe. You know, part of our deal.”

Peter cast his eyes down in shame and nodded. “Right.”

“Bet she’s got some choice words for you. Head on home, I’ll let her know you’re on your way.”

“Thanks, Mr Stark.”

“Want Happy to drive you? He’s around here somewhere.”

“No,” Peter said, “I’ll swing.”

He left Stark alone in the office, hurrying towards the nearest open window. Despite the trouble that waited for him at home, he’d managed to dodge at least one bullet—Beatrice.

How could he look her in the eyes with everything that’s happening? Every Avenger and their dog had been hounding him about telling Bea, why haven’t you told her, when are you going to tell her—there was just never the right moment. Stark, especially, had been on his case, but Peter knew that he wouldn’t out him. Surely not.

He just had far too much on his plate right now, between Cross and Beck, Stark and Bea, Celia … No, it could wait.

The window was large and he fit through easily, and started the swing home to Aunt May.

Upstairs, Bea was pacing. She’d considered making herself some lunch earlier, but after seeing Spider-Man in the state he was in, she felt far too sick with worry. It looked serious. It looked like something was wrong, or something had happened, or something—

Tony Stark appeared in the hallway, sauntering back from the elevator.

“What happened?” Bea asked before he could say anything.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” he assured her. He spotted his Chinese takeout and resumed his position, lounging against the counter eating cold spring rolls. “Just the Spiderling having a rough day.”

Bea’s eyes hardened. “All things considered, you’re a pretty good liar.”

“Why would I need to lie?”

“To protect me.”

“Ah, but you don’t need protecting, remember?”

“I know that, but you seem to think differently. So what happened?”

Stark gave a tremendous sigh and shook his head as if working out where to start—so Bea started for him.

“Spider-Man said you know more about Cross than you’re telling me. No leads, nothing confirmed, I know, but you have some ideas and you’re not sharing them. If things are escalating—don’t deny it—I can’t just be sitting around here waiting for it to happen. I want to start training.”

He set the container down and gave her a look, one that said we’re really going to have this conversation now? But Bea refused to let up. She stood her ground until he shook his head and said, “You’re still recovering.”

“You can’t throw that in my face every time we have this conversation.”

“Kid, the bottom line is you’re not ready.”

“I am—”

Tony held out a hand and started counting. “You refuse to sleep, then when you do sleep, you wake up screaming. I don’t think I’ve seen you eat a proper meal since you arrived. You shut yourself away at every opportunity and drown yourself in work. When was the last time you showered? Washed your hair? Beatrice, you flinch at loud noises, and then some noises in particular practically make you shit your pants.”

He noticed. Of course he noticed. Bea’s mind flickered back to the night after her fever broke, when Tony had been working on his suit. What she’d failed to realise was he hadn’t touched his suit since.

“You really want me to throw you into the sparring ring? You really want to start testing your limits?”

He’d hit the mark on every single one, but Bea wasn’t stupid. She knew all this, she knew he was right, but that didn’t change what was happening. Her face burned with humiliation but she didn’t dare look away. Her voice was barely above a whisper when she said, “I can’t bear the thought of going back to the cage.”

“You never will.”

He’d said it plenty of times, and Bea had heard it plenty of times, but there was no guarantee. No way Tony could actually make that promise and ever be able to keep it if Cross decided otherwise. He’d had managed to crawl under all their noses and turn Bea’s life into a game with two bullets and a Dampener.

She took a deep, steadying breath. “The only thing that’s going to make me feel like that statement is even remotely true is training. If I can defend myself, I can make sure I’m safe.”

Tony was quiet then, arms crossed over his chest. Deliberating.

“Okay.”

“What?”

“Don’t make me take it back.”

“N—No, of course—”

“I have conditions.”

Bea nodded, listening intently.

“Banner checks you over first. If he says you’re healthy, then fine, but we start small and only if Banner gives the okay.”

Bea brightened, but he held a hand up to stop her.

“If we do this, some things are gonna have to change. I’m talking three meals a day, and a minimum eight hours’ sleep.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Those are my terms.” He shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”

Three meals a day sounded exhausting, and damn time-consuming, at that. And eight hours’ sleep? Eight whole hours subjecting herself to pure, mindless torture for the sake of what, her well-being? As if that would improve it.

But those were his terms. His only terms, and Bea would be damned if she didn’t count her lucky stars on that front.

“Fine,” she said. “Fine, agreed. When can I see Dr Banner?”

Tony smiled then, but it wasn’t triumphant like she expected. He seemed … glad. “I’ll get him to come by tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Life at the Tower had become unexpectedly boring.

Still lively enough with Avengers coming and going as they pleased, but most of the time the main floor was calm and quiet.

Bea took Tony’s advice and left her room early that morning to work at the dining table in the warm sunshine. She had slept a record five hours straight last night, and felt hopeful about the days to come. Tony was going to let her train. Of course, as long as Banner said yes, but he would. Beatrice was fine.

Peter, though—Bea worried he was less than fine.

bumblebea: i haven’t heard from him since u lot visited wednesday

oh_celia: hes been super busy w school. idk why he overcommits himself like that but ig that’s just him

bumblebea: does he seem ok to you??

oh_celia: i meannn

oh_celia: he’s been acting weird for ages but i thought it was ab you?? it still might be but he seem so preoccupied all the time. i’ve tried talking to him in class n stuff but he just brushes me off.

oh_celia: idk girl it’s been so shit without you here, nothing is the same and i hate it

Beatrice didn’t know how to respond to that, so she didn’t. Was Peter mad at her? If he was, why give Celia the silent treatment too? Even Wednesday had been weird, if she really thought about it. Between him and Spider-Man, the general consensus was that she should tell her friends her Big Terrible Secret, but he’d stopped her. Why had he stopped her?

She slammed her laptop closed and left it and her phone at the dining table as she started towards the elevator. Work seemed impossible with so much doubt rolling around her mind, and there was only one person around she felt comfortable talking to.

Even that was strange—Tony was a comfort.

Holograms littered the room when she walked in, and she found him in the eye of it all. She almost felt guilty for interrupting him, but he greeted her as kindly as ever.

“Take a look at this and tell me what you see,” he said, pointing at something wiggly about a foot above his head.

She approached, dodging the blue light objects even though she fizzled right through them. Upon closer inspection, the something wiggly was still … something wiggly. “That’s something wiggly, for sure.”

“Hazard a guess,” he said, waving a hand.

She looked closer. The cluster at the centre might have resembled something like a nucleus, and bright lights orbited it in every direction, almost like electrons. She hadn’t seen anything like it before, but said anyway, “Maybe an atom?”

“But?”

“But it looks more mechanical. Like it’s thinking, but like … it’s been created.”

He nodded thoughtfully before wiping his hand through the air. The atom disappeared with the rest of the holos. He crossed his arms over his chest and turned to Bea. “What’s up?”

“Why does something have to be up?”

“Something’s always up.”

“Excuse me, I pride myself on being extremely low-maintenance.”

He scoffed. “Yeah, well, that’s not always a good thing.”

Bea clicked her tongue and started to turn away, but he stopped her.

“So tetchy. Come on, I gotta know now.”

She matched his stance, crossing her arms, and sighed. “I’m worried about Peter.”

He quirked a brow.

“I haven’t heard from him since Wednesday. That might not be weird for you, but I think it’s weird. I asked Celia, too, and she said he’s being distant at school. I think something’s going on.”

Tony hesitated. “Has he told you about his internship yet?”

“I know he has an internship.” Bea frowned. “What about it?”

A look of understanding crossed his face and he nodded. “He works pretty closely with the Spider-Kid on his suit, and he spends most of his afternoons here are the Tower. Well, he did. Before.”

“Right.” Bea desperately wanted to know why, or even how a kid like Peter managed to land a role like that, but Tony seemed to be on a different tangent. “I’m aware. They’re friends, I think that was why Spider-Man stuck around me so much after he was stabbed.”

“After he what?”

“He fell through my bedroom window, bleeding like anything. This was ages ago now, but he repaid the favour when I was robbed.”

“When you what?”

“Surely he told you all this.”

“Evidently he didn’t.”

Bea sighed. “This isn’t relevant. What does his internship have to do with him acting weird?”

Tony dragged a hand down his face, and Bea knew he was going to have words with Spider-Man next time he swung by. “Spider-Man might have a lead on your case, it’s why he was here yesterday.”

Her jaw dropped. “That’s why? You told me it wasn’t important!”

“No, what I said was you didn’t have to worry about it.”

“Pig.”

“You’re welcome. Steve took a small team out yesterday to investigate, who knows when we’ll hear anything. Didn’t want you fretting like you do.”

Beatrice had so many words for Tony Stark. So many. But she knew she’d regret every single one, so instead she said, “So you’re saying that Peter is acting weird because Spider-Man’s looking into Cross?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “More or less.”

“That really clears things up.”

Tony shrugged and started towards his desk. “Spider-Man might’ve shared some things with him. He’s probably just trying to take it all in, give him time.”

“I can’t possibly imagine what he’s going through,” Bea spat, but the words tasted foul in her mouth. Tony’s pointed look only made her feel worse. “I didn’t mean that. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. If you want answers from him, you’ll have to ask him is all I’m saying.”

Bea shrank a little. “Uh,” she started. “Speaking of being a heinous bitch …”

“Officially the best segue I’ve ever heard in my life, do go on.”

“Yeah, well. I wanted to say thank you for the visit. I was expecting only Peter, but he said you organised for everyone to be there, and that meant a lot to me. I forgot to say thank you, and that’s rude, so … Thanks. Really.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” he said. He found a screwdriver—an 0.8 hex, one of his favourites, she’d noticed—and begun twirling it in his hands. “Heard somewhere that socialisation is important in babies, figured the same would apply for young children such as yourself.”

“Don’t make me take it back.” She grimaced at herself. “Sorry, shit. I need to reign in the fucking attitude, my God. My … Well, you know. I know you know. My behaviour over the last couple of weeks hasn’t been great, and I know I might have every excuse under the sun for it, but it needs to be said. You’ve brought me into your home. You’ve housed me and fed me and made sure I’m healthy and happy, you’ve even got me doing extracurriculars, and I’ve been mostly rude, and ungrateful, and withdrawn—”

“And stubborn, and impatient, and argumentative,” he filled, counting them off on his hand with the screwdriver.

“I think we both get the point.” He nodded agreeably for her to go on. “Anyway, what I mean to say is, I should have been kinder. I should be kinder.”

“Nah, stop that. God forbid you have a personality,” he said with a scoff. “I think I’d rip my hair out if you were just nice all the time.”

Bea was taken aback, to say the very least. “Right. Okay, well …”

“How are you finding your workload?”

She was grateful for the change of subject, but was still a bit befuddled. “I mean, fine. School work is easy, I’m keeping on top of it. I really like working on those R&D projects you’re assigning, they’re great. But, I think …”

“Hm?”

“I’m a little bored.”

He barked a laugh. “Bored?”

“Not in a bad way!” she assured. “It’s just, without having classes or a schedule, I can get my school stuff done within a few hours, and reviewing code doesn’t take all that long. I know I’m starting training soon—”

“As long as Banner says yes.”

“—Yes, of course, but I just … I want to build something. Make something with my hands. Do you know what I mean?”

“You and Pete are two peas in a pod, I give you triple the work and you ask for more. I’ve got just the thing, though.”

He dropped his screwdriver and crossed the room, giving FRIDAY a series of commands with letters and numbers and obscure acronyms that Bea didn’t understand, until a portion of the wall emerged. Inside was a heavily twisted chunk of metal that almost looked as if it used to be an Iron Man suit.

“Lovely,” Bea said, scrunching her nose at it. She could see scorch marks, tyre marks, indents and lacerations across the metal. “What is it?”

He started picking at the metal chunk, and Bea found it was actually several small chunks. DUM-E wheeled a table over and Tony began to methodically place the pieces in order. Bea’s heart stammered in her chest as she realised she was right. It was an Iron Man suit.

“Bit beat up, but not beyond repair. You’re welcome to work on it, see if you can get it functioning again. Was gonna save it for a rainy day, but we don’t seem to have many of those anymore. Plus, it freaks me out a little. That was a rough day.”

Bea looked between the suit and the man standing above it. Back and forth again, as if her brain was physically trying to shift the pieces together. “You were in that? What the hell happened?”

“You want the suit or not?”

She honestly had no idea. The suit would be the perfect project, but was it a pathway to something Bea wasn’t quite ready for? She could still hear repulsors in her nightmares, still watched that iron arm lift and aim until she woke in a frantic sweat.

Then again, maybe this was exactly what she needed. Exposure therapy, right? She tried to mask the fear and uncertainty that was definitely showing on her face as she said, “Yeah. Okay.”

He gave her a knowing look. “I can find something else if you’re not—”

“No, this is perfect.” She gave a determined nod. “Thanks.”

“Right,” he said slowly, but he rolled the table to her corner regardless. “While we’re on the topic, how d’you feel about having access to the R&D database? I reviewed your work, it’s great. If you want more to do, I can open that up.”

Now this, Bea could be sure of. “Yes, please,” she said eagerly.

“FRIDAY, Maria Morgan’s trial period is done, could you set her up for open access to R&D.”

“Yes, Boss. Maria Morgan will receive information and further instruction shortly.”

As the words were spoken, Bea’s phone buzzed in her pocket with an email addressed to Ms Morgan. “Cool.”

“You know the drill. You don’t make contact with staff, they submit their projects to you. You can accept or deny, I don’t mind, just don’t go overboard. Actually, while we’re here … Friday, let’s cap Maria at three projects a week.”

“Got it, Boss.”

“Come on,” Bea whined. “Three?”

“If you’re bored, you’ve got a suit to fix. And you’ll be training with Sam, remember?”

Bea rolled her eyes. “As long as Banner says yes.”

“S’right.”

“And, when is that exactly?”

“Dr Banner will be arriving at the Tower shortly. He has requested you meet him in the Medical Bay.”

Tony clapped his hands. “Now, looks like. You ready?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, giving one last look to the dilapidated Iron Man suit in her corner. “Right, let’s go.”

They chatted as they walked, Bea following Tony’s lead the entire way, and she realised just how lovely it was to talk about the mundane things. Things other than her father, her powers, her problems, her feelings. Even with the others, there had always been some twisted underlying psychological assessment happening, and despite the fact that they were literally walking into a psychological and physical assessment, it was lovely.

“When is Pepper coming back?” she asked.

“Not for another couple of weeks. She’s done with LA, but something’s come up at our London branch, so she’ll be international for a bit. Why d’you ask?”

“Oh, no reason,” she said. “She’s good company, is all.”

“You wound me.”

“You’ll live.”

He stopped her with a hand on her arm, and she thought for a moment he was angry with her. She was being rude again and he’d had enough, she expected him to yell or tell her to pull her head in, her brain even leapt to the possibility of him striking her.

But nothing of the sort came. He only gestured to the door she’d been about to pass, with MEDICAL on the front. She hadn’t been around these parts of the Tower since she’d arrived. The memory sent ice trailing down her spine.

“It’s not the same room,” she remarked as they entered to find a rather neat office, nothing like the hospital room she’d spent so much time in.

“There’s a few rooms, lots of offices but more recovery rooms. But you’d be surprised how often we don’t use them.”

“Because you’re so amazing at Avenging or because you’re stubborn idiots who insist they’ll be fine?”

“Bit of both.”

Banner wasn’t too far behind them, but still apologised for making them wait when he arrived. “Traffic was crazy,” he said, dropping a couple of files on his desk. “Thanks, Tony.”

“No sweat,” he said, before looking towards Bea. “Good luck kid, see you upstairs.”

You’re leaving? Her mind cried, but then—of course he’s leaving. He’s not your dad.

“Yeah,” she said. “Okay.” And he left.

She couldn’t help thinking of the last time she saw Bruce. She’d been off her head with her dumb trauma fever and had probably said so many stupid things. But, like everyone, he’d been painfully kind to her.

“How are you finding things? I was glad to hear you recovered quickly from your fever. Sorry I couldn’t stick around, I needed to get back to the Compound.”

“Yeah, that’s okay. Fine, things are fine. Feeling good.”

“Tony says you want to start training.”

The statement was a question, but Bea was sure it was disguised as a trap. “Yes,” she said. “He said I could try some self-defence, as long as you say I’m up for it.”

“Are you?” he asked.

“What?”

“Up for it.”

She shrugged. “I don’t see why not. Physically, I’m fine. Injuries are hard to come by when you have healing magic,” she joked, but the humour wasn’t there. “And Tony’s been really helpful with keeping me busy.”

“With what?”

“FRIDAY’s got me doing school work, and when I finish that, I do some code troubleshooting for the R&D department downstairs because Tony set me up with an alias, and I’m talking to my friends lots and, well … Just generally keeping busy.”

He paused. “Do you think busy is what you need right now?”

Bea didn’t have an answer for him.

“I’m just worried that you’re internalising everything that’s happened. Staying busy is a great coping mechanism and you’ve made incredible progress since you arrived, but I’ll be honest, I don’t think it’ll help you in the long term.”

She shifted uncomfortably. “I talk to Tony about it sometimes.”

“That's good to hear, but he isn’t always the best listener, and I think there are things you’re still not comfortable telling us, things we don’t know about your time in the cage. Now, I’m not a medical doctor and I’m not a therapist, but I saw the state you were in. I just want to make sure you’re not punishing yourself, or filling your days so you don’t have to think about it all.”

“I appreciate your concern, but … Hang on, you’re not a medical doctor? You have seven PhD’s, surely one of them …?”

“Unfortunately not. Had to learn, though, because everyone around here seems to think I’m the height of medical knowledge. It was for their own safety, the idiots.”

Despite herself, Bea smiled. “The thing is, I do want to train to keep my mind off it all, but I also think training will help me work through it a bit. I told Tony I wanted to know how to defend myself if I ever needed it.”

“If you ever ended up back there, you mean?”

She nodded. “Tony’s adamant that I won’t, that I’m safe, but as long as Cross is out there looking for me, there’s still the slight chance. I’d just … I’d feel safer if I could protect me, too.”

Banner listened intently, deep in thought, before nodding. “I see where you’re coming from, and I agree. Training would be a good idea. Let’s run some tests to make sure we’ve covered all our bases, but we could probably get you started by Monday. How does that sound?”

Relief flooded through Bea, at the idea of finally getting somewhere. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Monday sounds perfect.”

Chapter Text

Working with Tony had been a strange new dynamic. Once upon a time, Bea would’ve given anything to be like Tony Stark. Nowadays, if she planned her day just right, she’d be as close as it got—she’d take her coffee in the lab, skip meals and stay up for days on end, and she’d practically have grown her own goatee.

But on days like today, days that began with ’S’, Bea couldn’t pretend. The weekend was sacred, she had learned—FRIDAY had refused to assign her any work and Tony hadn’t been in the lab all morning, which meant neither could Bea.

She was yet to even leave her bed.

Sleep was just out of reach, which she’d come to expect after so many weeks, but she allowed herself to lay there, staring at the ceiling. Her mind was blissfully blank for the first time in days—Bruce probably would have called it dissociation, but whatever it was, it held her like a swaddled baby, warm and familiar.

There used to be days on end at home with Walter, usually during breaks in the school year, where she was stuck inside and could do nothing but stare at her ceiling. Leaving would have meant facing Walter and whatever mood he was in, facing her mother and her inability to prevent the worst.

Her mother.

Bea’s head tilted towards the bathroom. She still couldn’t bring herself to use the shampoo or conditioner—the most she’d done was rinse her hair with water, and her scalp was beginning to pay for it.

Guilt swam in her gut. Her mother’s life had been too short, too full of terrible things. The least Bea could do was remember her kindly.

She stayed that way for what seemed like hours, studying every detail of her room, thinking of Tony and Peter and Spider-Man and Celia, trying to remember the route from home to school, if only to avoid thinking of anything else.

Maybe Bruce had been right, but then again—it was a coping mechanism. Surely a bad one was better than none at all. And maybe this was just her way of recovering. Nothing else about her was ordinary, why would this be? Not to mention, no two people could ever react the same way to something, so who was he to dictate whether she was processing the right way?

Christ, she needed a break.

She wasn’t even doing anything, but her brain was moving a mile a minute. The constant barrage of thoughts, the back and forth—it was enough.

Without taking a moment to reconsider, she hauled herself out of bed and out the door. Tony was waiting for her in the kitchen and greeted her with a cup of coffee.

“Good morning,” Bea said, taking the mug. She took a long sip and relished in the rich taste of real espresso.

“I think you’ll find it’s about noon.”

“Good noon, then.”

A chuckle came from the dining table, where three familiar faces sat. “I see you’re no more of a morning person than you were last time I saw you,” said Rhodey, who was sitting with his feet up on the chair across from him, also cradling a cup of something steaming. Sam and Bruce were beside him, looking as if they had been mid-conversation.

“Not a noon person either, apparently,” she said as she joined them. Rhodey put his feet down and Bea took a seat, Tony following suit.

“Our resident geniuses were just telling me about our new training regime,” Sam said. “I’m trying to reassure myself that you picked me outta this lot because I’m the coolest.”

“Oh, definitely,” Bea said, hiding a little behind her mug. “The coolest and the strongest, by far.”

Rhodey’s face scrunched as he began to cough, but Bea was certain she heard him say, “Scott.” Sam must have, too, because if looks could kill, Rhodey would have been with the angels.

“That’s low, man.”

“What? I was coughing, am I not allowed to cough?”

“Mhm, sure. You better watch your back.”

Bruce was fighting a grin and losing, but clapped his hands onto his knees and gave a perfunctory, “Well, then.”

Tony arched a brow. “You’re off?”

“Yeah, heading back to the Compound. I have classes coming up, should probably sort myself out.”

Bea piqued. “You teach?”

“When I get the chance,” he said. “And no, my classes aren’t all as boring as your field trip lecture.”

Her cheeks burned. “You weren’t boring.”

“I appreciate that,” he said, but she could tell he knew she was being polite. He wrung his hands as he stood. “Anyway, I’ll be off. Gentlemen, it’s been great, and Beatrice, it was a pleasure. I hope to have you visit the Compound one day.”

Bea gave a tight-lipped smile as they all said their goodbyes.

“This is literally the first weekend I’ve had off in years,” Sam said, stretching. “How are we spending it?”

Tony shrugged. “Thought maybe a movie. The kid’s staying for dinner, he’s bringing his aunt, it’ll be a whole thing. No idea what time that’ll be.”

“Peter’s coming?” Bea said, a little too enthusiastically.

He frowned. “Pete didn’t tell you?”

Her brain scanned back, and hit the visit from Wednesday. “He said maybe. I haven’t actually heard from him since Wednesday.”

Rhodey gave a low whistle. “Trouble in paradise?”

It was almost comedic how quickly both Bea and Tony shot Rhodey identical looks of disdain. “I’ve got a bone to pick with him,” she said coldly, finishing the last of her coffee. “Actually, bones.”

She had questions, and Peter was damn sure going to answer them.

“Yikes,” Sam muttered.

“Oh,” said Rhodey, as if he’d connected the dots. “As in—”

But Tony shook his head before Rhodey could finish.

“Right. Yeah, okay,” Rhodey said slowly, frowning. “Look, we’re gonna stay out of your way.” He glanced at Sam. “A drive sound good to you?”

“Yeah, I need groceries. Now?”

They made their plan as they stood, gave Beatrice a wide berth, rinsed their dishes and disappeared down the hall to the elevator.

Bea turned to Tony, who had stood and was starting towards the kitchen. “What was that about, then?”

He shrugged and made a noncommittal noise that sounded something like how am I supposed to know? “You up for a movie? Looks like it’s just us.”

“Well, I was going to catch an afternoon flight to Florida and spend my weekend at Disney, but I guess I could cancel. A movie sounds fun.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.”

“Sure it doesn’t.”

Beatrice’s contribution to cleaning up was rinsing her mug and placing it on the top rack of the dishwasher, before she joined Tony in front of the TV. The best part of it being just them was that they each had an entire sofa to themselves.

“What are we watching?” Tony asked, flicking through one streaming platform or another.

Bea hesitated, before easing in with, “So, super weird request …”

“Shoot.”

“Back to the Future.”

Tony groaned.

“Don’t you dare, it’s a classic! Come on, it was so boring in the cage, all I could think about was being home and watching the entire trilogy.”

He squinted his eyes at her. “Are you trying to guilt-trip me right now?”

“Uh,” she said, clicking her tongue. “Dunno, is it working?”

“No.”

But she watched as he keyed the title in anyway and hit start on the first film.

Two and a half hours later, the second movie had unfortunately auto-played, Bea was scrolling through her fake Instagram, and Tony was snoring lightly on his sofa.

Not for the first time, Bea couldn’t help thinking how easy it would be to kill him like this. He was home, he trusted her, and his defences were down—nothing at all like the cage. And she knew for a fact that what happened in the cage was not reality and this was, but she found a strange comfort in knowing she could take him down like this. Real or not, Iron Man had been a tough fight most of the time, but Tony Stark seemed like easy prey.

Just as her thoughts dipped even darker than she’d expected, she heard the gentle hum of the elevator doors opening. Bea sat up, ready to tell Sam and Rhodey that Tony was asleep, but then she saw his face.

“Hey,” Peter said, smiling broadly. Beatrice did not smile back.

Tony stirred a little and Peter startled, realising his mistake and proceeding a little quieter.

“What’cha watching?” he whispered, leaning on the back of her sofa.

“Back to the Future.” Bea felt a pleasant sense of satisfaction at her icy tone.

Peter didn’t notice. “Which one?”

“Two.”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s the worst one.”

“I was trying to get through all three,” she defended quietly. “You interrupted.”

“Nice excuse, Miss I-have-bad-taste-in-movies.”

“I’m not talking about Marty McFly.”

His expression shifted then into something like understanding. “Right. I … I can explain.”

“I’m all ears.”

Tony let out a loud snore then, and Peter jumped. “Can we do this somewhere I’m not gonna get castrated by you and Mr Stark?”

Bea shot him a vaguely threatening look before reluctantly standing and leading Peter to her room. “Sit,” she instructed, and he quickly sat down at her desk.

“Listen,” he started, but Bea stopped him.

“No, you listen. You have a lot of explaining to do.” Bea almost felt bad at how stricken Peter looked. “Wednesday is a whole can of worms on its own, but then I don’t hear from you? Celia says you’re acting weird at school, and I swear if it’s anything to do with Spider-Man I’m gonna rip my hair out.”

Peter looked confused. “Spider-Man?”

“Tony said you guys work together sometimes.”

“Did he.”

“He dropped by on Thursday, apparently had some information about Cross. That’s not fair, he shouldn’t be dragging you into this.” Bea shook her head. “We’re the enhanced ones, you’re just …” She met his gaze and blushed. “Sorry, I don’t know why that sounded so mean. I just meant …”

“I know what you meant,” he reassured, standing now to meet her eye level. “I promise, nothing like that is going on. Celia’s been super busy and so have I, I actually haven’t had a chance to talk to her either, not since Wednesday. As for Cross, I only know as much as Spider-Man does, and I don’t think that’s a lot. Mr Stark is doing a good job of keeping it all under wraps.”

“Okay,” Bea said, nodding. “Good. What the fuck was Wednesday, then?”

Peter’s face turned expressionless, and he avoided her gaze. “Wednesday.”

“Peter, you told me weeks ago that you thought it wouldn’t be such a bad idea if I told them about me. Your bestie Spider-Man even agreed, but then when I actually muster up the courage to finally say it, you cut me off. Totally. You knew what I was going to say and you interrupted me. Explain that.”

“Yeah, okay, I might have overshot before. I can’t explain.”

Bea scoffed.

“Not yet, at least. Bea, trust me on this, I had a good reason, I just can’t tell you.”

She threw her hands into the are defeatedly. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Bea, listen. Spider-Man, he has this thing, right? He’s got this sixth sense thing—”

“You’re gonna tell me he sees dead people?” she deadpanned.

“No, he’s got this—God, I don’t know what to call it. Kind of like intuition, like when you get a tingle when something’s not right?”

He sounded desperate now, and Bea almost felt sorry for him. “A tingle?”

“Tingle’s not the best word.”

“A spider tingle.”

“A hunch, let’s call it.”

She shrugged. “What’s causing the tingle?”

“Bea, I swear—no, okay. So Spider-Man has a hunch about Cross. He’s got a feeling that someone is involved who shouldn’t be involved, but he doesn’t have any proof yet, so you can’t tell Mr Stark. Spider-Man shouldn’t even be on this, but he feels pretty strongly about it. He’s just … He’s not there yet. He needs more time.”

The information was processing at a remarkably slow rate. Bea couldn’t wrap her head around it. “Okay, but what has that got to do with Wednesday?”

Peter pulled a face. “He said it might be safer for now if we didn’t tell anyone else about you.”

“Literally all the Avengers know. You know. Spider-Man knows.”

“Spider-Man’s an Avenger,” Peter asserted quietly, and Bea shot him a look that said not the point. “I get what you mean, but the Avengers are safe, they’ve done this before. I’m not saying I don’t trust Ned and MJ and Celia, but until he figures out whatever this tingle is—”

“Tingle, it works, right?”

“—Bea, we have to keep you safe.”

“I know that. And I appreciate it, but what I don’t appreciate is my best friend lying to me then ghosting me.”

His eyes swam with something like apology, and a bit of disgust. Not at her, because there was also a softness there, as if he were keeping something from her much bigger than she could ever imagine.

And she was a hypocrite if she could judge him for that. Best friend. Truly pathetic, but how could she ever begin to go there? After everything that had happened, Peter had been by her side. She didn’t dream when he was around, she didn’t feel the awful tightness in her insides like the world was trying to claw its way out of her. She trusted him, implicitly, and she really l—

No, it was too soon for that.

Worst of all, what if he didn’t feel the same way? What if the way she felt was just a manifestation of all the horrible things that had happened? He probably felt sorry for her. Probably regretted ever inviting her over that day, rekindling their friendship. Whole lot of good that did for him, it’s landed him babysitting an infatuated, traumatised freak—

“Bea,” Peter said, brushing his hand over hers. The friction shocked her from her thoughts and brought her back to Peter’s soft, complicated gaze. “Look, we should probably head back out there. Mr Stark won’t sleep forever, and Aunt May’s coming by later for dinner.”

“It’ll be good to see her,” Bea agreed.

Neither made a move to leave.

“Plus,” Bea said, taking a large breath and a small step back. “Back to the Future II is probably nearly over. We can start three if you like?”

Peter stopped her with a hand on her wrist. “Bea, wait. I … I just wanted to say, I’m really sorry about Wednesday. And everything else, I know how hard it’s been. But I’m not sorry about all of it. You’re the best person I know.”

Her heart ached with the guilt of it. “Peter—”

“What you went through was awful, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, but knowing you’re here in the Tower? That you’re safe? I’m not sorry for that.”

Bea didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t lied to him about what happened, but she’d kept the truth from him. Peter didn’t know all the horrible things she did, and Bea wasn’t sure she could ever tell him.

He would hate her if he knew.

“I hope …” he started tentatively, looking down as he intertwined their fingers. “Bea, whatever happened wasn’t your fault. Whatever you did, you did it to survive. I hope one day you’ll trust me with it.”

Bea couldn’t find her words. Instead, she nodded, plastered a smile on her face and let them return to the living room where Tony had woken and was scrolling through his phone, bleary-eyed, as the Back to the Future II credits rolled. Greetings and conversations and sarcastic quips were shared, but Bea was stuck. She was imagining the look on Peter’s face if she ever did tell him what happened, how brutal she had been, how uncaring and cold. The things she’d done to one of the most influential people in his life.

He’d hate her. He would, and she knew now more than anything that no matter how she felt about him, she could never tell him about the cage.

Chapter Text

Blinding white light tore her from her sleep, and after three excruciatingly long seconds of grappling memories of waking in the cage, Beatrice realised three things in rather slow and bleary succession:

1. She had slept. All night.

Maybe not the eight hours Tony had asked of her, but way longer than she ever had at the Tower. Dinner with Peter and May last night had lasted hours longer than anyone had expected, talking and laughing until the late hours of the night.

Bea had worried herself silly after her conversation with Peter that May would see her differently, would treat her differently after everything that had happened, but she couldn’t have been more normal. May spent several long minutes fussing over Bea, saying all the things you’re apparently supposed to say to someone after being kidnapped and tortured: how are you? and you’re looking so well, and you had us worried sick, Beatrice. We’re so pleased you’re safe.

It was kind of nice.

May had gone back to ordinary then, and they caught up for ages about work, school, Peter—even Happy got a mention, before Peter groaned dramatically and shut down that line of talk.

With her frustrations settled with Peter and some normalcy set back in her life with May, sleep had come so easy that night.

So Beatrice slept. And, stranger than that, Beatrice woke. Woke to discover, in fact, that:

2. FRIDAY was the one waking her up.

Or, attempting to, at least. The tint on her windows which had remained at a comfortable 15%, blocking out most of the heat and sunlight, were now apparently non-existent. It was as if New York was shining a high lumens torch directly into her retinas.

Music was blaring, and it took Bea a moment to place it—Wake Me Up Before You Go Go by WHAM!. Like anyone with good taste in music, she appreciated the talents of George and Andrew, but not this early in the morning.

“What?” she shouted over the music. She sat up, rubbing her eyes and trying to shield her ears.

“I said,” came FRIDAY’s voice, sounding impatient, “good morning, Beatrice. Mr Stark has asked me to—”

But FRIDAY was cut off as Beatrice realised:

3. Someone had been knocking on her door.

Had been, of course, because they were not knocking anymore. Tony had swung her door open and graciously let himself in, balancing a breakfast tray, humming along to WHAM!.

“FRIDAY, cut the music.” And just like that, it were gone. “Morning, kid. You were out like a light. Don’t mind me just waltzing in here, I knocked for ages.”

“What time is it?” she asked, entirely affronted.

“It is currently 6:19am.”

Bea groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

Tony crossed the room and placed the tray down over her lap. “Eat.”

She couldn’t stop the laugh that tore out of her, but then she saw his face. “Oh. You’re serious.”

“Very. Happy Monday, kid. Eat your breakfast, then you’re meeting Sam in the Training Centre.”

The food looked good, at least. A small plate of scrambled eggs and two pieces of toast, a glass of green juice and a bowl of strawberries and blueberries. “Right,” she said, glancing back at Tony. “Thanks?”

“Don’t mention it,” he said. “And get your butt down there by seven, don’t be late.”

The door closed behind him, and the room was quiet again. Bea assessed her tray again and started to eat, if only to keep herself awake. Mornings were the bane of her existence, especially Mondays, but she’d argued and fought to be able to train. She wasn’t about to throw the opportunity away.

Training. She was gonna learn how to take a grown man down, properly this time. No illusions, no psychopaths behind the trigger. No consequences or rewards, just training.

She finished her food in record time—for her, at least—and started towards the bathroom. The feeling of fullness was not uncomfortable, but she couldn’t help thinking of darker days when a full stomach meant the start of a long, empty sleep.

She showered and changed into a sleek, flexible workout set, emblazoned of course with the Stark Industries logo—even the sneakers. She tied her hair back, ignoring her greasy clumps of curls, and brushed her teeth, moisturised her face. Every little task that she’d usually put off, to put off going downstairs.

Why did she feel so nervous? Butterflies the size of bats were beating their wings inside her chest—her breaths were thinner, hands shaking. But this wasn’t scary, this was fine. She was safe.

“Hi Beatrice,” said FRIDAY. “It’s five minutes to seven. Should I let Sam know you’re on your way?”

Bea swallowed. Her mouth was bone-dry. “Uh. Yes. Thank you.”

“Of course. Do you need directions to the Training Centre?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head with a little more determination. “I’m okay. I’ll be down in a minute.”

And she was. She stopped in the kitchen for a bottle of water, forcing herself to pretend she was fine by humming Wake Me Up Before You Go Go (that song was going to be stuck in her head for weeks), but in no time at all she was stepping out of the elevator and into the pool area above the Training Centre.

“Morning, sunshine,” Sam said. His back was turned and he was setting up some equipment.

“Morning.” She hurried down the steps to meet him in the centre of the floor, but then he turned around.

“Jesus, Page, what do you call that?”

“Excuse me?”

“No, I don’t mean to be rude, but …” He wasn’t looking at her face. He was looking at her hair.

Bea’s face burned. She’d hoped pulling it back would have hidden the worst of it, but the mess of knots must have been too much to ignore. She shrugged, clearly mortified, and Sam clicked his tongue.

“Kid,” he started kindly. “It happens to the best of us. I know you’re going through a bit of a rough patch—”

Bea shot him a glare, and he returned it.

“Don’t look at me like that, you are,” he said. “So, how about we skip training for today and I could help you out?”

She scoffed. “We can’t skip the first day. Sets a pretty bad precedent, doesn’t it?”

“Says who.” He huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes. “Come on, I do have experience with hair like yours.”

Her eyes wandered to his clean, close-cut fade, and she arched a brow. “Oh, yeah, I’m sure you get loads of opportunity.”

“Ha ha,” he said facetiously. “No, I help out with my nephews, actually. It looks like you got the same type hair. They do like their cornrows, but I promise I can braid too. Won’t look spectacular, but surely anything’s better than …” He gestured widely at her head. “This.”

Bea wanted to tell him to piss off, that she was perfectly capable of doing her own hair, and she didn’t need his help, but … the reality was stark. Her hair had become a dry, unkempt, unloved mess since her first shower at the Tower. She was perfectly capable of doing her hair, she just … couldn’t right now.

“Okay,” she conceded quietly, and Sam, to his credit, only looked a little pleased with himself. “Okay, fine, but just a simple, protective thing that I don’t have to think about. Yeah?”

“That’s about the extent of my hairdressing talents, anyway.”

He led her past the equipment he’d set out and into the change rooms. They were surprisingly spacious and comfortable, but Bea should’ve expected nothing less from Stark.

They found an area with vanities and mirrors, and Sam sat her down before the nearest one.

“Oh,” she said as he moved to take her hair tie out. “I, uh … haven’t brushed it in a couple of days. Or, well, washed it.”

“Really,” Sam said, tone dripping with sarcasm. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Don’t be a dick about it,” Bea snapped under her breath.

“Speak for yourself.”

“Just let me go upstairs and wash it, I—I have shampoo up there, I’ll be five minutes.” The thought made her queasy, but she forced herself to her feet and started towards the exit, but he gently pulled her back.

“I think we’re gonna need a bit more than shampoo. I’ve got a few things down here we might be able to use, just next door in the showers. Come on, I’ll show you.”

The back rooms of the Training Centre were much larger than Bea had thought. Stark had a whole block of showers, as well as changing rooms, lockers, sitting areas all throughout, and even a small kitchen.

The showers alone were impressive, with stall after stall of clean, private showers. From what Bea could see, each Avenger had claimed their own stall—one had a red, white and blue loofah, another had a shower speaker, and another had a bundle of fresh eucalyptus hanging from the shower head.

Sam entered one stall and emerged balancing four brand new bottles in his arms. He led her over to the wall of counter sinks and set them down one by one. “You’ll want to start with this one, it’s a detangler, got it as part of a set. And then this one’s the gold, it's a clarifying shampoo, it’ll get all that gunk and build up out of your hair. You’ll use this one next, it’s just a normal conditioner, and then this one’s a deep conditioner. You wanna leave this one on for at least five minutes, maybe ten for your length. You don’t have to shower, you can just wash your hair in the sink, but I’ll go grab you some towels and a comb.”

Bea didn’t know what to say. Between Peter and Tony and Pepper, she should have been used to the overwhelmingly kind gestures by now, but as she stood there, waiting for Sam to return, she realised that this was truly the first time someone had shown her this level of care in a long time.

“Thank you,” she choked out, when he did come back, promised towels and a wide-tooth comb in tow. “I … Yeah, I’ll just wash it in the sink. I won’t be a minute.”

He said nothing, but gave a kind smile before leaving her to it.

Bea began without a moment’s hesitation, but it still took twenty minutes of combing and spraying and combing again to be able to brush straight through from scalp to end. It had grown considerably in the weeks since she’d last really taken care of it. Her curls once sat just below her shoulders, but now—brushed out, too—it fell almost to her waist.

She scooped her hair under the sink and rinsed, rinsed again. Sam’s instructions were simple enough, but she had to shampoo three times to feel clean enough to condition and deep condition. FRIDAY was kind enough to set a timer for her, and Bea entertained herself by scrolling through the plethora of unread messages in Peter’s peanemelia group chat.

She’d missed a lot, but there had definitely been a rapid decline in messages since Wednesday. Lots of thanks bea and miss you bea and we should totally do that again @pedroparker would stark mind??? from that evening. Ned also seemed to send a lot of TikToks about the Avengers and cute dogs, and MJ sent news articles, but Peter and Celia had been quiet. Bea had, too, but at least Bea had a reason.

Peter also had a reason, sure, but she wasn’t sure how much she believed it.

“Your timer has finished, Beatrice.”

“Oh,” she said, putting her phone away. “Thanks, FRI.”

“Any time,” FRIDAY said, before adding, “Bea.”

Feeling warmed by the nickname, Bea rinsed, and rinsed again, and noted just how good the hair products smelled. Sandalwood, and vanilla maybe? Fucking delicious, whatever it was, and as an added bonus—no traumatising memories of better days.

When Bea finally made her way back to the vanity area, towelling her hair dry, Sam was humming along to some music FRIDAY must have put on.

“What’s this?” she asked, gesturing to the speakers on the ceiling.

“Excuse me?” he said bewilderedly. “What is this? Don’t tell me you don’t know Marvin Gaye. My God, what do they teach you kids at school?”

Bea tossed her towel down. She’d left the shampoo and conditioners back at the showers, but brought the detangler and comb and set them down on top of her towel. “I know who Marvin Gaye is, and, for the record, nothing since FRIDAY’s giving me all my school work. I just meant what’s the music for.”

“Oh, we don’t need an excuse to have music. Thought it might be fun. C’mon, take a seat.”

Bea did as she was told and sat, letting him pick up the comb and detangler and start on taming her hair. “You really don’t have to do this,” she said.

“I know.” He shrugged, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “I’ve missed it, though. Doing hair. Not very good at it, but it meant I got to spend time with my nephews.”

There was a look on his face she’d never seen before on anyone. Like he was proud, a little sad, and so full of love for them. “How old are they?” she asked.

“Too old,” he laughed. “I swear every time I see them, they’re a whole foot taller. AJ’s got about two years on Cass, but they’re both complete menaces. You know how sometimes with siblings there’s the sensible one and the one that’s basically a walking hazard?”

“Let me guess, you were the hazard?”

He scoffed. “What gave it away?”

“The wings. Well, the job. Well, the Avengers. Generally.”

He laughed again, full-bodied and warm, as he parted her hair down the middle. “Right. Well, Sarah always had her head screwed on, but my point was—Cass and AJ are both hazards.”

“Poor Sarah,” Bea said, holding back a grin.

“Nah, they’re good kids. Sarah says I should visit more often.”

She frowned at him through the mirror. He’d parted one side of her hair, split three strands, and had begun to meticulously braid close to her scalp. “How come?”

“Rarely get the chance,” he said with a shrug. “There’s always a mission, always something either here or the Compound that keeps me busy.”

Bea’s eyes flickered down to her hands. She didn’t need to tell Sam how important family was—the way he spoke about his sister and nephews, she knew well enough that he knew, but there was nothing she wouldn’t give for one more day with Mom.

Sam’s braids were tight, and when he tugged just that little bit harder, the memory that swallowed her was crisp-white. Sitting on the floor in front of Mom on the sofa, watching an episode of The Golden Girls and laughing together. Good, proper belly-laughing. They’d spend hours just like that, her mom braiding and pulling and twisting, and Bea’s scalp would feel like hell. But their time together was irreplaceable.

“Sorry,” Sam said quietly, loosening his grip.

Bea swiped at the wetness in her eyes and forced herself to smile, shaking her head and saying, “All good.”

“Too tight?”

“No, it’s perfect.” She huffed a laugh and cleared her throat so her voice wouldn’t crack. “Mom was always way rougher, but damn if it didn’t look good.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “About your mom. No one deserves that.” There was a beat of silence between them as he tied off the first braid and began on the other side. “You’re right, though.”

“Hm?”

“Moms. Something about them and hair. When I was a kid, my mom would shove my head left, right, up down, forward back—however she wanted it. Who’d have guessed an eleven year-old could end up with neck problems.”

Bea laughed wetly at his expense.

“She’d tug so hard I’d shed a tear and then tell me if I kept that up, she’d give me something real to cry about. Yeah, well, this tender-headed boy always left the house lookin’ good, let me tell you.”

“Do the boys handle it well?”

He shrugged. “I try to be gentler with them, but truth be told? It never looks as good.”

“Mom always told me beauty is pain,” Bea said, smiling a little. “Said that if you’re gonna do something, you have to do it properly. Probably one of the few things I was grateful of my magic for, growing up.” She held up two hands and wiggled her fingers. “Nothing like a warm head massage from these babies after hours of braiding with Mom.”

“You’re gonna make me jealous.”

He tied off the second braid before tossing them both over her shoulders. She had two neat, clean Dutch braids now, and her hair looked healthier than ever. Smelled better than ever, too.

“Thank you, Sam,” Bea said, turning around to face him. “I really appreciate it.”

She stood then, and gave him a hug. He wrapped his arms tight around her, brushing his thumb over her shoulder blade. No one had given her the opportunity to talk about her Mom. No one was stopping her, of course, but how do you bring something like that up in conversation? He’d given her space and care and kindness, and she had no idea how she’d repay him.

“Anytime, kiddo,” he said gently, before pulling away. “Except training hours. We’re taking that seriously now, no more skipped sessions for self-care hair days, got it?”

“You told me to skip, remember? I was the one trying to talk you out of it.”

“Touché. C’mon, let’s head back.”

Chapter Text

Sam’s kindness hadn’t escaped Bea’s mind all afternoon, and she was still dwelling on it well into the night. It wasn’t as if she’d imagined he’d be a harsh and stern and regimented trainer, but it had all been so completely out of left-field that she couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

What she did know was that she had a problem, and it was about time she solved it.

Her morning with Sam had left her on a high, feeling as if she’d conquered Mt Everest—she’d washed her hair, shared anecdote after anecdote about her mom, never once running into that tight-chested, short-breathed brick wall. She’d done it, proved it could be done, and she would continue to do it from now on.

That exact mindset was what led to her to that very moment, sneaking through the Tower at one o’clock in the morning in her pyjamas, heading for Tony’s lab.

Her full night’s sleep had been a fluke, to say the least.

She hadn’t bothered to check with FRIDAY that he was actually there—in all the weeks she had spent with him, she could count on one hand the number of times that man was actually getting a full night’s rest.

Surprisingly, the lab door was open and, less surprisingly, Tony was there, standing at his desk and reviewing a prototype of sorts on a holo. Bea knocked twice on the doorframe before saying, “Tony?”

He didn’t look her way. “Yeah.”

“Listen, I was just wondering—and you can say no if you want, because obviously you can, and I’ve already spent an astronomical amount of your money, which you said was fine but I know really wasn’t fine, and I already have some that works perfectly well, so you can totally say no—”

“Thanks for the permission, motormouth. What is it.” He was leaning forward now, scribbling notes on a scrap piece of paper.

“Could I get … different shampoo?”

She heard how stupid the request sounded, and so did Tony, because he straightened then, dropped his pen, and turned to look at Beatrice. Her face burned with the humiliation of it, but she didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered over her fresh hair, then softened before going back to normal within the same second.

“Shampoo,” he said, deadpan.

Bea nodded. She wrung her hands. He was going to say no, she was sure of it.

But he didn’t say no. He shrugged indifferently and said, “I guess. That one not good for curly hair or something?” He turned back to his work. “You know, you and Sam were supposed to be training, self-defence and whatnot, not playing hairdresser.”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” she said, desperate to defend Sam. “It’s fine, it’s great for curly hair, actually, it’s just—”

He froze. “It’s not yours.”

It wasn’t a question. Bea probably couldn’t have answered if it was. She was overwhelmed with relief that he understood, but also intense sadness that he understood. Of course he did. She, like the rest of the world, knew every last detail of the accident that had taken Howard and Maria Stark. It had been before her time, but the media loved nothing more than dredging up the tragic demise of Tony Stark’s parents anytime the notorious playboy lived up to his reputation.

Yes, he understood.

“Okay,” he said, nodding. “‘Course. You don’t need a reason, of course I’ll get you new shampoo.”

Relief swelled inside her, but so did embarrassment. It was still a stupid request, and to think she’d held off from asking him for this long.

Never mind that now, she supposed. Problem solved. And, silver lining—Tony hadn’t even pressed her for details. He’d just … agreed. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

She turned to leave, but Tony’s voice stopped her, soft and almost paternal in its kindness. “I’m glad you told me.” He met her eye then, and gave a sharp, conclusive nod.

Bea released a breath and felt the tension in her shoulders disappear, the tightness in her neck that been there for weeks just let go. There were traces of pride bubbling in her chest, snippets of gratitude and appreciation for this man who had been the furthest thing from a friend, once upon a time.

She smiled at him and gave a nod in return, before turning on her heel and heading back upstairs to bed.

The days that followed seemed to be just as full of change. Her new shampoo arrived in record time, since Tony only had to reorder what he’d gotten in for Sam, and he’d left it in her room. No fanfare, no announcement, no public humiliation, not even a note—just a bottle quietly left on her desk.

Bea was still subject to FRIDAY’s early-morning private WHAM! concerts, and after her third, she found herself enjoying them a little. The song was different each day, but for some reason it was always WHAM!.

Less enjoyable, she’d found, was Sam’s training regime. It was hard, not that anyone had told her it would be easy, but she couldn’t deny what a perfect distraction it all was. She was using muscles she hadn’t used even before the cage. Sam had started her out on strength and endurance training, but so far it was all feeling like cardio. He was encouraging enough during training, but she couldn’t help the threats that left her mouth when he was promising “One more minute!” for the fourth time.

In the beginning, Bea was so sure Tony’s rules would’ve been the hardest part of training. Three meals a day, and eight hours of sleep every night? She couldn’t have ever dreamed of being so well-adjusted.

But, after hours of endurance training, strength training—AKA cardio—Bea found herself absolutely starving. Active hunger and an actual appetite was wildly new, but it had been shockingly easy to indulge. She had even started asking for seconds at dinner.

Although, lunch was still tricky. After training, showering, setting herself up in Tony’s lab to get her school work done, working a little on the Iron Man suit he’d shared with her, Bea would find herself so engrossed in her work that lunch would simply pass them by. It would be two o’clock before either of them even glanced at the clock. But when they did, Tony would drop everything to drag Bea upstairs for a sandwich.

When FRIDAY would notify them it was Bea’s bedtime and she was reluctant to leave the lab, Tony would head to bed, too—no solo lab time, after all.

The most surprising part of filling her days like this was just how quickly they passed. Bea hadn’t even had the chance to miss Peter since the weekend—she’d even needed to count the days to make sure Tony was right when he reminded her that morning that it was Wednesday.

“He’s bringing dinner,” Tony said. “Said he knew what you liked, so he’ll pick it up after school and I guess you guys can reheat it.”

“We can’t order in?”

“We can, but you know him. Said it wouldn’t be the same, so I said fine, have your soggy pizza.”

“He’s getting pizza?” Bea frowned. “I mean, as long as it’s not the same place Happy got the pizza that first night.”

“That wasn’t the pizza’s fault.”

“No, right,” she nodded. “Alien trauma fever, got you, but pizza’s no good unless it’s—” Bea froze. Surely not.

“Unless what?”

“Nope,” said Bea defiantly. “Not telling, not gonna jinx it now.”

Tony only rolled his eyes and got back to work.

Then, as if Bea had conjured the man himself, Happy appeared in the doorway. “Hey, Boss,” he said, sauntering over to Tony’s workbench. Tony didn’t look up. “Kid,” he greeted Bea. “Delivery upstairs for you. Left it on the counter, too damn heavy to leave anywhere else.”

“Delivery?”

Tony looked up now, rolling his eyes. “About time. That’ll be your stuff.”

“My stuff.”

“Your stuff. New stuff, you know, the billions and billions you and Pepper spent.”

Bea’s cheeks flamed. “It wasn’t billions.” But from the smirk on his face, she knew he was joking. She actually felt a little excited at the idea of new things. Unboxing, trying on, finally getting to wear anything besides Stark Industries sweatpants and crewnecks.

“Go on,” he said, tilting his head towards the door. “Only,” he added quickly, “if your school work is done.”

Bea pulled a face. “I mean, it’s basically done.”

“What you got left?”

“History,” she grouched. “It’s not my fault the Declaration of Independence is the most boring reading I’ve ever done. How am I supposed to reflect on something I can’t even stay awake long enough to read?”

Happy laughed disbelievingly and Tony let out a tired sigh. “I’ll give you a hand tonight if you like.”

“… So I can go?”

“Yes, you can go.”

Beaming, Bea shut her laptop with a bit more force than she should have, and left, making sure to thank Happy before she did.

Upstairs, as Happy promised, a large box sat on the kitchen counter. It wasn’t as heavy as Happy had made it out to be, but it was awkward getting it to her room—thank God everyone was out today.

The box was packed tight, to say the least, and it took a few seconds of careful slicing through tape to get it open without damaging anything inside. It looked as if all her packages from all her different stores had been sent somewhere else and then shoved into a giant box, all together.

There was a package from Levi’s, some shoe boxes, packages from other stores and, at the bottom, a large black box with DE LA RENTA on the front.

Bea let out a tremendous sigh. They really had gone overboard.

She wanted to dive right in and begin trying things on, looking at them, feeling them, but as it was, her wardrobe was looking pretty full. All her old things, as well as the Stark Industries pieces that had helped tide her over—she’d need to do some serious organising.

So, abandoning her box of brand new goodies, she made her way to the closet and began flicking through. There were so many things she’d forgotten existed—her favourite thrifted leather jacket, her good jeans, band tee after band tee that Celia had given her. So many hoodies and patterned pants—even her work uniform, a frumpy pair of brown pants and a white tee with the Bread & Butter logo.

The idea of throwing everything away made her feel sick—she hadn’t worn any of it in months and couldn’t see herself wearing any of it ever again, but to get rid of it … Instead, she decided to pull everything out and fold it all to put away once her new clothes were out of the box. Yes, that would do nicely.

Hoarding, maybe, but it would do.

It was only once her closet was entirely empty, save for the Stark Industries pieces—she would need to put those somewhere different—that she found the box. A moving box, with tape over the top and NANCY PAGE written in thick Sharpie.

Bea stared for a moment before shoving it back into the closet, into the farthest, darkest corner, and turned back to her new box.

Her new box of exciting things.

So, one by one, she unwrapped. She held pieces out before her, admired them in the mirror. Tried one or two things on, just for fun, and delighted in how perfectly they fit. Even just in the past two days of training, eating, sleeping, she’d noticed a tremendous physical change. Her shoulders were less sharp, more rounded, and the muscles in her legs were more defined. Her ribs still stuck out at awkward angles, but there was a gentle shape to her hips that hadn’t been there before.

Hours later, the de la Renta box was open on her floor and garment bags littering her bed. She had picked a dress to try on and was swaying before the mirror, twirling a little in the flared skirt, when a knock came from her bedroom door. Peter poked his head inside.

“You’re early,” Bea commented, embarrassed at having been caught in her state. “You’re not supposed to be here for hours.”

He frowned at her as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Bea didn’t miss the way his eyes grazed over her, brightening at the billowing blue tea dress that sat loose on her shoulders. “It’s, uh … It’s three thirty.”

Not backing down now, Bea turned her back to him, pulling her braids to her front. “Zip me up? I want to see if it fits.”

He approached slowly, but Bea couldn’t bear to look. She felt warm hands on her waist, felt every tremor as his hands travelled to the base of her spine, found the small zipper, and pulled. Slowly, ever so carefully as to not catch the loose fabric at her waist.

He pulled until it sat comfortably at the top of her dress, and his hands splayed out over her shoulder blades. “It’s pretty,” he said, soft and low. She turned, grateful that his hands never left her as they shifted down to her waist.

“Pepper helped me pick a few things out. Tony’s orders,” said Bea with a breathy laugh. She was closer to Peter now than she ever had been before, faces barely inches apart. His eyes were on hers, then flickered down to her lips, and Bea could feel electricity in the air, thick and tangible between them.

Peter’s hand gripped her waist tighter and, before she could form a single rational thought, Bea leaned in, eyes fluttering closed, but—

A shadow crossed Peter’s face. Guilt and fear, and then she found him an entire step away, massaging the back of his neck with the hand that had been on her waist only seconds ago.

He was chuckling now, for some reason, and gestured nervously at the dress. “It’s beautiful, you picked really well.”

Bea thought she was going to be sick. What the hell was that? Had she imagined it? Thinking back now, perhaps there had also been disgust in his expression, and she’d just mistaken it for guilt and fear. There was nothing for him to feel guilty over, so it must have been disgust.

She turned away before he could see the hurt in her eyes. She’d read the situation wrong, this was not his fault, she had no right to make him feel bad about it.

“Pity I don’t have anywhere to wear it,” she said, doing her best to keep her voice light. Casual. Unaffected. She moved back to the closet and picked out some clothes to change into. She glanced back at him to smile, to give him a look that said nothing is wrong and I am fine, but he looked … crushed.

“Bea, I—”

“I guess I’ll have to save it for a rainy day. Thanks for your help, I’m just gonna go get changed.”

She reached up to unzip the dress—who the fuck designs a dress that requires assistance—but Peter stepped forward, hands outstretched to help. Bea stumbled back, her own hand out to stop him.

“No,” she said. “It’s okay, I’ve got it.” She started towards the bathroom, but before the closed the door behind her, looked him in the eye and said, “I’ll just be a minute. Don’t go anywhere.”

She changed quickly, doing her best not to think of whatever had just happened, and noticed she’d picked out a Stark Industries set. All those beautiful new clothes, the hours she’d just spent fawning over them, and she was changing into the same thing she’d been wearing for weeks.

Sure, her new things should be washed first anyway, but there was something about the shame of what had just happened between her and Peter that had left a bad taste in her mouth. These clothes were normal, they were safe. God above, after that, she couldn’t bear anything else going wrong.

She emerged with a smile, tossing her dress onto the pile of garment bags on her bed, and started towards the door with Peter. “Tony said you were bringing pizza.”

Peter sighed, looking grateful for the change of subject. “It was meant to be a surprise.”

“I’ll pretend,” she laughed, “as long as you brought Ray’s.”

“Of course. Best pizza in Queens.”

Chapter Text

Between training, schoolwork, and fixating on whatever had happened with Peter on Wednesday, Beatrice barely had a moment to unwind until that Sunday.

Lounged out on the sofa beneath the window, she watched the clouds pass slowly overhead. Yes, today was a day that began with 'S', so this would likely be the most exciting thing that she would—

But Sam burst from the elevator, clearly frantic and looking for someone until his eyes landed on her. “Beatrice, we need you downstairs.”

She sat up and frowned at him. “What’s happened?”

“I’ll tell you down there. C’mon.”

Bea hauled herself off the couch and hurried to the elevator with Sam. She had a thousand questions, but knew better than to barrage him with them. He was silent as FRIDAY took them two floors down, where the doors opened to a startling sight. Clint, limping, with an arm around Nat’s shoulders as she walked him past the elevator and down the hall towards the Med Bay.

“Clint,” said Bea, frozen with shock. She could heal him, she could, but before she even had the thought, Sam was pushing her down the opposite hall.

“He’ll be alright. Banner is waiting with some of Helen Cho’s equipment, they’ll sort him out.”

Bea didn’t know who Helen Cho was, but she trusted in Sam enough that she followed him quietly. Two steps down the hall and she saw Steve Rogers waiting for them, his figure tense and broad in the doorway. He looked worse for wear, but not nearly as bad as Clint.

“Where’ve you been?” she asked him, but Steve shook his head and let them both into the office, closing the door behind them. Tony was standing behind the desk, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Tell me again,” he said, looking only at Steve.

“It was a trap. He wasn’t there, but he had plenty of men waiting for us. We took to the safe house, but you know the rules.”

Bea’s blood ran cold. “You mean Cross. You went after him?”

Steve nodded, and Tony swore under his breath.

“Why would you do that? Clint, did he—”

“Clint’s going to be fine, but …” Steve shook his head, eyes not leaving Bea. “We received a tip that Cross was on the move again, back in Albany, but when we arrived … It was an ambush. They knew we were coming.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest as Steve turned back to Tony. She hadn’t missed the glimmer of information he’d revealed—it rattled around her head until she was dizzy.

“Stark,” Rogers said, voice heavy with desperation. “The tech is incredibly advanced.”

“I know, damn it,” he snapped. “Don’t you think I know?”

Bea looked at him, his hands on his hips, brow furrowed with frustration, eyes swimming with something that looked faintly like regret. Her heart ached a little for him, but broke entirely when she realised what it all meant.

“The tech, it’s yours,” she said, every word like a slice to her insides. “The illusions, was that you?”

“Not me,” he defended quickly, a hand outstretched. “Kid, sit down before you pass out.”

Sam, who was standing behind her, ducked around and pulled out a chair before pushing her into it. She leaned forward on her knees which were slowly going numb with shock, and looked up at all of them. None of them could meet her eye. “Someone needs to explain. Right now.”

Steve slowly pulled out the chair beside her and sat down. In her peripherals, Tony did the same but Sam remained standing, arms crossed over his chest.

“Adrian Cross is working with a lot of people,” Steve started, “including HYDRA. We know he has a team of engineers at his disposal, and we know that one of those engineers is Quentin Beck.”

“Who?”

Tony cleared his throat. “Beck used to work here at Stark Industries. Developed millions of dollars worth of tech and took it all with him when I sacked him. Plans, software, hardware, all gone because I decided I didn’t want an emotionally unstable, frankly volatile, worker on my team. Volatile, right? And that’s coming from me.”

“Tony,” Steve warned.

“Right, right,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Binarily Augmented Retro-Framing. BARF. Not the best acronym, I’ll admit.”

Bea was afraid to ask. “What does it do?”

“It was supposed to tap into the hippocampus to create holographic illusions based on the user’s memories. BARF could take, you know, traumatic memories, alter them, and project them, so one could re-experience and work through whatever had gone down.”

She was quiet for a moment. “So what you’re saying is …”

“Beck was never going to use BARF for that. He had plans that would’ve taken Stark Industries back to its weapons manufacturing days. He was especially keen on integrating BARF with—”

“Drones.” It made sense now. “Multi-million dollar illusion tech in drones? Weaponised drones? Cross wouldn’t have had to lift a finger.”

“Cross didn’t lift a finger,” he reminded her, but she knew well enough.

“Do we know where he got the drones?”

Steve shook his head. “Not yet. The place you were kept—”

“Albany,” Bea filled pointedly.

“Yeah. Yes. We didn’t have the capacity to scout after we picked you up, and when we returned, everything was gone.” Steve swallowed. “It’s why we were so eager when we heard he might be back. Anything we can do, any intel we can get … We can’t pass it up.”

Bea was fuming as she looked at the three of them. “I wish you’d told me.” Why hadn’t they? Why had they chosen to keep this from her? They saw what she’d gone through, they knew the worst of it, that she could handle it.

But the reality of the situation quickly sank in. They didn’t know the worst of it, because she hadn’t told them. Hadn’t told anyone. They had kept the truth from her, but only out of care—she had kept this awful secret to herself out of pure shame.

But whether they would hate her or not, it was not her decision to make.

“Care to share with the class, kiddo?” Tony asked when her expression turned grave.

“I …” But tears were welling in her eyes and her throat tightened. She blinked, willing the wetness in her eyes away, and focused on her hands, twisting and squeezing as if desperately searching for something to hold on to. “I, uh … I wasn’t entirely honest. Before.”

“When?” Sam asked, moving to stand beside Steve.

“In the Med Bay. After I woke up.” Bea could barely catch her breath, but there was no turning back now. “I told you that Cross made me hurt people.”

“He used the illusion tech to simulate rescue missions,” Steve offered, brow furrowed. “You said it was the heroes, come to save the day.”

“Yeah, um.” Her eyes darted nervously between them. They had every right to hate her. Not her decision. “It wasn’t heroes, necessarily. More like … hero. He made me fight Iron Man.” Her eyes met Tony’s, and she hated that she couldn’t read the emotion in them. “I fought Iron Man,” she corrected. Own your mistakes.

They were all quiet for a long moment before Steve nodded slowly. “Okay. Why don’t you start from the beginning.”

“The first run?”

Steve nodded.

“I think it happened on the second day. He made it so real. I could hear fighting outside the door, and then you—he—Iron Man was there, and he looked so real, I thought it was real. He broke into the cage, you know how there were bars? Right, that was part of the illusion too, so when he blasted them, they’d break off in poles.” She was rambling now, but she couldn’t stop. “He started firing off his repulsors and I was getting hit, again and again, and I knew I had to fight back so I picked up a pole—”

Bea’s voice cracked and Steve sucked in a breath.

“It didn’t stop him. I’d hit him ‘round the head and shoved one through his knee but he was still firing at me, so I had to—” It happened again and Bea groaned in frustration, pawing at her throat and wiping the tears from her eyes. She deflated as she turned her gaze to Tony and said, “I stabbed him in the chest.” He didn’t flinch. “You died. You bled out on the floor and I sat with you.”

She sniffled pathetically and cleared her throat. “He put me to sleep after that and the next morning it was all gone. No blood, no broken bars, no body. As if it never happened. He gave me food and medicine for killing you, and then it happened all over again. Ended the exact same way. Four more times and I realised you weren’t coming to find me. You weren’t real. I tried not fighting, but that meant no food. I tried getting him to break my Dampener so I could escape, but that never worked either.”

Steve frowned. “Dampener?”

Bea frowned, too. “Didn’t I …? Oh. Well, I, uh … I don’t know how it works or where he got it, if it was him or Beck or whoever else. It was a thing he had clamped on my ankle.” She pointed to her left ankle and rotated the joint. The cuts and blisters it had once left may have healed, but the memory of the Dampener still sat heavy in her mind. “It stifled my magic, it’s why I was so beat up. I couldn’t use it to heal myself, couldn’t use it to defend myself. I was just normal in there, and he didn’t care.”

It had been bothering her for weeks. What had been the point of taking her if he wasn’t going to let her use her powers? Had he wanted her to lose?

“Lot to take in,” Tony said at last, but his tone was terse and constrained. “How many times.”

His eyes were on her, but Beatrice was a coward. Her gaze fell to the floor. “I don’t know,” she said. “Lost count.”

Tony said nothing and Bea knew in her heart that this was the end. “I’m so sorry for not telling you.” She wished desperately that her voice didn’t sound so weak. “I’ll be out of here tonight, don’t worry. I’ll find a place in the city—”

Tony blinked twice. “What? No, don’t be ridiculous. You’re staying here.” He cleared his throat, seeming to come back to himself a bit, and rubbed his thighs before standing. “Just gimme a sec, I gotta get some air.”

He rounded the desk and, to Bea’s surprise, squeezed her shoulder comfortingly as he passed. The door closed silently behind him.

“Give him time,” said Steve, offering a gentle smile. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“How can you say that, though?” Tears were welling again—Bea hated it. “I lied. He let me live in his home for weeks, and I kept that a secret.”

“Kid,” Sam said with a disbelieving laugh. “You said he didn’t feed you unless you fought back. You did what you did to survive. You knew they were illusions, you never wanted to hurt Tony. If Cross’s intention was to get you to kill the real Iron Man, then he failed, didn’t he?”

“Did he?” It was the wrong thing to say, but Bea’s head was swimming. “How are we supposed to know what his intentions were? I was with him for four weeks and three days and I have no idea.”

Sam moved to sit on the edge of the desk. “Well, I mean … Why Stark?” he pondered. “I’m assuming that’s probably something to do with Beck, it sounds like the dude can hold a grudge.”

“Whatever it is,” Steve said, leaning back in his chair, “this is incredibly helpful information. It’s certainly provided some … insight into your state of mind when you arrived.”

Bea groaned inwardly, pinching the bridge of her nose. She didn’t want to be seen, to be understood. She wanted to pretend it had never happened, but Cross was making that impossible. Steve and Sam were good at hiding their pity but Bea knew it was there, just below the surface. “Please don’t tell the others.”

Steve softened. “We have to."

“You can’t,” she implored. “They’ll hate me. Tony already—“

“Tony doesn’t hate you,” said Sam, shaking his head.

“Beatrice, this is the kind of thing that will help us catch Cross. Nothing can be a secret, this is the piece that’s been missing since the beginning. The team know your case back to front, this can’t be an exception.”

Her chest ached. The things she did in the cage were the worst of her life, and now everyone would know. A tear fell as she whispered, “Don’t tell Peter.”

“Bea,” Steve said softly. “It may not seem like it but Peter is part of Tony’s team. That makes him part of our team, too.”

It sounded like bullshit to Beatrice, but she wasn’t in much of a position to argue. If she was honest with herself, she knew this was going to happen. There was no way it couldn’t. Life had to keep moving, and that meant coming clean about the cage. It meant dealing with the consequences. It meant one day, hopefully once Cross was out of the picture, having to leave the Tower forever.

Chapter Text

Tony kept his distance after that, as did Beatrice. The shame that came with her last secret coming to light was familiar, as was the instinct to hide. After all, if she wanted to avoid facing the consequences of her actions—and who wouldn’t, she reasoned with herself, with life as wonderful as it had been in the weeks since she’d arrived—she needed to keep herself to herself. That meant no studying, no training and, worst of all, no tinkering.

Whenever she asked, FRIDAY would tell her Tony was training. Or Tony was in his lab. Or Tony was in a meeting. Always working, always busy. People who forgave other people didn’t actively avoid them, did they?

Bea barely left her room, save for meals—but, then again, meals were easier alone. The team were still milling about the Tower and it always seemed as if they were waiting for her. They all knew now, but Bea didn’t have the faintest idea how to start talking about what happened or why she did it. She had excuses up to her eyeballs but none of them were good enough, not for the people who considered themselves family to Tony.

Especially Peter. Beatrice had been ignoring his texts, knowing he’d have been briefed by now, surely. He’d tried calling, once, but didn’t leave a message when Bea let it ring out.

She half expected he wouldn’t show up when Wednesday came around. Three o’clock passed, then four, then five, and Bea was sure he’d decided not to come, but then a knock finally sounded at her door.

“Yeah,” was all she said, curled up in bed and staring out the window. The setting sun was masked by thick, black clouds and It had begun to rain. The droplets racing down the glass were perfectly mind-numbing.

“Bea,” Peter said, dropping his bag in the doorway. “Hey. You up?”

She made a noncommittal sound.

Pete closed the door behind him and crossed the room. She felt the mattress dip where he sat down. “Tony filled me in.”

A lump formed in her throat. “Okay.” Let it rip. Tell me I’m a monster.

“Bea, I’m … I’m really sorry.”

She frowned, but didn’t move. What was that supposed to mean? I’m really sorry but I can’t be your friend anymore? I’m really sorry Tony doesn’t let you keep a single thing private? I’m really sorry, but I find you absolutely repulsive and I can’t believe you tried to kiss—

“You shouldn’t have had to keep that to yourself for so long.”

Bea did move, then. She rolled over to face him, still frowning. “What exactly did he tell you?”

He recounted it all, some parts verbatim by the sounds of it. Tony had told him every awful, sordid detail, and Peter had even discussed it with Sam and Steve. He knew the full story.

“Right,” she said when he finished, still confused. “And your first reaction is ‘sorry’? You’re not mad?”

“Mad?” It was his turn to frown now.

Bea sat up and pushed the covers off, feeling almost suffocated. “Yes, mad. I spent four weeks and three days being trained to kill Tony Stark. Your mentor, and father figure, if the last few weeks have been any indication. You should never want to speak to me again.”

“Maybe I should,” he said with a shrug. “I probably would if I didn’t know you. But I do, Beatrice, and I know you didn’t have a choice. Even if I didn’t have the full story from Captain Rogers and Mr Stark, I still wouldn’t hate you.”

Bea had never mentioned hate.

“You should never have had to go through that, Bea. Even if it was just illusions, what you did … it takes a toll.”

Her room was darker now and she had to strain her eyes to see, but she scanned his face for any pretence in his words that would make them untrue or less valuable. When he held her gaze, she realised everything he’d said hadn’t been out of pity, or duty, or any weird, twisted grief—it was just love. Perhaps a friendship kind of love, but love nonetheless.

“I used to have nightmares about this,” she admitted quietly. Still do, she thought. He shuffled closer, still sitting on the edge of the bed, and reached over to hold her hand. “In the cage. And here. I didn’t think there was any version of reality where you could forgive me for this.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“There is,” she said, rubbing the side of her nose with her free hand. “I’m really sorry, Peter. For what happened in the cage, all of it. But you’ve been my friend through all of this and I want you to know I’m grateful.”

His hand twitched. “Bea, don’t you get it? There’s nothing you could do that would make me want to stop being your friend.”

They sit together in the quiet, the easing rain outside the only sound between them. Peter’s hand is warm and grounding in hers. Friend. They were friends. But they had shared so much in the weeks since her rescue, Bea had almost hoped he would have considered her something more.

But if she took a moment to consider it from his perspective, he was behaving admirably. After all, what kind of person would make a move on their friend who’d just been rescued from weeks of captivity? And how could said friend ever be in the right state of mind to make a move themselves? They were at an impasse, the way things were, with absolutely nowhere to go.

“How was school?” Bea said eventually.

“Oh,” he said, bristling. His grip on her hand loosened, but he didn’t pull away. “Fine. Lots happening, but also, nothing’s happening. Wednesdays are always my favourite days, because it means I get to come here.”

Warmth fluttered in her chest, and she forced her euphoric to seem more rueful. “Glad to hear someone’s still on speaking terms with Tony.”

He frowned. “What’s that mean?”

“Well, he hasn’t said anything, but he’s been keeping his distance,” she said with a shrug. “I don’t blame him, not one bit, but I told him I could go and find a place in the city, I didn’t have to stay if he didn’t want me here—”

“What?” Peter said, voice rising a little. “No, he—”

“No, I know,” she assured. “He told me in no uncertain terms I wasn’t leaving any time soon. But I feel like I’m intruding here. If he can’t even stand the sight of me, wouldn’t it be better to send me away?”

He laughed a little. “Bea, my God. I joke about needing a therapist but I think you actually do need one. I saw Mr Stark before I came to see you. We talked about you, actually.”

“You did?”

“Not in a bad way. I was working on one of my projects, and he said maybe after all this is sorted he could have you back at the Tower some days like me. Make you an Intern.”

“Oh.” Bea’s face burned and she pulled her hand away. “But I haven’t seen him in days, not since I … Not since it all came out.”

“Listen, I’m staying for dinner. Mr Stark said he has way too much work to join us, and that everyone was heading out tonight because Mr Wilson’s family is in town, so it’ll just be you and me, and he also said we can get FRIDAY to order whatever we want. That doesn’t sound like someone who’s mad at you, does it?”

Bea thought for a moment. Peter was right, it didn’t, but Bea couldn’t be sure. When Walter was mad, everyone knew it—he’d get drunk and violent and angry, and absolutely no one was spared. But when Mom was mad, no one knew it. She’d go quiet, compliant, passive aggressive. Maybe Tony got mad like Mom.

“Has Tony ever gotten mad at you?” she asked.

He winced, looking sheepish. “Once. I messed up bad, I was working on something I shouldn’t have been, and he had to kick me off the project. He gave me this big talking to and it was tough to take at the time, but in the long run, I guess it was good.”

Well, that was good news, she supposed, the only thing being that it sounded like completely different circumstances. Not doing what you were explicitly told probably warranted a different reaction to learning the child in your care was spending a month learning how to kill you.

“I’ll talk to Mr Stark before I leave tonight,” he offered. Bea couldn’t see his face in the darkness of the room, but he placed a warm hand on hers and squeezed, and she knew things were going to be alright. “Let’s get some food though, come on. We’ve got the big TV to ourselves, we could watch literally every season of Doctor Who.”

For the first time in days, Bea was out of her room for more than fifteen minutes. It took a while to settle in, to get comfortable with the fact that everybody actually was out—she made a mental note to stop avoiding Sam and training, and ask about tonight with his family—and no one was going to ambush her.

They ordered Ray’s, which surprised Bea since she was certain they didn’t deliver this far, and they settled in for six episodes of Season 4 before Aunt May texted, reminding Peter it was a school night.

Bea sent him home with the leftover pizza (two measly slices—Bea had proudly eaten until she was full and apparently Peter did too, but she’d seen him demolish more food than that before and knew in her heart he was dreaming of the last two slices), and Peter promised he’d head down to the lab to see Tony before he left. It was humiliating, having Peter fight her battles for her, but if Tony didn’t hate her, then there was no battle. Right?

She cleaned up the kitchen, swept the crumbs off the sofa, fluffed the cushions, and only once she found nothing else to clean, she retreated back to the safety of her bedroom.

What if Peter spoke with Tony and Tony still didn’t speak to her? What if Sunday was the last she would ever see of the mighty Tony Stark? That would make his stance much clearer, for sure, but Beatrice wasn’t sure she could handle that.

Her worry only grew in the hour that passed, and eventually her pacing and wringing her hands had become exhausting and she resigned herself to bed. As tired as she was, though, sleep did not come.

Bea was scrolling through post after post when, for the second time that day, a knock sounded from her bedroom door.

She shot up in bed and said, “Come in,” in a voice she prayed sounded less scared than she felt.

Tony’s face appeared, then the rest of him, holding two mugs of something steaming as he struggled with the door. “Hey,” he said. “Cocoa?”

He didn’t sound angry. He didn’t look angry, either. But Bea didn’t relax until he crossed the room, handed her a mug, and sat down on the edge of her bed just as Peter had done. “Thanks,” she said quietly, looking into the cup. Three marshmallows bobbed on the surface.

“The kid said we needed to have a chat,” said Tony, looking slightly amused. “He also said you’d appreciate a distraction from said chat. I figured cocoa was a safe bet.”

“You figured correctly.” She still struggled to meet his eye.

He took a sip of his cocoa and said, “So, spill. What’s going on?”

Bea’s stomach flipped. “Peter didn’t tell you?”

“I wanna hear it from you.”

Oh, God.

She put her mug down on the nightstand—this conversation was too complicated for cocoa. “Look, I know it should be obvious, but I can’t actually tell if we’re okay or not. On the one hand, you have every right to be angry, but then again you haven’t explicitly told me whether or not you hate me. I mean, from the last couple of days, I should probably be able to guess, since you haven’t actually said anything to me at all, I haven’t even seen you—”

“Whoa,” he said, a hand up to stop her as he reached over to put his mug down beside hers. “Slow down, Road Runner. Take a breath.”

Bea nodded, pinching her fingertips nervously.

“First off, we’re fine. Promise. I’m not that fragile, I really thought I would’ve made that clear at this point in my career. I’m not angry—not at you, at least—and I definitely don’t hate you.”

Bea’s next breath felt like her first in days. She felt the oxygen fill her lungs and clear her mind, and of course he wasn’t mad. Tony, who’d given her everything when she had nothing and never once expected a thing in return, when a hotel room with a few agents standing guard probably would have sufficed. He’d opened his home to her, and others like her, if what she’d read about the Winter Soldier had been even half-true. It wasn't the first word she’d use to describe Tony, but he was inherently kind, and just as she’d done with Peter, she’d underestimated him.

He tilted his head a little. “Was that really all you were worried about?”

She shot him a look.

“Not like that, it’s just … You could’ve come to me with this. We could’ve talked about it days ago, I didn’t know you were bottling this up. As the grown up, I will absolutely own that I didn’t approach you either, but it’s been busy, we’ve had a few things going on.”

“Cross?”

He nodded solemnly. “There was an unmarked vehicle hanging around the old facility up in Albany. We didn’t have a team on standby after Cap’s mission so we missed them, but we’ve had a team comb through the place and we know it was a scavenge. Cross’s team, back at the cage to collect whatever he’d left behind.”

“What’d they take?”

“Bits and pieces. Nothing valuable—at least, nothing your everyday looter wouldn’t have left behind. Mostly tech. We’ve got people on it, don’t fret.”

Bea almost laughed at that—if there was one thing she would do, it was fret.

“Mind if I ask you something?” He reached for his cocoa now, using it to warm his hands. Bea nodded. “Why’d you keep it to yourself? You didn’t even tell Pete.”

She let out a heavy breath and sank back against her bedhead, taking her own mug back now and cradling it in her lap. “I didn’t know what would happen, I s’pose. Barely knew you, for starters, everyone else was intimidating, and I wasn’t about to burden Peter with something like that. Not to mention, I’d just lost … Well, I guess I just needed to know someone was on my side, and there was the chance that if I told you, I’d be on my own.”

He nodded. “Right. But why’d you wait ’til Sunday? I feel like I made it pretty clear that whatever happened in the cage was pure survival. None of it was your fault, did that get lost in translation somewhere?”

“Well,” she started. “No, but it’s all well and good to say something like that without knowing what actually happened. Because, yeah, I know it wasn’t my fault necessarily, but I still did it and it’s still completely unforgivable. I’ve lost enough family as it is, and keeping this secret meant I didn’t have to lose you, too.”

Her words hung heavy between them, and it took her a moment to realise what she’d said. Tony’s expression was completely unreadable and she felt as if she really had crossed a line there, but she couldn’t deny the truth in what she’d said.

His face broke out in a grin, one he couldn’t seem to hold back, and he placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. “We’re good, kiddo. If you need forgiveness to get past this, then …” He tapped one hand on her shoulder and then the other shoulder, as if knighting her. “Consider yourself forgiven. Let it go.”

He squeezed her shoulder comfortingly before standing and downing his now-tepid cocoa in one, marshmallows and all.

“You up for a movie?” he asked.

“Nah.” She shrugged. “Might start training with Sam again, means I need t’go to sleep if I’m gonna get my eight hours.”

He huffed a laugh. “Big Bird’ll be glad to hear it.” As he crossed the room, he looked back at her and smiled, something gentle and genuine, and said, “Proud of you.”

Bea didn’t have the time to form any semblance of a response as he said goodnight and left, closing the door behind him.

Sleep found her quickly that night and, after weeks of nightmares, Bea dreamed only of her family.

Chapter Text

“I told you, I’m not teaching you combat.”

Sam shook his head as they stepped out of the elevator, fresh from another too-early training session. It had been difficult after so many days stationary and miserable, but the tiredness felt just as rewarding as she remembered.

“I don’t care about combat,” Bea whined, “I just wanna learn how to throw a punch! Come on, surely you know how to throw a punch.”

“You’re about to find out,” he bit out and playfully shoved her towards the kitchen. “Go harass someone else.”

They turned the corner and Bea went straight to the fridge, pulling two bottles of water and tossing one to Sam. He caught it, even though his gaze was on the figure hunched over a bowl of cereal reading a battered paperback.

“Oh, perfect, go harass Bucky,” Sam said loudly, starting down the hallway with his water. “Buck, you’re tagged in, I hope y’all have fun. I wish I could stay but I need like fifteen minutes in a quiet room or I’m gonna pitch her off the balcony.” His drawn-out goodbye echoed as he disappeared.

Bucky looked amused, putting his book down. “What’d you do?”

Bea sat down opposite him with a huff. Alpine’s head perked up on the seat beside him. “Nothing,” she said. “All I said was that punching should totally fall under the self-defence umbrella and that he should definitely teach me how to punch.”

“Yeah, I bet that’s all it was.” He grinned as he chewed. “Y’really gotta teach me your secrets one day. Been trying to get Sam to shut up for years.”

A thought struck her. “Could you teach me how to punch?”

“Sadly,” he said with a heavy sigh, “I won’t be around to keep you entertained today. Tony’s booked you a lab downstairs, mentioned he might have a friend there for you.”

“Really?” Bea asked. “Who?”

Bucky only shrugged. “All’s I know is it ain’t me, kid,” Bucky said, putting his book down. “You’re all booked up. Tony said to send you on down if I saw you after training, so …” He held up a hand and made to shoo her away. “Off you go.”

“Are you seriously shooing me?” Bea guffawed, standing. Then, sickly sweet, she said, “I hope Alpine eats your face in your sleep.”

“Only the finest cuisine for my girl,” he called out cheerfully as she started past the kitchen and back to the elevator.

A friend. FRIDAY seemed to know where she was taking Bea, so she let herself be carted downstairs as she tried to puzzle it out. Today was Saturday, which could mean anything. He wouldn’t have been so mysterious if it was just Peter, and Ned or MJ wouldn’t have come without Pete. Maybe Celia was here?

The elevator doors opened and Bea stepped into a large, windowless white room. It could have been a number of things—a conference room, a smaller training centre, an asylum … She took another few tentative steps, turning on the spot to take in her bland white surroundings before practically leaping out of her skin at the sight before her.

In the centre of the room, which had just been empty, thank you very much, now stood a very blurry, very red, woman-shaped ... thing.

“Hi, Beatrice,” Wanda Maximoff said as the hologram sharpened and clicked into focus.

“Holy shit,” was all Bea could say as she realised who it was. If her suit hadn’t given her away, her red hair and soft features would’ve done the trick.

She didn’t seem bothered by Bea’s language. “Is this coming through okay? Stark said it’d work, but it’s the first time I’m using it.”

“Yeah, no,” she assured quickly. “You look great. Hi.”

“Hi. I’m sorry we haven’t met until now, things have been a bit … crazy. Vis and I have been on back-to-back missions, haven’t been able to get a moment to make it out to the city, so this is our next best thing.”

“Okay,” Bea said slowly. “Sorry, but … what for?”

Wanda frowned. “Tony didn’t mention it? Actually, that checks out. He and Steve asked me to work with you on your …” She hesitated, flexing her hands as if looking for the right word. “Abilities? Tony mentioned there’s a light element that may be similar to my abilities, but I don’t think so.”

She nodded, taking it all in. Steve had mentioned it, actually, when he left for the Compound all those weeks ago, but nothing had come of it. He’d only returned with Bucky and Sam, and no word about Wanda or the Vision, and Bea had promptly forgotten it. “Right,” she said. “Okay.”

Wanda offered a warm smile. “I’d heard about your rescue and hoped to meet you sooner, but Tony decided you’d be better off at the Tower. I won’t lie, I disagreed at the time, but it looks like it suits you well. And, the good news is that I’ve been able to take the whole weekend to work with you, but we’ll have to make do like this. Does that sound okay?”

Bea nodded. “Yeah, sounds fine.”

Truthfully, the idea made her queasy. The Scarlet Witch was going to see what she could do. And though she seemed perfectly lovely, a part of Bea worried she’d be wasting Wanda’s time.

“I’m not sure how they expect me help you,” Wanda said, not unkindly, though she was only proving Bea right. “Our abilities are not the same. I got mine from the Mind Stone, but yours … I haven’t heard of anything like it before. My magic feels tethered to me, but yours might be more … welded. Does that make sense?”

It didn’t, but Bea nodded anyway. Wanda was right, their magic was different. She used hers to help people—she was an Avenger, after all. But Bea? The second she got her Dampener off, she hurt Tony Stark. Her light was supposed to heal, and she’d used it as a weapon. Not to mention, if whatever Cross wanted with her had anything to do with her light, then surely the less she used it, the better off she’d be. The better off everyone would be.

“So, we only have two days,” said Wanda, breaking her from her thoughts. “Let’s get started?”

To her credit, Wanda was a good teacher, but Bea would have expected their session to be something more like an eighties action movie training montage. Instead, Wanda had taken the time to explain all the ways magic can feel, how summoning it to the surface can sometimes be difficult, or it can be as easy as breathing. They spent hours meditating and breathing and feeling, and by the end, Bea felt clearer than she had since before the cage.

They had taken a brief break for lunch, but aside from that, they worked until Bea knew her magic properly, inside and out, just as Wanda understood her own. They didn’t call it a day until almost six o’clock. Bea felt wiped, but so full of energy—like she could run a marathon. Hunger ached deep in her belly and she considered going straight to the kitchen, but FRIDAY greeted her differently when she stepped back into the elevator.

“Perfect timing,” the AI said brightly. “Spider-Man has just arrived in the Training Centre.”

“Has he? Let’s go there, then, please.”

The doors closed and it took no time at all before Bea was back in the Training Centre, watching Spider-Man scale the walls.

“Lost something?” Bea called from the floor.

He jerked his head around, only just realising she was there, before greeting her with a loud shout and joining her on the mat. “Long time, no see! I thought you’d be in the lab still.”

He looked jumpy, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. Spider-Man had secrets, she knew that much, but this seemed … different. He seemed different.

“Haven’t been in the lab for days, actually,” she said with a shrug. “I should, though, FRIDAY’s probably drowned me in quizzes and essays.” She studied him for a moment. “Were you looking for me?”

“I, uh,” he started rather nervously. “I asked FRIDAY, she said you were working?”

“Oh.” Bea nodded, a smile tugging at her lips. “No, I was actually with Wanda.”

The smile was stronger than her, though, as it broadened into a grin. Those freaky white eyes widened as if with shock and it made her laugh, pushing past him to put some space between them.

Sam had raided the water fridge during their morning session and the evidence was still sitting like a cluster of small monuments at the edge of the sparring mat. She crouched to collect them, noting delightedly how Spider-Man followed her.

“You what?” he cried, laughing in disbelief. “Wanda's here?”

“Kind of.”

“And that means …”

She stood again, arms full of empty bottles, and he immediately took half of the load. “Thanks. Tony set up a room for us, I don’t know exactly where but it’s in the downstairs vicinity. No idea what the room’s actually for, either, but it worked a treat.” Bea explained Wanda’s hologram as they made their way to the recycling chute by the boxing ring, Spider-Man hanging onto her every word.

“Man, lucky. It’s been ages since I saw Wanda. Was Vision there?”

Bea shook her head. “Just Wanda.” They dumped their bottles into the chute and wandered towards the punching bags. “She really opened my eyes.”

“About your powers?”

Bea nodded. “She showed me how to ground myself. Feel the light inside me rather than find it. Turns out, my light is less like light, and more like … water.”

His brow furrowed. “Water?”

“Well …” She turned to a punching bag and gave a light swing of an arm. “Do you remember that night? At my place?” When he still looked confused, she clarified, “I ended up on the ceiling.”

“Oh, that night. Bit hard to forget, honestly.”

Her cheeks warmed. “Before that night, my magic was hard to summon. If I was tired, if I was hungry, or feeling low, it was so much harder. I thought it was tied to my energy and I had to use it sparingly.”

He nodded, encouraging her to go on.

“So, if we take the water thing, we could equate how it felt back then to something like drawing water out of a super deep well. Exhausting, time-consuming, you know.”

“Right.”

“But after that night, I realised how intrinsic it is. It’s a part of me, I don’t need to be fighting to bring my light to the surface because it’s always there. And now, instead of a well, it’s like I’m standing waist-deep in a lake and it’s all at my fingertips as far as the eye can see.”

His cheeks twitched into a smile beneath the mask.

“I know,” she said, waving a hand, “I sound like an idiot.”

“You don’t,” he assured quickly, touching her shoulder. “You sound incredible.”

Her cheeks were practically on fire now and she had to turn away, pretending to put her all into hitting the bag before her.

“That night though,” he frowned. “You were flying, sure, but your light … It was, like, all of you. Your hair, and your eyes, your skin was even glowing. That never happened before, right?”

A memory clicked into place and she paused. “It did happen before. A long time ago, I was just a kid.”

“What do you mean?”

“The night—” Bea wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence. The night I was taken? The night Mom died? “The night Cross found me,” she settled, “he showed me something. I don’t know how, it was probably the same way he did the illusions, but what he showed me …” She stopped punching and turned to him. “I didn’t remember it, but it was a memory. I was little, really little, and Cross was asking me to do my magic trick. And just like that,” she snapped her fingers, “I was floaty and glowy and everything.”

Spider-Man was quiet, taking it all in. “But you don’t remember that?”

“I don’t think so?” She ran a hand over her braids. “I mean, it must’ve happened, I’ve had my light for as long as I can remember, it could’ve—”

But the thought struck her even before she saw the sad tilt of Spider-Man’s head. If the illusions weren’t real, and this was just another illusion …

She took a deep breath. “I know. But I think the fact that I did it that night gives some weight to it.” Unless he knew and used it against me.

He made a thoughtful sound. “Do you think you could do it again?”

“Ha!” she guffawed. “No, I don’t think that’ll be happening again any time soon.”

“Why not? Have you tried?”

She pursed her lips. “No, but … I can’t seem to reach that deep.”

“But Bea,” he said, amused. “You’re standing in a lake, remember? You could if you wanted.”

The truth of his words made her chest ache. She wanted to try, and after her day with Wanda, she almost believed wanting would be enough to get her there, but where was she supposed to start?

“I’m no expert,” Spider-Man started, circling her bag, “but it sounds to me like the key to using that much of your power is stress.”

“Stress?”

“Yeah, a stressor. What happened that night, do you remember? Before the glowy bit.”

She thought for a moment, searching her mind before it hit her like a truck. “The bakery.”

“Nothing like the adrenaline of getting held up in a bakery, is there?”

“Okay,” she said slowly. “But I don’t think I was experiencing extreme stress or adrenaline when I was three.”

“Touché.”

Truthfully, the robbery hadn’t affected her that badly at all. If anything, it had pulled her out of the depressive funk of knowing Walter was home again. She was startled by it, sure, but it wasn’t as dramatic and traumatising as Spider-Man made it seem.

Not to mention, if stress was her trigger, then why hadn't she lit up like a Christmas tree when she came home that very last night and had to watch her mother … Hm.

Spider-Man seemed to sense the unease that sank in her gut, but thankfully didn’t comment.

“Maybe …” she said slowly, meeting his eyes. She had never felt quite so vulnerable as in that moment. “Maybe it wasn’t stress that did it. That night, in the apartment, I think that it was more that you were willing to see me. All of me, and you weren’t afraid of me, you didn’t think differently of me or anything. You didn’t know me very well, sure, but you didn’t judge me for it. I think you were probably the first person who ever did that, and maybe that was the feeling that did it. Not the adrenaline, not the stress, but … that.”

“Right, right, that could be it,” he said, as if she hadn’t just poured her heart out. “So, like, extreme emotion. But positive emotion? Not a stressor, more like …”

Bea reached into her back pocket, pulled out her phone, and searched:

positive stressor synonym

“Eustress,” she read aloud. “Moderate or normal psychological stress, interpreted as being beneficial.” She looked up at him. “Literally translates to ‘good stress’.”

“Ooh, eustress. That’s exactly what we want, by the sounds of it.” He looked far too amused for her liking.

“Oh, yeah? And what exactly do you think is gonna count for positive stress around here?”

“Come on, Bea, you say that like this hasn’t opened up a whole world of opportunity!” His enthusiasm made her laugh, and he laughed with her. “I’m talking skydiving, horror movies, maybe even cliff-jumping, like those vampires—”

“I’m 99% sure those would cause me distress, thank you very much. And I think you’ll find it was the werewolves who were cliff-jumping.”

“Of course,” he said benevolently, bowing a little. “Pardon my error.”

An idea occurred as she looked between his freaky-eyed mask and the too-stiff punching bag before her. “Maybe you could teach me how to punch?”

“Oh, absolutely, sold. So, what you wanna do is close your fist like this,” he said, demonstrating with his hand. “Tuck your thumb under so you don’t break it, and then just—”

He hit the bag with all his might and Bea had to leap back as it broke from its chain and flew across the room, slamming into the recycling chute before clattering to the floor.

“Whoops.”

“Right,” said Bea. “So, not like that, then.”

Chapter Text

Beatrice needed a distraction. Immediately.

When she had woken on Monday morning, her world was fine. She had said her goodbyes to Wanda yesterday, being sure to thank her for all her time and knowledge and energy. It’d been a weekend of learning curves and the casual flipping of her entire grasp on her life thus far, but it was for the better—Bea knew that.

She had trained with Sam, and things were fine. She’d showered, dressed, eaten, and things were still fine. She decided to get back into her routine and work in the lab with Tony, and even that was fine.

Not fine came after lunch, when all her school work was caught up on and she had decided to entertain herself with the dilapidated Iron Man suit she’d been neglecting. It was fully functional at this point and she couldn’t have been prouder of it, even though it still looked much worse for wear. But FRIDAY was connecting, and even her flight mechanisms, yet to be tested, seemed stable enough.

Bea should have been paying more attention.

The suit had been hooked up to her laptop, running diagnostics to confirm her code was up to scratch. Clicking through file after file, reading protocol after protocol, until she stumbled upon something she shouldn’t have.

She’d hacked into Tony’s private server. Into the suit’s mission recordings.

Bea waited for FRIDAY to sound the alarm, to rat her out, for Tony to ask her what the hell she thought she was doing. She chanced a glance across the lab, but found Tony working away on his computer, another prototype of sorts on the desk before him. His chosen background music today was Led Zeppelin, and he’d seemed to once again forget she was there. He didn't have to know.

She found the most recent recording and clicked play.

It was strange, seeing the scene play out from a different perspective. It took Bea several moments to realise the bony, ashen figure through the bars was her.

“Page, that you?” came Tony’s crackly voice on the poor recording. “We’re getting you out of here.”

She watched as her expression turned from worry to shock as Tony tore through the bars. Then it was as if she’d become a different person. If Bea had paused and gone back frame by frame, she would have seen the moment her mind shifted and she decided to fight.

Tony blasted her Dampener off, and she began to glow. It wasn’t easy to make out on the recording, but there was a distinct shimmer of light down Bea’s thin arms, her hands almost turning white.

And then she struck.

The last frame was just awful. Her gaunt face frozen on the screen, eyes full of fear and mouth open in a yell as her blurry, glowing fist sped towards the camera. She was angry, and scared, and hurting.

Bea slammed her laptop closed and tore out the cables connecting to the suit.

“Everything all right over there?” Tony called warily, looking up over his screen.

“Fine,” she choked out. She stood and took a large step back from her desk, rounding it and starting towards the door, leaving it all just as it was. Tony frowned at her—she forced a smile. “Just feeling a bit wrecked after training this morning, gonna go for a nap.”

“Right,” he said, and Bea knew he didn’t believe her at all.

But he let her leave, thank God, and she immediately scurried back upstairs to her bedroom. She ignored FRIDAY’s are you okay, Beatrice? and all but slammed her door behind her.

Her room was dark and cool, giving her a moment to take deep, cleansing breaths. But every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was her weak, terrified self cowering behind the bars of her cage.
And that was where she found herself, in her bedroom pacing to and fro, hunting for a distraction. Literally anything that would take her mind off the vision of herself.

She sat down on her bed and cradled her head in her hands, elbows on her knees. Why had any of this happened? Why was her father a maniac, why was he so hell-bent on getting her back, and why hadn’t she known about any of it until it was too late?

Mom had kept secrets—more than Bea realised, clearly. Had Walter been a part of that? A way to keep Cross at bay? No woman in their right mind would ever stay with a man like Walter, not unless out of sheer necessity.

Maybe it was necessity.

Her gaze flicked up and landed on something she had entirely forgotten existed. Something that made her feel worse, if that was even possible—something she wouldn’t have been able to cope acknowledging half an hour ago.

But she already felt like shit and her day wasn’t going to improve any time soon, and she wanted answers. Might as well do it now than ruin a perfectly good day down the line.

Bea had to drag the box from its home in her closet—much too heavy to lift, even with all her training—to the middle of her room and sat down before it with a pair of scissors in her hand.

NANCY PAGE.

She had wondered, of course. Peter said her apartment was still there, empty, but paid for. Tony had brought some of her things to the Tower—her desk, the records she hadn’t touched, the clothes she’d had to pack away—but she assumed he would have left her mother’s things alone. Should she be offended? Maybe if she had more brain space.

The scissors glided through the tape and Bea forced the flaps open, pulling out the first item she could see. But the first item was identical to the second, and the third. In fact, the whole box was full of the same thing.

Folders.

Reports, by the looks, but also old newspapers, court transcripts, even a small stack of old diaries. Bea frowned—she had never seen her mother with any kind of paperwork, let alone a diary. She cooked and cleaned and dealt with the man-child she called a partner, but Bea never saw her writing.

She found a stack of newspaper clippings.

RENOWNED SCIENTIST DR. ADRIAN CROSS GRANTED PAROLE AFTER SHOCKING KIDNAPPING INCIDENT

In a surprising turn of events, Dr. Adrian Cross, the once-celebrated genetic scientist, has been released on parole after serving 12 months for child endangerment. The brilliant researcher, known for his groundbreaking work in genetic experimentation, was arrested following the kidnapping of his ex-wife's 10-year-old son. Although the boy survived the harrowing incident, he tragically passed away eight weeks later from undisclosed causes. Medical experts and forensic investigators are yet to determine the exact factors that led to the tragedy.

Dr. Cross, who faced public outrage and legal consequences for the shocking crime, is now set to return home to his wife, Nancy Cross. Despite the shadow cast over his reputation, the scientist is determined to continue his controversial research.

"Life is a sequence of experiments, and not all yield the expected results,” said Dr. Cross upon his release. "I am committed to moving forward, to advancing our understanding of genetics for the betterment of humanity."

The betterment of humanity? Bea swallowed the rising bile in her throat and flicked through the rest. She found more of the same, articles about Cross and his research into genetics, the case that put him in prison for a year. She remembered Tony talking about him that awful night. He said Cross was with HYDRA, but she didn’t find any mention of them in these clippings. He also said Cross was arrested long before Bea was born—was that this?

Parole was different to imprisonment, and she was the proof. Why didn’t SHIELD stop him? He was before the Avengers’ time, but surely someone ought to have been keeping an eye on him? How did he get away with this?

Bea picked a notebook next, a small hard-covered one with band stickers on the front. She pulled off the elastic and it fell open.

Shit.

Shit shit shit shit shit

Right so Adrian’s finally home, it’s been about three weeks since he was released and it’s like a mix of good and weird feelings? He’s all about his research as if he never left and I'm trying to be supportive but it’s like I’m not here. He’s always on the science thing and I’m just frantically trying to keep up.

But I’ve felt like shit for ages now and so I did what Carol said and I went down to the pharmacy and got a test and… I'm gonna be a mom. Pregnant! Me!! NO clue how I’m gonna tell Adrian. He’s all about his research and I’m worried this baby news might mess things up — I can’t raise a person by myself. I know he said he wants kids eventually, so really I shouldn’t be worried, but the timing feels off. What do I do??

It was surreal to think of her mom as just a person, before all of this. She flicked to a new page and kept reading.

God, I’ve finally got a moment to breathe. Life’s been a whirlwind — Beatrice, our beautiful little bundle of joy, is two now. Can you believe it? Two!! She’s walking, talking, and the happiest little thing. She looks less like a potato now she’s grown a bit, but she definitely takes after Adrian. She looks more like me (thank God) but I can see so much of Ade in her.

Right now, they’re up in Albany, Ade and Bea, on some adventure for his conference. It’s the first time I've been away from her for more than a few days, and I can’t shake this weird feeling in my gut. I trust Adrian with every ounce of my being, I know she’s safe, but … Maybe it’s just a mom thing.

It’s just so strange not having her giggles and little feet running around the house. I needed this time alone, though. A break is good for the soul, or so they say.

I can’t wait for them to get back, to hear all about their adventure. I know she’s safe with Adrian. Still can’t shake this weird feeling, like a nagging thought at the back of my mind.

Can’t wait to hug them both tight when they get home.

Mom had taped a photo beneath that entry—a faded polaroid, poorly-taken, of a young man with a baby strapped to his chest. They both had their tongues out, and Bea thought with a pang that they looked happy. She looked happy.

Bea closed the diary and pulled the elastic back over. She was desperate to keep reading, but this version of her Mom was so foreign. She’d chosen Adrian, trusted him.

She picked up the articles and scanned the first one again. A ten-year-old boy, dead. If Cross was responsible for her abilities, who’s to say she was the first experiment? Who’s to say she wasn’t the tenth, twentieth in line? How many people—kids—did Cross have to go through before Bea? How could Nancy have left her alone with him after something like that?

Another folder held court transcripts and reports. Divorce papers. Restraining orders. Hospital records.

After an hour of reading, Bea’s mind was imploding. She learned she was two when she first went missing. Adrian kept her from Mom for two months—their one-week adventure to Albany turned into eight weeks, and by the time Bea was home, Mom knew something was wrong. Bea was different.

There was no way she didn’t know, but it still took Mom another six months to leave him, and Adrian didn’t make that easy. She had no money, no friends that weren’t also Adrian’s friends. She was a Cross and that was it.

Until she met Walter Anderson.

Mom kept everything—a copy of her lease, signed by Walter. Her old driver’s license, which read Nancy Cross, and a handwritten receipt from a Lenny Anderson for his 'services'. There was a birth certificate for Beatrice Cross, only with a strikethrough on the name made with deep red pen and Page scrawled beneath.

Bea was half-expecting to find a contract between Nancy and Walter for her soul.

She knew the rest, all too well. The coercion, the control, his boot always at their necks for the next thirteen years. The guilt Bea felt was familiar. She’d never considered the shit her mom had had to go through to get where they were, and having seen firsthand what Adrian could do … Walter was better.

All those times Bea had berated her mother for staying with him, for putting up with him, never knowing that the alternative was so much worse. She said such horrible things, thought such horrible thoughts—and Bea would never get to apologise for any of it.

Someone knocked on her door.

“Come in,” she said brightly, sniffling and wiping her face dry. She hadn’t even realised she was crying. Bea forced a smile when she saw Tony’s worried expression. “What’s up?”

“FRIDAY said you were upset and I should be a good person and see if you were okay.”

“Snitch,” Bea said, and sighed. “You really have to do something about her.”

“Nah,” Tony said, closing the door behind him and leaning against it. “What’d you find?”

Bea pushed the box away. It was still a million tonnes, so it didn’t go far. “Lots of stuff. Like, lots. Mom’s old diaries, court stuff, police reports.”

Tony frowned, leaning forward to look inside. “Your mom some kind of criminal mastermind?”

“No, the other parent.”

“Yeah, I know. I thought you’d find those weeks ago. It answered a few questions for us, I’ll be honest. SHIELD knew about the experiments, but they had no idea he was doing independent research. Thought it was all for HYDRA, but …” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Apparently not.”

“Hm.”

He was quiet for a moment as Bea tried to will the circulation back into her backside, before he pushed off the door and gently kicked the box back towards the closet. “Come on,” he said and helped her to her feet. “You need a distraction, and lucky for you, I am very good at those.”

“Hit me.”

They left her room, left her box of mysteries behind, and Tony guided her down the hallway and back to the elevator.

“You said your suit’s functional? Flight mechanisms, the lot?”

“Yes?” Bea frowned. “What’re you thinking?”

“I’m thinking we take her for a test run.”

Chapter Text

“What were you two thinking? You could’ve gotten hurt.”

Bea couldn’t have been happier to finally have Pepper home from her travels, but it was less than ideal to be greeted with a lecture. Tony and Bea had spent all evening in the lower garage with Bea’s Iron Man suit, and to say it went badly was an understatement.

Bea winced. “I see your point, but … I literally have healing magic.”

“And I see your point, but you literally could have broken your neck.”

Tony grinned, glancing between them. “But we didn’t and it almost worked. I have notes, don’t get me wrong, but that was very impressive and you should feel very proud.”

Bea couldn’t help the bubbling joy inside—she’d done something right, something good. Even better, she’d done something that wasn’t tied to her magic, it was just her.

Tony had insisted they fixed up the exterior before testing any mechanisms, and asked her to pick a colour—purple and silver, to his poorly-hidden displeasure. Bea had even insisted they reshape the arc plate to be a star instead of a triangle while they were at it, because she might never get to wear it, but why should that mean it couldn’t look cool?

She was shocked by how much fun she had. The repulsors weren’t even half as terrifying on the other side of the suit, and flying wasn’t as difficult as she thought. The suit wasn’t for combat, wasn’t even for use, but Tony said with a little more work, it could be.

“Being a rational person,” Pepper said, shaking her head, “I can’t condone it, but I’m also a curious person, so send me the video.”

“I’ll get FRIDAY on it,” said Tony, before throwing Bea a sly wink and whispering, “After a quick edit.”

“I heard that.”

“Heard what?” Tony stood then, and waved a hand dismissively. “I’m meeting with our Dubai partners soon, hopefully they’ve come up with something since you left. We still on for lunch?”

“I’m hoping Beatrice will help me with some cooking. How many are we expecting?”

“The usual bunch,” Tony said. “See you later.”

With that, he left, and Pepper turned to Bea with an amused grin. “The usual bunch. Could mean four or twenty, I never know with that man.”

Bea laughed. “Well, I know Rhodey is here, Captain Rogers and Bucky, too. Sam’s here, I’ve been training with him, but you might have to check on Clint and Natasha.”

“That’s not a surprise.” Pepper went quiet for a moment, studying her closely. “How is it? The training?”

“It’s okay,” Bea said, feeling awkward. “I’m learning a lot. Made a lot of mistakes before, but Sam’s teaching me the proper way, except he refuses to teach me how to throw a punch.” She laughed again, but her attempt at humour didn't shift Pepper's solemn expression.

“Before?” she said slowly. “As in, the cage?”

Bea took a deep breath and nodded, her eyes anywhere but Pepper.

“Tony told me. What you told him about the cage and the illusions, he filled me in. I wanted to tell you. I’m guessing it’s probably not comfortable, something like that being common knowledge. But I’m glad you don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”

Bea looked up, horrified. But of course Pepper would know—she was Tony’s fiancee, they were each other’s most trusted person. The worst part of it was that Bea hadn’t even considered what Pepper would think of her. She’d been so worried about Tony’s reaction, about Peter’s, she hadn’t even given half a thought to Pepper.

But she took Bea’s hand and cradled it in her own, looking her dead in the eye. “Tony said you were also struggling a bit with the guilt? I want you to know that you don’t need forgiveness from anyone, but if it’ll help you move on, then you have mine. You didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, you did the right thing—you kept yourself alive. Trust me, you’re a good person with a good heart, nothing you have done changes that.”

It was strangely easy to let Pepper’s kind words sink in. She expected to be overly emotional with such kindness, but there was only a stark clarity in her mind. Almost everyone who’d brought it up had said the same thing—surely that meant it could be true. Bea wasn’t sure she could ever forgive herself for what she did, but knowing no one here blamed her—that they still cared about her—was a comfort she hadn’t realised she was missing.

Bea didn’t have the words ready to explain what it meant, so she smiled gratefully and squeezed Pepper’s hand, feeling a bubble of warmth in her chest when Pepper squeezed her hand back.

“So,” Bea said, sitting up a bit straighter. “Let’s say there’s nine of us, what are we cooking?”

That was when Pepper introduced her to Chicken Cacciatore. It was an old family recipe, she had explained as Bea chopped, but Bea wasn’t sure if she meant her family or Tony’s. But Pepper seemed to know the recipe well, and cooked from the heart.

After an hour, the kitchen smelled like fresh herbs and rich, savoury sauce, and they had well and truly worked up an appetite.

“FRIDAY, could you please let everyone know lunch is ready? We’ll be eating at the table,” said Pepper as she skilfully moved the Cacciatore and rice onto a large, ornate platter. Bea was busy at the island cutting thick slices of crusty bread.

In no time at all, their friends were loudly making their way to the kitchen, laughing and chatting. Sam rounded the corner. “Oh, smell that. I can’t tell you how good it is that you’re back, Potts,” he told Pepper, taking the platter from her and walking it over to the table.

Rhodey agreed loudly, fetching a pitcher of cold water. “We expecting the kid today?”

Bea frowned. Wasn’t she ‘the kid’? She was standing right there.

“Who?” Pepper asked, busy with some linen napkins.

“Parker,” said Rhodey, stacking glasses. “He said since you’re back today, he might swing by—”

“Hey, Beatrice,” Pepper said quickly. “Would you mind bringing a couple of serving spoons over?”

She nodded, turning towards Rhodey who jumped, realising she was there. “Pete’s at school, isn’t he?” she said pointedly. “You’d better not be encouraging truancy, or I’ll tell Stark you’re a bad influence.” She jutted a serving spoon at him disapprovingly.

Rhodey laughed it off and said, “As if he doesn’t already know.”

Soon they were also joined by Tony, Bucky, Steve and, surprisingly, Clint and Nat, too.

“I thought you guys were back at the compound,” Bea said to the two by way of greeting. “Haven’t seen you in days.”

Clint clapped her on the shoulder warmly and Nat smirked. “Just doing our jobs. Thanks for the compliment,” she said.

Conversation flowed naturally between them all, but Bea was easily reminded of her first night. How cautious, perhaps even paranoid, she’d been, and how sceptical she was that this could be real. Granted, she still sometimes had to convince herself this was real—less nowadays because of her deep-seating suspicion that this was some long-winded illusion, but more because she had never believed she deserved to feel so content.

Clint asked after Celia, Ned and Peter, and told Bea wild tales of things his own children would get up to and how much havoc they’d wreak on the daily. Pepper laughed, overhearing their conversation.

“You’ve clearly been away too long,” she told Clint. “Bea, tell this lot what you and Tony got up to yesterday.”

It took her a moment to process what Pepper meant. For a split second, she’d worried Pepper knew about her accidental—or not—hacking into Tony’s network.

Sam groaned. “If Stark’s involved, it’s not Bea’s fault, he’s a menace. How much damage are we talking? A million? A billion?”

Bea scoffed, ready to tell him a billion was a little dramatic, but he nodded solemnly.

“Trust me, he’s capable,” said Sam. "It’s like a challenge for the guy.”

From the other side of the table, Tony frowned, though a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “The guy is sitting right here, thanks. And for the record, we kept the damage to three digits.”

For the actual record, they hadn’t damaged anything at all. Bea winced, deciding to play along. “Might be more like four? It was messy.”

“Who knows,” Tony sighed dramatically. “Let’s say five just to be sure.”

Bea cracked then, laughing a little.

“Quit the suspense,” Rhodey chided. “What’d you two do?”

The story unfolded. Between the two of them, they explained the gifting of the suit and the tedious process behind restoring and revamping, leaving out yesterday’s mishap with the recordings, of course, and, finally, the testing. Tony was exaggerating it like nothing else, but Bea didn’t mind. She was too busy feeling pleasantly warm with how interested the others were. Because, after all, they weren’t just the others. They weren’t even just Tony’s friends, they were the goddamn Avengers. Hearing them praise her work, answering their questions about the suit—for the first time in a while, Bea didn’t feel out of place.

“Tony says he has notes for me,” she said to Bucky, who’d asked if she’d actually finished fixing the suit. “I think he’s a bit tetchy that I managed to do what he did, only better.”

Tony laughed from his end of the table, shaking his head, and Bucky smirked a little. “Sounds like it,” he said. “Nicely done.”

Their Chicken Cacciatore disappeared with high compliments, and Bucky, Steve and Sam insisted on cleaning up. Rhodey, Nat and Clint each poured themselves a drink and moved to the sofa to chat, and Tony excused himself again to another meeting, this time with Pepper in tow.

Bea tried helping the boys pack the dishwasher, but they shooed her away, assuring her that three in the kitchen was already pushing the limit.

“What am I supposed to do, then?” she asked.

Sam shrugged. “What do you like to do?” When Bea had no answer for him, he laughed and just stared at her, astounded. “You’re telling me in this big old Tower of Tony Stark’s, there’s nothing you can think of to do?”

Bea grimaced. “I guess I have homework.”

“Homework,” Steve echoed from the sink, laughing a little. Bucky joined in and Bea frowned.

“What’s wrong with homework?”

“Nothing,” Sam assured with a wave of his hand. “You and Pete are just two peas in a pod, it’s uncanny.”

“Yeah, right,” said Bea, rolling her eyes. Before she left though, she quickly turned back and said, “Was Rhodey right? He said Peter might be visiting today, but he doesn’t usually come until tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Sam said, and Bea didn’t miss the way Bucky and Steve busied themselves again with the dishes. “Maybe, that kid’s schedule is pretty crazy. Maybe shoot him a text or an Insta-thing, whatever it is you kids do nowadays.”

Bea wanted to tell him he sounded like he’d been the one stuck in the ice for seventy years, but with the two Super Soldiers right there, it was probably not the best idea. “Maybe,” she said instead, and started towards her room.

They’d reached a nice dynamic, Bea and the Avengers. It seemed strange still idolising them like that, but it was true. Would they still sit down for lunch together when all this was eventually over? She hoped so, but then again, there was no telling how her life would be. Where would she live? Would she get to finish school? To think, she’d been so concerned about college before—at least it had been a possibility.

Maybe she could ask Tony for recommendations. He’d know all the good schools, and he might even put in a good word for her, if she was down for some nepotism.

A thud across the hallway stopped her in her tracks, tearing her from her thoughts. She’d reached her bedroom door, but there were noises coming from a room further down. Bea frowned—she hadn’t seen anyone else come this way, they were all still in the living area behind her. She’d even watched Tony and Pepper get into the elevator, so who—

Another thud.

Bea crept closer, heart in her throat and brain coming up with the most awful scenarios. Cross has found her. There are giant bugs crawling up the Tower. Something’s escaped from the lab and the Avengers have to fight another supervillain—

Thud.

She stopped. The noises were coming from Peter’s room.

At least, she was pretty sure it was Peter’s room. She’d only ever visited him at night when her nightmares kept her from sleep, and everything looked different in the daylight.

The door was ajar, a slice of afternoon sunlight on the wall of the hallway, and quiet muttering filtered out from within. Bea steeled herself, took another step, and tentatively pushed the door open.

The sight inside is enough to send her heart skittering.

It was his room and there he stood, his face flushed and his hair a mess, dressed not in his usual graphic tee and jeans, but in a suit of red spandex that she’d seen too many times before. Clutched in his hand, a mask to match.

“Peter?” Bea croaked, but he name came out as more of a plea as she took in the scene before her. A wave of deja vu swallowed her, but it took a moment to realise she had seen him like this before. It had been a recurring nightmare of hers, one of the worst from the cage, and suddenly her chest filled with the all too-familiar panic of falling into one of her dreams.

Was this real? Or was this a nightmare?

Or, worst of all, was this just another of Cross’s fucked up taunts? She hadn’t doubted her reality in so long, it was sickening—she actually felt the bile rising in her throat.

“Bea,” said Peter. Spider-Man.

Oh, God.

“What are you doing?” she choked out.

“Bea, please, let me explain—”

“Tell me you’re not.”

It was Peter who was pleading now. “Bea—”

“Tell me—” she tried to start, but the fact was he couldn’t. There was nothing he could say in that moment that would stop her brain from clicking into place and seeing the facts for what they were. The signs, the countless signs, over the past months that would have made sense if she hadn’t been in such complete denial.

Peter Parker was Spider-Man.

And Beatrice Page was going to be sick.

She had to grasp the hallway wall to keep her balance as she turned and started towards her room. Peter swore from behind her, and there was a rustling before he was chasing her down the hall. He was talking, but she couldn’t make a single word out over the ringing in her ears.

He’d lied. He was a liar, and she fucking fell for it.

Peter’s voice rose, begging for her to just wait, to let him explain. Two figures appeared at the end of the hall—Sam and Nat—but Bea paid them no mind as she found her door handle. Peter’s hand was on hers on an instant, stopping her.

She ripped her hand away and took a step back, hissing, “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Bea, I’m so sorry—”

“What’s going on?” Sam called out, approaching. Peter had changed out of his suit and was now wearing boxers and a t-shirt, but one look of distinct recognition between him and Sam told Bea everything she needed to know.

“You knew.” Not a question, not an accusation—an observation. Sam’s expression was steely, but he nodded. “And you?” Nat didn’t bother denying it, either.

“Spider-Man has been on the team for some time now,” she said.

Bea nodded slowly, the anger making her hands shake. She could barely breathe over the drumming of her heart.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I know I should’ve told you, Bea, I’m—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Bea said, feeling proud of how even her voice sounded. “You’re a fucking hypocrite, Peter Parker.”

That seemed to put him in his place. He backed up a little, and with one last look at him, Sam, and Nat—the traitors—Bea pushed into her bedroom and promptly slammed the door behind her.

“FRIDAY, I want a full lockdown on this room. Doors, windows, everything, I don’t want to see or talk to anyone, especially not him.”

“That’s easily done, Beatrice, but I will have to notify Mr Stark.”

“Notify the fucking President for all I care, as long as I can just be alone.”

The lock on her bedroom door clicked against her hip, and she watched a thin sheen descent on her windows, similar to the window tint. It was dark for a moment until her lamps came to life, the warm light soft and welcoming, doing nothing for the absolute boiling of her blood.

Her phone pinged twice from her nightstand. She crossed the room to find her usual missed messages from the group chat, and two new messages—one from Tony, and one from Peter. She held down the power button until the screen turned black, putting it in her top drawer for good measure, before collapsing into bed. Her head ached with the effort of making sense of it.

Peter was Spider-Man.

Peter fucking Parker.

He’d lied. He’d been lying for months. And it meant that every single memory, every last cherished moment with her friend Spider-Man had been a lie. The first night and the nights that followed, the robbery at the bakery and every second of what had followed. His internship? Peter worked with Tony Stark, he had a whole home here, and just happened to be friends with Spider-Man. God, was she really that gullible?

But the worst part of all, the part that made her the most furious, was how insistent he’d always been that she share her secret.

I don’t think it would be such a bad thing if they did know, do you?

‘Hypocrite’ didn’t even begin to cover it. He was a lying, sanctimonious shit and she was never going to forgive him for this.

Chapter Text

Bea didn’t stop feeling angry until the next afternoon, but by then she felt she needed to seem angry just to make a point. She actually made it a very impressive five days without seeing another soul in the Tower. FRIDAY had been watching the kitchen and halls, letting her know when the coast was clear.

Peter didn’t visit on Wednesday, or any day after. Then again, if he had, she wouldn’t have seen him. But he wasn’t the only person Bea was actively avoiding—she knew Stark would tell her to get a grip, that Sam would try out his therapy cap, and the others would generally just think she was overreacting. Then again, after five days of hiding, perhaps it was getting a little dramatic.

But hiding didn’t mean she was alone. After the anger passed, she’d taken the time to properly read through her mother’s journals—the years of travel and adventure before she met Cross, the years of joy with Cross, and Bea too, and then the very sparsely documented years that came after. It was enlightening, to say the least—Bea didn’t stop learning new things about her Mom. ln Munich during the eighties, she won three pins from a pub, one for each stein she finished. And when she was in Ireland, she’d bumped into someone called Turnoff Turner—the quiet kid she’d apparently turned down in senior year—and promptly renamed him Turnon Turner. Bea resented learning that Mom had really, truly loved Cross and how good he was with Bea in the early years. But out of all the years’ worth of memories she read through, the part that stuck with her the most was that Nancy’s maiden name had been Browne.

Which meant, Bea supposed, she really hadn’t known her mother at all.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand for the fifth time within an hour, and Bea heaved a sigh from the bed beside it. She had been staring at the ceiling all day, ignoring the influx of messages from Celia, the Peanemelia chat, even Tony. Peter had thankfully stopped blowing up her phone, but he still messaged every night. And Bea still read them every night.

Forcing herself to sit up and breathing through the odd dizzy spell that followed, she flipped her phone over and read the message.

Tony: Quit wallowing. Lab, now. We need to talk.

She rolled her eyes and flipped her phone back over, sucking air through her teeth. He wasn’t one to be gentle and kind—or, maybe he was, and Bea had been too busy wallowing to notice.

With yet another heaving sigh, Bea stood and moved to the closet to change. She brushed her teeth, tidied her baby hairs, and gave a healthy spray of deodorant before starting out the door.

The hallway was empty, as was the kitchen and living room. FRIDAY opened the elevator doors well in advance of her, and she reluctantly stepped inside. Despite how hard she’d been working to avoid everyone, she missed them. She almost got up at dawn yesterday to meet Sam in the Training Centre, before remembering. She craved listening to the easy banter between everyone at the dining table. She desperately missed her hours upon hours in the lab with Tony.

Grudges were exhausting.

Her insides twisted with shame at how juvenile she must have seemed to the others. Just a stuck-up little girl who couldn't handle when things didn't go her way. Who in their right mind would rather spend five days in complete isolation than just talk things through?

FRIDAY took her down to the lab without a word from Bea, and when she stepped through the door, it was as if no time had passed at all.

“She lives,” said Tony through the pale blue holo. Bea recognised floor plans, but she didn’t recognise the layout before he swiped it away. He twisted a screwdriver in his left hand, stuffing the other in his pocket as he wandered over. “It’s been a minute.”

Bea shrugged, desperate to keep her cheeks from burning.

“How’re you holding up?”

“Fine.”

“Look, kid,” he said, leaning against his desk and swiping a hand down his tired face. “I’m sure it was a bit of a shock, finding out about the Spiderling, but if it counts for anything, he really did want to tell you.”

“I said I’m fine,” Bea snapped.

Tony fell quiet for a moment, watching her. “Have you eaten?”

Bea raised a brow in challenge. “Have you?”

“God, Page, cut the attitude and just answer the question.”

“Christ, why do you care?”

“Because I do.”

Bea clicked her tongue, scowling as she looked anywhere but him. “Waste of time, trust me.”

She expected him to lose his patience, to kick her out and tell her to quit being such a brat, but he only took a steady breath and said, “Believe me when I say I have no idea why he didn’t tell you. I thought he already had, to tell the truth. But the fact is, he had every right to his secret.”

“I don’t think you understand,” Bea said with a bitter laugh. “It’s not that he didn’t tell me. Don’t get me wrong, I hate that he didn’t, but what’s got me is the fact that he never stopped telling me to come clean about my secret. Ever since I’ve been here, he’s kept Spider-Man wrapped up in this perfect fucking bow when literally every single part of my life has been a free for all.”

Tony cleared his throat. “Clearly you’ve both got a lot to talk about.”

“I’ve got nothing to say to him.”

But Tony wasn’t looking at her anymore. His line of sight passed her shoulder to the door behind her where she found Peter, looking like a kicked puppy.

Tony stood, collecting his things. “FRIDAY, you know what to do. Kids, have fun, don’t kill each other. I want this lab pristine by the time I get back, got it?” he said, and promptly left, locking both of them inside the lab.

Asshole.

Neither of them spoke for a long time. Bea was busy figuring out how to best tell him to eat shit when she realised, heartbreakingly, she missed him the most of all. Not just him—Spider-Man too. Their nights together on the roof, their fun conversations. She used to be so comfortable with him, and now things had gotten so bad that Tony Stark had intervened. So bad, in fact, that Tony Stark had left them alone in his lab.

Peter opened his mouth to start, but Bea knew she would lose it if he did. “I just think it’s so funny,” she interrupted, “how Spider-man—sorry, you—spent so fucking long lecturing me on coming clean to my friends, that I wasn’t a freak, that they would still love me. And all the fucking while you’re out here swinging round the city in red spandex, determined to keep your identity a secret.”

He nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. Not like Tony, though, with his need to look more like the authority figure he should be, but insecure.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she continued. “I understand you have a responsibility out there. I understand that your identity is precious to you, and that by keeping that secret you’re also keeping your loved ones safe. I get it. But I just can’t make sense of it. I told you things, things Peter-you wasn’t supposed to know, and you took advantage of that. How could you think I wouldn’t be upset?”

After five days of pent-up thoughts, she was on a roll with no intention of stopping. A strange sense of courage had overtaken her—for the first time in her life, her voice was strong and firm, not wobbly and on the brink of tears.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” she scoffed. “Or were you going to keep up this—this charade forever? You know, after everything you and I have been through, I really thought you’d have a bit more respect for me than this.”

“Beatrice, please, I—”

“I really don’t want to hear it.” And it was the truth. The sooner she got away from him the better. “There is literally nothing you could say right now that would fix this.”

“Bea,” he said now, taking a small step forward as if testing the waters. “I really am so sorry, but I couldn’t tell you. Can’t you see how much danger you would be in if you knew?”

Bea scoffed harshly. “You’re talking to me about danger? What do you call Cross, a puppy?”

“That’s different.”

“Bullshit! Cross found me like that,” she snapped her fingers, “and I wouldn’t put it past him to hurt the people I love most to get to me.”

“But he hasn’t.”

She could only stare, trying to figure out whether he was actually serious or not. “He killed Walter. He killed my mother. He’d kill anyone else who stood in his way, and you’re telling me my safety is the reason you had to lie?” She shook her head in disbelief. “Are you hearing how ridiculous that is?”

He was silent.

“Peter, you need to understand. I have shared everything. I haven’t been allowed to keep one single thing to myself, but I have willingly shared things with you that no one else knew. I gave you everything, and you lied to me.”

It felt as if she were drawing a line in the sand. And perhaps she was overreacting, but after everything that had happened since the night Cross found her, she felt pretty damn entitled to overreact.

“Look, I can’t do this,” said Bea, moving past him towards the door. “I promise I’ll hear you out when you can come up with a good enough excuse.”

He tried to stop her, but she shook him off.

“FRIDAY, open the door.”

“Mr Stark has engaged the Olive Branch Protocol. This room will remain on lockdown until the conflict is resolved.”

“Fine,” she said, pivoting to face Peter. “Fine, if it’ll get me away from you, consider yourself forgiven.”

Peter had never looked so sorry in his life. It almost made her pause, maybe even apologise, but then FRIDAY opened the door and, without a second to reconsider, Bea walked away.

Regret consumed her with every step. She wanted to turn around, to make things right, but she’d drawn a line in the sand and now there was no going back.

Peter was the only person in the world who knew every horrible secret she had and still liked her enough to want to be her friend. And maybe she could forgive him for this one day, but not now. Not after that. She didn’t regret anything she’d said—it had all been true, after all—but seeing that shattered look in his eyes was like nothing else. He may have betrayed her, but she feared she might have hurt him twice as much today.

She sank back into bed, in the same exact position as earlier that day, and stared at the ceiling. The setting sun cast delicate shadows across her room, and it was all still so new to her that she could spend hours watching them glide up her walls and fade into blackness.

Not a single thought in her mind. No turning the argument over in her head, no hunting through her memories for all the times he’d lied. Just her and the walls and the shadows.

It was dark when someone knocked on her door. It was a strange noise after almost a week, but nevertheless, she croaked, “Come in.”

Even in the darkness, Pepper’s shining strawberry blonde hair gave her away. She was holding a full laundry basket, topped with a small pile of snacks. “Thought I’d check on you.”

Bea made a small sound of acknowledgement, letting her gaze drift back to the walls. Pepper pottered with the laundry basket, coming in and out of her closet, before sitting down at the edge of her bed and dropping the snacks on her pillow. She’d brought a little pouch of yogurt, a small bottle of water and some pea chips.

“There’s some dinner outside if you’re hungry,” Pepper offered gently. “No one will bother you about it all.”

It all. It had turned into a whole thing, she supposed. Didn’t mean she couldn’t hate it. She turned to look at Pepper, eyes straining in the low light. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Not hungry.”

She hoped Pepper didn’t think she was mad. She could never be angry with Pepper, that seemed impossible. Tony, on the other hand, seemed easier to be angry at. With that over-inflated ego of his and all of that wealth that theoretically could be going to better places, if she ignored all the good things he was already doing for the world. And Peter was hard to be angry with, but after the past week, it came naturally.

Now, though, she felt far too tired for any of that anger.

“Tony said you and Peter had a chat.”

Bea bristled, shifting until she was sitting up a little more. “You mean he locked us in his lab until we were friends again.”

“His methods are … unconventional.” Pepper gave a soft smile. “Are you okay?”

Bea studied her face for a moment. She was so, so tired. She missed being able to trust the people in her life. Tears welled and she blinked them back as she shook her head and said, “No.”

Pepper immediately shifted to wrap an arm around Bea’s shoulders and just held her, stroking her hair like Mom used to do. Bea hated the tears that fell, hated that she was so upset by this, but Pepper was being so maternal that, for the first time in weeks, Bea didn’t have to miss her mom.

“I wish he’d just told me,” she sniffled out.

She felt Pepper shrug as she continued to stroke Bea’s hair. “Maybe he was just trying to protect you.”

“That’s what he said, but I don’t need to be protected.”

“Maybe not, but maybe he just really cares about you.” Pepper pulled back a little to look Bea in the eyes. “He might have been really scared, too. Spider-Man is a big part of his life, but I think you are, too. More, even, from what I’ve seen. What if he told you and something went wrong? What if you couldn’t love and accept every part of him?”

“But I do,” Bea said without thinking. Pepper’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “I think I do. I … Well, that. And maybe it doesn’t look like it on the outside but I love that he’s Spider-Man. And I love that he’s Peter, too.”

It was the truth, but Pepper’s words still worried her. She had been so angry with Peter, she hadn’t given him the thing that she’d needed most when he found out about her—well, when he ‘found out’. His approval had been the only thing that mattered, his assurance that this different, freakish part of her didn’t make him want to run for the hills.

She’d been so selfish. Her mother’s voice rang loud and true in her mind—That Parker boy is a good kid, give him another chance. Stop being so stubborn and just talk to him.

Talk to him. She was going to have to talk to him, properly this time—not locked in a lab with an Olive Branch Protocol, and not refusing to let him speak. He had his reasons, and Bea should hear him out.

As if reading her mind, Pepper nodded and smiled, sighing and settling down beside her. “I think you two will be just fine.”

Chapter Text

Sleep was especially out of reach that night.

Nothing new, of course, but it wasn’t the usual suspects—nightmares, anxiety, guilt. True that she did feel guilty, for a number of things, and she knew in her heart that Pepper was right about having to talk to Peter. But tonight, Bea couldn’t shake an awful sense of foreboding. Even in the quiet and solitude of her room, she felt exposed and almost as if she’d forgotten something important.

Like guilt, her paranoia was familiar, so she lay there in bed as she had done for almost a week now, staring mindlessly at the ceiling, thinking of nothing and everything all at once. She finally decided to give up trying to sleep by the time her phone read 4:32am.

The Tower was quiet, which was to be expected. Peter had gone home earlier and she assumed the rest of them were asleep in their beds, but there was one person she knew would be awake.

FRIDAY was slower than usual on the elevator ride down to Tony’s lab, and Bea imagined a tired woman behind a console full of buttons, eyes barely staying open and resenting the girl who’d woken her up.

The door to Tony’s lab was open and from the elevator, she could just make out his right shoulder, hunched over his desk, hands working on something meticulous. She stepped over the threshold quietly, but he seemed to sense her presence.

“Evening,” he said, abandoning his little project. “You need me for something?”

She shook her head, relieved he wasn’t mad about her outburst earlier. He looked a little relieved too—probably that she wasn’t mad, either, for getting locked in the lab.

“Good, I’m glad you’re here. Come on, take a look at this.” He stood and walked them over to her desk where the suit she’d been working on was splayed. “So you probably noticed during the flight test that your repulsors are a little … powerful.”

“Understatement of the year,” Bea scoffed. The irony of her having too-intense repulsors actually made her laugh. “No, I really thought being propelled into the ceiling was super subtle.”

Tony laughed now too, shaking his head. “Thank God you reinforced everything properly. Okay, see here?” He opened up the leg compartment and pointed at a small mechanism inside. “You’ve got the boosters in the wrong port. You’ve gone full turbo when it’s supposed to be like a dimmer switch.”

“Right,” she said. “Obviously. How the hell are you supposed to tell them apart when they’re literally identical?”

“Flying full-force into the ceiling not a big enough hint for you?”

She rolled her eyes at him, and they got to work. Bea on one side of the desk, Tony on the other, as he walked her through switching the ports and cleaning up her work. It wasn’t bad, necessarily, as he was quick to remind her, but there was room for improvement.

And oddly enough, for the first time since she’d known him, he was still. No screwdriver twirling in his hands, no drumming his hands on his knees, not even swivelling around the lab in his chair. He was just sitting. Watching.

“You doing okay?” he asked conversationally. Bea wasn’t sure if it was the midnight silence of the lab or the sheer weight of the question, but it felt louder than it should have.

“Yeah, fine.” She hoped it didn’t sound as defensive as it had the last time she’d said it. After speaking with Pepper, it even felt marginally true.

“Glad to hear it.”

Silence fell again, only the sounds of metal clinking against metal between them as Bea worked on the connectors.

“So,” he started again. “You and Pep had a chat?”

“We did.” Bea nodded slowly, choosing her words carefully. There wasn’t a word to describe it—it had been more than a chat for Bea, but she wasn’t sure that had been Pepper’s intention. She’d been helpful, but she’d also been comforting. Caring. Motherly. “I really like Pepper.”

Tony smiled and dropped his eyes back to the desk, tapping his fingers. “Yeah, she’s a good egg.”

“She is,” Bea said warmly. “Be nice to her.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A holo appeared in the centre of the room and the quiet lab was overrun with the sound of a ringtone, making them both jump.

“Incoming call,” said FRIDAY.

Tony swore. “I don’t have my phone on me. What time do they call this anyway, FRI?”

“Incoming call,” FRIDAY said again, unnaturally monotone.

Bea checked her own phone as Tony frowned at the holo, and supplied, “It’s just past five.”

“In the morning?” he asked, and Bea nodded. “FRIDAY, who’s calling.”

“Incoming call.”

He sucked in a sharp breath. “Alright, we might have to patch them through the speakers. Kid, new lab rule. Number, uh—”

“Four?”

“Whatever you hear on this call stays in the lab. Strictly confidential, capisce?”

“I can step out—“

But FRIDAY had already patched the call through unprompted. The ringing stopped and Bea could hear light static from the other line. Tony’s frown line only grew deeper, but he relaxed his tone as he said, “You’ve reached Stark.”

“Good morning, Tony.”

It was as if her whole body had been submerged in ice water. She could feel her pulse in every limb, but it somehow also felt as if her heart had stopped beating entirely. With every thrum of her veins, the lab seemed to slip further and further from her physical reality and she felt as if she was right back in the grasp of the one person Tony had promised she would never see again.

Adrian Cross.

Her screwdriver slipped through her fingers and clattered noisily to the floor. Tony’s eyes shot her way in warning, but they quickly shifted into concern at her horrified expression.
Beatrice’s whole body was trembling with the fear of it, but she forced herself to breathe so she might hear every word possible over the rushing of blood in her ears.

“So sorry to disturb, but I believe you and I are overdue for a friendly discussion.”

“Adrian,” Tony said slowly as he realised, dragging his eyes away from Bea. “Well, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. How’s business? Still stealing kids for your little experiments?”

He was playing it cool, but she could see the white knuckles of his clenched fists.

“You’re one to talk about stealing. Tell me, how is my darling daughter? I hadn’t expected you, I’ll admit. Quite ironic that she’d end up in your care after everything. You know, don’t you? Surely she would have told you by now.”

Bea clamped one hand over her heart and one over her mouth, certain she was going to give herself away by breathing too loud.

“Listen,” Stark said, his strong demeanour starting to crack. “I’m a busy man. What could I possibly help you with.”

“Consider this a courtesy call. My project has stalled since your … interruption, and I have every intention of getting back on track.”

Tony barked a laugh. “Yeah, right. Good luck, Dr. Evil, give Mr. Bigglesworth my best.”

“Oh, Stark, we don’t need luck. I know exactly where my daughter is and it will only be a matter of time before she’s home again.”

“My God, you’re determined. Don’t beat yourself up when it doesn’t work.”

It was Cross’s turn to laugh, sharp and gravelly through the speakers. “Trust me, it will, and no matter what you and your friends try, you’ll lose and my darling Beatrice will be back where she belongs.”

With that, Cross ended the call and the lab fell silent.

Bea’s vision swam as her brain fought to form a thought. He knew where she was. He was coming to get her. To take her back. Back to the cage. The cage.

She should never have trusted Stark to keep her safe—all his promises that she’d never have to go back, how could she believe he could promise something like that? It was his fault she’d been found out by Cross in the first place. That night of her ‘interview', he’d done something and Cross had found her, she was sure of it.

“Kid,” Tony said, snapping her from her thoughts. His tone brimmed with anger, and she worried for a moment it was for her. “He cannot get to you here.”

“But he knows I’m here,” Bea said, her lips feeling oddly numb, but her vision cleared a little as tears fell. She quickly wiped them away.

“It makes sense. You we’re rescued by the Avengers, you’re not just gonna be tossed back on the street. That’s all this was, a guess.”

“He didn’t sound like he was guessing.”

Tony stood and moved around his desk. “Peter had a hunch—” Bea flinched at the reminder, “—and I wasn’t too sure about it, but I’m thinking he was onto something.”

Still shaking, her tone turned icy. “Pray tell, what did our friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man think.”

He shot her a stern look. “That maybe the teenagers we trusted with your secret weren’t that trustworthy at keeping secrets.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed. "MJ probably knows enough government secrets to start World War III, and Ned might be Ned, but he signed an NDA. He wouldn’t tell.”

“And the other one?”

Her heart sank only lower, if that were even possible. The truth of it hit her like a sack of bricks, even as she said, “Celia would never."

“Celia Barrett. You know what her father does, don’t you?”

Truthfully, she’d never asked. She knew the barest of details, only that his business was small, but big enough to be playing with the upper echelon. All the galas, expensive dinners, nights away. Bea shook her head.

“Barrett Enterprises. High-profile tech development, one of our competitors, but only in the past couple of years,” he explained. “They’ve been careful about what they show to the public, but their investors have skyrocketed in the last six months especially. We even lost an engineer to them.”

It clicked immediately, and it was like looking at the complete puzzle after hours of staring at just the pieces. “Not Beck."

But Tony nodded. “Heard a few nights ago. Barrett has security up to his eyeballs, but we have friends in high places, too.”

“Oh my God,” Bea said, a memory hitting her like a tonne of bricks. “We went out for coffee, me and Celia, after the field trip. She said her dad had a new lead engineer, said he was an ex-employee of yours.” She studied Tony, who looked as jarred as she did. “She knew? This whole time?”

“We don’t know that,” he said quickly.

“We don’t not know that.”

“You can’t jump to conclusions. We’ve been working on gathering intel since we got you out of that place, even before—Beck walked out of here with millions of dollars worth of tech, and no one stopped him."

“Because Celia’s dad helped him,” she argued. She swore, as the room fell quiet again. “Please tell me you have a plan.”

“Sure,” he said offhandedly, moving back to his own desk and bringing up a holo. “But you heard FRIDAY before, right? Did she sound weird to you?”

Now Bea thought of it, FRIDAY had been strange. “Yeah, she ... She’s not usually so … robotic.”

“Right, I programmed her to be conversational, and that wasn’t conversational.” He was swiping through the holo, through lines of code by Bea’s guess. She stood now too, legs still shaky, and stepped closer.

There were breaches in the code, and for the thousandth time that night, Bea’s heart skittered. “Oh,” she said quietly, cheeks burning.

Tony’s gaze shot to hers. “Oh?”

“That one,” she said, pointing to a line of bright red text. “That was me.”

He shifted his weight onto one leg and looked at her in disbelief. “I’d love to hear this.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” she assured, and he nodded dramatically.

“Oh, I’m sure. Explain.”

So she did. Because nothing in her world anymore could be a secret, no mistake would ever be left undiscovered ever again. But to his credit, he seemed to react most to hearing she’d watched her own rescue footage.

“That wasn’t yours to see. You shouldn’t have been able to access any of that, not unless—”

Bea’s jaw slackened. “Unless access was already compromised.”

Tony didn’t look at her, still tapping and swiping away on the holo. “We need to call a meeting.”

Chapter Text

Within the hour, Tony and Bea had moved in an oversized conference room, cradling cups of coffee as they waited on the team to arrive. Tony was pacing, not that he seemed to realise it, his brow eternally furrowed in thought and his hands mindlessly lifting the coffee to his mouth every minute or so. Bea, on the other hand, hadn’t dared trust her legs since she sat down at the seat beside the head of the table. She had subconsciously tried to make herself as small as possible, sitting cross-legged in the executive chair with her twitchy fingers cradled in her lap.

Weeks, perhaps even months on and her problems were still everyone’s problems. Tony couldn’t keep her safe here, fine, but what right did that give her to put all these people in danger, too?

She hadn’t said a word to Tony since he made the call, and neither had he. He’d sent her down to the conference room ahead of him so he might be able to fix whatever hole Cross and his team had crawled through to get to FRIDAY, but after that, the most contact she’d had was when he’d handed her a cup of coffee.

The clock on the far wall ticked, ticked, ticked. 6:22am. Time was passing, she was still here, things were still okay, but with every second passing, that truth became more of a lie. Cross knew she was here, and he was coming for her.

As the panic she’d been feeling since he called crescendoed yet again, the door opened. Both Tony and Bea looked up at the same time as the team walked through the door. Steve, then Sam and Bucky—not bickering for once, strangely enough—and Nat and Clint, murmuring to each other. “Take a seat,” Tony said, voice sounding strained. “Is that everyone?”

Nat nodded as the rest of the group sat down. She crossed her arms and leant against the far wall with Bucky, and said, “I’ll fill Rhodey and Bruce in when we meet this afternoon, and they can brief whoever else needs to know.”

“Let’s get started.” Tony looked to Bea then, and she had the awful realisation that she’d have to speak, but then the door opened again and another figure walked in.

Peter.

In spite of everything that had happened between them, Bea was so incredibly relieved to see a friend. To have him here, even as a superhero. She didn’t smile—there were too many things unsaid for that—but he gave her a solemn, reassuring nod before standing with Nat and Bucky.

She could see just how jittery and restless he was, but standing there amongst the others, taking this as seriously as any threat and not just because it was Bea—he looked like an Avenger.

Tony didn’t seem surprised to see him. It should have been a school morning—Peter wasn’t due back at the Tower for two more days—but all he did was wait for Peter to take his place before speaking.

“About an hour ago, we received a phone call. FRIDAY wasn’t able to trace the call, we think she was compromised shortly before.” If ‘shortly’ meant a week ago, sure. “She’s all sorted now, but … I think it’s easier if you guys take a listen.”

He leaned forward to give a small touchpad at the centre of the table a few taps, and Cross’s voice filled the room. Shivers ran down Bea’s spine and she dropped her gaze to the table in front of her, emptying her mind to focus on anything else but him. She counted 86 artificial grooves in the edge of the wood-look table, seven subtle scratches on the Stark Industries mug that could only be seen in the right lighting. Ten fingers. Ten breaths. 25 short, prickly leg hairs on her right ankle, under the hem of her sweatpants.

If she had been present and not a thousand miles away, she would’ve seen Peter bristle, fighting the urge to push off the wall and claim the seat by Bea, just to be close to her.

There were voices when she dragged herself back into the moment, but not Adrian’s or Tony’s. The recording must have finished. The voices were growing louder and louder, stacking on top of one other heatedly, and Bea realised they were arguing. She blinked, twice, and came back to a room full of discontented faces.

“Absolutely not,” Steve said firmly.

Nat tilted her head appraisingly. “He might be onto something.”

“You can’t be serious,” Clint said next, craning his head to look at Nat. “She’s a kid.”

“Like that meant anything for any of us. She’s enhanced, she’s not some porcelain doll.”

Sam leaned forward, focused only on Tony. “What happened to her never going back? You made a promise.”

“I’m just thinking out loud here, I’m open to suggestions.”

“I really thought you were better than that.”

It didn’t take much more for Bea to put the pieces together. It was the same conclusion she’d come to, the one she’d had to make peace with, simply because there was no other way.

“Why don’t we ask the kid what she wants,” came Bucky’s voice, loud and clear over the arguments. Bea saw Alpine there, too, stretched over his shoulders in her favourite place.

Seven faces turned to look at her. “It’s okay,” she said, and hated how weak she sounded. “It makes sense, really. You want Cross, Cross wants me. If we’re smart about it, we can let Cross think he’s won and then finish this properly.”

“Bea,” Peter started, looking absolutely miserable, but she cut him off.

“No, really. I wasn’t delusional enough to think this could go on forever. There was never any scenario where I left this Tower before we dealt with Cross. I’ve done it before, I can do it again.”

“Can you?” Sam asked, before glancing around the room. “Seriously, I wasn’t there that night but I saw the footage. I’ve seen the aftermath. That bastard is going to kill her if we hand her over.”

“We have time,” Nat said. “Maybe not a lot, but more than before. We can prep her, she’s been training with you, and she knows what to expect.”

“You really think Cross is gonna pull the same old schtick?” Sam laughed. “He’s had weeks, who knows what he’s come up with.”

“Wow, that’s so comforting,” Bea said facetiously.

He turned to her. “It’s not meant to be comforting. Don’t say yes because you think you have to. You can say no.”

“He’s right,” Tony said. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, we can find another way.”

Bea shook her head, bewildered. “No we can’t. What other options do we have? He knows I’m here, he said as much, and he’s gonna come here and take me back whether I want it or not. No, if we're doing this, we need the higher ground. We need a plan.”

“My God, aren’t you just a chip off the old block,” Nat smirked, glancing between her and Tony.

Sam groaned, wiping a hand down his face, and Steve let out a tired sigh. “Do we have any idea of timeline?” Steve asked.

“Nothing,” Tony said. “You heard what we heard, which means the sooner the better.”

Bucky pushed off the wall and stood between Steve and Sam’s chairs. “I think some sleep might be in order. You guys look like shit.”

“Appreciate it,” Tony bit out. “No, I think sleep’s pretty far off the table for now. Kid?”

“Nah,” she said brashly, clicking her tongue. “If there’s one good thing I got from the cage, it was sleep. Cross’ll probably knock me out the second he sees me, I’ll catch up then.”

No one laughed. Peter shot her a warning look, but she could see the corners of his mouth twitch. God forbid she find some humour in all of this.

“Well, then,” Nat said, taking a seat beside Clint. “Let’s get to work.”

Bucky sat down too, beside Sam, and Bea watched as Alpine scaled his shoulder to move down to his lap, settling in for a nap. Peter watched Bea for a moment before moving to sit directly opposite her, beside Tony at the head of the table.

“What do we know?” Steve started, sounding very much like the Captain he was, and Bea pulled her gaze away from Peter. “Who was our informant?”

He busied himself with the holo that had appeared in the desk, and an enormous blue light filled the room. It took a few blinks, but Bea realised it was her profile, only with significantly more information than the last time she’d seen it. There were links to Cross, to Quentin Beck. There was an entire section on BARF and it’s theoretical applications—ones Beck had managed to bring to life—and a new section for Barrett Enterprises.

“Celia Barrett,” Tony said, and Bea watch Peter’s head drop slightly.

“Oh, shit,” said Bucky.

Sam frowned. “The kid? Are we sure?”

Bea rolled her shoulders, feeling her muscles click and crackle with tension. “Peter had a hunch,” she said bitterly. “Turned out he was right. Celia’s dad is the CEO of Barrett Enterprises, another tech company like this one. Quentin Beck left here and went to work for them a few months ago. Easy to connect the dots on that one.”

Bucky shook his head. “I’d bet anything she doesn’t know. She signed one of those NDAs, didn’t she? Could’ve been an accident, shouldn’t we check in on the kid?”

“Pete,” Tony said, nodding his way. “Maybe check in on her at school today.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes. You are.” He was stern now, and Bea knew as well as Peter that there was no negotiating with him like this. “If it turns out she is this crazy evil mastermind, which, for the record, I highly doubt, better that we keep up appearances, got it?”

Peter begrudgingly agreed and, with a glance at the clock, said his goodbyes. With only a moment’s hesitation, he picked up Bea’s hand and squeezed it once before hurrying out the door. She could feel the skin on her palm tingling for the rest of the meeting.

The others continued to discuss for almost an hour before agreeing to take a break. They had been throwing words like “capacity”, “damage”, and—thankfully—“rescue”, so Bea had taken that as her cue to check out.

Having to think about what was to come made her head ache, but sitting around doing nothing made it worse. So, she’d found a nice compromise—sitting around doing nothing in the general vicinity of people who were planning for what was to come like it was their jobs. Which, obviously, it was, but it made her no less grateful.

The thought that she hadn’t managed to shake, though, was where was Cross? If he knew where she was, if he was so adamant to get her back, why make the call? Why give them time to plan?

And, now that she was thinking about it, how did Cross fit into the rest of the equation? Beck had a grudge against Stark and left to work for one of his competitors, taking all that tech with him, but where did Cross come into it?

“You alright over there?” Nat called across the table, silencing the others.

Bea nodded. “Thinking.”

“Looks painful.”

For the first time in her weeks at the Tower, Bea threw Nat a stern look. “Ha ha.”

Tony didn’t seem to find it very funny. “What’s up?”

“Cross,” she answered, worrying her bottom lip. “How did he start working with Beck? Beck works for Barrett, but where did Cross come from?”

Tony frowned as if this was the first time he’d thought of it, but Nat didn’t seem as troubled by the question. “Barrett.” When Tony’s gaze shot to her in disbelief, she rolled her eyes and said, “Before you bite my head off, I was waiting on confirmation before tossing a bunch of rumours in the pot. Apparently, Barrett recruited Cross because of his work in genetic modification, completely overlooking the human experimentation thing. Heard from a little bird that Barrett’s trying to develop tech that’ll enhance the human body, maybe even the mind, but we don’t exactly have proof.”

“What do you call that?” said Bucky, with a limp gesture in Bea’s direction.

“She," Nat said pointedly, "would only count as collateral damage. Maybe Cross enhanced her, but that was before Barrett was the one funding the torture.”

Bea scoffed nastily. “And you’re telling me Celia doesn’t know.”

“There’s every chance she doesn’t,” Sam insisted. “Wait to hear what Pete says about it and we’ll go from there. Okay?”

She nodded, but her mind was already made up. Even if Celia didn’t know, even if she’d just been an outsider this entire time, as close as she was to everything, she should have known. How had she not noticed her father networking with criminals? Had she really been so easily distracted by handsome boys, pretty girls, and all those fancy clothes?

“Kid,” Tony said gently as she rubbed her face. “You sure you don’t need a nap or something? You look beat.”

Bea could have laughed. “Nap? Tony, Cross is coming. Whether we have hours or days before he does is up to him, but I’m not going to waste it napping.”

He looked hurt, or maybe it was concern, she was too tired to tell. He was tired, too, despite the coffee—she could see it in the lines between his brows.

“Feel free to take the out,” Steve said. “We need to talk about the hard stuff.”

“Hard stuff?”

Nat tilted her head. “Logistics,” she said. “What to expect.”

“I know what to expect.”

She lounged back in the office chair and tucked her feet up. “There’s every chance, like Sam said before, that Cross has switched up the game on us. He’s had more than enough time to, at least. If Beck’s had access to Barrett’s funding and Cross’s resources, we can safely bet that you back in his hands will mean a whole world of trouble.”

“Again,” Bea said, trying to hide her tremor of fear. “Super comforting.”

Steve didn’t react as he took down the holo and replaced it with a carousel of images. Bea recognised it immediately, and felt an icy shiver trickle down her spine. Those cement walls, the discarded buckets in the corner. The door with no handle.

It was the cage.

But he also had photos of what lay beyond her cage—the domain she never saw. Hallway after hallway, lined with rooms like hers. Stained cement floors, artificial lighting, and labs. So many pristine, bright-white labs, all empty.

“The cage is empty,” Steve said, flicking through the photos. “You know we went back a few weeks ago to the facility in Albany, and found nothing. Cross has moved on, which also means he may have upgraded.”

Her head swam with the weight of it all. The cage had an outside, which meant it was real. She had gone in and come out, it was nothing but a room. No matter what Cross had in store for her, she knew that tiny gem of information would make it more bearable.

Nat leaned forward, hugging a knee and letting the other drop back to the floor. “We can safely assume the living conditions will be similar, if not worse. Who knows, they might be better, but we should probably expect the worst—underground, with no light, no food.”

Clint grimaced but, to his credit, tried to hide it. “From what Stark’s told us about BARF—really terrible name, by the way—it sounds like Beck was only starting.”

“You mean,” Bea started slowly, “more illusions?”

“Most likely,” Tony said. “There’s a good chance they’ll be worse. But you’re smart, and you know what to look for.”

“What am I supposed to look for?” She was starting to panic now. Yes, fine, she had to go back, but God, she kind of thought she wouldn’t. For a moment, things were right, but now Cross was pulling on another thread, unravelling her world yet again.

Tony reached forward gripped her forearm, grounding her. “Everything is going to be just fine, I swear on my life that we will find you.”

His eyes were earnest. She looked between them all and thought of Pepper. Of Peter, and Happy, and Rhodey, and all the other people that had become the closest thing to family she had left. She looked at them like it was the last time, before turning her gaze back to Tony.

“I know,” she said, nodding. "I trust you.”

Chapter Text

Pretending to be fine was a tough gig.

For one, Bea hadn’t slept in more than a full day. Adrenaline and panic were doing a wonderful job of keeping her upright, but everything felt heavy. Coffee helped for a short while, and Sam pulling her onto the sparring mat helped, too. What didn’t help was actually sparring—she desperately wished she hadn’t missed so many sessions.

Sam had run through the basic self-defence manoeuvres they had done a million times, but today was different. He didn’t stop her quite so much to correct her form, and he showed her ways to put more power behind her punches. He dragged Bucky onto the mat to show her how to dodge, and Nat to show her how to hit where it hurt the most. Bea had tips and tricks coming out of her eyeballs, her head swimming with it all. She appreciated their help, but there was very little chance she would recall any of it, not if what was to come was what she was expecting.

But, secondly, and probably most dire—Bea couldn’t pretend she was fine when she wasn’t. For hours at a time, she could walk and talk as if today would be like any other, but then reality would take over and she would be paralysed by the fear of it. Knowing that, at some stage, Adrian Cross would come for her.

She hated her fear. It made her weak, exposed, and, worst of all, it was exactly how Cross wanted her to feel. He hadn’t bothered with a courtesy call the first time—if he knew where she was, if he knew the Avengers were ready to defend her, why give them the advantage of a warning? Why bother reaching out at all if he was going to just snatch her away again? He wanted her emotions heightened, to be her stressor, the very thing that would send her magic haywire. She refused to give him what he wanted.

Peter was a comfort, despite everything. He’d come home from school just before ten o’clock to say that Celia was away, and had barely left Bea’s side since. Things still felt tense between them and Bea hated it, but she wasn’t sure she could do the conversation—not with so much ahead. He lingered in the kitchen when they all made lunch. He pretended to do his homework while she dissociated at the dining table. He was even watching from afar during her morning’s training session with the others.

He’d caught her eye then, too—she had never seen him train before. She’d seen him in action before, even hiding behind a bakery counter, but seeing him as just Peter, pounding on a punching bag that would be too big even for Steve was beyond strange. He was quicker and stronger than any of them, it was obvious, and for a moment she wondered how she hadn’t noticed it before.

To his credit, he was giving her the space she’d demanded from him. They were both desperate for things to go back to the way they were, for him to really be there for her in the small amount of time they had left, but that would never be possible, not even now.

It had just turned four o’clock when Bea decided that stressing about Cross would be a waste of time. He never said he’d come today—he might be here in a week, a month, a year, though Bea knew better than that.

She found herself back in the Training Centre, her whole body ached from her morning’s exertions—another training session was well and truly off the cards, but the pool looked incredibly inviting. Only, Peter had beaten her to it.

“Needed to cool down,” he said by way of greeting as she approached. “You too?”

Bea shook her head, but said, “Wouldn’t mind dipping my feet.” No time like the present.

He made a gesture as if to say be my guest, and pushed back off the wall to give her space. She rolled up her sweatpants and sat down on the edge, setting her phone a good distance away and submerging her aching feet in the cool water with a satisfied sigh. Leaning back on her hands, she looked out at the view, taking in the golden-edged skyline in the afternoon sun. She wondered just how many more times she would see that view.

“You okay?”

Bea raised her brows at him, doing her very best to ignore the bare, wet skin of his chest and shoulders. “Do I not look okay?”

“I mean about everything.”

“Hm,” she mused, pushing off her hands and leaning forward again. “Would you be?”

Peter shrugged and started towards the other end of the pool. “S’pose not.”

“Why do you think Celia did it?”

“Oh,” he said eagerly, pivoting to swim towards her. “I’ve actually been thinking about that. I don’t think she did it on purpose.”

“No, me either,” said Bea, massaging her hands. “That day you all came to the Tower, you wouldn’t let me tell her.”

He had the good sense to look guilty, but she just shrugged a shoulder.

“Guess I should thank you for that.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” he said firmly. “It really was such a dick move at the time. I should’ve told you.” He crept into her line of sight and tilted his head until he met her eye. “I should’ve told you everything.”

“But you didn’t.”

“And I’m sorry for that. I’ll never not regret putting you through that, Bea.”

Bea fell quiet for a long while, long enough for Peter to start swimming again. She didn’t want to argue, not with Cross as close as he was, but they might not get another chance. But before she could open her mouth to speak, her phone lit up beside her and began to vibrate. Celia Barrett. Bea’s stomach flipped with guilt as she declined the call. The idea of having to say goodbye, especially when the feeling of betrayal still sat deep in her sternum … She just couldn’t do it. But Peter—Peter was right here, and this was something she could do.

“Pete?” she asked quietly, but he heard her. “Do you remember the Battle of New York?”

“Kinda hard to forget.”

“You remember where we were?”

He stopped swimming then. “Not really. It was middle school and we were on a field trip, but I don’t remember where. I do remember the whole place getting trashed by aliens and we had to evacuate. I thought that was the coolest thing that was ever going to happen to me, but also the last thing that was ever gonna happen to me. Nearly cracked my head open on the stairs.”

Bea gave him a patient look and he paused.

“You had your powers then, didn’t you?”

“Had them as long as I can remember. It was almost funny though, I panicked so bad when I saw you in that stairwell, I totally forgot I had them.”

He swam up to her again and pulled himself out of the pool, along with about a gallon of pool water. She moved her phone to her lap, as it lit up with Celia’s face again—she quickly pressed decline. Peter swivelled until he was sat beside her, water running off his goose-pimpled skin in small rivulets, and watched her as she continued.

“You definitely hit your head,” she said, “but you weren’t bleeding or anything, I just couldn’t wake you up. When I remembered,” she twisted her free hand in her lap, “I didn’t even hesitate. Healed you right there, didn’t wait until the stairwell cleared out or anything. I really thought you were going to die.”

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “All I remember is we were the last ones to get out, we were slower than the others.”

“You say we like we both cracked our heads.”

He looked utterly bewildered. “I really had no idea.”

“Ever since that day, I …” she started, but the words evaded her. Peter watched patiently. “When you found out about me, did you react like I did?”

“No,” he said. “I guess, ever since I was bitten by that spider, I had a feeling that there was something different about you. I always thought … Well, what I mean is, finding out about you just answered a lot of questions for me.”

“How long?” she asked. Her phone buzzed again, but she ignored it.

He blanched. “Sorry?”

“How long have you been Spider-Man?”

“Oh,” he said, nodding. “A while.”

“At the Battle of New York?”

“No, after that. It was freshman year. Got bit by this weird, radioactive spider and woke up … different.”

“I remember that,” Bea said, thinking back to what felt like a lifetime ago. There was one day they had all come to school, but Peter was behaving so strangely. “You stopped talking to us that year.”

He nodded slowly. “It was a hard year.”

That was the year he lost his uncle. Bea had a stark moment of clarity as she realised what he went through in freshman year was worse than what she was going through now. He had gained these new abilities that changed everything for him, and promptly lost the only father figure he ever knew. Unlike Bea, he had no one to confide in—no one to trust. She felt an awful twang of pain for him.

“Why couldn’t you tell me?” she asked. "After you found out, I mean. I tried to be there for you in freshman year, and I understand why you couldn’t tell me then, but the night you woke up in my room, you knew what I was—am.”

He looked at her then, eyes saying more than he ever could. “I was scared. And then everything happened, all at once, and I really thought I’d lost you. And when we found you? The last thing I wanted to do was push you away. You’d gone through hell in that place, not to mention your mom … It just wasn’t the time or place to be dropping bombs like ‘Hey, I’m your friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man’. I wanted to make sure things were as normal as possible.”

Bea could feel the argument bubbling, but forced it down. Like he said, not the time. “I get where you’re coming from, but I just wish more than anything that you’d trusted me.”

“I do trust you.” He turned to face her. “Bea, you saved my life. More than once, actually.”

“You say that like you haven’t saved mine time and again.”

“And you think we have trust issues here?” He gestured between them. “Bea, you’re the best person I’ve ever met. You’re one of the few reasons I still believe there are good people in this world.”

Bea didn’t know what to say. It was as if the entire English language had flown right out of her head—she would have been babbling if it weren’t for the ringing phone in her hand.

She quickly moved to decline the call and Peter frowned. “Who’s that?”

“Just Celia. I’ll call her back, but …” Bea froze as she saw the stream of missed texts, eyes snapping as she read the two most recent.

oh_celia: PICK UP
oh_celia: HE’S COMING

Bea almost threw her phone into the pool, but thank God for Peter’s eyesight because he caught the texts just as she did and grabbed the phone out of her hands. Another call came through and he quickly answered, putting it on speaker.

“Jesus Christ,” said Celia, sounding as if she’d been running. “Bea, I’m sorry, he’s coming, he’s just left the house, you maybe have twenty minutes. Fuck, I’m so sorry Bea, there was nothing I could do, he—”

But the line died before either of them could respond. Bea almost felt her heart stop with it. She looked between the phone and Peter as if she’d imagined the conversation, but he was already moving.

He pulled himself out of the pool and dialled a number, offering his hand to Bea. She managed to pull herself up, shaky as she was, and found them both towels.

“Mr Stark?” Peter was saying. “He’s coming. Celia just called, all she said was he’s coming and that we’ve got maybe twenty minutes, and I dunno what to do.”

Bea wasn’t sure why he was panicking, Celia could have meant anyone. Maybe Mr Barrett was on his way, maybe it was another he, but it couldn’t have been Cross, it just couldn’t, because she wasn’t done yet, she still had so much to do here—

“Bea?” Peter said, appearing in front of her, slipping the phone into his pocket. She handed him a towel. “Bea, listen, we have time. It’s gonna be okay. We should go see Mr Stark, he’ll have a plan.”

This really was happening, then. Cross was coming for her.

Peter towelled them both off, making sure Bea’s feet were dry before guiding her to the elevator and speaking to FRIDAY. The elevator felt slower than ever, but Bea knew it was only seconds before she was walking into the kitchen with Peter at her side.

Tony looked terrible.

His under-eye bags were darker than ever and the sink behind him was littered with empty, stained coffee cups. The rest of the team was there too, all looking as grim as she felt. She wished they didn’t worry so much, but then Pepper appeared behind Tony looking almost worse than them all as she rushed over to embrace Bea. She could barely hear her hushed words of comfort over the rushing blood in her ears.

When she was released, Peter was standing with the others and explaining what Celia had said. “She warned us. We didn’t get a whole lot of context but she said he was coming, and I don’t think it’ll take much guessing as to who she meant.”

“I’ve evacuated the downstairs skeleton staff to the roof,” said Tony, “but if they get a team up here, there’s no telling—”

“Up here?” Bea said. “They’re not coming up here.”

Tony scoffed a laugh at her. “I don’t think much will stop them, kid.”

“I would,” she said, and the kitchen fell silent. She could see in Nat’s expression that she had been thinking the same thing, but the others looked dubious. “I’ll meet them downstairs, there’s no way we’re letting them come up. They’ve already done enough damage to FRIDAY, and all they want is me.”

“That’s not for certain,” Steve tried to argue, but she gave him a knowing look.

“Yes, it is.”

Bucky took a tentative step forward, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re just gonna offer yourself up? You’re not even gonna try and fight?”

“I’m confused,” she said, hands up in defence. “We've only got two options, don't we? One, they come up here and there’s a huge fight, people get hurt, and they take me by force. Or two, I go downstairs and meet them in the lobby, no one gets hurt and they take me anyway. I know which one I prefer.”

No one argued.

“Cross wants me afraid, he wants me stressed,” she continued. “One of the things Wanda showed me was that my magic is easier to access when I’m emotional, be it good or bad, and I’m betting that’s exactly what he wants. I dunno about you guys, but I’m not about to hand that up on a silver platter.”

None of them looked even remotely happy about it, least of all Peter and Tony, though she could see in their faces they knew she was right. Pepper squeezed her hand. “What can we do to help you?”

She turned to face her, praying her tears would hold off at least until she was in the elevator and out of sight. “I don’t know.”

“We need to get you changed,” Sam said, starting towards her room. “Something comfortable—”

But Bea stopped him. “No point, he took my clothes last time. Gave me new ones.” She looked down at her well-worn Stark Industries sweatpants and shirt, at the stains on both and the fraying hems. “This’ll do. Might piss Beck off, too. Bonus.”

“Maybe some food?” Pepper suggested, starting behind her and towards the fridge, but Bea shook her head again.

“I don’t think I can.”

Pepper pulled a bottle of water out anyway. “Just try to get some water down.”

She sat down at the island, shaking her leg, and began to sip her water. Everyone seemed as jittery as she was, not knowing what to say or do. She glanced up at Tony.

“Will FRIDAY—”

“She’ll let us know,” he assured, and Bea noticed how unsteady his voice sounded. “Listen, can you just …” He stepped forward, pulling a thin silver cuff from his pocket. Tugging on her free hand, he pushed it onto his wrist and held it there for a moment.

“It won’t work,” she whispered, and he closed his eyes.

“I know,” he said. “I know, but I need to try.”

The cuff was pretty in its simplicity and Bea wished she could have kept it, but the fact was that Cross would immediately spot the tracker. Like everything else, he’d take it from her.

“Boss, several vehicles are approaching. ETA five minutes.”

His hand gripped hers as if out of instinct, and Peter blanched behind him. So much for twenty minutes. This was it, her time was up. She forced her feet to hold her weight as she stood, barefoot, hoping beyond anything that she looked a little like Peter had in the conference room that morning. Like an Avenger.

“Listen,” she said to them all, unsure of where she was going with this. All she knew was she had the chance to say goodbye this time—she wasn’t taking that for granted. “I wanted to thank you. All of you. You shared your home with me even though I didn’t deserve it, you welcomed me and protected me and you helped me be better. No matter what happens—”

“No,” interrupted Clint. “You don’t even go down that road, okay?”

Nat nodded. “What’s gonna happen is that we’re gonna find you. Everything will be okay.”

Bea smiled wetly at them, losing the fight with her tears. Swiping them away as quickly as she could, she gave them all one last look, imprinting them in her memory for the mission ahead. She nodded determinedly and turned on her heel, heading towards the elevator.

“Bea?” came Peter’s voice as he hurried to meet her at the doors. “Bea, hang on.”

Words had escaped her once again. They had talked about so much before, and Bea had been so close to saying the thing she’d been dying to say for weeks, but all that would have to wait now. “Pete?”

“Bea, shit,” he said, and ran a nervous hand through his hair. His brow furrowed and his cheeks were flushed. "Okay. Listen. Please correct me if I’ve been reading this all wrong, I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. You’re my best friend and I don’t want to lose you, but I can’t explain what I’m feeling when I’m with you—”

“Peter,” she said, silencing him. He was close now, and if she stepped even closer, they could almost … She read the question lingering in his eyes and nodded.

He leaned in and kissed her.

The kiss was gentle and tender, yet nothing like she’d imagined kissing Peter would be. His soft lips pressed against Bea’s, her hand on his cheek and his hand snaking cheekily around her waist, sending a shiver through them both.

Despite having watched every second, minute, and hour today, time seemed to stand still around them, the world blurring into nothingness. The kiss held everything left unsaid between them, and when he pulled away, Bea felt as if she’d lost something.

He let out a short laugh, pulling her closer. “I’ve wanted to do that for …” he trailed off.

“Forever. God, I think we’re idiots.”

He laughed properly then, pulling away to look at her.

“They’ve arrived, Boss. Counting seventeen hostiles in the lobby.”

Peter swore, and something clattered in the kitchen. Bea moved her hand to cup his cheek again and made him look at her. With an unexpected burst of confidence, she said, “I’ll be back in no time, you lot will make sure of that.”

“I can’t let you go after that,” he said.

“You have to.” She studied his face for a moment, memorising each freckle. “I can’t have them up here. It’ll be easier and safer for all of you if I go.” She pushed his hand off her waist and walked backwards into the waiting elevator.

“Bea, I …” he started. “I—”

“It’s okay. You can tell me when I get back,” she said, and the doors closed on him.

She couldn’t catch her breath. FRIDAY started down to the lobby without any instruction, thank goodness, because Bea wasn’t sure her voice would ever work again. She clamped one hand over her mouth to stifle her sob, and another over her eyes to staunch the awful flow of tears. Her family was upstairs, and she was leaving them.

That thought hurt more than imagining what was ahead.

The elevator reached the lobby in what felt like no time at all, and Bea had all but a moment to count the seventeen men clad in all-black, holding the same guns Cross had used to kill Walter and her mom. Where he managed to scrounge up such a team just for Bea was beyond her, but she stepped forward anyway, feeling the last of her confidence rise to the surface.

“Beatrice Page for Adrian Cross?” she called out, impressed at how nonchalant she sounded after her moment in the elevator. A man she didn’t recognise, also clad in black but without a gun, stepped forward.

“Mr Cross is waiting on-site,” the man said. “You’ll see him soon. He’s very much looking forward to seeing you again, Beatrice.”

Chapter Text

Beatrice couldn’t see.

It was her first and only thought when she awoke in the cold, damp room, second only to the heaviness in her legs. She remembered the small army of agents escorting her from the building, how she’d relished in what may have been her last glimpse of sunshine, and the feeling of being thrown into the backseat of a large SUV. The engine had turned over, but that was all she remembered before feeling the familiar pinprick in the back of her neck.

Blinking in the darkness, Bea wondered whether Cross had actually blinded her when he took her from the Tower.

Her heart splintered at the memory. Leaving her friends behind, leaving Peter behind—she wished desperately that she had actually said a proper goodbye. If this were to all go pear-shaped, the least she could’ve done was give them a bit of closure.

But they said they would find her. They promised—she’d just have to trust them.

For now, all she had to do was survive, but she couldn’t survive if she couldn’t see. No matter how many times she blinked or rubbed her eyes, she still couldn’t make out the space around her. What did that leave her with? Touch, sound, taste, and smell? The only sounds she could make out were her own short, shaky breaths, and it wasn’t as if she was about to go licking and sniffing around the room, but touch … Her heavy feet were bare, and ice-cold. She brushed her hands over the floor around her and found it was cement, though much smoother than the cage had been, and with sparse patches of wetness that she hoped was only water.

Definitely a new facility then—ten points to Captain Rogers. Cross had definitely moved on from Albany, but how far? Were they across state lines? And what would that mean for the Avengers? Steve’s other warning sat heavy in her mind, too. Upgrades. More illusions. Worse.

She’d already survived Cross once. She can—will—do it again.

Something flashed in the darkness, small and red, blinking slowly. Bea rubbed her eyes vigorously in the hopes they might adjust even a little more, but nothing. Just blackness, and a slow, blinking light. It almost looked like …

Sick freak.

The room burst with bright white light and Bea was blinded all over again, shielding her eyes from the intense fluorescents. She blinked furiously, knowing she had only seconds before Cross—or something worse—came walking through the door. The door which, she noticed as her aching eyes began to see again, had no handle. Nothing but a large steel slab in the wall, almost bleeding into the dark grey cement of her room—not a cage, but four large walls, the floor and the ceiling, all cement. No windows, just as Nat had predicted, but no bars, either. There was a metal shelf of a bed mounted to the wall on her right, and, in the centre of the floor, a shower drain. Why would he need—

No. Don’t think about that.

Her eyes darted instead to the corner where she’d spotted the blinking red light, and her awful suspicions were confirmed. Bolted to the wall was a small surveillance camera, still recording.

Self-consciously, she reached for her hair and felt her heart jolt as she found loose curls. He’d taken her hair ties again—Sam’s braids were gone. That also meant … Yes, her clothes were gone, too, but she noticed with a small sense of satisfaction that Cross had listened. Instead of white, he’d opted for black, only this time it was a much thicker material and much less clothing overall. Shorts and a t-shirt, made from some kind of water-resistant fabric which did nothing to keep out the cold.

Her heavy legs grew only heavier as she spotted the familiar metal band around her left ankle—her Dampener. Familiar, but not at all comforting, and definitely working since her magic felt further away than ever. But there was something on her right ankle, too—another metal band, but attached to a long, thick chain that trailed in loops around the room, eventually meeting a bolt in the far corner.

He’d chained her like a dog.

The narcissistic pig thought he was safe, she realised. Between the camera, the chain, the room with a drain, for God’s sake—he had no intention of letting her leave. But unlucky for him, Beatrice had no intention of letting him live.

It was another few moments, her heart hammering in her chest with determination and fury at the audacity of him, before she heard the click of a lock and the hinges groaning under the weight of her door.

Cross looked far too pleased with himself, sauntering in with his hands in his pockets and posture relaxed, while another man followed closely behind—the same man, she realised, from the lobby. Both of them were dressed impeccably, with their hair nicely combed and shoes shining as if they’d just come from an event and not meeting scrappy little Beatrice, chained to the wall.

“My darling girl,” said Cross, beaming at her. “It’s so good to have you home. Are you comfortable? Can we get you anything?”

Bea just stared at him from the floor.

The second man stepped forward, in line with Cross. “Very pleased to finally meet you, Beatrice, I’ve heard so many good things.”

“How rude of me,” Cross said, pressing a hand to his brow before gesturing to the man. “Beatrice, this is my very good friend and colleague, Quentin Beck.”

Bea had to swallow the bile rising in her throat. How had she not recognised him? Surely she had seen photos of Beck at some point. He looked handsome enough and had a memorable face, but she was hard-pressed to see a man so obviously angry with his former boss that he would torture another human.

“We are so pleased to have you back,” Cross said. “We weren’t quite finished—in fact, we had barely begun. You were taken from us too soon, but lucky for you and lucky for our project, I am a patient man.”

Beck nodded sagely beside him.

“I hope you understand where we went so wrong last time?” Cross asked. When Bea didn’t respond with so much as a flinch, he powered on. “Your abilities are more powerful than you understand. Our hope, initially, was that you would figure this out yourself, channel your light to such a degree in which you could do anything, even remove the Dampener yourself. I think you’d agree when I say that we were quite a ways from that, but from what we have seen from your time with the Avengers, you have done more than enough training and growing. That little witch helped you especially.”

Bea frowned, before forcing her expression blank. How could Cross have known about the Tower? About Wanda? Oh, God. The pieces fit together too easily—FRIDAY had been tampered with, and Beck knew Stark Industries. But was he really so clever to have infiltrated Tony’s personal AI? For weeks?

“Hope we put on a good show for you,” she said coolly. Her throat burned with the effort—how long had she been out? “Hate what you’ve done to the place, by the way. The cage had a certain charm. How do you manage it, finding a new evil lair every time? Zillow for villains?” She quirked a brow. “Villow?”

Cross glowered and Bea knew she’d struck a nerve. He gave a furious sigh and said, “If you’re only going to be difficult—”

“Oh, I am,” she promised. “I’m going to be nothing but difficult, so please, keep telling me all the ways I can help your precious project and I will be sure to avoid them like the plague.” A smile twitched at Beck’s lips so she turned to him next. “And Beck, babes, I sure hope you’re not planning on pulling the same old schtick as before. I’d hate to be bored.”

He grinned, and for the first time she could see past his charm and composure to the man she knew he was. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”

Beck’s words seemed to pull Cross from his anger and he nodded, taking a deep breath. “We will begin shortly. You should rest while you can.”

She watched them leave, refusing to let her gaze fall or give any indication of her rising fear, but when they did, the lights died and she was shrouded in darkness once again. Darkness, except for the continuous blinking red light in the corner.

Bea wanted to sleep, but that meant feeling around in the darkness like an idiot to claim the bed that Cross had so kindly provided, rather than freeze on the floor. And worse, there was no guarantee he didn’t have night vision on that stupid camera, so there Beatrice sat, legs stretched out before her, waiting. Watching the only thing she could see.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

She counted them, every one, and it wasn’t until the 873rd blink that the lights crackled back to life, and Bea was the one left blinking. With her retinas burning in the bright white light, she almost missed the figure in the open doorway.

The red and gold gave him away immediately. Beck must have been talking absolute crap earlier, because this was nothing even remotely new. But it did give her a glimmer of hope—she’d done it once, which meant she could do it again.

She didn’t move from her place on the floor as she assessed him. He was only standing there, but something looked different. Just like before, the suit was more vibrant than in real life and had a distinct shine—she could almost see her reflection in his helmet—but his stance was relaxed. Less Iron Man, and more … Tony.

Just as she was about to make a clever quip, show Beck that she wasn’t impressed with how he’d chosen to spend his past few weeks, Iron Man’s helmet plate flicked up and Tony appeared. “Hey, kid.”

The rest of the suit opened and he stepped out, and Bea shot to her feet. Suddenly the weights on both her ankles felt like nothing as she noticed the distinct rush of adrenaline as her fight or flight kicked in. This was a run, yes, but she had no intention of fighting him and there was nowhere for her to run to.

“Kid,” he said gently, frowning a little as he stepped forward. He gestured to himself, fingers crinkling his AC/DC shirt and Bea couldn’t quite convince herself this wasn’t real. She backed away slowly as he crept forward. “Same side here.”

An awful sense of deja vu washed over her at his words, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it. She could see his face. He was talking to her. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes as he stepped closer and closer. Bea’s back hit the wall and she froze.

“In your own time, kid,” he said with a playful roll of his eyes.

Was this real? Had he come for her already? She wanted to argue with him, to tell him that the real Tony wouldn’t have come yet, he would’ve waited, but she knew Cross was watching and Beck was listening. They were waiting for her to slip right back into the role she’d taken last time, but that wasn’t going to happen, not if she could help it.

So Bea took a deep breath and braced, unable to move any further as he crept closer. This was going to hurt.

Just as she was about to close her eyes and pray to whoever might be listening, Tony charged forward. His suit flew towards him at the same moment, enveloping him right before his armoured fist closed around her collar and he twisted, throwing her to the ground. She let out a grunt as the right half of her body scraped along the cement, and she rolled until her chained foot met the drain. At least she wouldn’t make a mess.

Iron Man was back within seconds, crouched over her and holding her down by her shoulders and knees. He raised a hand, poised to shoot as his repulsor charged.

Think happy thoughts.

Waking up to WHAM!. Tinkering in the lab. Training with Sam. Cooking with Pepper.

Peter.

She blinked up at the man, watching her brows furrow in the reflection of his helmet. Why was he hesitating? But as if reading her mind, the repulsor fired, and Bea was lost to darkness once more.

It hurt. She woke to a less-than-wonderful cocktail of aching and burning and stabbing, but there was no telling if it had been seconds or minutes or hours. The lights were on—had they turned off?—and Bea was still lying flat against the drain, tangled in her chain.

She sat up, moving tentatively as she assessed the damage. Nothing too bad, considering. The left shoulder of her shirt was discoloured and slightly stiff, but the skin underneath was uninjured. It was at her elbow, below the hem of her sleeve where the most damage was done. The skin was burnt and blistered and weeping something awful, but it wasn’t the worst she’d seen. She tried stretching her arm, testing her range of movement, but found the joint stiff and aching. Her Dampener felt heavier than ever now that she couldn’t just heal herself.

If only she’d spent her time with Sam on something useful, like her pain tolerance.

Time passed slowly in the room, but the longer she spent alone, the more questions she had. Her clothes were fire-resistant, obviously, but why? And how had Beck managed to make Iron Man so much more like Tony Stark? Her one constant before was that Iron Man never spoke, she never had to see his face. Would she be able to tell illusion from reality if Tony did come for her?

No, not if. When. It had to be when.

Bea leaned forward against her knees and brushed her loose hair out of her eyes. She needed to stay calm, and remember. They were coming for her. She just needed to survive until then. And the illusions were nothing new in the grand scheme of things. This would be easy.

The door opened once again and Bea’s stomach dropped—surely not another one so soon? But it wasn’t Iron Man who entered. A tall, muscled figure in red, white and blue closed the door behind him before turning towards Bea, taking a military stance. The shield on his back glinted in the artificial light.

Captain America, eyes trained expertly on Bea, raised a hand to his ear and said, “Two minutes, Tony.”

She could only watch on in horror as he approached, as slowly as Iron Man had, with his hands extended in a gesture of goodwill. Maybe Beck had been working harder than she thought.

Careful not to put any pressure on her elbow, Bea clambered to her feet, kicked her chain out of the way and faced the man head-on. “Captain Rogers,” she greeted dryly, bending into a slight curtsey. “It’s a pleasure. Tell me, what’s a nice fella like you doing in a place like this?”

He tilted his head, but said nothing. He only reached up and behind, gripped his shield, and launched it at her.

She darted out of its trajectory, her chains singing as she went, and he lunged at the same time. Dodging him a second time, she was too focused on remaining out of the Super Soldier’s path to notice his shield still bouncing around the room, until it found its mark square in her abdomen. The force of it threw her into the back wall, and she felt all the oxygen dissipate. Gasping for air, she couldn’t see past the twinkling of stars in her vision to see Captain America approaching, gaze thunderous and eyes like the North Sea.

She held onto the shield as if it were her lifeline, feeling her legs weaken as he stalked closer. He wasn’t real. She wouldn’t fight him. She liked the real version too much to hurt this one, as violent as he was. Bea threw the shield to his feet in an attempt to slow him down but he only kicked it out of his path, storming closer until he was within arm’s reach.

He gripped her by the throat and squeezed, practically setting her empty lungs on fire. She pawed at his arm desperately, her feet barely touching the ground as he lifted, pulled her towards him, and slammed her back into the wall. Her head met cement with a sickening crack, and her world turned black once more.

Chapter Text

It was raining when she woke.

Bea shivered against it, the water coming down in cold, thick torrents. “Peter,” she murmured, tongue heavy. “Close the window, come back t’bed.”

But something was wrong. There was no window, no bed, no Peter. She was in Cross’s pitch-black room and she was drowning. It was impossible to take even half a breath under the sheer volume of water running down her face. She had to move.

If she remembered rightly, the last illusion had left her against the far back wall—she felt the ache in her head, courtesy of the good Captain—which meant her bed was somewhere to her right. If she really tried, could she maybe fit underneath?

She rolled to her knees, wincing again at her aching joints, her burning elbow and her throbbing head, and forced herself to her feet. Keeping her balance would’ve been enough of a challenge without the rain but soon she was steady, feeling her way along the wall until her knees met hard steel. Bea quickly fell to the floor, bracing against the bed to spare her bruised knees, and rolled under the slab.

The relief was instant. She gasped, rolling onto her back and finally breathing air that was just air. She was grateful to find there was more than enough space for her under the bed, but she couldn’t help imagining the critters or grime hiding down there with her.

Explains the drain, at least.

Her head throbbed against the floor, bringing tears to her eyes. She reached a hand to the worst of the pain and sucked in a breath—her hand came away warm and wet, but thicker than the water that drenched the rest of her.

In any other situation, the sound of rain on the metal above her might have been relaxing. She rolled onto her side and wished more than anything she could fall back into the dream she’d woken from. They were at home, her little apartment in Queens, but her mom and Walter weren’t there—Peter was. She had been curled in her tiny twin bed in the corner of her bedroom, safe and warm in Peter’s arms.

Water dripped down the bridge of her nose.

And then she realised—fresh water. At least, it seemed fresh. Falling from a cement ceiling with no sprinklers that she could recall, but cold, fresh water. And why else would Cross be drowning her? He hadn’t given her buckets this time.

She reached a hand out and brought a small palmful of water to her nose. No funny smell. A tentative sip. No funny taste—just the cool relief of water on her dry throat.

The water helped ease her headache somewhat, and she was able to wash the residue she assumed had been blood out of her hair. The back of her scalp felt raw, as if the impact had taken some skin off, but she hoped that was the extent of it. She could handle blood and bruises—had handled them for years before Cross—but a concussion? In this place?

Her elbow was healing well from what she could feel. The blisters had subsided, leaving a few scabs and crusty pieces behind, and it didn’t sting so much anymore. For the first time since she arrived, the idea that she would actually survive this didn’t seem so far-fetched.

The rain didn’t let up. It was so thick and constant that Bea couldn’t even see the blinking red light, and soon found herself in a half-inch-deep puddle of water. At least if he was still recording, she had some privacy down here. She needed to count her blessings. Right now, she had privacy and time, two things that could potentially save her.

She knew three things for certain—Cross believed she was somehow more powerful than her Dampener, that using such power would make him happy, and Beck … He was just a one trick pony. A clever one trick pony, but clearly he wasn’t letting up on that fixation of his.

On the one hand, based on past performance, using her magic and fighting back against Beck’s illusions would get her food and medicine—her wounds liked the sound of that, and so did the ache in her belly—but, on the other hand, not fighting would piss them both off, and every part of Bea loved the sound of that.

After all, she had promised him she’d be difficult and she couldn’t let him down now.

So she didn’t. The days that followed—they had to be days, she could feel it in her bones—tested her limits. Illusions, back-to-back, until Bea was sure she would actually die from thirst, and then the rain would come. She noticed the sprinklers at the end of a particularly gruesome run with Black Widow this time, which left her flat on her back. They weren’t sprinklers in the traditional sense, just holes in the cement ceiling—like a giant shower head.

She had lost count again of the illusions. She was tired, injured, sick of it all, but at least she could feel a sense of pride in that she had never fought back. Never would fight back, not for food, not for medicine. Cross could shove it right up his ass.

It was quiet moments just like the one she found herself in after another bout of icy rain, lying beneath her bed and staring into the black nothingness, where she would sing. It reminded her of home, of the Tower, since she had nothing else to remember them by. She almost missed her nightmares, so desperate to see her friends one last time. Cross hadn’t yet had the opportunity to tranquillise her—sleep was as empty as everything else in this place after being knocked out and, until she fought back, that wasn’t going to change.

Any noise was good noise in the darkness—it helped keep it at bay, and reminded Bea that she was more than what Adrian wanted her to be. The person he was so desperate to mold and shape her into. She had been at it for hours now, unable to get one particular song out of her head. It’d been one of FRIDAY’s favourites for her morning alarm. Bea’s voice was barely above a whisper and she had to hum the bits she’d forgotten, but it was fun to drum her fingers against her ribs and remember easier days. “Party nights and neon lights, we hit the floors, we hit the heights. Dancing shoes and pretty girls, boys in leather kiss girls in pearls. One, two, three, rap, come on everybody, don’t need this crap.”

But just as she was starting to really get into it, the lights shot to life again with a distinct crackle and Bea’s heart sank.

Another run.

She pushed herself out from beneath her bed with a slight grunt, and sat down atop it. She’d landed wrong on her hip a few runs ago, and her ankles were beginning to bruise under the weight of her Dampener and chain.

With her elbows on her knees and palms massaging her adjusting eyes, she waited. That was the thing with Cross—he liked to make her wait.

But it wasn’t Iron Man who crossed the threshold this time, or Captain America, or Black Widow. It was him, and he looked nothing short of frazzled.

The last time she’d seen Cross he looked dressed for a red carpet, but now … His hair stood on end, as if he’d been running his hands through it over and over, and his shirt and jeans looked old and stained.

He didn’t bother closing the door behind him as he crossed the room in a rage, bellowing the entire way. “Beatrice! You will participate!”

“Beatrice will not,” she said with a scoff. He only stopped when he stood directly in front of her, bending until his red face was inches from hers, bloodshot eyes twitching. He looked remarkably familiar in that moment, and Bea wondered if maybe abusive angry white man had just been her mother’s type.

“You think this is funny?” he asked, spraying some spittle onto her cheek. Bea forced herself to look bored. “You think this is a fucking joke? I’m doing this for you. How will you ever learn what you’re capable of if you refuse to use the abilities I gave you!”

“Oh,” she said, pouting dramatically. “You’re absolutely right. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you duck on out and send the next Avenger in, I promise I’ll chop them into tiny little pieces for you.” Adrian looked fit to burst. “Or is the Avengers thing Beck’s contribution? You know, I always hated group projects, I don’t know why anyone would be willing to—”

A loud slap sounded throughout the room as Adrian’s palm met her cheek, almost throwing her off the bed. He’d never hit her before, never laid a hand on her—always left that to his buddies, but this. Bea let her hair fall over her face as she straightened, doing her best to look unfazed. Unaffected. Uninjured.

“Look at you,” she said, smiling darkly at him. “Finally getting your hands dirty.”

He stood straight and crossed his arms over his chest, watching her with an unreadable look on his face.

“You know,” she said again. It was risky, she knew better than to antagonise a man like him, but she just couldn’t help herself. “If I’m not the subject you always dreamed of, you could just …” He quirked a brow at her in question. “Send me home?”

It was his turn to laugh. “I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, pumpkin. You are home. But, you might be right. We may need to start thinking more … creatively.”

Bea couldn’t hide her fear that time. His tone sent a shiver down her spine, icier than any rain he could dump on her, and her feigned confidence plummeted. She knew he could see it, too, with how triumphant he looked as he turned on his heel and left, slamming the steel door behind him.

She was rattled, and that in itself worried her. This entire time, she had done her very best to be proudly unrattled, and there she was. Rattling like the dish of coins Mom kept by the door, rattling like the apartment’s plumbing in winter, rattling like her locked door when Walter had too much to drink. She was so fucking sick of being rattled, and yet, she had no say in the matter.

She had no control over the racing heart which should have been steady in her chest, but now sat at the very base of her throat. No matter how desperately she’d tried to convince herself of the opposite, this was very bad. She was not safe, and she probably wouldn’t ever go home, and Cross just told her to her face that things were about to get so much worse.

It felt like hours later that the lights came back on and the door opened once more. But it wasn’t Cross this time—three tall, broad men in all-black tactical gear, with carbon fiber mouth coverings and goggles to cover their faces. Bea barely had a moment to brace herself before the men grabbed her, forced her to her feet and slid a thick black bag over her head. She could feel one of them at her feet, toying with the steel chain around her ankle, and another behind her, yanking her arms and cuffing her wrists with cable ties. The third simply held her up by the shoulder, still enough for the man working at her ankle to unchain her.

The relief was instant. Cool air hit the burning joint, soothing the blisters and scabs that had formed. But she had less than a moment to appreciate it before the man at her shoulder pushed, walking her out of the room.

God, she wished she could fucking see.

This was the facility. She could hear distant voices and imagined herself in a hospital, being transferred to another room. There would be employees here, other engineers and scientists—did they know what they were doing? Or did they think she volunteered for this?

Another yank and Bea was turning right, then left, then another left, and then … forward? Or was that another left?

Jesus Christ, she was going to die.

Clanging of metal on metal sounded, almost echoing, and Bea guessed she was in another room. The hand at her shoulder never left, gripping her tight as if she was going to run for it, ha, until it roughly turned her and shoved. She fell, expecting the hard cement floor but instead felt steel on her tailbone and cried out. All three men seemed to have their hands on her, breaking her cable ties and instead cuffing her arms and legs into steel restraints. Bea sobbed under the darkness of her hood—for all she knew, these men didn’t even work for Cross. Where was he? The slimy bastard should be there, he should be gloating in her face—

The hood flew off her head and Bea blinked in the light. There Cross stood at the end of her feet, arms crossed over his chest and looking rather smug. She quickly cast her eyes over herself, just a quick assessment, and frowned. It was a dentists chair. At least, it looked like one, aside from the restraints—she was leaned back with her legs up, and there was a tray beside her. Metal glinted at her from the tray and she forced her gaze back to Cross.

Keep your shit together, keep it together, oh my god—

Her mouth had gone numb with how hard she was pressing her lips together. She couldn’t cry in front of him, she wouldn’t dare give him the satisfaction.

“My darling, you knew this was coming,” he said, voice cold as the three men stepped back. Bea hated that he was right. “If you don’t want to become better, then we might as well save both ourselves the heartache. I don’t like seeing you hurt, you know.”

Bea laughed harshly as an involuntary tear fell.

He threw her a pointed look as the man to his left rolled out a trolley from behind them. “We’ve been working on this particular cocktail for a while.” On a clean sheet sat four large, incredibly pointy syringes. “But, as you know, we don’t exactly have test subjects falling from the sky. I’m pleased to say you will be our first. Consider this a clinical trial and launch. I’m confident it should go well.”

“God,” Bea sighed, forcing her voice even. All she needed was an ounce of her earlier brazenness. She had to fight the only way she could. “Shut the fuck up already, I swear you didn’t yap this much last time.”

Cross didn’t react. He only gestured to the man behind the trolley who picked up the first needle and a disinfectant swab, and moved to Bea’s side. Adrenaline flushed the last of her courage out of her system as she tugged her wrists against her restraints, to no avail.

“Now, my dear, I want you to tell me precisely what you feel. These results will be invaluable to the project, you’re doing so well.” He beamed down at her as the needle inched closer. “We’re going to do amazing things together, Beatrice.”

A loud crash echoed from outside the door, and the needle paused before pulling away as the man turned to Cross. Bea’s heart leaped in her chest—was this her rescue? Were the Avengers right outside that door?

“We had a deal! You can’t sideline me like this, I deserve recognition!”

She sucked in a breath. It wasn’t the Avengers, but she knew exactly who it was. And maybe—just maybe—staying in here would mean getting a glimpse behind the curtain. What would Steve call that? Intel?

Bea smiled pleasantly at Cross. “Trouble in paradise?”

He fumed. “Continue.”

The needle punctured her inner forearm so roughly that Bea hissed, feeling as if he’d touched bone, and when the liquid met her bloodstream, everything froze. A burning ice exploded from her arm, quickly spreading to her chest, her head, her stomach, her legs. Even without the restraints, she couldn’t have moved—all her muscles had been turned to ice.

“Injection two,” Cross said.

Bea didn’t even hear the man move back to the trolley. Her vision was staticky, and the shouting outside the door had turned dull and muted. The next injection was easier than the first but her muscles still didn’t give. This one sent her heart pounding, her head throbbing. She wanted to cry out, to close her eyes and pretend this wasn’t happening, but Cross was still there.

“Injection three.”

Bea was going to pass out. The third shot felt like rot, like black mould spreading through her veins and clotting her bloodstream. Her limbs ached and her thumping heart stuttered with the thickness of it. Her skin burned and her cold muscles crackled, her heart slowing to almost nothing as her head swam. She imagined her brain was a jellyfish, small and soft and floating through the sea.

She wished she had said goodbye.

“Final injection, number four.”

Relief. The word wasn’t strong enough to describe the feeling that came with injection four—the pain in her entire body seemed to just float away. The ice melted, the rot receded and the intensity of it all seemed to fade away as the room grew brighter, and brighter. Bea thought distantly that Cross might need to check his latest electricity bill, but the thought was too heavy, so she let it go. She closed her eyes, and the familiar feeling of calling her magic was suddenly overwhelming—magic that had been stagnant since she woke up in this place, now feeling more present than ever. The bright white light seemed to burst in the room before settling into a nice glow, and Bea realised it was her.

She was glowing.

An even, tempered glow like blue flame licking all over her body. Her skin shimmered with it, and she could even see her hair shining bright white in her peripherals. Her vision was soft-edged and light, and one look at the man holding the last needle confirmed her suspicions. She could see her reflection in his goggles—her eyes were ice blue, and her skin was still brown but awash with its blue glow. Her hair was bright white at the roots, but even her ends shimmered.

It should have given her hope. Finally, after so long, she could access her magic, maybe use it to get herself out of this place, but it felt … different. Her magic wasn’t listening. For the first time in her life, it wasn’t a part of her—she couldn’t summon any of her usual strength or light or heat.

All her life, her magic had felt like drawing from a well deep inside, then after everything with Peter and working with Wanda, she learned to embrace it, harness it, and it felt more like a lake. But now? A jellyfish in the sea. That was precisely how she felt, like she was neck-deep in the middle of the ocean, barely treading the water she couldn’t control. It was as if Cross had flipped a switch.

Bea sucked in a breath. The pangs in her belly that had been so furiously present since she’d arrived just … disappeared. As did the ache in her kidneys, and the still-sore spot at the back of her head, and the stiffness of her elbow. She looked down at the healing scab from her burn, but it wasn’t there. The skin was smooth and glowing, just like the rest of her. The blue flame that covered her entire body seemed to evaporate all her injuries, all her pain—all but one.

She cried out as her ankle burned hotter and hotter, the weight of the Dampener almost unbearable, but she couldn’t do much more than writhe. Just as she thought it would burn straight through to the bone, it began to rapidly beep before letting out an enormous crack. The device split in two, scraping against her ankle as it dropped to the floor.

She watched the scratches, blisters and bruises left in its wake disappear.

This was what he had been talking about—the ability he was so sure she could have unlocked herself by fighting Iron Man, Captain America, even Black Widow. Stressors. He believed it was stress that was supposed to send her into this state, but she and Peter knew better. It was happiness, ecstatic joy, extreme positive emotion. It was love, and this was nothing of the sort.

Her gaze darted to Cross then who looked nothing short of thrilled, clapping his hands delightedly. “Well done, my darling. Well done!”

He rounded the chair to meet Bea at her side, waving the three men away. She watched as he plucked a scalpel from the tray beside her and brought it to her arm. “No,” Bea insisted, but the word came out slow and heavy—she barely had the strength to pull away as he pressed the blade just above the fourth injection site.

The slice was tentative and slow, but it barely had time to bleed. She watched as the cut closed right before her eyes, even before Cross had finished, leaving nothing more than a thin dark line. A second later, gone as if it had never been there.

“Wonderful!” he said with a triumphant laugh. “Oh, this is wonderful. Now we can really begin.”

Chapter Text

To their credit, Cross and his team started small. Cuts, grazes, grafts. Once Cross was satisfied his men knew what they were doing, he decided he had more important matters to attend to.

Her magic kept her from any real injury, quickly healing anything they sent her way, but it didn’t protect her from the pain. She felt all of it. Their instructions were to start small, test her limits, and see how far they could get in one day before she began to fade.

The trolley appeared on her second day in the chair. She knew she shouldn’t look, she’d seen enough movies to have an idea of what was coming, but she looked anyway. Blades, clamps, bottles of something or another, bone saws. On the bottom shelf she could see steaming liquids of all sorts, gas canisters, and huge metal poles. A fire extinguisher.

Beatrice hated those first few days. The three men knew what they were doing and managed to keep her awake, alert and glowing for fifty-three hours straight. She knew, because Cross commended them personally on their feat and told them to allow her some rest. Not too much, of course—they had work to do.

She would never let herself remember what they did to her. A gruesome cycle of blinding pain followed by a brief beat of relief, then the most excruciating itching sensation as her body healed whatever injury they’d inflicted, before another moment of relief. By the end of her fifty-three hours, Bea felt her magic wavering. She could feel it suffocating her, as if she was the reason it hadn’t been able to rest, the angry heat of it bubbling inside her, around her. Before she blacked out, she had the awful thought that this would be the thing that killed her.

Once upon a time, she wouldn’t have minded death as close as it was. Before, she was able to give up. She was able to ignore the passing hours, days, weeks, knowing that if there was an end, it would be a true, proper end. But this? Surviving Cross was so much harder knowing there were people out there looking for her, people who cared where she was and that she was safe, people who were doing their absolute best to find her and bring her home. It was a torture in itself, waiting for her friends, her family, to find her.

Even just knowing that she would have a home to go to, coupled with the fact that she left said home on her own terms, made everything so much more difficult to bear.

The days had begun to blur. She’d done her best to keep count since this brand new room had a grate in the far corner of the ceiling, and on sunny days she could see thin rays against the wall. It had to have been several days at least—Tony would know. He’d tell her, when they came. If they came.

When Bea woke that morning, on day five—or was it six, maybe even seven?—of being in the chair, she ran through her checklist. She wiggled her fingers—all ten, still there, but her magic had dwindled to almost nothing from the exhaustion of it all. It had been an ocean, and now it was nothing more than a puddle, but it would only take a single injection to bring it all right back to Too Much. She tried wriggling her toes—no dampener, no chain, just the restraints of her chair. Things weren’t so bad, then.

The lie sat heavy in her throat, a tear slipping down her temple as she watched the thin rays of sunlight on the far wall. The sun was shining, the earth was moving, time was still plodding along without her.

The clanging of metal on metal had her closing her eyes, praying to whichever God was still listening, as the three men stepped into the room and closed the door behind them. Their boots were heavy against the cement as they mulled around the room.

Bea had noticed, especially recently, that they were about as content with their situation as she was. She blinked up at them from the chair and found one in the corner by the grate, one at her trolley, and one leaning against the wall to her left.

She’d given them names in the time they’d spent together. Marlboro was the tall, lanky man who always lingered by the grate to smoke. He was smart about it and kept his goggles on, back turned towards her whenever he remembered, but he had ditched his mouth covering a few days ago. Bea couldn’t help noticing the smoothness of his jaw, and the thin, wiry first hairs of his beard.

Bones was the broad-shouldered man to her left. She was disappointed in herself for her lack of creativity on that one—he earned his name because of his weird infatuation with breaking her bones. They all knew well enough by now that her bones could heal as quickly as the rest of her, but he took particular joy in watching her heal incorrectly so he could re-break them and set them properly. She spent a lot of her days in pain, but in the moments when she could breathe, she was fantasising about all the million and one ways she could repay him.

The last was Sarge. He was slightly shorter than the other two, but still had quite a bit of muscle on him, and twice the temper. He wasn’t shy about barking orders to Bones and Marlboro, which gave Bea the impression he was the oldest, or at least had the most experience. Did one have to be qualified to be a torturer? What did that career path even look like? Aside from that, Sarge was also the only one of them to waltz around with his entire face bare. No goggles, no carbon fiber mouth covering. He seemed to be under the impression that Bea simply wouldn’t live long enough to rat him out.

Just as she had done, they quickly went through their morning routine. Sarge was busy replacing tools, Bones was working through some paperwork, and Marlboro busied himself smoking three—Bea counted—cigarettes out the grate.

Bea didn’t pay them much attention when they got to work—ignorance was absolutely bliss. All she had to do was endure the initial injection and not think about what was to come. She was going to be just fine. Physically, at least.

The familiar blue flame erupted over her body and it took Bea five more breaths than usual to regulate herself. It swarmed her, suffocated her, but she was used to it by now. She watched Bones make his notes. Sarge was still by the trolley near the door, but Marlboro …

The third man had disappeared, tinkering for a long while somewhere beneath her chair, and it took her several moments to realise the chair and her restraints were … warm. Not just warm—hot. Burning. She glanced at the trolley and found the gas canister and large pole were missing.

Marlboro had set a fire.

He stood then and moved back to Sarge and Bones, who was still taking notes. Sarge was murmuring to Bones, but Bea couldn’t hear him over the sounds of her screaming.

The back of her neck, the backs of her knees, her calves, her arms, the steel bindings around her wrists and ankles—every inch of skin that touched metal was burning and blistering. Her clothes weren’t just water resistant, she realised in that moment—they were kevlar. The only parts of her that were even remotely protected were the parts under her clothing, but even that was beginning to compromise.

Bea had never smelled burning flesh before or heard the unique way it sizzled, the way the hairs on her arms and legs charred with it all, but it was entirely unmistakeable and there was no chance in hell she was ever going to be able to forget it.

Bones, Marlboro, and Sarge stood and watched for an eternity, perhaps longer, and Bea couldn’t help wondering why she wasn’t dead yet. Surely the human body could only handle so much. But something beeped in Sarge’s hand and he nodded at Marlboro, who took his time returning to the underside of the chair. She could barely hear the squeak of the gas cylinder closing over her still sizzling skin.

Her lungs rasped as the smell eased, body twitching with the pain, but in the same time it took her dried-out eyes to blink, the infuriating itching had begun. Her skin was cooling, no longer sizzling, and she could feel everything tighten as the scabs formed. Within moments, the scabs prickled away, flaking to the floor and her fresh skin stung against the still-warm steel of the chair.

The room fell quiet, save for Bea’s shaking breaths and the scratching of Bones’s pen on his clipboard. Her body had healed without a mark and even her heart, which should have been racing, had settled into a gentle, steady rhythm. She was fine. She was healthy. She was going to survive this.

Bea wasn’t sure she wanted that anymore.

The Avengers hadn’t come for her yet. They’d had more than enough time, surely at least one opportunity by now. And yet, Bea was still there in her chair, watching Sarge as he handed Marlboro his timer and picked something up off the trolley. They usually left her to recover after a test, especially one as big as that, but Sarge seemed to think she was recovered enough.

He had found a wheeled stool and parked himself right beside her, picking up her left hand. The fingernails on that hand were only a day old after he’d taken a pair of pliers to them yesterday, pulling nail after nail and dropping them in a bloody pile on the floor. If she craned her neck, she could still see them there. Her whole hand had ached and throbbed as they came in, and didn’t stop for hours after they were fully grown.

She tried pulling away but the restraint at her wrist meant she didn’t move far and, before she could form a single coherent thought or utter anything even close to no or please or don’t, Sarge pinched her little finger, raised the blade he’d plucked from the trolley, and sliced it off.

Instantly blinded with pain, Bea gasped and stars filled her vision, but there was nothing left in her that could fight it. They had taken so much from her, and they would only continue to take more. A small, twisted part of her was almost relieved to have an injury, a scar, anything to show for her time in here.

Blood was pouring from her hand in thick, hot streams, dripping onto the cement floor to meet her pile of fingernails. Her hand was aching and burning and throbbing, and she probably shouldn’t have looked, but there was a sudden pressure on the knuckle of her hand and she found Sarge still there, holding her severed finger to the wound. The finger looked strange—the skin there was no longer glowing, and the loss of blood had turned it an ashy, dull brown.

But worst of all, she could still feel it. Her finger, pressed so carefully against her severed flesh, was slowly reattaching itself. She was healing.

It shouldn’t have been as surprising as it was—healing was precisely what she was there to do, but she never expected this. All she had to do was hold on. Her vision was blurring, and there was a chance she would lose it, but not before she felt that familiar sense of relief. Not a single second before, and then she could let go, she could pass out and her magic could recede. She would not have half a fucking finger hanging off her hand.

Sarge did not let go of her hand until the damage had disappeared entirely, the wound fading to a thick, dark line which would soon be as gone as the rest of her. He only stood when the reattached finger began to glow again.

Bea didn’t pass out. Which, of course, meant her day didn’t end there, but she had checked out entirely. Nothing more than a puppet with strings for them to pull and cut and reattach, and all the while, her magic worked hard to kept her intact. Food and water were non-existent, completely unnecessary in this state, but there were no signs of the malnutrition and dehydration that should have killed her by now. Bea worried her unresponsive magic would never be the same. When she slept, her hunger didn’t kill her, but what would happen …

If she was honest with herself, she wasn’t sure the Avengers were coming anymore. It had been days, more than she cared to think about—how much longer?

The sun on the back wall had well and truly disappeared when Bea remembered where she was. Her legs hurt, but she couldn’t remember what they’d done, what they’d—

She was alone. Her body was still glowing with her magic and the trolley was still sitting idle by the door, but Marlboro, Sarge, and Bones had disappeared.

“Hello?” she called, wincing at the razor-blades in her throat. She didn’t know the last time she’d spoken aloud. She tried again, but her voice only echoed in the empty room. She pulled against her restraints and found them much looser than they had been—if she really wanted to …

No, she had to stay put. Someone would come, any second now.

But no one did.

A loud siren came from the hallway, muffled by the cement walls and thick steel door between them, but it was unmistakeable. Bea flinched as the lights in the room flashed red, three slow times.

What was that supposed to mean? Heads up, Jeff’s brought dinner? Or did it mean hey everyone, the Avengers are here but we can’t let them know we’re onto them. Or, worst of all, did it mean oh my God, the Avengers are here—actually, never mind, we’ve gotten rid of them, go back to business as usual?

Whatever it was, Bea wasn’t going to take it lying down. It took some struggling and some grazing of her wrists and ankles to wrench them from her restraints but, in a matter of moments, she was free.

She swung her legs over the side of the chair, sitting up for the first time in who knew how long. The world shifted, her head aching with the effort, and she had to sit with her hands on her knees to recover, to catch her breath. She waited for someone to come, but the hallway was quiet again.

Stumbling like a newborn fawn, she struggled to her feet, but found herself much sturdier than she thought. Her skin still glowed—perhaps her magic was working overtime, making sure she was okay.

Careful not to step on the bloodstained spot where her finger had bled, not to mention the fingernails still there, she rounded the bed and bee-lined towards the trolley. She wasn’t stupid enough to think she could single-handedly escape this place, but anything would be better than this. Bea plucked a thin blade from the trolley and moved towards the door.

It opened before she could touch the handle, and in walked Sarge.

He was alone, at least, but when he spotted her standing right there in front of him and not tied into that fucking chair, he reached for the belt on his radio. Too busy barking warnings to his team, he missed the glint of Bea’s blade and the fury in her eyes as she lunged at him. It was stupid—he was much bigger, stronger than her and hadn’t spent days at the mercy of men like him as she had. He threw her off with very little effort, but she managed to nick his forearm as he did. She lunged again, doing her best to keep off the floor, but when he swung, he swung hard, and Bea landed roughly on her hip.

Her skin flickered, and like a flame, the shimmering blue magic dissipated.

What? What the fuck?

She crumpled there on the floor, her limbs feeling so much heavier without the support of her magic, but he was still approaching, this time with a blade much longer than hers. She could see him smiling, or maybe it was a snarl—an unkind face, nevertheless—and she couldn’t move fast enough. Crawling backwards frantically as he stepped closer, her back hit the wall and knocked all the breath out of her. His knuckled whitened around the hilt of his knife and suddenly that was all she could see. There, right in front of her, the glint of his blade.

It was like a dream. Her brain turned floaty and she was just another jellyfish in the sea, watching her thoughts float by. It’s nothing you haven’t done before, went one. Maybe it’s an illusion, went another, but she hadn’t seen or heard from Beck in days. Then again, maybe all of this was an illusion.

He's coming closer. You don’t have a choice.

Looking up at him in that moment, she knew the last one was true. He could have snapped her in half with his bare hands—Bones had already, and Sarge was bigger—but she had a knife.

He lunged, stabbing forward with his blade but she rolled, dodging him easily. Exhausted as she was, she was still quicker. She forced herself to her feet, turned on Sarge, and sank her blade into his ribcage.

His legs buckled quickly and he fell to the floor, blade twisting in his chest as Bea fell with him. She kept her balance enough to remain upright, crouching over the bleeding, blue-lipped man, and there was a beat of silence where all she could hear was the thrumming of her own heart, the squelching of his as she pulled her knife out, and her heavy, rasping breathing. She jumped as a new noise came from behind her, from the door.

She registered the voice a single microsecond after throwing the knife, and watched as it sank into Peter Parker’s heart.

It was as if she’d been stabbed herself, the way her heart stopped. He looked so familiar, yet so foreign in his jeans and plaid shirt. Where was his suit? If he was here to rescue her, why hadn’t he come prepared?

He shouldn’t have had to prepare for you, a cruel voice said in her mind.

Bea was still crouching over Sarge when Peter collapsed to his knees, clutching the hilt of her blade. She rushed towards him, falling on her own complaining knees as she held him up by his shoulders. His eyes were lidded and unfocused, but his eyes locked on hers when she pressed a hand to his cheek. He felt warm and solid beneath her hands, his pulse rapid against her hand.

“Pete,” she whispered, voice hoarse. She clasped a hand around the protruding blade to keep it steady. “No, no, Peter—”

He sucked in a breath and Bea heard it gurgle. “How—” He coughed, blood spattering down his chin. “How could you?”

A sob tore from her throat as his eyes closed and he slumped against her. It was all she could do to simply hold him, rocking back and forth on the floor. Her tears stained his shirt as he grew cold in her arms.

Could she heal him? She reached down deep inside to the weak puddle of her magic and pulled with all her might, willing whatever was left to the surface. Her hands shimmered slightly, but it was nothing like her full power. Nevertheless, she pressed, pushing whatever she could into Peter—she wasn’t sure it could work at all, but there was no world without Peter Parker. She had to try.

As the shimmer grew into a glow and a sweat broke across her brow, stars erupted in her vision. Her limbs felt heavy—Peter felt heavy—and she was too weak to hold herself up let alone another.

When the darkness consumed her, she let it. And when the dreams came, she embraced them.

She was back at the Tower, sitting around the dining table with Tony, Pepper, Sam, Bucky, and … Peter. They were laughing before their empty plates, the setting sun casting a gentle orange glow. Life was good, they were happy, and—most importantly—they were happy.

Things changed rather quickly, as things in dreams tended to do. Pepper, Sam, and Bucky were dead and she was in the midst of shoving a steel pole through Iron Man’s arc reactor when Peter cried out. She looked up at him and found her knife buried in his chest, blood blooming over his shirt, his arms, his legs and suddenly he was Spider-Man. Iron Man disappeared and it was Peter she was with now, holding his head in her lap. How could you?

Bea woke with a start, gasping for air through her tears. Where was she? The lights were so bright, she could barely see—

The room. Her wrists, her ankles. She was back in the chair, and Adrian Cross was standing at her feet. Sarge was there by his side, alive and well with a small smirk on his lips. Bones was there too, arms crossed over his chest behind them, and Marlboro was leaning against the back wall under the grate. There was no sunlight today.

Her insides ached as the reality hit, as the truth of what had happened sank in. She looks to their feet where there ought to have been a body, a bloodstain at the very least, but Peter was gone and the cement was clean.

“Beatrice,” Cross started softly and her eyes moved back to him. She could feel the rage boiling. “I must say, I’m very impressed at your initiative. I was worried for a moment there that you’d lost your touch, but I can see you do have our project’s best interest at heart.” He looked her up and down. “Quentin also passes on his regards. Said he’s pleased to see you haven’t lost your … affinity.”

Affinity.

A scream tore from somewhere deep inside her, her fury fierce enough to make him step back. “You’re going to die one day, Adrian Cross,” she croaked through bared teeth. “I hope I get to see it, but even if I don’t, there’s going to be a day when you’re not on this godforsaken planet anymore, and I will fucking celebrate.”

Cross’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, seeming rather taken aback. Sarge had lost his smirk, and Bones looked like a little boy who’d been yelled at by his mother.

“A sedative, I think,” he said, and Sarge leapt into gear, a syringe in hand within seconds. “You need your rest, darling.”

The last thing Bea saw, feeling a sick sense of satisfaction, was Sarge’s shaking hands as he injected the sedative. She didn’t fight the dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Beatrice stopped counting the days. Stopped waking in cold sweats, dreading what Bones, Marlboro and Sarge would think up for her that day. She simply laid there. They could have her body for their project, but they wouldn’t have her mind.

So she planned.

She plotted around the pain, thinking up all the ways she could hurt the people who had hurt her. Occasionally, this included Tony and the Avengers. She could go days at a time believing they would come, then reality would sink in and she’d see that she really was utterly alone in this. Then the familiar anger and resentment would seep in and she would have nowhere to put it. Those days were the worst, when her heart was in as much agony as her body.

They promised they’d come, that they’d find her, but who was she kidding? They were superheroes, and she was no one. She probably wasn’t topping their list of priorities.

Then there were the other thoughts … The ones that doubted. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t remember how long she’d spent at the Tower. It had been weeks, but had it been months? How many? Then, the worst thought of all—had she ever even been at the Tower?

Maybe she’d never left her cage, and her rescue was another one of Beck’s illusions to keep her at bay while they moved facilities. Except, she remembered things, real things, like working with Tony and Sam braiding her hair—but her hair was loose and she couldn’t recall a single project she’d worked on. She remembered Peter … He was Spider-Man, but wasn't that just a dream?

Once the seed of doubt was planted, it seemed impossible to uproot, but the rational part of her knew there had to be holes in her doubts. For starters, Cross had mention her rescue. And maybe Peter hadn’t been Spider-Man in the illusion because Beck didn’t know. But, no matter how many circles she talked herself in, she couldn’t help feeling they had some kind of weight behind them.

In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter. Whether she was going insane or not, whether a rescue was coming or not—Bea couldn’t stand the thought of being in that fucking chair for a second longer than she needed to be.

It had been a slow morning with Sarge, Marlboro, and Bones. Ever since the illusion, Marlboro was avoiding her like the plague, lingering longer and longer by the grate. He’d become a pack-a-day smoker, and every time he lit up, Bea prayed he would choke. For Bones, it was business as usual as he found new and exciting ways to break her, but Sarge … Sarge was bothered. Any tests they ran, he took the lead, making sure to be extra rough with her. He wanted her to hurt, but she took delicious comfort in the fact that he was rattled, and that she’d been the one to do it.

Cross seemed to have learned his lesson with the illusions, but Bea half-hoped he would get bored and pull another stunt. She was desperate to take her anger out on someone—better it be three men in the room than herself.

The sun was shining through the grate again. It had been a while now since their last test, hours if Bea guessed correctly. She had slept, passed out from the pain, and the three of them had left and returned since then, but the injection that dragged her magic to the surface hadn’t come.

Had they forgotten?

She could feel it, deep below her skin, and it felt almost how it used to. Not strong, necessarily, but stronger. The injections might have dragged it all the way to the surface, but she could feel it now more than she ever could with them. She had a grip on it now, and she didn’t want to let go.

Sarge cleared his throat noisily from beside the trolley, frowning down at his clipboard, scribbling furiously. Marlboro was in his corner sucking on a cigarette again, but when she turned to Bones she found him against the left wall, watching her. Not her, she realised, but her body. The way her legs writhed against the restraints, the bones in his hands as she flexed them. He saw it all. He liked it.

Bile rose in her throat, but she didn’t get the opportunity to choke it down as the overhead lights flickered and all their eyes darted upwards. The lights went out before coming back, red this time—almost as they had during her last illusion—but then quickly changed back to normal.

Another illusion.

Bea felt the panic in her chest, but there were no sirens. No flashing lights. Sarge looked as confused as she felt, looking between Bones and Marlboro for answers.

None of them were paying any attention to her.

The decision came in a split second. It was all the time she had and, after all her plotting and planning, she wasn’t about to turn down what would likely be her only opportunity. She couldn’t keep this routine up for very much longer and, after all, what was the worst that could possibly happen? If it was an illusion, no harm done. If it wasn’t, maybe it would all finally come to an end.

Bea sucked in a breath and braced as she channeled more of her magic than she ever had before. It wasn’t her full power, not after all the injections, but it was as if the sun itself had exploded. She felt the effort of it in every cell, but knew that it had to be all or nothing. The three men braced, covering their eyes as she burned, and she cried out as her restraints sagged in the heat and burned her skin down to the bone.

The pain was blinding, but she’d felt enough of it in her time to keep moving, to push through it and break free. The steel cuffs snapped in two, grazing her wrists and ankles as she wrenched them out. She pushed off the chair, expecting pain as she landed, but the adrenaline flooding her system kept her upright. She brushed her fingers over her burned, mangled joints to heal them just enough for her to move.

Sarge was watching her, too dumbfounded to act, but Bones was crossing the room, barking orders at him.

It all happened too quickly. The last time she had used her magic to hurt someone was with Tony—she had punched a dent into the Iron Man suit, nearly killing him. That was my project, she realised. She’d been tinkering for ages on the old suit, how could she have forgotten?

Slowing Iron Man down had taken an unprecedented amount of heat and energy, but she knew to expect it now. She wasn’t sure how she did it, how calling her light to be solid and to burn was any different than calling it to heal, but it seemed to come willingly, as if all it took was a wink on her part and her magic would do the rest for her.

For the record, she was aiming for Bones, but the man had ducked like a coward and Bea had to watch her burning ball of light hurtle across the room, landing in Marlboro’s thin, boyish chest. He dropped his cigarette, the hole in his chest gaping and smoking, and collapsed on his face. The cigarette sizzled against his cheek.

Bones looked between them and, though she could not see his face, she knew he was afraid. She refused to let herself feel anything for the dead boy in the corner as she turned next to Sarge, who was stuttering something unintelligible into his two-way radio, hands shaking as his eyes found hers. She darted around her chair and swung around him, trying a move she’d seen Nat pull on the sparring mat. Or maybe that had been a dream, too.

She launched herself upwards and wrapped her legs around his throat and twisted her whole body as she went, sending them both to the ground. He gasped for air, winded by the fall, but she gave him no reprieve as she placed a single hand flat on his forehead and summoned all the heat she could until he was screaming, bloodshot eyes bulging in his head. She watched with sick satisfaction as his eyes gave out, milky fluid running down his cheeks and temples. He twitched beneath her, groaning in pain, before falling still and silent as she pressed harder and harder. His tongue dried up like a sponge in his open mouth, and his skull crumbled to dust.

Bea fell forward with the collapse of his head. His congealed blood pooled slightly, sifting between her dark fingers and under her nails, but it was an almost comically small amount compared to the blood she’d lost at his hands. She removed her hand, wiping it on her thigh before looking up at the last man standing.

Bones hadn’t had a chance to move yet, still trembling in the middle of the room. He could do anything to her if he had his wits about him. Lucky for Bea, she wasn’t sure he did.

She rose to her feet slowly, eyes never leaving his, and cocked her head. She didn’t have a plan. None of this would’ve been part of any plan she could have thought up, but she was doing well enough. No turning back now. She took a step towards him, flexing her bloody hand as it burst into light once again.

But he moved then, darting towards the weapons trolley and snatched the first thing his fingers closed around. It was the knife she’d used in the illusion, the same thin blade she’d lodged in Peter’s—

Don’t think about him. Think positive thoughts.

Bea had already won. No matter how this ended, she knew she would come out on top. If it was an illusion, she would simply wake up in her chair. But if this was real? Cross had made it clear enough that wanted her alive, and if Bones killed her he would surely meet the same fate. If this was real and she died, it would put an end to his project—he would have to start over from the very beginning, and the Avengers would have time to stop him for good. But if Bones died …

He lunged blade-first, and it was as if Bea was on autopilot. She dodged the knife, darting around him. The trolley was close enough for her to touch now, but she didn’t need a blade. If she was going to kill him, she would do it her way.

Bones didn’t seem phased, only grunted as he turned on the spot to meet her. She backed away, feigning fear until her back hit the wall, and it was his turn to creep slowly closer. She could see the curves of his cheeks beneath his mask, pushing up the bottom of his goggles—he was enjoying this. He twirled the blade in his hand, then lunged again but Bea was ready for him.

She grabbed his wrist and twisted away, hearing him let out a yelp of pain as he dropped the knife. She caught it easily, turned it in her hand and sliced. Unsure where, but anywhere would do. Bones fell to his knees, clutching his abdomen as Bea stood panting behind him. He twisted, reaching for her, but Bea grabbed his arm and pulled until the joint fell out of the socket with a satisfying clunk. He cried out, twisting fully and falling back against the wall.

Bea felt nothing for him. No sympathy, no empathy.

She kicked him hard in the side, bare foot meeting blood, and when he still fought to grab her, she launched her knee into his masked face. His head fell back and she heard a sickening crack of bone against cement.

A thick trail of blood appeared as he slumped down against the wall, but his chest was still rising and falling. Bea crouched over him as she’d done with Sarge, and pulled his goggles and mask off. His eyes were lidded and heavy, pupils blown, and he was drooling a little from the corner of his mouth.

Illusion or not, Bea knew in her heart that she was going to enjoy this.

“Rise and shine, Bones,” she said gently, clicking her fingers in front of his face. “Don’t want to miss the show now, do you?”

He stirred, a strangled groan escaping his lips as he tried to push her off. She clicked her tongue at him and readjusted her position until she had a foot on each of his wrists and was sitting comfortably in his lap.

“Do you want to know a secret?” she asked quietly, leaning in to whisper in his ear. “I’m going to kill you.”

He fought again, pushing off the wall with all his might, and cried out when his trapped wrist pulled his dislocated shoulder.

“Don’t be like that,” she said. She released his uninjured arm and pulled his hand up to his chest. Magic rippled off her hand, no longer glowing, but still there. She was exhausted, depleted, but she was still there.

Without a second thought, she found his pointer finger and pulled it at an unnatural angle until she felt it snap. She did the same to the other four.

A tear rolled down his cheek when he stopped groaning. She swiped it away with a gentle stroke of her thumb. “I learned from the best. You know, one would think you’d have a higher pain tolerance, considering. If you’re going to dish it out, you have to be able to take it."

His eyes focused then, trained on her. No more games.

She plucked the blade from the ground beside them and positioned it delicately over his heart. Panic filled his eyes, no longer slow and unfocused, but he couldn’t move. One arm was limp and disjointed, the other had a broken hand, and the wound to his abdomen was still leaking against her legs. Bea pressed the hilt of the blade, pushing past the resistance of his jacket, then his undershirt, then his skin. She pressed even harder to break through his ribs, but from there it was easy. She pushed all the way in and he writhed beneath her, eyes closed in pain.

It felt different to stabbing Sarge. Bones required more effort, more pressure, and the noises he made … For a split second, she remembered he was human and probably had a family—friends, at least—and there Bea was, taking him away from them without a moment’s hesitation. It almost made her stop.

Almost.

She shoved down on the hilt so the tip tilted upwards and blood spattered across her face and chest. His eyes shot open at the same time, mouth widening as if he was going to scream, but he only gasped, gurgling, grasping feebly as the knife wedged between them slid deeper.

He was warm and twitching before he went entirely limp, eyes turning unfocused and chest no longer rising and falling. All that was left of him was the hot blood rushing from his wounds.

Dead.

Bea sat there in his lap for a long moment, waiting for the familiar tranquilliser prick but it never came. She watched his body, his throat, his chest, for any sign of life but there was none. She’d killed him.

She pushed off his lap and scurried backwards, bile rising in her throat. A glance to her left and she found Marlboro, eyes unseeing but staring into her soul as he lay there in his blood. To her right was Sarge, completely unrecognisable, his head like a crescent moon.

Bea threw up.

She heaved and heaved but only bile came, burning the back of her throat. Her hands were thick and sticky with blood, her legs covered in it, and Bea wanted to tear it off. Would it grow back? If she skinned herself from head to toe, would she heal? Could she be someone new? She didn’t even know their names—

She had to pull herself together. Sarge had used that radio, they knew what she’d done and they were probably coming for her. There were bodies in this room, yes, but there were plenty more outside that door who could hurt her just as badly. Cross was somewhere, maybe even Beck—she couldn’t let them get away again.

The Avengers clearly weren’t going to rescue her, but maybe she didn’t need rescue. Maybe she could escape on her own. The idea had seemed so impossible last time, and maybe it was this time, too, but she’d already come this far. If Cross was so graciously giving her the opportunity, she should take it, shouldn’t she?

Bea forced herself to her feet, wiping her hands down her shirt. The adrenaline had subsided a little and she had to fight for balance—there was still another mountain to climb.

Step by tentative step, she made her way back to Sarge, past the chair, past the weapons trolley, then to the door. The steel handle was cold under her bloody hand, but so incredibly real. She half-expected it to be locked, for her to be trapped as she always was, but it opened.

Bea stepped through the door.

The hallway was cold and empty. Still no flashing lights, still no sirens. But no directions, either. She turned right and prayed.

Strangely, the halls were colder than her room. It only took a few steps before her toes were completely numb. She couldn’t help thinking of the dead men in the room, how warm their blood had been. A bath might work better, she thought.

Another right, then a left. Straight on, to a T, then left again. She was probably walking herself in circles, but she was moving and that was enough.

A strangled yell sounded in the distance and Bea froze. Was that behind her or in front of her? The sound came again, followed by the clanging of metal, and Bea charged forward. It was probably stupid, walking towards a fight, but a fight meant people and people meant a way out. Didn’t it?

The facility was a labyrinth and it took several wrong turns before the sounds of fighting became clearer. She flattened herself against the wall and peered around the corner.

Five men were already on the ground but there were still four standing, and it seemed as if one person in particular was being attacked. What was going on? Had all the scientists turned on Cross? No, she couldn’t get too hopeful. Another man was thrown to the ground, landing by her feet, but he was knocked out. Her eyes flicked back up and met another pair, which frowned. She’d been spotted.

Bea darted out from behind the wall, summoning as much of her magic as she could into her fist, and swung. It hit home, square in the side of the stranger’s head and he fell to the ground without a flinch. The last man standing was just behind him, but when her gaze met his, the world stopped.

It was Iron Man, arm up and repulsor charging.

“No,” she rasped. It had been so real. She was so sure this was real, that she was actually getting out of this fucking place, but there he stood. “Fuck, no!” She raised a fist to her head, pressing against her temple as if it would make things better. As if it would make this real.

Iron Man took a step back, shoved his helmet off, and Bea’s eyes met Tony’s. He was frowning, looking startled and in shock. God, she’d missed him. She missed them all, but after what she did … The memory of Peter in her arms was stronger than ever. It had taken so much effort and pain to not fight back, to keep them from harm, but it hadn’t worked in the end. Beck might have been a monster, but Bea was a killer.

“Kid,” said Tony, a hand outstretched. “Talk to me.”

Bea sucked in a breath. No more. “I can’t do this again. I won’t.”

“What?”

“I won’t kill you, so you might as well kill me.”

“I’m not going to kill you, Jesus—”

“Get on with it!” she screamed and he flinched. He’d never flinched. She watched him for a moment, watched his face. She could see pain in his eyes, grief even. “This isn’t real,” she said softly.

“It is.”

This had to be some kind of cruel joke. Had he really come for her the same day she managed to escape? It was too much of a coincidence. This had to be some kind of punishment.

“We’re running out of time,” he said, chancing a glance over his shoulder. “I kind of reneged on the backup, so it’s just us. You’re gonna have to trust me, I can’t knock you out like we did last time.”

Bea frowned at him. He sounded like himself, not like the recycled dialogue Beck had poached from her rescue. Same side here. Calm down. In your own time. He sounded real. “Is it actually?”

“Real? Yes, I swear to God, I know it’s not ideal but I’m real, and I know I should’ve fought harder before letting you walk yourself back into this shithole—” He let out an oomph as Bea surged forward, wrapping her arms around his cold metal waist and hugging him tight.

She believed it. Whether it made her naive or stupid or gullible, she really believed it was him. He was solid. He sounded real, he looked real, he even smelled real, in a gross, sweaty way, but Bea was sure she didn’t smell much better. He gripped her shoulder and she felt him sag with relief, pressing his mouth to the top of her head.

He pulled away quickly and said, “You’re bleeding.”

Bea shook her head. “Not mine. They’re—he’s—it’s fine. Dealt with. Didn’t know you were here.”

He nodded, still frowning, and clutched her shoulder. “Should’ve been here weeks ago, but I’m here now. The others’ll be right behind me, but for now we’re on our own.” Bea opened her mouth to say something but he cut her off. “Quit judging. It was a spur of the moment thing, golden opportunity or whatever. I have to get you out of here.”

He started pushing her in the direction he’d come from, but she wrenched herself out of his grip. “No,” she said. “No fucking way, he’s still here, we can’t let him get away. I can’t do that again, we have to do it properly.”

“And we will, once you’re safe,” he argued, but Bea stood her ground.

“You either leave me or help me, but I’m staying.”

He looked like he wanted to pull the grown-up card, grumbling to himself for a moment before eventually nodding, pulling his helmet back on. “Fine. Fine! We’ll finish this, but you stay behind me, that’s not a suggestion. Understood?”

Bea nodded. “Understood.”

As they crept around the facility, Tony didn’t ask questions. He barely even looked at her, which only gave her more opportunity to study him. The back of his suit was all scratched up, and Bea noticed a small dent in his elbow. It was so strange to think, to actually believe he was truly, properly real. She had so many questions—why hadn’t he come with the others? Why had they taken so long? Was it really just a coincidence? But that could wait, it had to.

The further they went from the room, her chair, and the three dead bodies left in her wake, the better she felt. Bea had no idea where they were going, but Tony seemed to have an idea of direction. There were no people to speak of, but they passed broken drones by the dozen, smashed and shattered across the floor. She took a closer look at one and found the Stark Industries insignia on the side, but another read Barrett Enterprises. In fact, most were from Barrett Enterprises. Her stomach dropped at the reminder.

Then, just as before, the sound of voices in the distance. Not fighting this time, just loud voices layered over one another. Arguing. Tony held his arm out to slow Bea as they approached a set of steel doors. “FRIDAY, report,” Tony said quietly, but all Bea could hear was static crackling. Tony swore, flicking his helmet up to look Bea in the eye. “Still nothing. Right, it’s just us. Remember what I said. Stay behind me—”

“Stay behind you and don’t die,” Bea filled. “Kind of assumed.”

He swore again, seeming a little at war with himself. “I’d tell you to stay put but there’s no way I’m letting you out of my sight again.”

Her heart pulled at the sentiment, but she had to keep face. She couldn’t let it get to her now. Mustering a smirk, she said, “Not to mention I never fucking listen.”

“That, too. Right. On three.”

He flicked his helmet back down and counted to three before bursting through the swinging steel doors, Bea hot on his tail. Immediately the agents inside fired, and Bea watched several scientists ducking behind their desks. Tony took the brunt of the work as she stuck behind him, but she took the time to examine the room.

It was bright white and extremely clinical, so different to the maze of hallways and the rooms Bea had escaped. Everything was pristine and new, with computer stations and testing zones and workstations for the dozens of cowering scientists. There was a glass room across the lab, almost like an office—

It was Cross’s office.

She could see his familiar form bent over his desk, frantically tapping away on a keyboard. There were enough agents in the room to keep them at bay while Cross did whatever he needed to do, and whilst Tony was doing a marvellous job on his own, Bea couldn’t let that slide.

The most tempting part of all? Cross was all alone.

Calling upon the absolute remnants of her energy, Bea summoned the same hard, burning light she’d used against Marlboro. She dodged past Tony and started towards the office, ignoring his demands of what do you think you’re doing? and get back here! as she cleared a path for herself. She didn’t let herself see the damage left in her wake—Cross was the only one that mattered.

She kicked in the door and it shattered on its hinges. Only then did Cross look up and see the daughter he’d tried so hard to control. Bea took off at a run and slid across the desk, grabbing Cross by the collar and dragging him away from the computer. She managed to kick his feet from underneath him and he fell to the ground with an ugly grunt. Bea willed every ounce of her magic to her hand, knowing this was it—this was her moment. Her magic came easily, as if it, too, knew what was coming.

She stared down at him, expecting to see the same fear that had been in Bones’s eyes, but she only saw pride. He wasn’t afraid of her—he was enjoying this.

Before she could do anything, a heavy hand grasped her shoulder and pulled her to her feet, away from Cross. Bea found Tony’s concerned face staring down at her. One look out of the glass office and she saw agents, either knocked out or dead, littered across the lab floor, and scientists still trembling beneath their stations. Tony was there, helmet off, but the suit still made her brain tick. Another illusion. But was it? Only minutes ago she had been certain this was real. He stepped forward, a heavy boot on Cross’s chest, keeping him down.

“Calm down, kiddo,” said Tony. “Let’s think about this.”

“What’s there to think about?” she spat, burning hand still aimed at Cross’s face. “He deserves it.”

“I’m not arguing with you, I’m just asking you to think for a moment.” He looked her dead in the eye. “You’re better than this.”

Bea barked a laugh, feeling tears begin to well. “You don’t know what I’ve done. You clearly don’t know what he’s done if you think he deserves to live.”

“I do know,” he argued, voice rising. “Maybe not everything, but I’ve got a good enough idea. I know a lot of what he’s put you through and all the shitty things he’s capable of, but you are Beatrice and the Beatrice I know wouldn’t do this. You’re in charge, you get to make the decisions here. You can decide to do the right thing.”

She shook her head, the tears beginning to fall. At this point, after everything, she wasn’t sure what the right thing was. All she knew is that she was angry—so unbelievably angry—and she needed him to be brought to justice. She looked back at Tony, at the understanding and patience there. “You think I’m such a good person, but … At the end of the day, I’m still his daughter.”

He squeezed her shoulder. “You don’t have to be. You can just be Beatrice.”

They were heavy words to take in. Bea looked back down at Cross, at Tony’s boot keeping him still and her glowing hand poised to deliver the killing blow. He had the ghost of a smile on his face, looking absolutely intrigued by the entire interaction.

Tony shifted until he was back in her line of sight. “If you kill him now, he’ll never leave you. He’ll haunt you forever.”

“But if I don’t kill him,” Bea said, another tear falling, “he’ll never stop looking for me.”

He shook his head. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

She studied him for a long moment, searching his eyes for any hint of a lie. Could she really believe him? Could she trust him with this? She’d heard so many horror stories in her life of criminals getting away with absolute murder, that the justice system was beyond corrupt. If she killed Cross now, it would be over.

But if she killed him, she would be the criminal. This wasn’t self-defence anymore, this was cold, calculated revenge. The realisation was like ice down her spine and she gasped, her magic subsiding and her glowing hand turning dark once more. She stepped away from Cross.

He snarled and reached forward to grab her, but Tony was quicker, firing a single repulsor at his shoulder. The sound made Bea jump, but watching Cross writhe in pain there on the floor, crying out and clutching his shoulder …

She swiped her tears away and took a deep breath before turning to Tony. “Do it again.”

Chapter Text

The warmth of her magic had always been so familiar, but it was nothing compared to the warmth of sunlight on her skin again. It felt nourishing, sinking all the way down to her bones as she tilted her face back towards the sun.

They hadn’t stopped to talk to the other Avengers on their way out of the facility. Tony had briefed them in a single breath, leaving his suit behind to help with the heavy lifting, but Bea had barely seen them—buried so deep still in the weight of her actions. As they trudged out of the basement and into the sun, all she could think about was Cross handcuffed to the desk. They had him, finally, and it was an enormous turning point, but she couldn’t help feeling disappointed. What would’ve happened if she had killed Cross? Would she feel better? Hate herself a little less?

The sun on her skin after so long helped clear her head a little. This wasn’t going to be like last time—she wasn’t going to let herself play the what if game, or she’d never stop. What if she’d fought him harder? What if she hadn’t gone home after her interview that night? What if her mother had never met Cross in the first place? She could go on forever and never get a moment’s peace.

The car waiting by the curb was enormous, but all Bea could see was the man standing by the open door. Happy’s brow was furrowed with concern as he clocked her bloodstained skin and clothes, the purpled concave flesh of her half-healed wrists and ankles, but he didn’t stop to question her or Tony as he ushered them into the vehicle.

Another familiar face was waiting inside, sitting in the rear-facing bench seat, but Bea balked at this one. Pepper was sitting anxiously, buckled in and clutching her phone with white knuckles. Bea thought she heard her name as she stumbled into the backseat, but she was too busy hiding the worst of her injuries from the concerned, kind, gentle woman across from her. She shuffled as far over as she could as Tony quickly followed behind, and let her hair fall across her face.

The door closed with a thunk and Bea listened as Happy climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and drove away. Cross was in the hands of the Avengers, soon the police, and Bea was driving away.

Despite it all, she couldn’t bring herself to feel relieved. This wasn’t a win. She felt … angry, and sad, and grateful, and humiliated, and honestly, a teensy bit relieved, too, but most of all she felt so ashamed. Ashamed of what she had done, and even more ashamed of what she hadn’t. Cross deserved to die back there, and Tony had stopped her. Would it be her fault if the cops let him free? If he got out again and he started hurting people again all because she didn’t have the gumption to follow through?

It’s not like it would’ve been hard. She’d already killed three, what difference would a fourth make?

Her heart skipped and her hands shook as the memories of what she’d done bubbled to the surface. The sizzling hole she had left in Marlboro’s chest, the way Sarge’s skull felt in that split second before it gave in, the pleading in Bones’s eyes as she sunk the blade in his chest. Bea’s face was the last they’d ever seen.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, still refusing to even glance at the silent Tony and Pepper. It would take just one look at the shame and guilt in her eyes, the trembling of her bloodied hands to know what she’d done. Her hands were so filthy, with blood and muck crusting under her fingernails and when she tried to wipe it away, it peeled off in clumps onto the floor of the car—always making a mess of everything. She moved her focus instead to the passing scenery, desperate to distract herself with anything but she quickly spotted the haunted, bloody face staring back at her. Bones’s blood had spattered in a thick streak from the hairline by her temple to the right corner of her mouth and all the way down her neck. What a sight she was—how could Tony and Pepper bear to look at her when she’d been capable of that?

A light hand touched her shoulder and Bea jumped, pressing herself against the passenger door as she turned. Tony was dazed, his haunted gaze fixed on a point past Pepper and into nothingness, but the hand on her shoulder spoke volumes as it squeezed gently, grounding her.

In all her worrying, she’d forgotten the most important part. She suspected, just a little, that deep, deep down, Tony Stark might have grown to care about her. Her time with Cross had been an ordeal, to say the least, but she couldn’t imagine having to watch someone she cared about, even just a little, go through that.

As if reading her mind, he turned then and she saw the worn look in his eyes. She saw the same exhaustion that had settled in her own bones, and a bit of the relief that she’d denied herself. He was right there with her, wading through the thick swamp of feelings she’d fallen into and, in that very moment, Tony might have understood her better than anyone else in the world. He'd seen the worst of her and he was still there. Maybe not by choice, but it still counted.

Bea deflated under the weight of his hand and his gaze. The tightness in her shoulders, arms and legs left with a sharp exhale, as the panic and tension she’d been gripping onto like a lifeline dissipated. She wasn’t alone. She was shaking, but she was safe. This was real.

He leaned over and wrapped his arm all the way around her shoulders, letting her sink into his side. He pulled her into the middle seat, away from the corner she’d been curled into, and just held her. It was strange, having someone be so gentle with her like this. She had to fight the instinct to pull away.

This is safe, she reminded herself. This is real.

The movement seemed to break some of the tension between them, and Pepper leaned forward to take her hands, holding them gently in her own. Bea still couldn't look at her, couldn't face the shame of it, but Pepper didn't make her. She only leaned in, pressing her forehead to their hands as if in prayer, thanking the universe and whoever else was listening that Bea was there.

It was too soon when Pepper pulled away, looking serious. "Are you hurt? I brought a first-aid kit, just in case."

Bea had never needed a first-aid kit in her life and the idea almost made her laugh, but the reality was she was injured. Under the layers of blood, a tender bruise was blooming on her cheekbone and her left hip ached, both thanks to Bones knocking her to the ground. Her wrists and ankles felt as raw and mangled as they looked, and her clothes were stiff and scratchy from the heat damage.

She almost wished the adrenaline hadn't left her system—all she felt now was pain.

Despite it all, she shook her head. “M'fine." Pepper frowned and glanced at Tony. "Not mine," Bea said by way of explanation, gesturing at the mess on her face, her arms, her legs.

"That's okay, hon," Pepper assured quickly, before hesitating. "Who's is it?"

Bea looked up at her, slack-jawed. Why did she want to know? She searched the woman’s eyes for any semblance of disgust or hatred but, strangely, only found concern. "It—" she tried, but the lump in her throat stopped her. "He—"

Pepper hushed her and Tony held her tighter. "It's okay. Are you hungry?"

Bea shook her head. Keeping food down would be too much effort.

"Alright, but have some water at least."

Bea obliged, taking the bottle from Pepper who seemed grateful to be of help. She barely managed two sips before her stomach flipped and Bea had to set it aside.

Tony pulled back his arm and leaned over to murmur something to Pepper. Bea felt the loss of his warmth, cheeks burning at how she immediately missed it, but then watched as Pepper handed him a rolled-up bundle. He shook the thick blanket out and wrapped it around her shoulders. It was soft, like wool, and heavy on her back. She wanted to argue that she was filthy and that the blanket looked far too expensive, but Tony didn’t give her the chance as he shifted back to hold Bea at his side.

“We're on our way back to the Tower,” Pepper explained gently. “I'm not sure if you've seen the coverage your case has been getting, but there has been quite a lot of public interest and the media are very eager to see that you're alive and safe. I’ve had to let them know where the Avengers were heading this morning, so when we get to the Tower, the media will probably be waiting for us. Usually it’s lots of cameras flashing and people shouting, but I want you to know we’ll be safe in here. We aren’t getting out of the car, we don’t have to talk to them they just want to have something to write about. I’m sure it doesn’t sound like such a big deal, but it can be a little overwhelming.” Pepper looked between Bea’s eyes, waiting for her nod of understanding. “This doesn’t have to be a scary thing. This means the world will know that you're alive, which will mean no more having to hide in the Tower.”

Bea nodded again. In all truthfulness, she didn’t care in the slightest what anyone else did with her anymore—she just wanted to go home. But when she looked down at her hands again, at the clothes that held every drop of blood, sweat, and melted skin that she’d shed, she hesitated. “They want to take my photo?”

Pepper nodded. “The car is tinted, I doubt they’ll see anything more than a few silhouettes. I promise you, the hardest part is over. You survived and Cross is in police custody.”

Bea flinched at his name and hoped Pepper hadn’t noticed, but Tony squeezed her shoulder—he’d noticed. "Get some sleep," he suggested, but Bea shook her head.

Her brain was sluggish, and she’d already forgotten half of what Pepper had said. Maybe she was tired, and maybe sleep was a good idea, but she wasn't taking any chances. Sure, this was real, but there was a lot she’d thought had been real, too.

Beatrice was so desperate to never have to think about it again. In a heartbeat, she’d take things right back to the night before she’d met Cross—Hell, back to before Spider-Man fell through her fucking window—and she’d finally get to live in at least a moment’s peace again.

But she couldn’t ever go back, and if she was honest? She never had peace. Even before everything turned to shit, she’d had to deal with Walter, with Mom who was barely cognitive half the time.

Oh.

The realisation struck her hard enough to make her blink. She hadn’t forgotten necessarily, but … if Bea didn’t get her shit together, she was going to end up just like Mom. Bea desperately wanted to check out, to never have to deal with any of it, but she knew exactly what that future looked like.

She swallowed the thought, feeling quite grim, and looked out the window. Still only trees passing. Some were beginning to turn, scattering their bronze leaves across the road. The landscape was unfamiliar—she didn’t remember ever going on holidays as a kid, the most she ever saw was New York. Bea wondered where they were, how far Cross had taken her from the Tower, but she didn’t have to ask to know the answer would be a while.

Instead, she looked back up at Pepper. “What’ll happen?” she asked. “When we get back.”

Bea made an effort to listen as Pepper jumped into gear, explaining everything down to the detail. Happy would take them down to the garage, away from the media. They’d park the car, get out at their own pace, and head up to the MedBay in the elevator. Most of the team was out on missions or busy with Bea’s case, so no one would be bothering her until she was ready. She’d wanted to interrupt then, to reassure her that none of them would be a bother, but that wasn’t what Pepper had meant and she knew it. Bruce would be there, which Bea was relieved to hear, and he’d spend some time taking her bloods and making sure she was okay.

“So,” said Bea, “kind of like last time?”

“Kind of.” Pepper winced. “Now that the police are involved, they’ll need to ask some questions. They’ll just want to get an idea of what you’ve been through while it’s still fresh.”

Bea flared at that. Still fresh? It didn’t feel like this festering fucking wound called Adrian Cross would ever heal.

“Hey,” she said gently, leaning forward. “I know, but it’s in our best interest to give them as much evidence as possible so they can build their case against him. You can tell them as much or as little as you like, understand?”

Bea nodded. Fine. Everything was just fine.

But as the Avengers Tower grew closer and they pulled up to the block, she quickly realised everything was not fine. Tony’s arm hadn’t left Bea’s shoulders the entire drive, and it wasn’t leaving now—he only held her tighter as the paparazzi’s muffled shouts grew louder. Even through the dark window tint, camera flashes burned stars into her retinas. She tried counting them all, but failed, burying her face instead in Tony’s shoulder.

Focusing her eyes on the seat beside Pepper, she tried to follow Happy’s movements. He was slow, probably to avoid running anyone over—not that Bea would’ve minded all that much—then came the small rise and fall of a driveway, down into a garage. A pause for the gate, then they were moving again.

The noise of the media died almost immediately as the car fell into darkness. Bea’s heart skipped as she blinked the last of the flash stars away, praying her eyes would adjust. All it would take was Tony letting go for her to fall right back into the room.

Quietly, Pepper flicked on the interior light.

Bea didn’t realise how loud she was breathing. Tony was brushing his thumb over her shoulder, but she hadn’t felt it through the wool. Pull yourself together. Stop being so dramatic.

Happy pulled up right beside the elevator and killed the engine. He hopped out immediately, finding the passenger door and opening it for them. Tony looked at Bea. “You ready?”

“No,” she answered honestly, forcing a humorous smile. He did his best to match it, but she watched it falter. “It’s all going to be fine, right?”

“It is. You’re gonna be just fine.”

Pepper gave her a reassuring nod and left the backseat first. Bea clambered out of the car after her with her blanket around her shoulders like a cape, Tony following closely behind. She could feel the tension and worry sneaking back in, sending her stomach flipping. They were only going upstairs to the MedBay, she’d been there before. What was she so worried about? Bruce would be there, she might get to change out of those awful clothes, and the police—

“Oh. Um,” she started, voice wavering. She cleared her throat. “Do the police know about … I mean, do I need to tell them I’m …” She gestured with her hand.

“They don’t know,” Pepper said. “But it might be a good idea. It’s completely up to you, like I said. As much or as little as you like, but Cross is going to be put before a judge, and the more evidence they have against him, the better.”

No pressure.

Bea didn’t want the world knowing she had magic—she’d managed to keep it a secret her entire life, and even when it had begun to slip out of her control, she’d reined it in. That knowledge was shared strictly on a need-to-know basis. Although, she supposed it was something the police probably needed to know. She’d never forgive herself if her secret was the reason Cross walked free.

“Honey,” said Pepper, moving to stand before her. She didn’t touch Bea, only ducked her head a little to meet her unwilling eye. “A lot will be happening over the next few days and there’s going to be a lot of decisions we’ll have to make. But, for now, let’s take things one step at a time. Okay?”

Bea pinched her fingers under the blanket, willing herself to remain calm. She had so much more to get through before she could let herself feel all of it. All she needed to do was hold out for a few more hours.

Between Pepper, Tony and Happy, Bea felt like an injured, wild animal. They watched her, tense and unsure, as she stepped into the elevator with them, holding her breath as the door closed. One thing that would be just the same as last time, Bea noticed, was the incessant are you okays. They hadn’t quite kicked off yet, but she could feel the question on the tips of everyone’s tongue.

“Look at us,” Bea said, willing her voice to sound normal as her insides contorted. “In an elevator like it’s no big deal.”

No one said anything. They rode in silence, even FRIDAY held her tongue, and soon the doors opened to reveal the long white hallway of the MedBay. Tony stepped out first, leading the way as Happy, Pepper and Bea followed. They followed the hallway around the bend and, just as Bea was starting to spot the similarities to Cross’s facility, she noticed two uniformed officers standing before a door, hands clasped before them. Tony and Pepper greeted them quietly so that Bea couldn’t hear, before turning and introducing her with an outstretched arm. “Beatrice,” Pepper said. “This is Officers Williams and Fisher. They’d like to ask you some questions.”

Bea swallowed, but nodded.

Tony gave her a reassuring, barely-there shake of his head. “Bruce is going to make sure you’re okay first,” he said firmly. “And then we’ll do questions.”

The officers looked like they wanted to say something, but Bea couldn’t help noticing how much younger they were than Tony and Pepper. Happy seemed to have noticed too, keeping a sceptical eye on them as Bea nodded again.

Tony turned, knocking on the door before them as he swung it open. Inside, Bruce was standing alone, sorting paperwork over a clean white hospital bed. It looked exactly like the room she’d been in before, only she knew it hadn’t been so far from the elevator. Perhaps they were all identical.

“Banner, she’s here.”

“Right, bring her in,” he said quickly, packing his papers away. Bea approached slowly, watching Bruce’s frantic movements. “Any injuries? Dizziness?” His eyes found hers. “How are you feeling?”

“No injuries,” she answered quietly, letting her blanket fall to the bed. “No dizziness. Pretty shit.”

He let out a long breath and gestured for her to sit down.

“Humour’s a good sign,” Tony said lightly. “We’ll be right out here if you need us.”

Bea gave him a tight-lipped smile as the door closed and they were left in quiet. “You seem worried,” she commented.

“Just a bit,” Bruce said facetiously, studying the bruise on her cheek. “It’s not like you’ve been trapped in a dungeon or anything. Does anything hurt?”

“Everything hurts,” she said before she could stop herself. “It’s been a big day.”

He nodded sympathetically. “I can’t do anything drastic right now, the police will want to take their photos, get their evidence. But if you tell me what we’re working with, by the time they’re finished I’ll be able to sort something out.”

“I …” She didn’t know where to begin. Technically, she was perfectly healthy. “It’s a long story. I think the worst of it is these.” She held her hands out, twisting her wrists around. The joints were black with bruises now, still indented and scarred. He held them gently, frowning a little. “It—it was hot metal, and I didn’t—I didn’t have the time to—”

“You don’t need to explain yourself,” he said quietly. “Not to me. Have the police seen them?”

She shrugged, feeling herself begin to shrink again.

“If they have, they will want to take photos. They will probably be interested in seeing your healing progress over the coming months. If you’re not ready to tell them about your abilities, you may not get the opportunity to heal them, which could lead to some scarring.”

Bea’s eyes welled, and she averted her gaze.

“But,” he said, not noticing. “I have a colleague in genetics, she’s been developing all sorts of technology. There’s no telling what we could do for you.”

He spotted her then, spotted the tear tracks down her cheeks and dropped her hands, reaching around him to get her a box of tissues off a nearby shelf.

“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t know why—”

“Just breathe. It’s perfectly normal to be upset. I’d be more worried if you weren’t.” He paused for a moment, eyes falling back to her wrists. “You’re welcome to take as much time as you need now to heal—”

Bea shook her head vehemently. “No, he … God, it really is a long story, but—”

“Hey, no, it’s okay,” he said, stepping back a little. “Breathe, take your time. You have time.”

She did as she was told, breathing in and exhaling until the sick feeling she’d been holding on to left.

“Better?” he asked, and Bea nodded. “Okay. So, you’re not comfortable using your magic?”

“He did something to me. Injected this stuff, I don’t know what it was. But it brought everything to the top, like, I was glowing. And he had this trolley full of stuff and whenever they—” She choked on the words, doing her best to stifle the tears. Her pain could wait, for God’s sake, she was talking. “I—I healed, no matter what, and then after, it was different. I could use it differently. I—” It happened again and Bea let out a grunt of frustration. She pressed fists to her eyes and powered through. “I hurt people with it. It burned, and I could throw it, and people got hurt.”

Bruce made a contemplative sound, and when she pulled her hands away, she found him looking deep in thought. “I haven’t heard of that before, but leave it with me and I’ll see what I can find out. Was it just the one injection?”

She shook her head. “Four.”

“Right. I’ll pass that on to the team, see if they can find any leftovers in the facility that could tell us anything. Don’t look so surprised. We’re here to help, you should know by now.” He tidied his things away, scribbled a note on a sheet of paper, and gave her one last look. “Is there anything else, or should I send in the cavalry?”

She hesitated a little, Bruce waiting patiently. “What do you think I should do?”

“About what?”

“My magic. Should I tell them?”

“The police? That’s entirely up to you. Your condition alone is probably enough to put that man away for a long time, but it might help them understand the situation a bit better.”

She nodded, pausing again. “What about everything else? Do I tell them about the first rescue?”

Bruce let out a little laugh. “You mean do I think you should lie to the authorities?” She nodded solemnly, and he took a deep breath. “I think you should do whatever feels right. My gut’s telling me we’ve got a long road ahead of us no matter what. If you think they should know, you tell them. If you’re not sure, we can always revisit it with them. If you never want them to know, we’ll back you right up. Stark’s the best bullshitter I know, he’d have a story ready in seconds if he hasn’t already.” He looked her in the eyes. “Whatever you decide, we’ve got your back. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He smiled down at her and nodded once, before moving to the door. “I’ll send them in.”

An hour later, Bea was watching the bloodied water swirl down the drain of the MedBay shower. Williams and Fisher had worked quickly—gentle, but meticulous, and completely aware that she was desperate to be clean. After some introductions, they took their photos and kept small talk to a minimum, explaining everything they did as they went. Officer Williams was behind the camera, Fisher directing him every now and then with a pointed, “James,” and Officer Fisher collected swabs from Bea’s skin, mouth and hair, while Williams tried to help by offering her evidence bags with a quiet, “Here, Izzy.”

Bea couldn’t help wondering how long they’d worked together, considering they were both so young, but inevitably, her train of thought dragged her right back to the chair. James and Izzy seemed to have a decent working relationship, from what she could see—did Bones, Marlboro and Sarge have the same relationship? God knew they worked together enough. She remembered how easily they bounced off one another, going from cutting the skin off her forearm to dislocating her kneecaps with a hammer. Bea wondered if that was a result of healthy, friendly communication or whether they were all just so curious to see how much she could hurt.

Officer Fisher asked the questions while James took notes, but Bea couldn’t remember a single word she’d said. She remembered having to explain the first night, and every awful night after, but it had been a long day and lying was well and truly beyond her. She told them everything. And, after directing her to the shower and taking her damaged, filthy kevlar clothes for evidence, Officers Williams and Fisher thanked her for her time and left in stunned silence.

Bea sank to the shower floor. She felt disjointed almost, and not in the literal sense this time. Cross was in custody. She’d just told two strangers about her biggest secret. In the last twenty-four hours, she’d killed three men, but she felt none of it. She was so numb, she thought maybe Sarge has severed her nerves and she’d forgotten to heal. The warm water washed over her, running along her scalp and down her spine, and she could feel it but it was as if it were happening to someone else.

You’ve done this before, she reminded herself, ignoring the fact that this was nothing like before. You can do it again. One step at a time.

Chapter Text

Peter Parker had made a mistake.

He was sure of it. He'd been pacing for almost thirty minutes, treading a track in the living room rug and worrying his hands with every step. He should have waited to hear from Stark himself before walking out of school like that. It had become a habit of his, acting before thinking, and he was sure he’d get an earful from Mr Stark, but there was no version of this where he didn’t leave the second he heard the news.

When the Google alert came through in the middle of Physics saying Bea was alive and well, recovering at the Tower, all logic left his head. His first thought was that it was too good to be true, because the Avengers wouldn’t have left to rescue Bea without even telling him, but a part of him hoped. He’d spent almost half the lesson with his head down, scrolling through photo after photo trying to figure out which shadow in the car could’ve been Bea, when MJ elbowed him hard in the side.

“What are you doing?” she’d hissed. “Go.”

But standing there now in the living room, Peter was sure it was a mistake. Maybe there was another Beatrice on the Avengers’ radar, because Mr Stark would’ve told him—

The elevator doors opened loudly in the empty space, and Stark stepped out with Bruce.

“—out like a light,” Bruce was saying. “Which, psychologically, should be a good sign. Feeling safe, whatnot. But I was able to sort out her IV and take some bloods and she barely twitched, so I don’t know what that means, if anything.”

“So, she’s good,” Stark clarified, except it sounded more like a question than a statement.

“I think she will be,” he said. “But she needs her rest.”

“Got it. Thanks, man.” Mr Stark clapped a hand on Bruce’s shoulder before the man backtracked to the elevator, doors closing on him. Stark turned the corner and spotted Peter, listening intently, and started across the room with a great sigh. “Yeah, let me guess,” he said, looking out over the sun-soaked city. “It’s a snow day?”

“Mr Stark—”

“No, none of that,” he said. “You should be at school.”

Peter swallowed. “You found her.”

He could see the exhaustion on Stark’s face clear as day, but it was a different kind of exhaustion compared to the last three weeks. “We did,” he said with a small smile. “She’s okay, Bruce has just finished up. Said he looks fine but we’ll know more in the morning. She’s sleeping it all off.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“You mean about the life-changing trauma event she escaped less than three hours ago?” he said dryly. “No, not yet. Thought we might hold off ’til morning. Cops have been and gone, things are happening, but that’s all for another day.”

Peter wanted to argue, to ask why he hadn’t been told about the rescue, but he could see just how desperate Mr Stark was to go pass out for the next year or so. Instead, he picked at his nails nervously and said, “Could I see her?”

“Your ears working right? She’s asleep.”

“I’ll be quiet.”

Tony stared him down for a long minute before nodding tiredly. “Yeah, fine, go on. Don’t you dare wake her up, or I’ll have your guts for garters.”

“Thank you, Mr Stark.”

The man gave a tired wave, turning and heading down the hallway to his room. Peter bounded in the opposite direction, pressing the elevator door six times before FRIDAY chided him and opened the doors.

She seemed to know exactly where he wanted to go, and so did he, he realised, as he stepped out into the MedBay and immediately started down the hall and followed the left turn. He stopped at a door near the end and listened. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Bea was inside.

He could’ve recognised the sounds of her soft, steady heartbeat anywhere, but when his hand touched the cold door handle, he paused. They’d parted on such uncertain terms. Had the kiss meant they’d made up? All was forgiven?

Worst of all, would Bea even want him there?

He hadn’t the slightest clue what she’d been through with Cross. Whether it was the same as before, which she’d kept bottled up for weeks, or if it was something entirely new … Whatever it was, he knew one thing for sure—she wasn’t going to be alone through it. She hadn’t been last time, no matter how she might’ve felt, and she sure wouldn’t be this time.

He twisted the handle and opened the door.

It took him a moment to find her, curled up on the bed and buried in blankets. He listened to her heart, her slow rhythmic breathing—she was safe, here. Alive. Maybe not okay, maybe she’d never be okay, but she was here.

He remembered that first rescue clear as day. Bea stepped out of that elevator and his world stopped. The day she was taken, it’d been turned on its head, but seeing her after a month, holding her—it set his world right again. But it changed her, he knew that much. And as much as he missed the Bea he used to know, he still loved her. With his whole heart.

Peter closed the door behind him as quietly as he could and found a chair, moving it to Bea’s bedside. He sat down, careful not to wake her, and studied her face. It was half-hidden by her pillow, but she looked … healthy. There was barely a scratch on her, aside from the dark bruise on her cheek, and Dr Banner had bandaged her wrists, too, so something must have happened. But, all things considered, she looked just the same as when she left.

Peter reached slowly to hold her hand but froze as Bea stirred a little, her eyelids fluttering as she shifted deeper into her blankets. A wave of goosebumps trailed down her arms—she was cold. It made sense, he realised, with the cool saline IV attached to her forearm, but she was tucked under two blankets already, one of which looked suspiciously blood-stained. Peter moved to the cupboard by the door—the cupboard near the bathroom had thicker blankets, but he knew from personal experience that these ones were softer and much more comforting after a bad mission. Careful not to wake her, he peeled away the dirty blanket and replaced it with the new clean one.

Bea let out a little breath, warming up with the new blanket tucked under her chin, and Peter smiled fondly. He waited until her breaths evened and her goosebumps settled before sitting down again, leaning forward to rest his head by her shoulder.

She’s here, he kept reminding himself. Back, with him, and safe.

Almost an hour later, Peter Parker was dead.

Or, at least, Bea thought he was—and he had been only a second ago. As she blinked herself awake, she noticed he looked different now, in a hoodie instead of a flannel, his hair much longer and curlier, and … No knife. No blood. He was okay.

Bea forced herself to breathe as she took in her surroundings. She expected to see herself splayed out in the chair, surrounded by those three men, miraculously alive and laughing at how gullible she was, but all she found were blankets and thick bandages around her wrists that only reminded her of her restraints. The room was bright white and familiar—the MedBay, she realised. Not the chair.

And Peter was there with his head cradled in his arms, slumped against her bed and snoring softly. His face was turned away, but she could’ve recognised the back of his head anywhere. Only, this time, seeing him again filled her with dread. Almost like this was too good to be true, and it was—Cross was gone for good, but after what she’d done and everything that had happened, having Peter back felt like just one good thing too many.

She tilted her head slightly and whispered, “Pete.”

He stirred. Tensed. Then slowly lifted his head until his beautiful brown eyes met hers. He was real, the fear on his face was real, and the red mark on his cheek from where he’d been laying on his hand was real. “Bea,” he said quietly.

You’re not dead, she wanted to say, but that seemed a bit loaded. Instead, she settled on, “Hey.”

“How are you feeling?”

She sighed, leaning back against the pillow. “I forgot about are you okays.”

“I know,” he said, nodding. “But seriously, how are you feeling?”

Bea swallowed, willing her voice to be stable. “I feel like ass.”

He hesitated then. “Your heart’s racing, are you okay with me being here? I can go—”

“No,” she said quickly, catching his wrist as he leaned forward to stand. “Please, don’t go.”

The bandages on her wrist were stark white against her skin, and she noticed the IV lodged in her forearm. For someone who could heal herself, she looked a mess.

“Are you in pain?” he asked, eyes never leaving hers. “I know where Dr Banner keeps the good stuff.”

“We both know I don’t need the good stuff. I have my magic, I do, but I …”

He nodded, sinking back in his chair. Bea loosened her grip and he turned his wrist, cradling her hand comfortably in his. He was warm, and if she concentrated, she could feel a pulse in the tips of his fingers.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” she said, eyes beginning to burn. He squeezed her hand. “I know I have to, they’ll want to, but just for now can we pretend I was hit by a car or something?”

“Totally,” he said coolly. “Just your luck, too. Only you would get hit by a runaway ice cream van.”

Despite everything, she laughed. “Speak for yourself. D’you think insurance will cover the rabid squirrel in the driver’s seat?”

“Probably not, considering the driver was still scooping in the back. If you can’t get a payout, you should demand free ice cream for a year.”

“Two. It was a big van.”

His smile faltered. “You deserve free ice cream for the rest of your life, Bea.”

Before she could even process the words, two sharp knocks came from the door and Tony appeared, followed by Steve. “Afternoon, Sleeping Beauty,” Tony jibed. “Mind if we crash the party for a minute?”

“Do you see a clock in here?” Bea shot back easily. “I don’t know where I am half the time, let alone when I am.”

“Yeah, yeah.” But Tony looked relieved, as if her backtalk was a good sign. He tapped the back of Peter’s chair. “C’mon kid, skedaddle.”

“Hang on,” Bea said and they all paused. She sat up, wincing a little with the weight on her wrists. “This like last time? A debrief?”

“Unfortunately,” Steve said, looking grave. “We’re cooperating with the authorities, but they’ve been less forthcoming with us.”

She shrugged. “I can’t remember what I told them, but I’m pretty sure I forgot stuff. You guys’d have questions anyway, right?”

Rogers nodded. “A couple.”

“Okay. Peter stays.”

Tony shook his head. “Peter goes.”

“Please, I want him to hear it from me this time. Everything on the table, no more secrets.” She turned to Peter. “Only if you want to. Stay, I mean. It’s bad.”

“I want to,” he said quietly.

Bea turned back to Tony. “Don’t make me say it more times than I have to. You can tell the others, but …”

“Fine. Yeah, alright, the kid stays.”

Tony and Steve found their own chairs and pulled them up beside Peter’s, taking their seats. Bea turned to face them, sitting as cross-legged as her stiff joints would allow, and took them in. Steve looked far too big for his chair and the other two were tense, sitting at the very edge of their seats.

Steve spoke first. “Let’s start at the beginning, the morning you met Cross’s team in the foyer. We were only able to track you guys as far as the interstate, but we know now this facility was just south of his old building in Albany. Do you want to walk us through your first few days there?”

Something clicked in Bea’s mind, a question she’d forgotten to ask, but one look at Tony seemed to convey it well enough.

“Twenty,” he said darkly, as if the number was his fault. “Took us twenty days to find you.”

“That’s it?” Not even three weeks, which felt like an extraordinarily short time for everything that had happened, and yet, far too long. It was strange to think of her time in there as days—how long had she spent in the room? In the chair?

Peter blanched in her peripherals but his expression remained neutral. Tony, on the other hand, wasn’t quite so calm. “The hell do you mean, ‘is that it’? What—”

“Stark,” Steve interrupted sharply. “Why don’t we let her speak.”

It took him a moment, but Tony nodded, settling back but still bristling. Bea blinked twice, willing her memory to backtrack to her very first night.

She explained the room, how similar it was to the cage, yet so different. Her Dampener, her chain, and the drain. The shower head ceiling and her pathetic shelter of a bed. The illusions. Steve was particularly interested to hear Beck had developed his technology beyond just Iron Man.

“Was the intention with these illusions the same as before?” he asked.

“Did I kill you, do you mean?” Her tone was bitter, and Bea had to scold herself. “No. They wanted me to, and you—the illusions, they tried, but I didn’t want to.”

Peter shifted in his seat, but didn’t interrupt. Steve, on the other hand, was curious. “And why not?”

Bea shrugged, cheeks burning a little. What was she supposed to say? That the thought of hurting them made her sick, that they had become the closest thing to family she had left? That the idea of any of them hating her would absolutely break her in two?

Tony cleared his throat, leaning forward. “Alright, so we know Beck’s got tricks. What about Cross?”

The memory was clear as day, which made it easier to tell. She could still recall the blotchiness off his cheeks when he’d come barging in, yelling and screaming. His tired, bloodshot eyes and the anger that came off him in waves. She did her best to recount it verbatim, but she knew she was off. “That was my last night in the room.”

“That’s when you escaped?” Tony asked, frowning, but Bea shook her head.

“Oh, no, not even close. They came in a little while after Cross and took me. All mafia-style, handcuffs, the hood, the works.”

“They?” Steve asked.

“Three of them, part of Cross’s team,” Bea explained through the tightness at the base of her throat. “Didn’t know their names, but I called them Marlboro, Sarge, and—” Her voice cracked, and she gave a little cough. “And Bones.”

To their credit, none of them interrupted as she dove headfirst into the Hard Part. The injections, the experiments, the pain. Her rippling magic always at the surface, repairing every cut, burn and break. She explained the nicknames for her torturers, how they’d worked as a team, fluid and functional, until the very end.

Steve was ahead of Tony and Peter, recalling Bruce’s request for any evidence around the injections Cross had given her. They’d found something, but they wouldn’t know if it’d be helpful until Bruce finished running his tests.

“So, hang on,” Tony said, a hand up to stop her. “Explain it again? You healed?”

Bea nodded. “Didn’t matter what they tried, I was always fine. Some things took longer than others. They started light, scrapes and bruises, nothing terrible, but then they moved on to … other things.” She massaged the joint of her little finger which had reattached perfectly without even the ghost of a scar. If she thought hard enough, she could remember the ache of her regrown fingernails, the distinct smell her burning flesh. She remembered the blinding pain of her dislocated joints, broken bones, skinned limbs.

“If you need to take a break,” Steve said quietly, and she realised she hadn’t said anything for a little while.

“Sorry. No, it’s fine,” Bea continued. “It was … a lot, but I’ll spare you the details, they’re not important. But I heard yelling the first night they had me in the chair, it was Beck, going on about how his research is important too. I thought he’d been kicked off the project, he and Cross had a falling out, and I thought, great, you know? No more Beck, no more illusions. But one morning, I woke up and they were all gone, I was alone, and the lights in the room flashed red and I could hear a siren outside. I thought it was you guys, and my restraints were loose, so I broke out. Tried to escape.” Her voice wavered, but she gave a small cough and powered through. “Sarge came back and tried to stop me, and I stopped him, but—” The words jumbled in her mouth. She caught a tear just as it fell, never once looking at any of them, clearing her throat again. And to think, this wasn’t even the worst of it.

“Everything on the table,” Tony reminded her quietly. “Whatever it is, we can handle it.”

Bea looked at him then and realised just how sturdy he seemed. Her hands were shaking but his were still, his eyes focused entirely on her. Not an ounce of disgust or resentment or hatred sat behind his firm gaze.

But this wasn’t about him. Bea chanced a look in Peter’s direction. He was still there. Still listening. Bea wondered what he’d do. What would she do, in his shoes?

“Sarge was dead but there was another sound by the door,” she continued, glancing away again. “I had a knife in my hand but I moved before I could think, and it wasn’t Bones or Marlboro or Cross. It was Peter. Not Spider-Man, just Peter, and I guess that was my big hint that it wasn’t real, but he felt real. Warm, and his blood felt like blood, and I didn’t fight it when they knocked me out.”

She didn’t stop there, explaining the quiet days that had followed, half-hoping that if she talked for long enough, Peter wouldn’t get the chance to tell her what a piece of shit she was. But too soon, she reached the part that made her the most anxious of all.

“Then one morning, they just … forgot.”

Steve tilted his head. “Forgot?”

“The injection, the one that sent my magic all weird. They didn’t do it, and it’d been hours since the last one. I felt normal—at least, more normal than I had in a while. Then the lights went and I thought, you know, here we go with another illusion, but it wasn’t like before. They flickered red, like, once, and there were no sirens. The guys didn’t know what to do, so I made a decision.”

“You broke out,” Tony supplied, and Bea nodded.

“Melted my restraints down and got out.” She ran her fingers over a bandaged wrist. “Hurt like a bitch, but I kept going, I had to. I had to get out of there, I didn’t want to do it, but I didn’t have a choice. I aimed for Bones, but I hit Marlboro, and then—then Sarge—”

She could still see them. Marlboro, his last cigarette burning a hole in his cheek to match the one in his chest, and Sarge, with his melting eyes, jaw lodged open in a scream as she’d pressed down on his skull until it collapsed.

“When I found you,” Tony said slowly, guiding her gently back out of her head, “you were covered in blood. Who’s?”

“Bones,” she rasped, and it was like she wasn’t even there. The words spilled out like an broken dam and there was nothing she could do to stem the flow. “He had a knife, but … but I was quicker. Cut him open, wrecked his shoulder. Knocked his head into the wall. He was done for, but I—I made sure it hurt.” She’d never forget how easily his fingers snapped, like breaking carrots, and how difficult it was to stab him. “It was slow, and I made sure it hurt.”

None of them spoke, but she couldn’t care about what they thought anymore. It didn’t change the truth of the matter—that she killed them, and she enjoyed it. But Steve broke the quiet, with a small, “Good.”

Bea gave him a quizzical look, but Tony nodded. “I second the Captain.” He clapped his hands on his knees. “Well, that clears a few things up. I’m assuming that’s when you escaped?” Bea nodded. “Right, and you didn’t think it was actually me because Beck got the kid involved.” Bea nodded again and he dragged a hand down his face. “Christ.”

Peter leaned forward then, and laid a hand on hers. She watched his eyes, waiting for the moment but it never came. Why was she so adamant they’d hate her? She’d shared so much with all of them, and so far, things were fine. Why would Peter be any different?

She blinked back tears and said in a low whisper, “I’ve never actually killed anyone before.”

“You did what you had to do,” Peter assured, but Bea shook her head.

“You didn’t see it. See me.”

Steve made a funny sound then and Bea turned to him, heart pounding in her throat. “Natasha was able to collect more evidence than we thought from the facility. We spent extra time combing through after Bruce reached out about the serums Cross injected you with.” Bea’s stomach flipped. “We recovered security footage. Nat’s working through most of it, but whatever we hand over to the authorities will be more than enough evidence to put Cross away.”

He kept talking, something about footage from both kidnapping events, which Bea must’ve heard wrong because there hadn’t been any cameras in the cage. A loud ringing filled her ears—they were going to see everything. She tore her hand from underneath Peter’s, ignoring how he recoiled.

“I don’t want you to see that,” she said, interrupting Steve. “Please, isn’t hearing it enough?”

“We need to understand the full scope of his project,” Steve reasoned. “There may be other things, experiments you didn’t see, conversations you didn’t hear. It’s all important.”

Bile rose in her throat but she forced herself to breathe. They would see it, they would know, and things would inevitably change. Her last secret had felt the same, like some world-ending truth that would make everyone hate her, and things had ended up just fine, but this wasn’t like last time. She had danced over the line between survival and revenge and now it was time to face the consequences. She had healing magic, for God’s sake, and not once did she even consider helping them.

At least the Avengers wouldn’t have to keep her around for her own safety this time—if they wanted her gone, she could go. She’d probably have to go. This wasn’t her home, of course they wouldn’t be invited to stay. The Tower was just a temporary place because there was nowhere else. Would they find her a new home? Maybe she’d have to go back to the apartment. Christ, she’d have to find a job to cover rent. Could she go back to school with a full time job?

Just as she was mentally calculating how many hours she’d have to work to survive, Tony cleared his throat. “Kid.”

She blinked up at him. “Hm?”

“Stop thinking so hard, you’re gonna pull something.”

Steve rubbed his hands together. “Do you have any more questions for us?” Bea shook her head. “We’ll let you rest, then.”

Steve stood, but Tony and Peter remained seated. Bea didn’t dare look at her best friend, at whatever expression was hiding on his face, but Tony’s was unreadable.

“You two take off,” Tony said, waving a hand in the air. “Pete, will you go find Banner and let him know we need this IV out.”

Peter nodded and quickly left with Steve. Something like disappointment settled in Bea’s chest, but she ignored it and turned her gaze to Tony. She didn’t know what to say, where to start. Sorry was probably a good one, but she wasn’t sure what for. And that probably made her a shitty person all over again.

“So,” she said instead. “You’re setting me loose?”

“Mm, because you’re so unstable.” He rolled his eyes but one look at her expression had him turning serious. “Listen to me, you gotta cut this out. The team have all done what you did, if not worse, at one point or another. We’re not doing the hiding thing again, okay? If anyone has a problem, they can talk to me. And if I have a problem, I’ll tell you to your face and we’ll have a conversation.”

Bea was lost for words, stunned into silence.

“No one’s kicking you out,” he continued, counting out his points on one hand. “No one hates you. No one thinks you’re a horrible person. Just you, kiddo.”

“Just me,” she echoed. “And if the others don’t agree …”

“They’re adults. They’ll manage.”

For whatever reason, it didn’t bring Bea much comfort to think the team would just have to suffer if she were to stay. But she gave a grateful smile anyway, nodding in agreement. “Thanks.”

He gave a dismissive wave of his hand and glanced out the window, tapping his fingers restlessly against the armrests. Before Bea had the chance to ask him what was wrong, he shifted in his seat to lean forward. “For the record, I’m glad you did what you did. If you hadn't, I probably would've finished those three off myself.” His eyes flickered down to her wrists. “You in pain?”

Bea shook her head, but Tony only gave her a stern look.

“FRIDAY,” he said.

“The wounds to Beatrice’s wrists and ankles are superficial. Dr Banner’s final assessment was ultimately that they look worse than they are. Approximate healing time without intervention is eight to ten weeks with moderate scarring.”

Bea clicked her tongue, rolling her stiff wrists. “Looks like we’re gonna have to amputate. How could I ever live with scarring.”

Tony shot her an unimpressed look but a smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth. Before he could tell her off for her sarcasm, a knock came from the door and Bruce’s head appeared. “I hear we’re ready to head downstairs?”

As Bruce detached her from her IV, Bea let Tony’s words sink in. He had her back, even if no one else did—even if Peter didn’t. She had no idea what would come next, what insane shit life would throw at her, but for the first time since her rescue Bea felt that everything might actually just work out for the best.

Chapter Text

The Avengers barely left Bea alone all weekend.

She hadn’t managed to excuse herself to her room until hours after leaving the Med Bay. Sam and Bucky didn’t let her get a word in edgeways as they filled her in on the missions and training and shenanigans she’d missed. Nat and Clint even put their two cents in, and before she knew it, she was agreeing to a group dinner from Tony and Pepper who had been chatting from the kitchen. Steve, Rhodey and Bruce had all been quiet for most of the evening, watching Bea when they thought she wasn’t looking, and Peter had practically stuck to her like glue.

To her surprise, the are you okays never came—only gentle hugs and good to see yous. No one had asked her any questions, or mentioned the bandages on her wrists, the Band-Aid over her IV site, or the black rings under her eyes. Even when she only ate two pieces of plain sourdough while everyone else enjoyed the mountain of pasta before them, Bea had been left in peace.

She couldn’t help thinking of her first rescue. She’d been so sceptical, so scared. She hadn’t felt an ounce of the trust and safety she did now. Looking around the table, it was such a foreign idea that any of them would really hurt her. Beck had lost in that regard, at least.

When Bea finally said goodnight to the group and started down the hallway, things almost felt normal. Just another weekend.

She was pleased to find her room just how she’d left it. Her clothes hung neatly in her wardrobe, her untouched records still collected dust by the window, her toothbrush still sat in its cup in her bathroom. She’d left old sweaters thrown over the back of her chair, and her laptop was still charging on her desk.

As jarringly familiar as her routine was, Bea had to make a conscious effort to be present. She’d somehow showered, washed her hair, moisturised, brushed her teeth, and changed into a pair of fresh sweats without even realising. Her head was swimming with thoughts and memories, yet all the while doing its damndest to be empty. To stop herself from feeling every ounce of pain she’d bottled in. Bea blinked herself back into the moment, standing beside her bed, and realised someone was knocking on her door.

“Bea?” a voice called.

“Yeah,” she said. “Come in.”

Peter appeared, closing the door behind him. “Hey,” he said, sounding nervous, and Bea remembered just how many things had been left unresolved between them. He deserved clarity, sure, but tonight was not the night.

“Hey,” she echoed, racking her brain for something normal to say. ‘Sorry for kissing you’? Harsh. ‘I’d rather eat glass than have this conversation right now’? Significantly worse.

“Thought I should give this back.” He reached out to hand her something, and Bea realised with a sharp pang that it was her phone. “Got a bit wet that day, being at the pool and all, but I fixed it up. Good as new.”

She took the phone and tried turning it on, but the screen stayed black.

“It might need a charge,” he said sheepishly, and Bea smiled. Truthfully, she hadn’t missed it and, if she had things her way, she wouldn’t have it back for anything. Her last call had been from Celia. Last texts, all ten of them, frantic and worried, from Celia.

Tonight was not the night.

“Thanks,” she said, willing the tightness in her throat away. “Sorry, I’m really tired—”

“Listen, about what you said—”

It was Bea’s turn to look sheepish, Peter letting out a little laugh.

“Sorry, I’ll let you sleep,” he said politely at the same time she said, “I didn’t mean it.”

Peter’s face fell.

“What I said earlier,” she continued, cursing herself for all the wrong words that spilled out. “About the cage and the chair and everything that happened. I mean, not what I said, that was all true, but … What I mean is, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to keep that from you, but I never thought of how you might feel.”

“How I feel?” he asked, incredulous, stepping closer. “Bea, that wasn’t me. Nothing you did in there was to any of us, you haven’t done anything wrong.”

Bea wanted to argue, to let the mounting grief in her send her spiralling all over again, but she only took a small step back to keep the distance between them. She remembered only too easily how warm and firm his chest had felt, the hot blood pooling around her fingertips as she’d tried her best to stem the flow. Her eyes fell to his sternum. No knife, no blood. Breathing.

All she had to do was keep it together.

She nodded solemnly, placatingly. “You’re right,” she said, but Peter only frowned.

“Bea—” he tried, but she stopped him with a wave of her hand.

“I’m wiped,” she said coolly and feigned a yawn. “Thank you for the phone. And for … being there. It means a lot.” It wasn’t a lie, but she hoped it would be enough to settle his worries.

“Yeah, you’re right, get some sleep,” he said, shaking his head and starting towards the door. “You’re not getting out of this, though. We’re gonna talk properly in the morning, okay?”

Peter was usually great at keeping his promises, it was just the kind of person he was, but when the sun rose the following day, Bea was hesitant. Her rational mind knew that Peter wouldn’t say they were fine if they weren’t—he just wouldn’t do that to her. Which, rationally, meant that Bea would have had nothing to worry about, but her brain was in overdrive. She was overcrowded with thoughts and memories, worries and the ever-present sense of dread, as if all of this would disappear in a moment, but also somehow entirely void. The emptiness inside of her was new. She couldn’t feel her anger or her grief or even her relief at finally being free. As if she was waiting for the third shoe to drop.

When the hour turned reasonable and Bea lost all hope of getting any sleep at all, she pushed herself out of bed, changed into a cleaner version of the same outfit, and left her room to start the day. After all, Tony had said it himself—no more hiding. Hiding would make them worry. And maybe if she was up and about, they’d find her just a bit slower.

Sam and Bucky were in the kitchen making eggs and both gave her tired nods. They were strangely quiet—she had only ever known the pair of them to argue about anything and everything. Once she’d heard them in a rather heated argument about whether cereal was a soup. Bucky was team cereal is cereal, dipshit.

Sam was standing at the stove, scrambling his eggs in a figure 8, but hadn’t seemed to notice the rubbery edges. Bucky was actually moving around, plating up their toast on two plates and buttering them, stealing a bite from one plate while he waited for eggs.

Bea pulled a bottle of juice from the fridge and said, “You lot look worse than I do.”

Sam grinned as he stirred. “Yeah, Buck, you look like shit.”

“Screw you,” he said through a mouthful of toast.

“Late night is all,” Sam shrugged, serving up. “How’d you sleep?”

She poured her juice and didn’t meet their eyes. “Fine.”

Bucky snorted and when she glared at him, he raised his brows as if daring her to lie again.

Sam was too busy scooping eggs to notice any of it, but scoffed anyway. “That was totally believable,” he said sarcastically. “Try again.”

Bea rolled her eyes. “I’ve slept better, sure, but it’s fine.”

“You in pain?” he asked.

“Nope.” She put her juice away and closed the fridge door much harder than necessary. Less than five minutes into her day and the interrogations were already starting. Bea had half a mind to go straight back to bed, but she knew better. She softened her tone and said, “Any plans for the day, or are you boys gonna just laze about as usual?”

“Laze about? Gosh, you’re such a nice kid,” Sam said sweetly. “You always know the right thing to say. No, we’re not going to laze about. Was just trying to convince the old man to join me in the Training Centre, but since you’re so interested, you can come, too.”

Neither Sam nor Bucky seemed to hear any of her protests, and it wasn’t as if she had anything better to do. So, she watched them eat their breakfasts as she drank her juice and, after cleaning up after themselves, headed down to the training floor. The boys thankfully didn’t make her train—instead, Bea sat comfortably on the sidelines cradling their cold water bottles, judging each round of sparring to determine a winner.

Without his wings, Sam was the obvious loser but Bucky was a good sport. He never finished a fight just for the sake of it, and when Sam wanted to try out a new manoeuvre, Bucky let him. She’d watched them spar plenty of times before—this seemed to be all the fun they could get up to—but she’d never seen them like this. Their movements were fluid, and it was like they could predict what the other would do two seconds before they did it.

Bea mindlessly massaged her wrists as she watched their fourth round. They still ached, but the bandages were tight enough to stop them moving around too much. The cool condensation from the boys’ waters helped for a little while, but eventually she just ended up damp and stiff, so she put them aside. Alpine, who had been waiting and watching nearby, saw her moment and padded over to claim the space in Bea's lap. She was warm and heavy, fur soft, and purred with every pet.

The day disappeared almost as quickly as her nights, and before she knew it, the Training Centre was filled with golden light and the clock on the far wall told them they’d been there for almost the entire day. Sam and Bucky had gone off to shower and Bea was alone, but the part that got her was that no one had interrupted them the entire day. Peter had promised her a chat, and as much as she’d been dreading it, the fact that he hadn’t sought her out made her feel worse.

As she stood and Alpine scurried away, Bea was struck with the awful thought that maybe this time, they were the ones hiding from her.

Bea went back upstairs to her room before Bucky and Sam came back.

The Tower was strangely empty—she was tempted to ask FRIDAY where everyone was, but didn’t want to risk her snitching like she was prone to. Instead, she washed her face, twisted her hair back and changed into pyjamas, all the while thinking about what she might’ve done to have majority of the Avengers avoiding her.

As the thought finally began to ease, a knock sounded from her door and Bea’s stomach leaped. It seemed Peter was keeping his promise after all, but she couldn’t decide whether she actually wanted him there. Three seconds passed and Bea knew that was far too many to be reasonable—without a second thought, her mouth was moving all on its own. “Come in.”

But it wasn’t Peter who appeared in her doorway. It was Tony.

“You up for a chat?” he asked, carefully closing the door behind him. He crossed her room to pull out her desk chair, and sat down with his legs either side of the back rest.

Bea bristled. A chat. No matter the context, a chat was never a good sign. But she schooled her expression, shelved her expectations and worries, sat down at the end of her bed and said, “Sure.”

“Less enthusiastic next time, why don’t you,” he teased with a small smile. “Promise it’s nothing bad.”

“Yeah, right,” she said before she could stop herself. “Go on, what’s happened now?”

Tony tapped his fingers against the back of the chair, looking as if he wasn’t sure where to start. But then his eyes met hers again and he gave a small, determined nod. “CPS have reached out.”

Bea deflated. “CPS? As in …”

“Yeah,” he said darkly, clearing his throat. “They’re sending a Child Protection Officer over in the morning to, uh … to assess and determine the best course of action.”

Right.

Okay.

Fine.

“Right,” she said, surprisingly steady. “Okay. Fine.”

Her entire vocabulary had been trimmed down to three little words. Tony had promised her no one was kicking her out, but Bea wasn’t sure CPS and family placement really counted as being kicked out. The fact was, this was the natural progression of things and it always had been. She’d known for a long time now that the Tower wasn’t a permanent solution, now matter how badly …

But thinking that way wouldn’t help. At the end of the day, this wasn’t her home, it was theirs, and she had well and truly outstayed her welcome.

“Okay,” Tony echoed, rather unsurely. “Well, I mean … I’ve never dealt with CPS before, so can’t really give you any heads up on what to expect. Pete’d have a better idea, but he’d be home by now. Probably wouldn’t mind if you gave him a call—”

Bea froze as her brain processed. “Peter’s gone?”

“Yeah, took off a few hours ago. He didn’t tell you?”

“No,” she said bitterly. “He didn’t.”

Tony took a deep breath, one Bea had to convince herself wasn’t a sigh, and muttered something under his breath. “Look, it’s late, but he’s him and you’re you. He won’t mind. Talk it out, then get some sleep. They’ll be here at 9, so if you’re not up by 8, FRIDAY’ll have a field day.”

Bea nodded, looking anywhere but him. Not only had Peter broken a promise, he’d left without saying goodbye. She glanced back at her nightstand where her still-dead phone sat. She had no intention of turning the thing back on, no intention of harassing Peter even more.

“Quit stressing,” Tony pressed as he stood, starting back towards the door. “It’s no big deal. Call him and get a good night’s sleep.”

She turned back to him and nodded again. He looked worried, but then again, he’d looked that way since the rescue. Maybe that was just his face now.

“I will,” she lied, forcing a smile. “G’night.”

But Bea did not call Peter, and Bea did not sleep. Finally, her insomnia had a reason for existing, but it only made her feel worse.

Despite Walter, Bea had never had to deal with CPS either. She wondered what they’d be like—nice? They’d probably have to be nice. But did it mean she’d have to live with strangers? Anything she’d heard about the state foster system left a bitter taste in her mouth. Worry snaked its way and settled in for the night. She’d probably have to move schools. Give back all the beautiful clothes, abandon the furniture and the friends she’d made. Who’d say if she’d ever get the chance to see any of them again—it wasn’t as if she’d just bump into them on the street. Would she see Peter again if they were at different schools? Celia?

After everything, Bea wasn’t sure where she stood with any of them.

She had spent so many nights chained up, strapped down, hurt and manipulated, but this was an entirely new form of torture. Not once in her time under Cross had she needed to worry about being alone. The first time, she had already lost her whole family and there had been little to no hope of ever getting out of there alive. But the second time, she had hope—a belief, albeit a wavering one, that her friends would find her and save her. She never once had to entertain the idea of being entirely alone.

The sleepless night passed quickly, and Bea made sure to be up and ready by about quarter past eight. Her nerves were at an all-time high as she considered the morning ahead. If CPS gave her options, what would she do?

She left her room, deep in thought, wondering if it would be rude to ask the others what they wanted from her so she could actually make a good decision, and found the others in the kitchen or at the dining table and talking quietly amongst themselves.

“Morning,” she said, heading for a barstool at the kitchen island, and the conversation quickly died. Rhodey and Sam, who’d been sitting with their backs to her, turned and looked a little sheepish.

They’d been talking about her.

“Morning, kiddo,” Tony said loudly to fill the silence. Sam and Rhodey followed suit, and Pepper turned to face her from the stove.

“Good morning, Bea,” she greeted warmly.

“Hey, heads up,” Tony said. “Rogers and Banner left for the Compound at sunrise, said to say goodbye.”

Bea bristled. More manners than Pete, she thought bitterly. She only nodded, and Tony turned back to the others.

“Are you hungry?” Pepper asked brightly, lighting the stove. “I was about to make some pesto eggs.”

Pepper knew firsthand how awkward Bea could be around food. That morning was no exception, nor had been the last few days if she really thought about it. Making them worry was the last thing she wanted to do, but the thought of food, of a full stomach, made her queasy.

“But,” Pepper granted, “if you’re not up for food, Tony’s just blended up about a gallon of produce. There’s a cup in the fridge for you.”

She smiled gratefully, stealing a glance at the dining table where the boys had begun chatting lightly again. Maybe the weird feeling in her bones was just nerves, and things would go back to normal after the CPS visit. She stood and opened the fridge, finding a mason jar full of dark green juice. Pepper handed her a glass straw and Bea sat back down at the island.

“How did you sleep?” Pepper asked as Bea sipped her juice.

She made a noncommittal noise, tilting her head. “Not bad.”

“You nervous?”

“A little.”

“Me too,” Pepper whispered. In a normal tone, she continued, “All they’ll want is to sit down with you, get to know you. They might talk to you about some options and next steps, they might not, we’ll have to wait and see. They’ll probably want to speak with me and Tony and do a quick house inspection. Maybe some paperwork to follow, but it should be relatively painless. Their job is to make sure you’re happy and safe, just like us.”

Bea’s throat tightened at the last part, but she swallowed it down before nodding. “Okay,” she said, forcing a smile. “Maybe we don’t show them the scorch marks from the test flight in the garage, then?”

Pepper gave her a mock-stern look, fighting her grin. “No, let’s not.”

Eventually Pepper and Beatrice joined the boys at the dining table, Pepper with her crispy pesto eggs and Bea with her half-finished green juice. For all of fifteen minutes, and Bea was counting on the kitchen clock, things felt more normal than they had in a long time. She actually found herself laughing at Sam’s jokes and Rhodey’s stories.

But all too soon, reality came crashing back.

“Boss, you have a visitor,” said FRIDAY, and Tony gave a heavy sigh.

“Send them up.”

Sam and Pepper cleared up, and Tony collected his things to meet whoever it was in the hallway. Rhodey and Bea shared a look and, with a gentle squeeze of her shoulder and a reassuring nod, they joined Tony.

Bea could hear Sam and Pepper talking in the kitchen, but couldn’t make their words out over the running tap. There was a bird on the balcony, twittering loudly, and the approaching elevator clanged noisily, growing closer and closer.

There was a tightness in her chest that hadn’t been there two minutes ago. She imagined a man in a CPS uniform dragging her back to the elevator and away from the Tower forever.

An elbow met her ribs and Bea flinched, looking up to see Tony frowning. “Calm down,” he whispered and she nodded, crossing her arms like she’d been chill the whole time.

Totally chill.

The elevator doors opened with a small ding and Bea frowned. There stood a small, curvy woman with mousy brown hair down to her shoulders. She had rhinestone-flecked glasses and a bright pink clipboard in the crook of her elbow.

At least, if it came to it, Bea would probably be able to fight her off.

The woman beamed as her eyes found Bea. She stepped out of the elevator and approached with a motherly smile. “Good morning,” she said, looking the girl up and down. “You must be Beatrice?”

Bea nodded.

The woman checked her clipboard. “Beatrice Page,” she said. “And you must be Anthony.”

“Tony’s just fine,” he said. “Miss …”

“Oh!” the woman chortled, a hand on her chest. “How rude of me. Karen Turner, Child Protection Officer with the New York State Office of Children and Family Services.”

She held out a hand and Bea watched as Tony hesitantly shook it. Rhodey, to Bea’s right and stifling a laugh, spoke up. “Nice to meet you. I won’t be on that list of yours, I’m Colonel James Rhodes, I’m a … family friend.”

Karen had fished a pink pen from the loose bun at the back of her head and began scribbling a note on her clipboard. “James … Rhodes … I’m also looking for a Virginia Potts?”

A pan clattered in the sink, and Pepper appeared, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. “Pleasure to meet you, Ms Turner,” Pepper said, shaking Karen’s hand. It was only then that Bea realised how casual Pepper looked. Bea had barely seen her out of a blouse and pencil skirt in her time at the Tower, but now she was in white linen pants and a scoop-neck top.

Sam followed close behind and introduced himself, too. They had barely let Karen in and already, she’d been inundated, scribbling names down as if her life depended on it.

“Why don’t you come in and we can chat,” Pepper said, making space for Karen to pass. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Some water would be lovely, thank you, dear.”

Bea’s cheeks ached with the effort of not smiling but Tony made less of an effort, grinning cheesily at his partner, mouthing dear? as he fetched some bottles of water from the fridge. Pepper gave him a stern look as she and Karen sat down.

“We’ll give you guys some space,” Sam said quietly, pulling Rhodey away by the elbow.

“Good luck!” Rhodey whispered as they disappeared into the elevator.

Bea joined Tony in the kitchen and found some glasses for their water. Her shaking hands were definitely better, having met the woman, but she was still struggling to catch her breath.

Tony leaned over, balancing four bottles in his arms. “We don’t need luck. How’re you holding up?”

“Fine,” she said. “Just want it over with.”

“Me too. C’mon.”

And with that, he started back to the table with Bea following like a duckling.

“Thank you,” Karen said as Bea handed her a glass and one of the bottles Tony had set down. They took their seats as Karen rifled through the papers in her clipboard, pulling out a stapled document. “I really appreciate you taking the time to meet with me today. I’ve been working closely with the NYPD officers who took your statement on Saturday, and that won’t change from hereon out. I’ll be your officer until the end, and then some. My job is to be on your side.”

She spoke directly to Bea, never breaking eye contact. Maybe it was supposed to be comforting, but Bea only felt exposed.

“I was very sorry to hear about the passing of your mother,” Karen continued, and Bea had to break the eye contact then. She looked anywhere but up, playing with her glass, her fingernails, her bandages as Karen spoke. “As you have no suitable parent or relative to act as your guardian, the courts have agreed to allow you to remain in the temporary custody of Mr Stark.”

Was that good news? It sounded like good news.

“We will be looking at options for permanent guardianship though.”

A muscle flickered in Pepper’s jaw and beside her, Tony clasped his hands just a little tighter.

“Do you have any questions for me so far, Beatrice?”

Bea met Karen’s eye again. She was sure Tony and Pepper had questions, but her mind was blank. She wasn’t sure she had the capacity to care about any of this. So she shook her head and offered a placating smile, which Karen returned.

“Alright then. Well, the purpose of my visit today is to get to know you all a little better. I’d like to speak with you privately, Beatrice, then I’d like to sit down with Mr Stark and Ms Potts. I’ll also need to do a brief assessment of your living areas, just to tick all our boxes. How does that sound?”

“Oh,” Bea said stupidly, looking to Pepper for guidance. “Okay,” she said, when Pepper gave a micro-nod. “Yeah, we can talk.”

Pepper made to stand, throwing Tony a look as she went. “We’ll give you some privacy.”

“Oh, no,” Karen said airily, waving dismissively. “Beatrice, might we speak in your room?”

Bea hesitated. “My … room? I mean, okay. Sure.”

So she stood and tucked her chair in behind her, tucking a loose curl of hair behind her ears as she went. Tony was quiet, but looked as if he wanted to argue. He was frowning at Bea, who was deftly trying to ignore him, but it only took a look from Pepper to keep him quiet.

Bea led the way, Karen following closely behind. Bea did her best to not feel like she was being chased.

She opened her door and let Karen pass, turning her light on as she closed the door behind them. Panic stirred in her chest, but she reminded herself that FRIDAY was there. Tony and Pepper were right outside. She was taller and faster than Karen.

“Look at this view,” Karen breathed, crossing the room to the balcony. “Do you like living in New York City?”

“Yes,” Bea said quickly as if it was a test, hurriedly tidying while Karen’s back was turned. She tossed the clothes strewn about her floor into the closet, tucked her chair in, and yanked on her duvet to cover the tangled mess of sheets. “I grew up in Queens.”

Karen turned back, and made her way over to Bea’s desk, pulling the chair out again and swivelling it to face Bea’s bed. “Shall we sit?”

Bea nodded and sat down at the edge of her bed. “I don’t want to leave the city,” she said firmly. “If that counts for anything.”

The woman gave her a pitiful look. “I understand that, Beatrice, and of course it does. Change can be a tricky thing, you know, but it’s my job to make sure you get the best possible outcome out of all of this.”

“And what does that look like?”

“Whatever you’d like. What would you like?”

Bea wasn’t sure. She was kind of hoping everyone else would just tell her what they wanted from her, so she could plan accordingly.

“I must say,” Karen said, looking around the room. “I have some … concerns about your living arrangements.”

She tried following the woman’s gaze, hunting for a flaw in the beautiful room she’d been gifted. “Excuse me?”

“Well, they’re not exactly suitable for a child. Mr Stark and his friends don’t have the safest day jobs.”

Bea had to stop herself from using the words she wanted to use. “I’ve been very comfortable here, actually. Tony and the others have been more than welcoming, and so patient, and helpful—”

“From my understanding, they weren’t able to keep you safe from your father.”

Bea’s gaze turned dark then, and she couldn’t help squeezing her bandaged wrists. “That’s an impossible ask. Cross would’ve found me whether I was here or halfway around the world. They kept me safe as long as they could, and I repaid the favour when he came looking for me.”

Karen frowned. “You feel indebted to Mr Stark?”

“No, I just meant … They've done a lot for me, more than I ever could’ve asked for. I don’t appreciate you suggesting that he’s somehow not good enough.”

Karen gave a heavy sigh, but did not seem annoyed by Bea’s backtalk. “Whilst that is the case, I don’t feel very confident in his ability to provide a secure and loving household for you.” Her eyes dropped to Bea’s hands, clamped tight around one wrist. “You have been through an ordeal, and need a safe environment to recover and heal.”

Bea shook her head in disbelief. “You said you read the police report.”

“That’s correct.”

“Well, then you’d know that healing is literally the only useful thing I can do.”

Karen nodded sagely. “I was hoping to discuss that with you. Have your abilities been damaged in any way since the … event?”

Bea’s face burned, but she said, “No.”

“So, the injuries you sustained are healing naturally, because …”

She didn’t meet Karen’s eye as she shrugged.

“Listen, Beatrice. I know how difficult this is, but I promise you, it’s not going to be difficult forever. But you need to understand that this spotlight that’s on you right now, it’s not going to go away with time.”

Bea frowned, eyes snapping back to Karen’s, but she didn’t look like she was joking.

“Mr Stark’s reputation puts you in the public image, and that’s no place for a child to be. What you need is normalcy. If I were you, I’d want everything to just go back to normal—or, at least, as close as it could get.”

She fought the urge to look for her phone, find her charger and plug it in. What were people saying about her?

“Listen,” Karen continued, as if she hadn’t just sent Bea spiralling. “As I said, I’m happy to allow you to stay here temporarily, but it means we need to start looking at options. So, next steps from here? I’m going to talk to Mr Stark and Ms Potts, and we’re going to sign some forms. I’ll get things moving with the family courts so we’re not in limbo for the next few months, but I would implore you to consider some foster options. I have some information here about one of our families—based on your file, on your history, I think they could be a really good match.”

Karen pulled a thin file from the back of her clipboard marked FLETCHER and handed it over to Bea, who took it wordlessly and set it down on the bed beside her.

As Karen began telling Bea all about the family and how she believed it would be the perfect fit, Tony and Pepper were still waiting anxiously at the dining table.

Tony was throwing looks over his shoulder, watching the hallway the kid had disappeared down almost twenty minutes ago. Pepper was no better, bouncing her knee under the table.

He turned back to her and tilted his head. “Why not.”

“Why not what?” Pepper asked, afraid she already knew the answer.

“She’s an asset to the team.”

“She’s a minor.”

“Fine, but do you see the point I’m making?”

Pepper gave a great sigh, leaning forward as if she were in a highly important business meeting. “This isn’t just another experiment, Tony. Not another thing you can just tinker away at until you get bored. This is her life. What you’re talking about, it’s a huge responsibility. We need to think about this properly.”

“Okay,” he said. “You’re right. Let’s see … There, I thought about it. Still wanna do it. Pep, this feels right. Letting the kid into the wild, after everything … That’s wrong, but this is right. You gotta be hearing me here.”

Pepper sighs, massaging her temples. “I am. I am hearing you, and I agree—”

“Thank you!” He stood then, chair moving noisily against the tiles, but Pepper clamped a hand on his wrist.

“Sit down. Give them time.” She paused then as he collapsed back down into his chair, choosing her words carefully. “Are we … Are you sure we’re the best place for her, though? Don’t look at me like that. You watched the same thing we all did, aren’t you worried that she’s …”

“Damaged? Miserable?”

“Young. Tony, she’s a teenager and she’s just come out of what, thirty-one days the first round and add another twenty to that—fifty-one days of captivity, torture—”

Her voice broke on the last word and she pressed a hand to her mouth. Tony scooped the hand on his wrist to hold it in his own.

“I can’t see how there’s any better place out there for her.”

“But what if it’s not what she wants?”

“Let’s go ask the kid, then.”

“Tony!” she protested as he made to stand again. “They’re—”

She was going to argue that Bea and Karen hadn’t finished yet, but Karen and her bright pink clipboard had appeared in the hallway, smiling widely.

“Right, then,” she said, rejoining Tony and Pepper at the table. “Paperwork."

Chapter Text

Hours later, Bea was still sitting on her bed, deep in thought. The file on her prospective foster family sat open by her hip, a smiley Christmas photo staring up at her.

She tried to imagine herself in there, squeezed between little, toothy Vivian and the gangly Phineas, in the warm embrace of their parents. But, no matter how she tried, she didn't seem to fit.

She hated it. The entire idea seemed forced, unnatural, but what if Karen had been onto something? Pepper said this was her job, to make sure Bea was safe and happy and healthy, and Karen had clearly done this for plenty of others before. Who was Bea to doubt her?

Then again, why would the Fletchers want her, with her abilities and her insecurities and her history? Karen had insisted they would be the perfect match for her, leagues beyond any form of care Tony and Pepper could provide—have provided, for months now.

“Vivian was a tricky placement, too,” Karen had said. “But Caroline and James adored her, couldn’t let her go. They finalised her adoption almost six months ago. I dare say, if you’re lucky, this home could be a great fit for you, too.”

A shiver trickled down her spine. For all Bea knew, these people were maniacs. Maybe Caroline Fletcher was just like Miss Hannigan and Bea would be singing sad ballads with Vivian by her side. Bonus points if they had a dog.

Bea dragged a heavy hand down her face, watching the crusty sleep fall from her eyes. Sleep. That was exactly what she needed, and yet it was the thing most far away. What she would give to just be able to fall back on her pillows and sink into a dreamless sleep.

Just as she thought she might actually, finally give in to her exhaustion, Tony appeared in her doorway and leaned casually against the frame.

“Well,” he said. “That was ... something.”

Bea didn't respond, her eyes flicking instinctually down to the open file.

“C'mon." He clapped his hands to get her attention. "We're going out.”

She frowned. “Out?"

"Yes, out. Some fresh air’ll do you good.”

Bea didn’t move, letting her eyes fix on the wall above her desk. Out. It was coming sooner or later, but she’d really hoped it would be later.

"Put your shoes on.”

He left Bea to it and, by some miracle, she did as she was told. Tugged one sock on at a time, followed by her sneakers, all the while worrying. Tying her laces was an impossible task with her shaking hands.

She hadn’t ever left the Tower—willingly, at least. Apart from the events of almost a month ago when Bea had waltzed right back into Cross’s grip, into the cage and into the chair, Bea’s only memory of ever walking out of the Tower had been from their field trip. It had felt like a lifetime ago.

Tony called out from the hallway, tearing Bea from her thoughts, and she abandoned her laces.

"Coming!" she bit out and left her room. The living room was empty, the kitchen abandoned, their dishes still dripping in the sink. Only Tony was there, waiting impatiently by the elevator. "What's the rush?”

"No rush.” He gestured towards the elevator. “Get a move on.”

"Sounds like you’re in a rush."

Tony shot her a look and Bea closed her mouth this time, stepping into the elevator with him. "The garage, please, FRI," he said, looking down at his phone. "And switch some lights on for us this time, the kid’s a hazard.”

“Hey,” Bea protested quietly, but he only smirked.

She had a billion and one questions bubbling inside her, but she'd been impulsive enough with her backtalk today. Karen had given her a break this time, but Bea wasn't sure her luck would extend much further. Tony seemed agitated already, and she wasn’t about to push his buttons even more.

Stepping out into the garage, Tony seemed to know exactly where he was going, and plucked a set of black keys off a hook by the door.

"Where's Happy?" Bea asked, unable to stop herself as Tony bee-lined towards a sleek black sedan.

"Y'know what," said Tony. "Funny story. When I was about your age, this crazy thing happened where I got something called a driver's license—“

"Yeah, okay, shut up.”

Bea clambered into the car, closing her door at the same time as Tony, and tried not to flinch as the engine turned over. She buckled herself in and surveyed the sound system. "How do you change the station?" she asked.

"I'm gonna let you sit there and think about whose car you're in.”

She hesitated a moment. "No way.”

“Way."

“FRIDAY?"

"Hi, Beatrice.”

"No freaking way.”

"Way. What would you like to listen to?"

Bea thought for a moment. “Fleetwood Mac?”

She glanced at Tony, as if for approval, and he shrugged as he shifted the car into drive and started out of the garage to the opening chords of Rhiannon.

Driving felt unfamiliar, but not for any reason other than that Mom hadn’t ever had a car, neither did Walter—all she had was her well-loved student MetroCard.

As Tony wound through traffic, past unfamiliar streets and storefronts, Bea bit at the inside of her cheek. On the one hand, he might’ve had plans to drive out to the nearest State forest to dump her like an unwanted puppy, too much effort for all the mess she was making between CPS and everything still yet to come with Cross—but it didn't feel like that. She stole a glance whenever she could and found Tony relaxed, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, and mumbling along to the music.

Maybe his intention really was to just get her out of the Tower. He’d said fresh air, right? Bea made an effort then, doing her best to enjoy the drive. They passed so many people, some dressed in bright colours, some in suits and pencil skirts. She spotted a familiar shop here and there, realising she knew exactly where they were, but all the while, she didn’t feel any different from when she’d been stuck inside.

Tony twisted the volume dial all the way down and said, “Food?”

“What about it?”

He gave her a quizzical look. “Do you want some.”

“Oh.” She was hungry, but at the same time, not at all. “I guess.”

“If I’ve learned anything from working with Pete, that usually translates to ‘yes' and ‘McDonald’s’. Sound right?”

Bea shrugged and Tony nodded, quickly pulling into a drive-through. He asked for her order, but when she gave it to him, he stopped the car.

“We’re getting lunch,” he said as if she were three.

“Okay?”

“Fries is not lunch.”

“Large fries, then.”

He gave a heavy sigh and pushed on, dishing his order out to the speaker box. Bea didn’t hear any of it. There was a car sitting in the parking lot with its windows down, music carrying on the breeze as a couple about her age laughed in the front seat, sharing a soda. They were tanned, hair sun-bleached, with bags piled high behind them.

Bea actually felt the thought click into place inside her head. This was what ordinary teenagers were doing. Taking road trips, having fun, being young, and there Bea was, watching them like some kind of leper, pinching her bandages.

She turned her eyes forward and tried to put the couple from her mind as Tony drove up to the window, but she didn’t really come back to herself until Tony handed her bag after bag after bag of food. Just as she thought he was done, then came the drinks. Ignoring the gaping worker who’d taken his payment, he drove off without a word of explanation to Bea.

“I said large,” Bea murmured, placing the bags in the footwell, “not fifty.”

Tony scoffed. “Must’ve missed that in all the amazing communication you’re giving me.”

“Where are we even going? Was this outing just for a ridiculous amount of food?”

They had driven out of the parking lot and back into the busy streets. “It’s just a drive, I swear. No ulterior motives, no sinister plan.”

He was joking, but it did settle her nerves a little.

They ended up at the Williamsburg Bridge, at a small stretch of park overlooking the East River. Couples walked up and down the esplanade and children playing in the distance, but where they’d parked was just about empty.

He’d backed into a space so the trunk faced the river, and Bea watched as he unbuckled and got out of the car.

“Bring the food,” he said and closed the door.

It took Bea a second to move, scooping the bags into her lap as she struggled out of the passenger seat. Tony had opened the trunk and met her halfway, taking one of the bags and gesturing for her to sit. He’d done this before, clearly.

It was surprisingly comfortable and spacious back there. He laid the food out between them and started unwrapping a cheeseburger as Bea picked at her fries.

“Go on,” he said between bites. “What’s up?”

Bea looked up at him. “What?”

“Don’t give me that. You’ve got a frown.”

She reached up to the space between her brows and he was right—the muscles there were tense, and she felt a thick line. She massaged the spot furiously. “Nothing, swear.” But Tony wasn’t buying it. “Karen doesn’t like you,” she remarked instead.

“What’s not to like,” said Tony, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Bea clicked her tongue. “Yeah, well. She doesn’t know you, her opinion’s void.”

“Appreciate it.”

They ate in silence for a little while, watching the twinkle of the sun along the river, before Tony spoke up again. “Saw the file she left you. Any good?”

Bea shrugged. “They seem great,” she said honestly. “They look kind, and experienced, and understanding.” If she’d glanced at Tony then, she would’ve seen a poorly-hidden breaking heart. “If they want me, I guess it wouldn’t be so bad.”

“You gotta make sure you want them back,” he said. “Whatever you want, remember? This is your decision.”

She raised her brows and nodded. It was the most serious she’d probably ever heard him, but when she finally looked his way, he had his familiar guarded grin.

“Speaking of your questionable decision-making skills, I know you didn’t call Pete last night.”

Bea paused mid-chew.

“Spoke to him this morning,” he explained. “Said he sent you a text, but he hadn’t heard back from you. S’going on there?”

“Phone’s dead,” Bea said, avoiding his eye.

“So charge it.”

She scrunched her nose, putting her fries down. “It’s kind of nice not having it. Ignorance is bliss, and whatever. Karen said there’s a bit in the media about me.”

“It’s more than a bit, you know that well enough. You’re a big story, they want their chance. You just gotta remember that they’ve never met you. They don’t know what they’re talking about, you said it yourself—their opinions are void.”

Bea tried for a smile but hesitated.

“Go on,” Tony pressed. “What’s on your mind?”

She had been thinking about it the entire drive over, and honestly for days before now, but she had no idea how to ask. “When do we need to be back at the Tower?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I do not have a curfew.” He offered a smile before reassuring, more seriously, “We can be out as long as we want. Something you wanted to do?”

Bea nodded.

Half an hour later, Bea had eaten more than she’d expected and they had talked one another’s ears off. For just a moment, Bea felt like the impossible version of her that was laughing and sipping soda, windows down and music blaring, was closer than she thought. But then their lunch wrappers were in the nearest trashcan, Tony was tearing down the interstate towards Queens, and Bea was wringing her hands anxiously in anticipation of what was to come.

As they drove, the streets became dirtier, the shops grungier, and by the time they passed Delmar’s, Bea’s heart was in her throat. Tony made light work of zig-zagging through side streets, finding the perfect park and switching the car off.

There they sat in absolute silence, both waiting for Bea to move, to speak, to do anything.

“We can go home,” Tony offered. “Back to the Tower, I mean. We don’t have to go in.”

Bea looked at him. It was genuine, he was giving her an out, but … something inside her knew this was inevitable. Now that Cross was gone and she was free, her ignorance was no longer an option. Mom deserved better than that.

So Bea unbuckled, opened the door, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. She was there again, in that infuriating void between familiar and new, and felt completely out of place. Considering it was a Monday in the very early afternoon, Bea was surprised at the amount of traffic on the sidewalk heading in and out of the building.

She hadn’t been back since that night, but the apartment building was exactly the same. Her gaze drifted all the way up to the seventh floor, to what she knew was the living room window, and remembered—more than once, she’d stood in that very spot with sheer dread in her gut at what awaited her.

Tony closed the door loudly behind him and, with a small nod at Bea, crossed the street. She quickly joined him, dodging oncoming traffic, and they slipped through the entrance behind an unsuspecting neighbour.

She recognised the peeling paint, the out-of-service elevator, the chipped wooden staircase, but something was off. “It’s so quiet,” she whispered, and wondered maybe if it had always been like this during the day, and Bea had just never been there to witness it.

Tony didn’t complain once as she led the way past the elevator and up the stairs, as passing neighbours in the stairwell did double-takes—not at Tony Stark, the living legend, but at Bea, the girl who’d been snatched in her own home. The silence grew eerie then. It had been quiet that day, too, she remembered.

When Bea had to stop on the fourth floor for a breather, Tony was patient, only giving gentle encouragements and quiet reminders that they could turn back any time. By the time they made it to the seventh, stealing a glance back at the Parkers’ front door, Bea was half-tempted to take him up on it.

It felt like a sign when she realised she didn’t have her key. Turning to Tony, ready to tell them it was no use and they might as well go home, she watched as he pulled what looked like a small red bullet from his pocket.

Without a word, he edged past Bea and clicked a button on the side, stuffing the metal spike that had emerged into the keyhole of apartment 712. Two seconds of silence, and then …

Click.

“That looks highly illegal.”

“What does?” said Tony, pocketing the device again. He stood aside and gestured to the door with a wide flourish of his hand. “After you.”

But Bea couldn’t seem to get ahold of her limbs. She remembered the same worry she’d felt all those weeks ago in the dead silence of the seventh floor, opening the door to blood, screaming and crying, and her mother—

She cleared her throat and reached forward. This time was different. Tony was here, she was safe, nothing was waiting for her inside. Walter was dead, her mother was dead, and Cross … Her fingers curled around the doorknob, but the cold of the handle was so surprising, she flinched away as if it had burned her.

Tony’s hand found her shoulder, the weight of it like he was stopping her from floating away. He was quiet, but his brow was furrowed.

“Would you mind—“ she tried to ask, but her voice cracked on the last.

She let him ahead as he moved, gripping and turning the handle like it was nothing—like it was just a door, because of course it was—and stepped inside.

Tony led the way into the apartment, moving aside to close the door behind her. The ghost of an ache thrummed in the back of her head with the sound of the door closing, the squeak of her sneakers against the linoleum feeling distinctly slippery. She had the unshakeable urge to tie her laces, but if she crouched down now, she wasn’t sure she’d ever get up again.

The apartment was just as she remembered. Linoleum floors glittering with tiny shards of broken glass, the crooked door cabinets, fridge that rattled—or used to. It was wedged open with a towel now, empty and silent. The old dining setting, now with three chairs instead of four sat lopsided in the place it had always been with its countless scratches and water stains. There was the old sofa in the living room where Bea was sure she could see the indents of Walter’s ass, and the TV with a dent in one corner from the time the NY Giants had lost. The only real difference was the dust, thick and grimy and layered over every flat surface.

Seeing it all again dragged the memories to the very forefront, as if it was happening over again right before her. The missing dining chair dragged into the middle of the floor, rope rubbing against the legs, her mother fighting for any chance of escape, screaming into her gag for Bea to leave, to run.

Had Bones, Marlboro and Sarge been there that night? Maybe Marlboro had put her Dampener on. Maybe Bones killed her mom.

“Are we good?” Tony asked quietly from behind her, and Bea realised she hadn’t moved. She took a step forward, then another, glancing at him over her shoulder to nod.

She passed the scratched-up sink and the dark patch of floor she barely let herself look at, and turned down the hallway. It was so strange to be experiencing her home like it was new. Things she’d never noticed before, like the old thrifted artworks on the walls that hid holes left by Walter’s fists, the plastic trinkets and decorations because Walter was too unpredictable for anything ceramic—they all stood out to her now like graffiti on a pristine white wall, jarring and impossible to look away from.

Muscle memory led her straight to her bedroom door, wide open, and into her bedroom. Her absolutely tiny bedroom. Even with half the furniture missing, like her desk and her records, the four walls felt suffocating. She spotted the rolled-up towel behind her door, the polaroids taped to her wall, her unmade bed and the tangle of earphones dangling on her lamp.

It all belonged to a different person. Some incredibly smart girl with so much to learn, the entire world before her and no ability to take a step forward. A girl who worked too hard because her college fund was gone, a girl who had a best friend, a crush, and a secret that was completely safe. No superheroes in her life, no fear, no pain.

But now, there she stood, only months later in the exact same place. She looked and sounded enough like the old Bea, but she didn’t laugh anymore like she used to, she didn't have the same quick humour. She was so incapable now of trust and comfort in the company she kept, all because she knew who she was now. What she was capable of.

Bea wasn’t sure if she missed the person she used to be, or if she missed the good things—the rare moments shared with Mom, coffee dates with Celia, her rekindled friendship with Peter. The fact that it was gone left a bitter taste in her mouth, but to know the truth about her life, about the fear so deeply embedded in her mom that she’d rather have stayed with someone like Walter than face Adrian Cross—she knew deep down that she was better off for it.

Listen to yourself, she thought bitterly, anger rising in her like bile. Better off. There was no better off. There was traumatised and then there was dead, the only thing she was right now was alive.

Bea wanted to throw something. She searched her barren room but there was nothing. Even if there had been, this room had known more than enough anger—it didn’t need her adding to it.

She turned on her heel and stomped back into the hallway, quickly remembering Tony in the kitchen and redirected instead to the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind her. She heard footsteps in the hall, quiet and slow, but no voice came.

White knuckles gripped the sides of the sink as Bea bent low and studied her reflection. Her entire life, she’d had a goal—college. It was a direction, something to work towards, to fight for. The steps it took to get there were clear and she had the fight inside her to make it happen.

It only made sense to have a new goal, but where was her life supposed to go now?

She was trapped in this strange in-between, a place where things were happening, but not. Cross had to face the courts, but only when they were ready. Bea had to find a new home, but only if Karen thought it was suitable. Her priorities felt like leaves in the wind, swirling around her just out of reach.

Thoughts overwhelmed her mind, the familiar panic filling her chest. She needed to take things right back to basics. She knew basics.

Five things I can see.

Unlike her bedroom, the bathroom was well-stocked. She recognised mostly Walter’s things, like the gifted Axe body spray. One. His rust-clogged razor on the edge of the sink. Two. The back-scratcher, now thick with mildew, hung from the curtain rail. Fucking gross. Three. Her eyes flickered back to the sink and found a small dish with a pair of jade-green earrings. Four. Her mom’s blue toothbrush still in its holder. Five.

It didn’t help.

She stared into her own eyes, desperate for anything to get her out of her head for just a minute, and spotted a shadow under the mirror.

The medicine cabinet was ajar.

She opened it, grateful for the distraction, and frowned at how full it was. Bea had rarely needed to use it and assumed it had only ever held Tylenol and bandages, but the prescriptions she was reading now …

She plucked a small bottle off the shelf, the only name she recognised—OxyContin. No idea what it did or how to use it, Bea turned it in her hands. The label was useless, faded and torn, but she made out her mother’s name in full along the side. She opened the bottle, careful to be as quiet as possible, and found it half-full of little pink pills.

“All good in there?” came Tony’s voice just outside the door. “Knock twice if you’re unconscious.”

Bea quickly closed the cabinet and turned the tap on, careful not to drop the bottle or its lid as she shoved her free hand under to make splashing sounds. “Fine,” she called. “Out in a sec.”

Tony murmured something but she heard his footsteps recede.

She turned off the tap and glanced up at her reflection once more, recognising the tired, distant, unbearably familiar look in her eyes.

The lid went back on the bottle and the bottle fell into her pocket.

She emerged from the bathroom to find Tony standing, arms crossed, eyes unfocused on the front door. Closing the bathroom door behind her seemed to wake him from his daydream, and he blinked up at her.

“Sorry,” she said, passing her bedroom without a second glance. “We can go.”

“You sure?”

Bea nodded. The bottle against her hip felt like a deadweight, and the sooner she could get rid of it at home—at the Tower—the better.

Tony didn’t ask questions as they left, following Bea down the seven flights of stairs to the lobby, out the door and into the street. He gave her a strange look as they got into the car and buckled in, but only the sounds of Fleetwood Mac filled the air between them as they drove home.

She focused on the familiar streets, parks and shops passing, becoming more unfamiliar the closer they got to Manhattan. Karen’s words still bumbled in her head, the photo of the Fletchers and all the possibilities they held clear in her mind, but as the bottle rattled quietly in her pocket, she felt ashamed.

Regardless of what was best for her or not, she knew for a fact she didn’t deserve anything remotely as good as the Fletchers.

Chapter Text

Bea blinked slowly in the darkness, trying to recall the dream that had woken her. The fact that she’d even slept had left her bleary-eyed and dazed, but to have woken from a dream, a good one …

Details were fuzzy but it had been at home, back at the apartment, and she was curled into her mother’s side. She’d thought it might have been a memory, but Mom was talking to her. Telling her all about Cross and how well she’d done.

“You did so good, baby,” Mom had said, soft and gentle like moms in dreams usually did. Bea remembered telling her all about Bones and Marlboro and Sarge, and Mom had kissed her on the forehead and said, “So proud of you.”

A strangely happy tear fell down her temple and she sighed. It had been so long since she felt as relaxed as she did right now, rolling to her side. But the ghost of a smile on her lips died at the sight of the small white pill bottle under her lamp.

Proud. Would her mother be proud of this? Bea felt the shame of it flare in her chest. She reached over with unnatural speed for someone still so drowsy, and stuffed the rattling bottle deep into the nightstand drawer right beside—

Her phone. Still dead, still harbouring all those awful feelings Bea was so desperate to avoid. No, she couldn’t quite face that one either.

Bea sat up with a groan, her relaxed muscles protesting under her weight, and swung her legs over the side.

It had been two days since Karen’s visit, since her world gradually began to chip away again, and today was the day they faced the Family Court. On the phone last night, Karen had been so quick to assure them they’d only be signing documents and discussing options. But, the thing was, Karen had already given Bea an option, and today wouldn’t be spent discussing more options—Bea had a decision to make.

The Fletchers’ file sat open on her desk, the same photo of Caroline, James, Phineas and Vivian still staring up at her, taunting her. Bea had spent most of her evening reading through everything again, trying to find something to grab onto, to make her want this as much as she wanted what she already had.

Bea was being selfish—they couldn’t drag this out forever, no matter how much she wanted to, and the Fletchers were really as good an option as any. Weren’t they?

Karen was right, she was sure of it. There was what she wanted, but then there was what she needed, and Karen knew what she needed. In theory, life at the Tower seemed fine—not totally logical, but fine—but the danger would be inescapable. The Avengers were like beacons to lethal threats, and it was their job to be that way. It didn’t mean Bea should be part of that.

And the Fletchers, they had fostered hundreds of kids, even adopted one. Kids who’d lost families, kids who’d been hurt. But would they know what to do with someone like her? Thanks to Cross, she was a walking weapon, something she’d certainly proven more than once. Surely, after everything, despite everything, it would make Tony and Pepper the best option for her.

But Karen knew best. And who was to say that Tony and Pepper would even be an option? What if she went all in on staying at the Tower and they said no? It’s not as if Tony was exactly paternal. The man forgot to eat almost as often as she did, always that one-track mind when it came to his work. He tinkered, he played, he made bad decisions and was always the most important person in the room.

So, Bea had a choice to make today. Maybe the illusion of a choice, but better than no choice at all.

She stood, closed the Fletchers’ file, and started towards the bathroom. The warm water was more refreshing than ever after a full night’s sleep, and it was no time at all before she was dressed, sitting on her bed again to buckle her shoes.

Pepper had picked her outfit out, and Bea wasn’t complaining. She’d barely had any opportunity to wear any of the clothes she and Pepper had bought and now they all fit slightly too loose. She recognised the outfit from one of the websites they'd been shopping on, something chic that one of the beautiful, long-legged models had pulled off.

Bea, on the other hand, looked like she was pretending in her white blouse beneath the short navy dress, black stockings to hide the marks on her ankles, and a pair of maroon Mary Janes. The heel was chunky, but higher than she was used to and she couldn’t help worrying she’d face-plant on only her second outing back into reality.

Her hair was another conundrum. She had to get the hair gel out to slick it all back into a neat bun. It’d grown frizzy and untamed, despite conditioning it as often as she did—she’d have to work in a deep condition at some point. Could normal conditioner even be used as a deep conditioner though? What made deep conditioners so damn special?

Bea huffed a sign, falling back onto her bed. How was she already feeling so irritated? She hadn’t even seen spoken to anyone yet.

With one last burst of self-encouragement, Bea stood—tentative on her not-exactly-towering three-inch block heels—and headed out the door, closing the Fletchers’ file for good measure.

Tony and Pepper were waiting in the kitchen, the latter still putting her earrings in and the former looking … flustered?

“Morning, hon,” Pepper said, moving onto her shoes. “We’re running a bit late this morning. You ready to go?”

Bea nodded, uncomfortable at seeing Tony in this state. He was pacing, actually pacing around the kitchen, with the sleeves of his blazer rolled up to his elbows and his hair sticking up at odd angles. Pepper stood and Tony deflated a little with relief, though he still moved far too quickly to be normal. He darted past them, dodging Pepper’s hand aiming to tame his hair and clapping Bea on the shoulder with a, “Morning, kiddo. Let’s rock and roll.”

Like Monday, when they eventually stepped out into the garage, FRIDAY had turned all the lights on in anticipation of them. But, unlike Monday, Happy was waiting for them, this time by the driver’s door of the same sleek black sedan they’d rescued her in.

Bea only hesitated a moment before following Pepper into the backseat, sitting this time in the rear-facing seats to let Tony and Pepper brood together. Both were unnaturally quiet, especially Tony, as Happy clambered into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

The drive was silent and, every now and then, Bea caught one of their eyes which gave her the distinct feeling was her fault. Pepper had the good grace to pretend she was looking out the front window, but Tony seemed so deep in thought, he probably didn’t even realise it.

Not for the first time, she wished she could mind-read. To know exactly what they were thinking when they stole their glances, know exactly what they wanted her to do and say, so she didn’t have to get things wrong. The fact that she was pulling them from a morning’s work was bad enough, but to make them stress like this? Make them impatient and worried, maybe even mad?

It almost made her decision just a little bit easier.

The courthouse was too large for words, and entirely lifeless for a building so full of people. Just big, and grey, and insanely intimidating, with an equally vast lobby. Bea followed Tony and Pepper through the halls, making sure to stick close just in case. Pepper led the way, asking directions and shaking hands, and it wasn’t really until they were being ushered into a small meeting room off the main hallway that Bea felt really clear for the first time that morning.

If she was honest, she had expected one of those vast courtrooms with the two sides, witnesses in the back and a stenographer at the front, but the conference room was understated and reminded her a little of the Tower.

Karen was waiting for them at the table with a small mousy-haired woman, nose-deep in her computer. “Good morning,” Karen greeted warmly. “Please, take a seat. This is Sue, she will be joining us today to take some notes.”

Pepper guided Bea to the chair closest to the head of the table and Tony claimed the next seat, but not before chivalrously pulling out the third seat for Pepper.

“Water?” Karen offered as they sat. “Coffee?”

Both Tony and Pepper politely declined, so Bea did, too. Sue was already typing away, probably documenting how ridiculous and out-of-place Bea looked. She probably knew the source of her dark-ringed eyes and her occasionally empty gaze. Bea blinked furiously to wake herself up.

“Good morning,” came a new voice from a door at the end of the room. He was tall and well-dressed in a sharp black suit, but it was the long, billowing robe that gave him away. Bea thought he looked better dressed for Hogwarts than a meeting, but she held her tongue.

He sat down beside her at the head of the table, taking several manila folders from under his arm and shuffling them importantly before him. Karen sat a little straighter when he looked her way.

“Thank you both for making the time to join us this morning,” he said to Karen and Sue, who was typing furiously, before turning to Bea, Pepper and Tony. “Good morning, I’m Judge Martinez, I understand we’re here to discuss the temporary guardianship of …” He glanced down at his file, frowning slightly. “Beatrice Page?”

“Present,” Bea said before she could stop herself. Karen let out a soft laugh and one glance around the room told her everyone was smiling at her expense. Everyone except Tony, who was sitting looking stony-faced, but it made her cheeks burn all the same.

“Good to know,” Judge Martinez said good-naturedly. “And I believe we have Mr Tony Stark and Ms Pepper Potts in attendance?”

“Yes, Your Honour,” said Pepper, who pulled out a file of her own and passed it down to the Judge.

The file was thick, but no matter how hard she tried, Bea couldn’t make anything out. Judge Martinez had expertly opened it so she couldn’t see the contents, but she could definitely see the cover. STARK & POTTS RE: B. PAGE. She imagined report after report on how dangerous she was, information for the Fletchers so they knew what they were getting themselves into. She pictured stills from the suit footage at that first rescue, photos of the damage that came after. The damage she caused.

Whatever was inside, it was more than guardianship paperwork.

Bea blinked again, and realised the room was quiet. Everyone was looking at her expectantly,—Pepper like she was holding her breath, Tony with a small line between his brows, and Karen like Bea had lost all but one braincell. Even Sue was watching Bea, her brows raised. Tony nudged her shoulder, leaning close.

“Judge Martinez asked you a question,” he whispered.

“Sorry,” she said to Tony, before turning quickly to Judge Martinez. “Sorry, sir. Honour, I mean. Yours.”

He gave another amused smile, and Bea wanted to crawl under the table and die. “Is everything alright, Miss Page?”

“Yes, si—Your Honour. Didn’t, uh … Didn’t sleep great,” she lied, before specifying, “Nerves.”

Nodding understandingly, he glanced back at his file. “I was wondering how you were finding living with Mr Stark.”

“Oh,” Bea said, suddenly incredibly aware of Tony and Pepper’s eyes on her. “Fine. Great. Tony—Mr Stark, he’s been …” She paused, measuring her words. How much could she say without humiliating herself again? “He’s been really supportive, and I am so grateful for everything he’s done for me.”

Judge Martinez beamed. “I’m pleased to hear it. Now, Miss Page, I believe Ms Turner provided you with some information at your meeting on Monday, regarding a potential foster family. Have you had an opportunity to review it?”

“You mean the Fletchers?”

“Mr and Mrs Fletcher, yes.”

“Yeah,” she said, still not daring to look at Tony. “I guess so.”

“You guess so?”

Bea’s face burned. “I mean, they seem nice enough,” she said, quickly adding, “Your Honour.”

“But?” he pressed gently.

She squirmed in her seat and wished desperately that Tony and Pepper didn’t have to be there. Wished it could just be a casual conversation between herself and Judge Martinez, just chat it out. Like bros. "Do I have to make a decision right now?”

“No, of course not,” Judge Martinez said with a light laugh. “What we can do is organise a meeting between yourself and Mr and Mrs Fletcher. A lunch, perhaps, where you can get to know them and see if it might be a good fit. Is that something you may be open to?”

She couldn’t think of any reason not to, so she said, “Yes, Your Honour.”

“I have Ms Turner’s report right here,” he continued, fishing out a stapled document. “She has assured me your current living situation with Mr Stark and Ms Potts is entirely suitable in the short-term, so there is no need to rush any decision-making here. You are in a very lucky position, Miss Page.”

Bea didn’t feel lucky.

“Mr Stark,” Judge Martinez continued. “Are you agreeable of this arrangement?”

“Yes, Your Honour,” he said in a tone Bea had never heard before. “Ms Potts and I will always be supportive of Bea’s decision, whatever it may be.”

Bea’s gaze fell to the edge of the table in front of her. What did that mean? It sounded nice and lovely and perfect but what did it mean?

“Very well,” Judge Martinez continued as if Tony hadn’t just said one of the most heartfelt things Bea had ever heard. “Ms Turner, could I please leave liaising with the Fletchers in your capable hands. Ideally, we would like for them to meet with Miss Page within the next two weeks.”

Karen beamed and nodded, writing herself a note.

“In the meantime,” said Judge Martinez, “I would like to look towards some counselling for Miss Page. At-home support is wonderful, but it is crucial she receives some professional advice to help manage her mental health. Mr Stark, are you willing to arrange counselling for Beatrice?”

“Yes, Your Honour,” he said, but hesitated. “We … Well, we put out feelers after Ms Turner’s visit. We’ve found someone suitable and Bea’s first appointment will be next Monday.”

“That’s great news,” said the Judge, making a note on the corner of a page. “And I assume you’re aware of this arrangement, Miss Page?”

Bea schooled her surprised expression, hoping she looked relaxed rather than panicked. “Yes, Your Honour,” she lied. “Tony told me about it.”

“Very well. It looks like everything is in order, so I suppose that concludes today’s proceedings. Let’s meet again in two weeks’ time once Miss Page has met with the Fletchers—Ms Turner, would you please update us as soon as possible regarding a meeting date and time. I will review the submitted paperwork, but I see no issues. I’m happy to sign off on the temporary guardianship to Mr Stark. You will be provided with a copy of the final signed document for your records, I expect it should take no longer than one or two days. If we have no further questions …” He paused, looking between them all, but when no one spoke, he nodded. “Right. I look forward to seeing you in two weeks. Court adjourned.”

With that, he stood, collected his files including the suspiciously thick one Pepper had handed him, and left through the door he’d come through. Sue closed her laptop, looking distinctly more relaxed than before, and Karen stood with the rest of them.

Bea barely heard the small talk that followed. She stood where she was supposed to, nodded when she needed to, and followed Tony and Pepper out to the street when it was time to go.

The drive home was silent. Pepper tried to make small talk, asking Bea if she was looking forward to seeing Peter and reminding Tony of their scheduled movie night, but the most she got out of either of them was a disgruntled, “Mhm.”

Tony was grouchy, for lack of a better word, and it was all Bea’s fault. She was too indecisive, if she’d just gone in there and said, “Yes, Your Honour, send me away. Let these good people get their lives back on track,” Tony would probably be in a much brighter mood.

Whatever she wanted, they’d told her. Even if they really were fine for Bea to stick around as long as she needed to, deep down they were craving normalcy. She saw it in the way Pepper’s eyes flicked away when Bea caught her watching, the way Tony holed up in his lab whenever he could.

She only proved herself right when they made it back to the Tower, dropped Bea off on the main floor and excused themselves—Pepper to her office upstairs and Tony downstairs to his lab. “I’ll be in my room if you need me,” Bea told them, and they were gone.

Bea didn’t know how to entertain herself anymore. Once upon a time, she would have followed Tony down to the lab to do some coding, maybe help out on a project. But now she couldn’t move past the distinct sense that she was just in the way.

After an hour of staring at her ceiling, she decided sleep would be impossible, since Peter was due any minute, and what would he think if she was just lying there and he couldn’t wake her up—

Deep breaths. No point catastrophising.

What she needed was some water, maybe a snack. Something to take her mind off the impending doom that was her life. Thankfully, the entire floor was quiet, presumably empty, so the kitchen was hers.

She opened the fridge, scanning for anything even remotely appetising, but when she found mostly vegetables—solid and liquid—she moved to the pantry. But there, she only found stock powders, raw pastas, oats, and four different types of honeys. It only made sense—Stark didn’t seem like much of an ingredients person, but Pepper certainly did. She searched the fridge one last time before conceding, pulling out a pitcher of water. Setting it down on the counter, she pulled a glass from one of the overhead cupboards, but what happened next seemed to come in slow motion.

A bird cried out on the balcony, its pitch jarring even beyond the closed door, and Bea jumped. Her hip knocked the handle of the pitcher as she turned and, in her attempt to stop it from toppling, she knocked the entire row of glasses above her head, only able to watch as they came raining down to shatter at her shoes.

Fuck, Bea thought bitterly as the last of the broken glass clinked loudly into three more pieces. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Once upon a time, a mistake like this would’ve ruined her entire week, even with healing magic. Walter would’ve made her pay for her clumsiness tenfold, and despite knowing full well that he was dead and she wasn’t living in that apartment anymore, she couldn’t help scanning the room for anyone who’d heard her blunder.

She strained her ears, but could hear nothing over the drumming of her heart in her ears. FRIDAY, at least, hadn’t raised the alarm, and it didn’t seem like anyone apart from her, Tony, and Pepper was home. She had to be quick—no witnesses was the ideal outcome here, but the spread of broken glass was honestly impressive. Four, maybe five, glasses were missing from the cabinet, but the pile at her feet looked like fifty.

Quickly crouching down, she plucked the largest pieces and piled them in a cupped hand, but in her haste, she slipped. A shoe caught on a small glass shard and slid, breaking her balance and tipping the glass from her hand.

A long, red cut appeared on her palm and welled with spots of blood. The burn was familiar, the sting like a recurring nightmare. The pain was sickeningly familiar and for a moment, Bea thought she might throw up. Stars bloomed on the cabinets before her and the floor seemed to tip forwards as Bea fell on her backside, her shoulder blades hitting the cool stone of the kitchen island. Marble, she reminded herself desperately. Not cement.

Her hand throbbed something fierce as she cradled it in her lap, the skin seeming to grow tighter and tighter in the flashes of moments that passed. Spots of blood had turned into trails, and Bea pressed her hand into the hem of her dress, but the sting that followed had her clamping her eyes shut.

The stench of tobacco hit her nose. In the darkness, she could see the pinprick ember of a cigarette in the distance, the glint of a blade, hear the scratching of pen on a clipboard. There was a distinctly metallic taste on her tongue and salt on her lips, but her thoughts felt oil-slicked, slipping away every time she grasped for one.

No, she thought fiercely, forcing her eyes open. She wasn’t going to let him do this to her. She wasn’t there, and she wasn’t going to torture herself by thinking she was. The cabinets were Tony’s—not cement. She was wearing shoes and a dress—not kevlar. She wasn’t in the cage, for God’s sakes, she was home. She was at the Tower.

Suddenly a voice was calling her name, only barely audible over the ringing in her ears, but she couldn’t move.

“Bea?” They crouched beside her and stuffed a wad of soft kitchen towel into her stinging hand. “What happened?”

Bea blinked and made herself turn, made herself meet their eye, but only more tears fell as Peter’s face came into view. Big brown eyes furrowed with concern, cheeks pale with worry.

Peter, she thought. Real Peter. No illusion could perfect his windswept mess of hair, sticking up at all angles as if he’d swung here instead of walked.

At the sight of him, Bea could feel herself coming back together. Her first instinct was to apologise, to get up and laugh it off like it was nothing, and how stupid was she to have broken five whole glasses because of a bird. She could see it in her mind’s eye, both of them laughing together about the dumb bird and dumb Bea.

But Peter was faster. He scooped up the broken glass with more precision than she had, cleared the mess on the counter and returned to her side in record time. Silently, he sank down onto the floor beside her, tugged her trembling legs into his lap and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Bea let her head fall into the crook of his neck, feeling the warmth of his body cradling hers entirely, his hands trailing up and down her back in soothing strokes.

Bea didn’t stop the tears that came.

It wasn’t from the pain, and not because she was embarrassed—they were just tears that had spent far too long underground. And all the while, Peter held her. He didn’t offer meaningless platitudes or assurances that everything would be okay, because they both knew well enough that nothing was ever going to be the same again. He only held her, stroked her hair, cradled her injured hand between them.

She didn’t know how long it was before she blinked and looked at him properly.

“Hey,” he whispered.

“Hey.” Her voice cracked with the effort, but he only smiled. “You’re early.”

“Didn’t want to miss the show,” he said, brushing a stray baby hair out of her eyes. “What happened?”

Bea dodged his gaze then, looking at her blood-spotted kitchen towel. “Clumsy, I guess.”

“Clumsy,” he echoed, but didn’t press further. “Mr Stark said you’ve been weird lately. Not in a bad way,” he quickly remedied. “Just … He sounded worried, so I thought I’d drop in. Should he be worried?”

Bea wanted to tell him no, that she had everything under control, but he’d just found her cowering on the kitchen floor because of a cut. And then there was the reason she was so damn jumpy in the first place—something that had started out so wonderfully, a cure for her insomnia and an escape from her reality, but there was no denying it was turning sour. Despite it all, though, she craved the lightness of it and wondered how she might just weasel her way back to bed so she could sleep.

She blinked slowly, feeling the tightness around her eyes as her tears dried. “Everything’s been weird.”

“Want to talk about it?”

And really, the funny thing was, she did. So there they stayed, curled up on the kitchen floor, talking about everything. For the very first time, nothing was off the table—except, of course, the little bottle in her bedside table. Bea hated the idea of burdening him with her worries, but he insisted that he was there for her, only her, and he wanted to help. To listen.

“How did it go?” he asked when Bea told him about Family Court earlier that morning. “Are they sending you away?”

“No need to sound so excited,” she joked, trying to keep her tone light. “You’re stuck with me a little while yet, I have to meet the family first. See if they’re going to murder me in my sleep or not.”

“Good call.” He fell quiet for a moment. “What did Mr Stark say?”

“About the Fletchers?” He nodded, and Bea shrugged. “Nothing. I think he’s eager for it to be done with.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

She quirked a brow.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t want you to leave.”

He said it so gently, muffled slightly by the way he’d pressed his lips against her hairline, that it took Bea a long moment to let the words sink in. He wanted her to stay. Hell, she wanted to stay too, but no one else seemed to want that—least of all Tony.

She rolled her shoulders and lifted her legs, swivelling back to sit the way she had been before Peter found her. “If only it was up to you.”

Hurt struck Peter’s gaze in her peripherals. Change the subject.

“Tell me about school,” she said. “How’s everything?”

“Ned asks about you all the time,” said Peter, a little more brightly. “MJ’s glad to hear you’re okay, too.”

“And …”

“Celia’s back.” He nodded awkwardly. “Has been, for a little while. She and her mom live at her aunt’s now while they find a place.”

Bea’s head turned then, brow furrowed. “A place?”

“Her mom moved them out the night you were taken. Saw an opportunity to get out and took it, I guess.”

Her mind struggled to process the news. “So the Barretts are divorced?” she asked. “Separated?”

“I dunno,” he said, shrugging. “She keeps to herself a lot. We don’t really get the chance to talk.”

Something in Bea’s chest burned, but she couldn’t tell if it was anger or shame. Maybe Celia hadn’t known, maybe it was as much of a surprise to Celia as it was to Bea, but how could she not have known? How could Celia spend so much time with her father and all the while be completely oblivious to the human experimentation aspect of his job? Forgiving Celia was going to be a long way off.

“She asked how you were,” Peter said quietly. “When the rescue stories came out, the whole school was acting super weird, asking questions and talking to us like we knew anything, but Celia stopped me in the hall one day and I felt like I had to tell her something.”

Bea glanced at him. “What did you say?”

“I said you were safe. Was all I could say, after seeing you in the MedBay.” He met her eye. “She said she tried calling you, sent you a bunch of texts. Is that why your phone’s still dead?”

Her face burned at the question and she averted her gaze again, only giving a little shrug.

“Yeah, well,” Pete continued, leaning his head back. “She also said that it’s okay if you’re mad at her. She said she understands and still loves you and hopes you’re safe and okay.”

A weight settled at the base of her throat, eyes burning as she blinked furiously. She understands. Celia didn’t understand a thing.

“Wasn’t sure if I should tell you that—”

“My phone is still dead,” she interrupted firmly, not daring to touch the comments from Celia, “because I don’t like having a phone. Did me no favours before, so I figured I’m better off without it.”

“Phones can be useful.”

“Not all of us still play Subway Surfers.”

“You’re just jealous of my insane high-score,” he teased.

She elbowed him gently in the side. He elbowed her back.

“Phones can be useful,” he insisted. “For example … If you and I went out on Friday night, how else would I let you know where, and when, and what—”

“And who, and why,” she finished for him with a scoff. “Not to mention how.”

“Just you n’me, because I like spending time with you. I think you like spending time with me.” He tapped his wrist and Bea heard a small clink of metal under the sleeve of his hoodie. “As for how, I could probably come up with an idea or two.”

Bea looked at him. “First of all, I’m never swinging with you again. That first time was more than enough for the rest of my days. Second—are you serious?”

His smile wavered, eyes flicking between hers to read her expression. “Of course I am. You don’t want to?”

“I want to,” she said, almost too quickly, swivelling a little to face him better. “Where would we go?”

“Wherever you want.”

“I’m a little out of practice at this, Spider-Boy,” she said, and didn’t miss the way his eyes flashed at the nickname. He turned slightly pink, beaming a little as he nodded.

“Leave it to me, then. I’ll plan everything, and I’ll run it by Mr Stark so he knows. You just meet me here at the Tower, Friday night.”

It took Bea a moment to realise the tightness in her chest wasn’t panic, or fear, or adrenaline, but excitement. She was excited.

“One condition, though,” he said, and Bea’s smile fell. “You charge your phone so I can text you the details.”

Bea shot him a look. “You’re here often enough, why can’t you tell me in person?”

“Because I want to text you. I miss you when I’m not here.”

The words struck her like iron. And the softness in his eyes, in his voice—it reminded her of the way his lips had felt pressed against her own. For a moment, Bea wanted to feel it again.

But everything was different now. Everything was beyond complicated, and Bea had barely begun to understand her own basic emotions again, let alone romance. Peter was her best friend, she knew he would wait. If his feelings were still what they were before she left, he would wait. She hoped he would wait.

She took a deep breath, stretching her lungs in her too-tight chest and nodded, conceding. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll charge it.”

Bea squeezed the kitchen towel in her hand, feeling the sting of her cut, but Peter grasped her wrist, turning her palm gently towards him. She released the towel and he studied the wound carefully. “We should clean it out and get you some antibacterial cream, just in case,” he said.

He helped her stand, as shaky as she was on her feet, and guided her to the sink where he rinsed off the dried blood and made sure no glass had lodged itself in her hand, before patting it try with fresh kitchen towel.

“How do you know all this stuff?” Bea asked as he began spreading a cool balm over the cut. “Don't you heal?"

“Don't you?” he countered.

"Low blow.”

He smiled at her teasing tone and explained, “Sometimes the healing thing doesn’t always cut it.”

“Ah,” she nodded, sagely. “Yes. I remember.”

He finished and put the balm away, releasing Bea’s hand. “All better. At least, it will be in a couple of hours. Banner’s recipe,” he said, gesturing to her hand. She studied it closely—already the angry redness had lessened and a lot of the cut had closed.

“Thanks,” she said quietly. Outside, the setting sun glittered on the buildings around them, and Bea realised just how late it was. “You staying for dinner?”

Peter nodded, distracted by his phone. A text had lit up his screen, and Bea recognised the upside-down contact name. “Need to head down to the lab for a minute, Mr Stark says he needs to talk to me. Will you be okay for a while?”

Bea smiled reassuringly, fighting the disappointment. “Sure. Might shower, change out of …” She gestured at the blood spots on her dress. “Bit gross.”

He turned to leave but hesitated a moment, eyes on her. In what seemed like a split-second decision, Peter quickly stepped towards her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder in a half-hug and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. She felt the warmth and solidness of his chest, his breath in her hair, but just as quickly as it had come, it was gone again and he had disappeared around the corner and into the elevator.

A warm fondness bubbled in her chest, replacing all the fear and sadness of earlier as she padded back to her bedroom. She immediately stripped down to her underwear, kicking her shoes into the closet, and headed into the bathroom to rinse the blood out under a cool tap. With some soap and massaging, it was as if her little episode had never happened.

She deposited the clothes in her hamper and changed instead into thick socks, sweatpants and a long-sleeved Stark Industries shirt. Something about his line of activewear was so damn comfortable, but she hoped to high heavens it didn’t go to his head.

She tied her hair back and washed her face, but as she was about to leave, she remembered. Fine, she’d said. I’ll charge it.

Stupid.

Grudgingly, Bea stomped to her nightstand. The small bottle of pills rattled noisily as she yanked the drawer open—though, significantly less noisy than a few days ago—and she met her own weary gaze in the black reflection of her phone. She pulled it out with the charger and plugged it in, leaving it face-down on the table as it came to life.

She had no intention of using the damn thing, but at least she wouldn’t have to lie if Peter asked about it.

He was waiting in the living room when Bea left her bedroom, several voices all talking over one another filtering down the hallway. He was deep in conversation with Tony and Pepper, but looked over to Bea as Sam spotted her. “Good!” he bellowed, pointing her way and waving her over. “You can settle this one.”

Bea smiled by way of greeting and crossed, scratching Alpine’s ears as Bucky scowled on the couch. “Don’t rope the kid into this, it’s not my fault you have terrible taste in movies.”

“Terrible taste!” Sam echoed, looking between him and Bea in mock shock. “Bea, listen to me. Would you rather watch Citizen Kane or Baby Driver?”

Bea grimaced, and Bucky shoved Sam as if to prove a point. “See?” he said, making Alpine jump. “She doesn’t like your movie either.”

“Baby Driver is a classic.”

Bea shrugged. “If you’re looking for a good heist, I would definitely put Ocean’s 8 above Baby Driver.”

A triumphant laugh came from the kitchen, where Nat was balancing three large bowls of fresh popcorn. Bea hadn’t realised she was there. “A girl after my own heart,” said Nat as she crossed the room, setting the popcorn down on the coffee table. She gave Bea a conspiratorial wink. “Boys, you’re outvoted, we’re watching Ocean’s 8.”

Both sighed despondently but neither argued, and soon the entire group was rallied in the living room to find their seat. Nat had curled up in an armchair with a bowl of popcorn to herself—a smart move, Bea realised as she spotted Sam and Bucky’s attempt at sharing. Tony and Pepper had claimed the middle seats of the sofa and Bea watched fondly as Pepper relaxed into his side, Tony’s arm around her shoulder. She glanced at Peter, still standing awkwardly nearby, and tilted her head as if to say, all good?

He nodded and smiled, shoulders visibly relaxing. There was very little space left on the sofa but Peter took her hand and they fell together into the chaise portion, scooching all the way back into the corner. Fitting the both of them into the one seat was tricky, but Peter smoothly tucked his legs under hers again until Bea was half in his lap, lying against his side with her head on his shoulder.

She felt weightless, truly relaxed for the first time in a long while. Tears had always worn her out, part of the reason she hated crying so much, and she certainly felt it now as she held firm and tight around his waist, letting his skin warm hers as Tony started the movie. Once upon a time, being with Peter like this would have made her insides squirm and her mind spiral beyond all control and rationality—Bea wouldn’t have been able to fall asleep even if she’d been drugged—but, like everything else, they had changed.

Stealing glances at the others, settling in and quietening down as the movie began, Bea hoped and prayed that all this change would be for the better.

Chapter Text

The Fletchers, it seemed, were eager to meet her.

Karen had called last night, shortly after the movie had finished, when Anne Hathaway had revealed she was in on the heist all along and Sam and Peter had both begun to snore. Bea herself had been half-asleep, listening to Peter’s slow, steady heartbeat, but blinked awake when she heard Tony’s ringtone.

“Turner,” Tony whispered when she’d shot him a confused look. He stood and excused himself to the kitchen.

Bea had tried with all her might to eavesdrop but, for one, she was too damn comfortable, and for another, Tony hadn’t said much. The occasional yes or mhm had met her ears, but nothing more.

“Thanks, I’ll let her know,” he said, and returned to the sofa.

“What’s wrong?” Bea asked as he’d sank back down beside a sleepy Pepper.

“Looks like you’re taking a field trip. The Fletchers want to meet you tomorrow, bit after lunch. Does that work for you?”

She couldn’t help noticing the terseness in his voice. “Not like I’ve got other plans.”

When the movie ended, Tony had ushered them all off to bed, including Peter. He wasn’t supposed to have stayed so late with school in the morning, so Tony sent him to his room with a promise to tell May for him. Peter was too tired to argue and, as they all said their good nights, Bea was grateful to have her room to herself. Ignoring her still-charging phone, she tugged open the nightstand drawer and settled herself into a dreamless sleep.

But after what felt like only moments, Bea had woken again to sunlight streaming through her window, crust in her eyes and drool on her cheek. Her joints were stiff and her muscles complained as she fell out of bed and bee-lined towards the shower.

It didn’t help.

So there Bea found herself, standing in front of the mirror several hours later, still deciding on an outfit. Time seemed to slip from her in half-hour increments between showering, her skincare, having to re-bandage her wrists and ankles. She glared at her phone when it buzzed with a leaving soon reminder from Happy.

She wished she could just wear something comfortable. Sweatpants, maybe. A hoodie. It was certainly cool enough with the changing of the seasons. Bea hated it.

Then again, there wasn’t much Beatrice wasn’t hating this morning. The needle-pointed shower water, the burn of toothpaste on her lips, the slick of her lotion between her fingers, and the wonky way the light hit her room. She hated the way her jeans fit, and she hated that she couldn’t bring herself to wear her favourite band tee anymore.

But she had the Levi’s Pepper had complimented her on, and her favourite sneakers and a white blouse with red stripes that she’d tucked into her waist, sleeves down to cover her bandages—dare she say it, she looked casual. Fun. Approachable.

It made no sense to her, but all the same, she was eager to make a good impression.

Happy was waiting at the kitchen counter, in the middle of what looked like a long-winded lecture from Tony. Bea slipped her phone into her back pocked and hesitantly crossed the room to join them, but all she caught was Happy nodding and saying, “On my life.”

Bea knew better than to ask.

“Morning, kiddo,” said Tony, relaxing his expression a little as he turned to her. “Breakfast?”

She shook her head and gestured to Happy. “Pretty sure we have to take off. I’ll eat something later.”

Tony clicked his tongue and went to the fridge, pulling out a smoothie. “You need something in your stomach. But don’t you go leaving the cup in there and stinking up my car.”

Bea fought a smile and took the smoothie, thanking him as Happy led the way over to the elevator. The ride down was quiet, but Bea couldn’t help noticing how eager Happy looked. He plucked a set of keys from the box and bee-lined towards a car Bea hadn’t seen before—a sedan, steely silver and sleek, with black-tinted windows. He seemed pleased to see it, even giving the steering wheel a light caress as he climbed in.

When Bea claimed the passenger seat, though, he paused. “You’re gonna sit there?”

“As if I’m going to sit in the back.”

He raised a brow but eventually shrugged, facing forward to start the engine. She remembered the last time she’d driven alone with Happy, cooped up in the backseat with only her phone for company, typing out fake texts to look busier than she was. That drive had been painful, not to mention the events that followed, but Happy had only driven her then out of duty.

This time, though, Happy was … chatty.

He asked after Peter, despite only having seen him yesterday, and between sips of her smoothie, Bea told him their plans for a night out tomorrow. The conversation flowed freely between them as Happy asked questions and Bea delightedly answered. Something about knowing she could annoy the daylights out of him without the risk of being kicked out of her home was so freeing. They talked a little while longer on the matter of the Fletchers, which he already knew a decent amount about, but Bea found he was just as curious as she was.

Safe to say Happy was in much better spirits about Bea meeting the Fletchers than Tony had been.

They turned down a wide-set street in a neighbourhood Bea was frankly too poor to recognise, and she marvelled at the beauty of it. Thick trees lined the street, dappling sunlight on the brownstone houses behind them. A couple with a pram were walking briskly, but not fearfully, and a group of children were playing hopscotch on the sidewalk.

Hopscotch.

It was like something out of a damn movie, some PG family-friendly waste of two hours that always left Bea wishing.

Happy suddenly slowed, pulling over and cutting the engine.

“What are you doing?” Bea asked, pulling her eyes from the beautiful street to check the clock on the dash. “We’re going to be late.”

“We’re actually early,” he countered, looking past her and out the window.

Bea’s jaw dropped. “They live here?”

But Happy had already unbuckled and climbed out of the car, heading for the curb as Bea did the same. Suddenly, the streets were no longer beautiful—Bea felt intimidated beyond belief, underdressed, and underprepared.

“You good, kid?” Happy asked as he locked the car. She nodded, not quite trusting her voice, and he clapped her on the shoulder supportively.

Together, they approached the front door and, after one last reassuring look from Happy, he knocked twice.

A muffled voice called out from inside and then there was the rush of steps approaching the door. It swung open to reveal a woman with rosy cheeks and a man, tall and curly-haired—both boasting beaming smiles at the sight of her.

“Beatrice!” said Caroline, greeting her with a gentle handshake. “We’re so pleased to have you. This is my husband, James.”

James reached out and shook Bea’s hand, kind enough to not react when Bea instinctually pulled away before correcting herself. “Nice to meet you,” she said politely.

“Ms Turner was going to join us today,” Caroline started, looking suddenly uneasy. “But something came up, we just got the call. If you like, we can reschedule?”

“Oh,” said Bea, startled by the choice. “No, that’s okay. I didn’t think she’d be here anyway.”

“Not for anything official,” James explained. “Just to supervise and to make sure you had someone familiar here.”

Bea shrugged. “Fine by me.” She turned back to Happy and gave him a look that said, well, see you later, but he made no move to leave.

“Boss’s orders,” he said by way of explanation.

Boss’s orders? Was that what Tony had been so riled up about before they left? But that didn’t make sense, she was safe. Wasn’t she? Cross was in custody. Bea was safe, there was no reason for Happy to stay, for Tony to have made him—

At the sight of her steadily-escalating panicked expression, Happy smiled reassuringly. “As if I’m going to sit in the car,” he teased, echoing her jab from earlier.

Bea forced a smile and turned back to the Fletchers, who stepped aside to let her pass. Happy followed close behind, suddenly grateful that he was there. The house was as beautiful as the street, but jarringly modern. Whitewashed floors and white walls, but it was clear the Fletchers had made their mark. Furniture filled every last corner of the house in bright colours, brass-framed portraits hung in gallery formations. She spotted a picture of a young boy holding up a silver medal, a couple embracing in a field, a sun-kissed family beaming at the camera with a vast, and glittering ocean behind them.

Bea turned away and continued down the hall.

Her mother used to say if something seemed too good to be true, it usually was. But the past few months of Bea’s life had challenged that—to be rescued by the Avengers, to have lived and worked alongside Tony Stark? It was too good to be true, yet it had become Bea’s norm. But this? An apparently loving family with an enormous clean house on a beautiful tree-lined street where children could safely play on the sidewalk? Bea was skeptical, to say the least.

Caroline lead the way through to the living room and kitchen, where a small girl and a gangly teenage boy were waiting at the island, both keeping themselves occupied—Phineas on a Switch, and Vivian with a dinosaur colouring book.

“Beatrice,” Caroline said, and the kids looked up. “This is our eldest, Phineas, and our youngest, Vivi. Kids, this is Beatrice.”

Bea gave an awkward wave and immediately regretted it.

“Phineas has just been accepted for a scholarship at Midtown Tech,” James said proudly. “He starts in the fall.”

“Oh, wow,” Bea said, offering the boy a smile. “Congratulations. I’m on a scholarship, too. Well, was. Maybe still, who knows.” She frowned, internally begging herself to shut up. “You like science?”

Phineas shrugged. “More into coding and robotics.”

“Nice. Same.”

Silence fell around them, and Caroline wrung her hands. “It’s such a nice day outside,” she said, “I thought we could sit on the patio and get to know one another. Lemonade?”

Bea shook her head, but Happy accepted the offer. As Caroline and James busied themselves, Bea stole a glance over her shoulder at the man and grinned, mouthing, child.

Caroline was right—it was a beautiful day outside. A cool breeze brushed the lawn and the clear skies warmed their skin. Vivian had managed to drag Phineas outside for a game of soccer, and both kids were laughing loudly as they played.

“You have a beautiful home,” Bea commented politely as they took their seats at the outdoor setting. “I didn’t think there was this much space in the whole city for a yard like this.”

“It was my dad’s place,” Caroline explained, running her fingers through the condensation on her glass. “He passed away last year. We’re so lucky to still have a piece of him here, to be able to raise the kids in such a beautiful place.”

Happy sipped on his lemonade noisily, as if reminding them he was still there. He stood guard only ten paces away in the shade, always within Bea’s line of sight.

Truthfully, Bea liked the Fletchers. James was unlike any man she’d ever met, gentle and relaxed, she almost didn’t know how to act around him. And Caroline was so sweet and maternal, and asked Bea questions she’d never even considered. Despite what she’d assumed, they had no agenda. They were funny and kind, clever and easygoing, and conversation between them all quickly became fluid. Bea found herself talking about her old job in the bakery, and how much she enjoyed school. She was mentioning Peter and Ned, even Celia at one point, the Fletchers just listening with rapt attention.

Then Vivian was there, panting from all her running about, and stopped in front of Bea with a hand on her knee. “Hello,” Bea said as the girl caught her breath, clearly desperate to ask a question.

“Do you have magic?” she asked.

Bea looked between Vivian and her parents, unsure of what to say. James reached over and tapped Vivian on the elbow. “Vivi,” he said, and she turned to look at him. “That’s personal. Do we think asking personal questions is rude or polite?”

Vivi thought for a moment, scrunching her little face in concentration. “Rude?”

“Okay, so what do we say when we’re rude?”

Bea could see the lightbulb flick as Vivi turned back to Bea. “Oh. Sorry, Beatrice.”

“That’s okay,” she said, and it wasn’t a lie. “I usually wouldn’t mind showing you my magic, but it doesn’t seem to want to work lately.”

“Oh.” Vivian frowned, the gears working again in her mind. “Well, once during a storm my flashlight wasn’t working, so I gave it to daddy to fix and he said the batteries were broken, so he gave it new batteries and it started working again.”

Bea smiled. “You think I should try some new batteries?”

Vivi shrugged. “Maybe.”

“I think I will. Thanks, Vivi.”

With that, Vivian beamed and ran off again to join her brother.

“That was sweet of you, Beatrice,” Caroline said, looking apologetic. “She’s so inquisitive lately, always asking questions and coming up with ideas. I hope we didn’t make you uncomfortable?”

“No,” Bea assured. “She’s very clever.”

“Well,” Caroline started apprehensively, sharing a look with her husband, “I’ve been wondering ever since Karen told us about you.”

“You can see where Vivi gets it,” James joked quietly.

“She’s adopted,” Caroline countered with a laugh. “Well, what I wanted to ask was … If it’s not too personal … Why are you looking to leave Mr Stark? Avengers Tower? I mean, you look very well cared for. Healthy. Happy, as much as one could expect to be after everything.”

Bea thought for a moment, feeling very much like Vivian. She could see Caroline’s worried expression, anxious that she’d offended her in some way, but Bea genuinely didn’t have an answer. “Well, I …” she started, hoping the rest would just come. “I didn’t really think staying was an option.”

James frowned. “Of course it is. As long as it’s safe, and Karen said they’ve been granted temporary custody.”

Bea’s mind whirled. She’d never been told otherwise, but she’d never actually been told point-blank that staying was a real option. But even if it is, she reminded herself, there’s no guarantee Tony wants that, too.

Something vibrated in her back pocket and she remembered her phone, but ignored it. Old messages and notifications had been filtering through all night, ever since she turned the stupid thing on.

Caroline and James couldn’t have prepared themselves for the can of worms they’d opened. Bea launched into every question she’d been too afraid to ask since meeting Karen on Monday—a lifetime ago, it felt—and Caroline and James, in all their experience and knowledge of the foster system, answered patiently and comprehensively. They didn’t even looked annoyed when Bea opened her mouth to ask yet another question, but paused when Happy interrupted.

“For you,” he said, holding out his phone. A call was waiting, and her heart leapt into her throat when she read Tony’s name at the top. She looked back to the Fletchers, entirely reluctant to leave their amazing conversation for what would surely only be bad news, but they didn’t look worried at all.

“Take your time,” James said. “We’ll still be here when you get back.”

“Feel free to head inside where it’s quiet,” Caroline suggested.

Bea took the phone grudgingly and stood, glancing back apologetically at the couple. She waited until she was inside enough that Vivi’s giggles were muffled to press the phone to her ear. Happy glanced at her through the glass door before turning his back. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” came Tony's voice. He sounded strained, upset, and dread flooded her stomach.

“What’s wrong?” she asked immediately.

He hesitated, clearing his throat. “How’s the Brady Bunch.”

“Fine,” she said, ignoring the jibe. “What happened?”

She listened impatiently as Tony sucked in a deep breath over the line. “We just got a call from Jon Sterling—”

“Who?”

“Part of our legal team, don’t worry about it—you’ll meet him soon.” He paused, and Bea could imagine him running a hand through his hair. “Cross’s arraignment was today.”

Bile and fury rose in her throat. They gave him an opportunity to defend himself? What were they thinking?

“He made a plea?” she asked, hating the anxious rasp of her voice. Maybe Cross had grown a conscience. Saw the error of his ways after Bea spared his life and decided to end this once and for all.

But Tony remained quiet.

“Spit it out,” she hissed, despite knowing what was coming.

“He’s plead not guilty.”

Bea expected her stomach to drop, maybe for the flipping of her insides to turn into vomit, for the familiar sense of dread to knock her right to the ground and melt her world right back down to the cold cement cage, because she never really left.

But the world didn’t change. She was still in the Fletchers’ beautiful home with the beautiful portraits and the beautiful furniture. Phineas was still playing with Vivi outside, the little girl giggling as her brother kicked the ball. The silence over the line hummed in her ear.

“Okay,” she said steadily, fighting the swelling panic. “Fine. What do we do?”

Tony was talking, but she couldn’t hear him. The kitchen tap was dripping, slowly, rhythmically, and Bea was lost. The idea that she might be called to fight this yet again had her heart hammering in her chest, her lungs refusing oxygen. She tried desperately to focus on his voice as he explained what was to come, what to expect, but she couldn’t.

God, she couldn’t do this.

“Bea,” he said, voice coming through clearly now. “Everything’s going to be—“

“They’re calling me back,” she lied. “Sorry, I have to go, I’ll see you at home.”

She ended the call before he could argue, suddenly swamped in quiet. For a moment, she was tempted to let herself believe the call hadn’t happened. That she could go back outside and rejoin the Fletchers and keep asking her questions, making her plan.

The phone lit up again with Tony’s face.

The screen flickered to black.

Her phone vibrated in her back pocket—Tony, again and again.

She let the calls ring out.

There was nothing to be said. The deed was done—Cross had a shot at freedom. She remembered her mother’s journals, the news articles. This wasn’t his first rodeo, he’d gotten off free once before. She imagined a judge banging their gavel, clearing him of all charges, and a shiver trickled down her spine.

Bea checked her phone one last time. Four missed calls from Tony, and two missed messages.

Tony: Call me.

pedroparker: running late tn! be there soon

But what she was looking for wasn’t there—Tony hadn’t tried calling again.

The decision was made before she could form a half-rational thought. She needed air and time and solitude, and going back out into the garden was only going to accomplish one of those. Her gaze flicked to the window—Vivian and Phineas were looking at a butterfly that had landed on the collapsable soccer goal, Caroline and James were talking quietly amongst themselves as they watched the kids, and Happy … His back was still turned.

Bea left both phones on the counter before walking out the front door.

The sky had turned pastel with the setting sun, and the street was no longer dappled with light. Bea walked straight past Happy’s car and on, hoping to find her way eventually, but it wasn’t as if she was in Queens. Maybe if she walked far enough she'd find Cross in his own little Cage and she'd be able to do what Tony had talked her out of.

A glimmer of guilt shone amidst the panic and anger at the thought of Tony and the others, and Bea almost turned around. She shouldn’t have left the Fletchers like that, not after they’d been so kind and patient with her. And Happy, God, how could she have done this to him again? Despite it all, Bea pushed on, putting one foot in front of the other.

The burn in her calves helped ease the burn in her chest.

Not guilty. Not guilty? The audacity, the nerve of him. Not guilty. Why hadn't the judge laughed in his face and told him he was a liar? There was so much evidence, surely there was evidence. Her still-bandaged wrists and ankles throbbed with the anger of it. Asshole. Bastard. Pig-headed mother—

Who did he think he was? He'd barged into her mother’s life, then Bea’s life, then decided to end the former and torture the latter.

Not guilty my ass.

She’d walked father than she’d thought, a long way from the quaint tree-lined streets, and she only noticed how dark it was when a streetlight she passed flickered on. Bea passed graffitied shopfronts and abandoned cars, and there were sirens in the distance—she must have walked away from the city.

She passed an alley, swearing profanities under her breath, and flinched as something heavy fell, sending trashcans clattering. Keep walking, she tried telling herself, but then she heard groaning. Having grown up in Queens, Bea had a decent head on her shoulders and enough of a survival instinct to know not to stop, but … the sounds were familiar.

Shadows moved in the darkness, the streetlights not quite reaching that far, and as she squinted, she made out a figure about halfway down struggling to climb onto a dumpster. Instead, they began climbing the wall.

She had no idea where she was, and the idea was laughable, but … Bea approached slowly—you could never assume in New York, no matter which part—and said, “Peter?”

The figure shot around, his freaky white eyes blinking slowly in the darkness. He mumbled something incoherent and Bea stepped forward, confident it was him, and he was hurt—

Peter flinched and shot a web with an outstretched hand. His aim was off by about a foot, but Bea’s reflexes were still there after all her training with Sam and she did her best to dodge it.

“Peter, it’s—” she tried as she stepped closer to touch his hand, but he shoved her off. Palms scraped against the cement as she landed on her hip, letting out a hoarse grunt, but she’d had enough practice at this to know she needed to get up.

Bea quickly closed the distance between them and repaid the favour, knocking the dazed, swaying Spider-Man on his ass with a single swipe of her foot. He didn’t break his fall.

Shit.

On the ground, those white eyes focused on her. “Bea?”

“Idiot,” she said, crouching beside him to assess the damage. “What’ve you done to yourself?”

“Cops got—got’m sorted.”

“Yeah, and look at you. Does Tony know?”

She trailed her hands over his torso, searching for the wound she couldn’t see, and as her fingers found the unmistakeable slick of blood, he sucked in a sharp breath. He was saying something, rasping the words out through borrowed breaths, but Bea couldn’t hear anything over the drumming of her own blood.

The familiarity of it all had her in a vice. She’d been here before and she hadn’t been able to save him. All she’d been able to do was hold him and hear his last, awful words before he died.

How could you?

Bea was almost convinced he was saying those exact words to her now, but when she blinked down at him, a tear falling onto his suit, he was quiet.

“They’re coming,” he said, covering her hand with his. She pressed tighter to staunch the bleeding, but he didn’t flinch. “S’ok.”

How could you?

“No,” she said fiercely, shaking her head free of the memory. She’d never forgive herself if she didn’t try. “I won’t let you … Not—not again.”

Her grip tightened a little around the wound, fingers almost slipping inside. He made a strangled noise, but didn’t fight her off.

“Bear with me, Spider-Boy. I’m a bit rusty.”

She closed her eyes against the darkness and pushed the world away. The feeling of cement under her knees, of blood on her hands, of the cool night air—none of it would help her now. She reached, deep into the well she’d become so familiar with in her life. Whilst it wasn’t the lake she’d learned to make it, it was there and it was full, and Bea found she could dive so much deeper than she used to.

Maybe if …

No, not there ...

There it was.

The familiar warmth felt like her own personal sun, like seeing an old friend after so many years. She embraced it, stifling the feelings of fear she’d come to associate with it, and let it fill her to the very brim.

Light flickered beyond her eyelids and she bore down even further, focusing harder on the healing light she’d known her entire life. Peter winced at the pressure to his side, letting his hand fall away, and she blinked in the low light.

What she could see of Peter’s red suit was spattered with blood, his mask torn at the chin and a gaping hole where her hands were. Her hands, glowing pink with blood, but glowing. Healing. The wound shrank as she pressed her fingers even deeper into his skin, but then Peter let out a sharp, rattling breath. The skin around his wound was red—not with blood, but with burns and blisters.

The light died.

What had she done? She’d burned him, she saw it, but now in the darkness, there was nothing again. Every time she blinked, all she saw was the ghost of her light. Peter was breathing slow and shallow in the darkness. Bea swore loudly.

She moved one hand to his sternum to feel the rise and fall of his breaths but they were few and far between. Blood still poured around her other hand and down to the ground where she knelt, but no matter how hard she tried, concentrating so hard she saw stars, her hands remained dark.

“Peter?” she begged. “Wake up. Wake up, Spider-Man.”

But Peter didn’t stir.

This was wrong. On so many levels, this was the furthest thing she had ever known from right. He was Spider-Man. And she was Beatrice Page.

She could save him, she knew she could. It had worked for a second there—his wound had begun to close before it stopped. Why had it stopped?

Unsure of what to do, Bea reached down further than ever before and summoned everything she had inside her. She forced the well to the point of overflow and suddenly she was standing waist-deep in the lake. Her magic surrounded her in little waves, lapping at her ribs, and Bea let it. She fought the feelings of overwhelm, the voice in her head that told her it was too much, she had to stop or she’d let Cross win—

But this wasn’t about Cross.

With one last look at Peter’s limp body, Bea sank into the waters of her magic and exploded.

It was as if someone had switched on the sun. Every last alley rat squealed and scurried from their once-shadows as Bea radiated pure light. She could barely open her eyes in fear of bursting her retinas, but as she blinked, the world came gently into view. Loose tendrils of her hair glowed brilliant white in her peripherals and when she looked down at his wound, she found only the smooth, pink skin of Peter’s abdomen.

It had closed within a matter seconds. She watched as the blisters melted away, felt as the firm scar tissue beneath her fingers settled into soft, even flesh. The hand on Peter’s sternum suddenly jolted as Peter let out a breath and sucked in lungfuls of the cool night air. His eyes were still closed, but his chest was moving, and Bea thanked whichever god above had shown her mercy.

She released her magic then, letting it wash away back into the well, and watched as her skin faded back to its warm, dark shade. Something felt different—she felt in control for the very first time—but she barely had a moment to consider the thought.

The alley was still bright.

Bea turned on her knee, one hand still on Peter’s steady chest. A car had parked in the mouth of the alley and a tall figure stood at the door, face masked by the bright headlights flooding the narrow lane. Panic gripped her at the thought of Cross, of his impossible team of men, of the plea he’d made only hours earlier that was sure to still send her spiralling. She wondered how quickly she could summon her magic again, only this time, not for healing.

The figure—a man, Bea was certain of it—reached into the car and dimmed the headlights, but when she met his eyes properly, her stomach dropped. It wasn’t Cross, or one of his soldiers. No, this was much worse.

The car door slammed and Happy, more furious than she’d ever seen, stepped forward.

Chapter Text

Happy’s lecture lasted almost the entire drive back to the Tower.

As soon as he’d checked them both over and made sure neither was in danger of dying within the hour, he’d laid into them. It was a new sensation for Bea—the shame that came with having disappointed someone, let alone Happy, made her sick. He was a someone who cared about her wellbeing, and whether it was genuine or just part of the job, it was still something she'd rarely experienced.

Even if Happy hadn’t just said it three times in a row, Bea knew she shouldn’t have run off. It wasn’t fair on the Fletchers or Happy, and Tony—well, Happy didn’t say much about Tony. But when Bea thought back to the moment Tony’s words had met her ear through the phone, the distinct ring of not guilty bouncing around in her head, she knew there was no version of reality where she hadn’t run.

She glanced sidelong at Peter whose eyes were closed, head against the window and his mask in his lap. Bea was glad she’d run. Saving him tonight had been a twisted, unbelievable stroke of sheer luck and Bea thanked every last mote of intuition that she’d somehow walked in his direction.

Despite the blood that stained her clothes, that had smeared on her hands and clumped under her fingernails, Bea knew she’d achieved something tonight. Not with her magic—that was a can of worms she hadn’t meant to open. No, it was remembering the last time she’d had Peter’s blood on her hands, not being able to do anything, but this time … She’d saved him.

Bea scratched absentmindedly at her wrist as she watched the passing lights. The bandages under her sleeves had come loose in all the action, a little bloody themselves. She glanced down to adjust them, and froze. In the fleeting glow of the passing streetlights, Bea saw skin.

Half a beat passed and she tightened her bandages.

“Don’t you understand how worried we all were?” Happy grumbled from the front. Peter stirred, but didn’t wake.

“We’re sorry,” Bea said again.

“No, just you wait ’til Tony sees you.”

The rest of the drive was spent listening to Happy’s disgruntled mutterings of unbelievable and damn teenagers, and Bea’s anxiety surged as they pulled into the garage. Tony was waiting for them by the elevator.

Happy got out first and Bea reached over to shake Peter awake. She’d made sure he was healed before Happy had done his own inspection, and the general consensus was that Peter was uninjured, but she knew firsthand that the exhaustion of healing couldn’t be solved with a little magic light.

He stirred fully then looking dazed and disoriented, but with one glance at Bea and a tired nod, he unbuckled and pushed himself out of the car. Bea joined him.

Happy had placed himself beside Tony, arms crossed over his chest and expression almost as thunderous as when he’d found them. He’d promised them an absolute thrashing from Tony—and they probably deserved it—but Tony didn’t look angry. He wasn’t grabbing them by the earlobes and dragging them through the house, belting them or beating them for what they’d done. He only stood with his hands in his pockets, looking stern, but Bea could see the ghost of worry in his eyes.

Those eyes swamped them then, searching desperately for any sign of injury. He studied Bea’s face, then her bloodstained clothes before moving to Peter, his suit torn, bloody and dishevelled and his eyes downcast.

The two stood looking ashamed, like kids before their disappointed parents.

“C’mon,” Tony said, tilting his head towards the open elevator. “Upstairs, both of you.”

Any second, the act would drop and they would cop it from Tony like they’d copped it from Happy. Maybe it would be upstairs, maybe it would be in an hour or a day or a week. Bea wasn’t sure she could sleep if he didn’t.

Upstairs was quiet, all the lights off except for the kitchen where a kettle whistled quietly on the stove. Pepper was up, making herself a cup of tea that smelled distinctly sweet and floral. When she spotted them, she darted around the kitchen island to meet them in the hall, her shoulders dropping and her hand on her throat as she took them in. “You’re safe,” she breathed, before clocking Peter’s suit and the blood on Bea’s clothes. She took another step forward, reaching out but not quite touching them. “Are you hurt?”

Tony gave Bea a look, daring her to voice the impossible thing that’d happened, but Bea shrank in on herself. “We’re okay.”

“Take a seat,” Tony said as Pepper led them back to the kitchen. “Both of you, c’mon.”

Peter looked exhausted, desperate to just call it a night, but Happy nudged them both towards the island.

“Five minutes,” Tony promised.

Bea and Peter sat on barstools at the island, Happy lingered in the corner, and Tony and Pepper stood before them, leaning against the counters. Tony was standing right where Bea had broken all that glass. She fought the urge to find the mark on her palm.

“First off,” Pepper said, and Bea watched as her hand slid to cover Tony’s. “We’re not mad.”

Happy scoffed behind them.

“Doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,” said Tony. “What you both did tonight was stupid and reckless, and we’re definitely going to talk about this later, but you both look like shit so we’re going to keep it short. I called May.”

Peter deflated a little.

“She had no idea, she was worried sick. You will call her in the morning and apologise.”

Peter nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You’ll stay here tonight and we’ll talk in the morning, but she and I both agreed no patrolling for one week.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but he bit his tongue.

Tony turned to Bea then. “Tomorrow morning you’re going to call the Fletchers and apologise.”

“That’s it?” Bea said before she could stop herself. “I mean—yes, sir.”

“For now,” said Tony. “And if you two still want to go out tomorrow night, we’ve decided that’s fine, but since you’ve shown us you can’t be trusted on your own, Happy will be joining you.”

Happy let out a strangled noise, and cleared his throat.

Peter looked affronted at the idea, but didn’t argue. Bea couldn’t see the issue. Where was the punishment here? Sure, Tony would never actually be physical with them, but how else were you supposed to teach a lesson? All she had to do was apologise, which she was going to do anyway, and to have Happy with them tomorrow would be kind of a relief.

“Go on,” said Pepper then, looking at Peter’s slumped form. “Off to bed, get some sleep. We can talk more in the morning.”

Peter didn’t need to be told twice, and swivelled off his barstool. He stopped just before disappearing into the hall and turned, finding Bea with a frown. He wanted to talk, she realised, but considering the state of him, not to mention the state of her … Bea gave him a reassuring nod, one that promised they would talk—eventually.

Just not tonight.

“You too, kiddo,” Tony said, pushing off the cabinets. “Go on.”

Pepper picked up her tea and they all led Bea out of the kitchen. “We’re not mad,” Pepper promised quietly, wrapping an arm around Bea’s shoulders. “We were just worried. We’re glad you’re safe.”

Bea nodded, suddenly unable to find her words.

They all said goodnight in that hallway, but Tony, Pepper and Happy did not move until Bea had closed her bedroom door behind her.

Bea did not sleep.

Instead, she locked her door and rolled a towel to block out any light escaping in the gap beneath. “FRIDAY, lights at 30% please.”

She was going to shower, going to get changed, but first … Bea tugged at the bandages on her wrists until they were loose, falling to the floor in heavy, bloody ribbons. Her wrists were whole. No scarring, no pain. Only fresh, smooth skin. She kicked off her sneakers, tossing her socks into the corner and found her ankles in the exact same state.

Her scars were gone.

This was a good thing. It’s not as if she wanted to be in pain, not as if she thought she deserved to be injured, weakened, punished for what Cross had done to her. Except, that was exactly the point—what Cross and done to her. He’d used her magic against her, he’d taken every last piece of evidence that he’d ever hurt her, every wound and cut and burn and bruise and he’d wiped it away like it was nothing. He’d made sure she was fresh and new and healthy.

Her scars had been a reminder. It was proof of the pain she’d been through at Cross’s hands, and proof of the fact she’d escaped despite him.

It was all she had left, and now it was gone.

Bea tore her bloodied clothes off, not caring if she was ruining them—they were ruined enough—and forced herself into a scalding shower. She scrubbed herself three times before she felt clean again.

Despite everything—the hot shower, her healed scars, her comfortable pyjamas and her welcoming bed—sleep was a thousand miles away. Her brain was running itself in circles and she knew there was nothing that would help.

After an hour of tossing and turning, Bea gave a frustrated groan and rolled out of bed. What were the odds that someone was still awake? Peter, extremely low. But Tony? She’d worried him tonight, they both had. Like everything else that’d happened in the last twenty-four hours, it was strange and new and uncomfortable.

Without giving herself a moment to reconsider, Bea left her room and toed down the dark hall to the elevator where she asked to be taken to the lab. FRIDAY didn’t argue or quip like she usually did—the doors only closed.

Tony didn’t look up when she walked into the lab. He wasn't working, typing or tinkering, he was just … sitting there. Staring at an old mug.

“Hey,” she said.

He shifted then, pulling his gaze away and looking at her. “You’re still up.”

“Can’t sleep.”

“Well, that makes two of us, I guess.”

He stood, busying himself with some papers on the desk. It'd been a lifetime since she’d last stepped foot in the lab, but it looked exactly the same. Her corner was still there, slightly messy, but just as she’d left it.

“What’s keeping you up?” Bea asked coolly as she wandered around.

Tony scoffed, dragging a hand down his face. “What isn’t. You wanna tell me what the hell happened tonight? Not about you running off. I get that—I hate it, but I get it.”

Bea shrugged, not looking at him. “Pete was hurt. I helped him.”

“Happy said it was a bit more than that.”

She bristled. “Why are you asking me if Happy’s already told you?”

“God, I want to make sure you’re alright. Sue me.”

Bea shot him a mean look, fighting the urge to touch her wrists. “I’m fine. He’s fine, we’re all fine.”

But she wasn’t fine. She was still thinking about Peter’s blood on her hands, how it had felt exactly the same back in the illusion. All the sounds and textures were right on the mark and, now that her scars were gone, she was having a tough time making sense of everything.

Bea paused in front of a half-finished project, running her finger over a welded metal corner as she said, “You don’t have to worry, you know.”

Tony made an amused sound.

“I’m serious,” she said, turning to face him. “You don’t have to care this much. It would be so much easier for everyone if we all just quit the pretending and got on with our lives.”

“Pretending,” Tony echoed, barking a mirthless laugh. “No, I couldn’t find you, Bea. And then the Spider suit’s telling me the kid’s been hurt too, and I couldn’t—” Tony’s voice broke and something splintered in Bea’s chest. “Happy was scouring the streets and I had to tell him to turn around because we knew where Pete was. I had to make that call and it felt like I was letting you walk right back to Cross all over again.”

“Why do you care?” It was hard to keep her voice from wavering. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I can take care of myself, I was just fine on my own before. You’re not my dad—”

“Why’re you picking a fight?”

Bea swallowed, face burning. “I’m not.”

“You are. And I care because I just care, we all do. It’s not about you, and we’re all in far too deep to be thinking any different. If you wanna be alone out there in the world that’s perfectly fine, but at least one person in this Tower is always going to have your back.”

“You can’t just say stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not realistic, you don’t mean it!”

He laughed incredulously. “Like hell I don’t.”

“Stop laughing,” Bea fumed. “You guys have to be eager to get me off your radar by now, so just say it.”

He scoffed. “You’re smart, Bea, I know you are, but that’s the stupidest thing I think you’ve ever said.”

Bea fumed at that, but Tony persisted.

“Is that what today was about? With the Fletchers? Kid, how many times have I told you, the Tower is your home. No one wants you to leave, the least of all me.”

“Never,” said Bea, and Tony frowned. “You’ve never told me that. I had a feeling, maybe, but that right there was the first time.”

“God, help me out here, what’s the issue? What am I missing?”

“The issue is that I’m nobody. I’m some random kid from Queens with one dead parent and one psychotic parent, and you’re Tony freaking Stark. Maybe you’re having some weird mid-life crisis or something, but the reality is that living under your roof is giving everyone the absolute wrong idea and any sane person would want me out of here tomorrow.”

“Good thing I’m slightly off the sane axis, then,” Tony quipped. “And don’t think I missed you calling me old. But what d’you mean, the wrong idea?”

Bea pulled her phone out of her back pocket and crossed the room to meet Tony. The article wasn’t hard to find—she’d spent most of last night scrolling before she’d let herself sleep. She tapped on the first headline and turned the phone for him to see.

EXCLUSIVE: KIDNAPPED TEEN TURNS HEIR TO STARK FORTUNE.

She pulled the phone back and just went to the search results, reading out headlines like, BEATRICE PAGE: THE FUTURE OF STARK INDUSTRIES? and A DEEP-DIVE INTO THE NEXT STARK.

Tony took the phone at the last one, tapping through the article.

“They tracked down all my school records, everything,” Bea said, watching Tony’s eyes flick over the text. “They took photos off my Instagram, they know more about me than I do.”

“We told them to stay out of your business.” He shook his head. “Well, we asked, but that’s as good as, usually.”

“What?” Bea’s face fell. “You told them?”

He looked back up at her. “Do you actually read these, or just the headlines?”

With a flick, he was at the bottom of the article and handing the phone back for her to read.

In a press conference held earlier today, Pepper Potts, CEO of Stark Industries, addressed the media regarding the recent kidnapping of Beatrice Page, and the role of the Avengers in her subsequent rescue.

Potts assured the public that Beatrice is currently in a stable condition and is recovering under the care of medical experts at the Avengers Tower. “We’re pleased to report that her condition is stable, and we are hopeful for her full recovery," Potts stated during the conference.

The CEO also emphasised the importance of respecting Page’s privacy during this difficult time, likely referring to the recent rumours and speculation around the ongoing criminal investigation. “We must stress that this is the life of a minor who deserves to navigate this ordeal with dignity and respect.”

Potts reiterated her gratitude for the overwhelming response received from both the community and the media. “Your continued support is deeply appreciated, and we ask that you keep Beatrice in your thoughts as she recovers.”

Tears prickled at Bea’s eyes as she read and soon felt the grounding grip of Tony’s hand on her shoulder. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, not unkindly.

He reached out again and took the phone off her, setting it face-down on the desk.

“Tell me what you wanna do,” he said. “I know you’ve heard a few things from a few people, but they don’t matter. What do you want?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you want to get away from all this?” He gestured to her phone. “You met the Brady Bunch—Fletchers, whatever you wanna call them. They’ve got a nice house, nice kids, they’re close to school and your friends. Like, seriously, tree-lined streets and kids on bicycles in New York? It’s like a damn movie. Is that what you want?”

Truthfully, Bea could see herself there. If she forced herself, she could loved it. Doing homework with Phineas, playing with Vivian, sitting down to dinner, walking to and from school with Phineas and without her keys between her knuckles. She remembered how wholly they embodied the word 'family'. How they’d seen a light in little Vivian and said we’re never letting that go. It made Bea ache to know she’d never get that.

Because the Fletchers were safe, normal, and Bea wasn’t normal. She might put them in danger, but worse than that, if she lived with them, she’d never be able to visit the Tower. She’d done her research and, from the Fletchers’, it was two buses and a train, plus a thirteen-minute walk, and her MetroCard only covered trips to and from school. She had gotten far too close with everyone at the Tower, and maybe that was her fault, her own burden to bear, but she didn’t want to leave them.

Bea shook her head. “No.”

“Right,” Tony said. “So, what do you want?”

She only watched him, terrified of saying the words out loud.

“I can’t read your mind, kiddo. I can guess, but this is your decision and I need to hear it from you.”

He seemed genuine, despite all the unkind things she’d said to him tonight, despite everything she had put them all through already with Cross, with her terrible mood swings and her inability to leave any of them in peace. So uncharacteristically genuine, and yet, in all the time she had been at the Tower, he had never once betrayed her trust—it was unkind of her to think he’d start now.

He held her gaze, as if daring her to say it.

“I don’t want to leave.” The words came easy, and now that she’d started it was hard to stop. “I’m sorry if that’s not what you want but I really like living here. I don’t know when it happened but I’ve started think of the Tower as home, and the people in it as home. I really like spending time with Sam and Bucky, and I like that Peter’s here sometimes, and that the others stop in when it suits them, and I like working here in the lab with you. I feel—I feel supported, and understood, and—” Her voice broke, but she massaged a tight spot on her brow and powered through. “Tell me if we’re not on the same page here, I’ll totally understand—”

“Well, that’s it, then.”

Bea’s heart sank. That’s it. So much for all that. But just as she opened her mouth to say something, anything—even beg—he spoke again.

“Karen’s just going to have to get on board.”

She felt as if all the air in the room had been sucked out. “What?”

“You’re staying.”

A beat passed, and Bea was sure she’d heard him wrong. “No,” she argued, stupidly. “You have to think about it first. I’m—I’m rude, and a handful, and I have a bad attitude and I’m really sad a lot of the time, but I’m also not good at feeling sad and then I take it out on other people. I’m messy and—”

Bea swallowed the sob that broke from her. All the unspeakable things that she was had lodged in her throat. Her non-existent scars. Her non-existent friendships. The only stable relationship in her life being the little bottle in her nightstand.

“I don’t want you to sign up for the Beatrice you think I am and then realise the Beatrice I actually am is too much work, because what if things go wrong and you resent me—”

“Jesus, you're a mess.” Tony said, squeezing her shoulders to calm her down. “You’re saying all this like we don’t already know. We can go back and forth all day, but the fact is the Beatrice you really are is just fine by us. Messy, sure. Moody, absolutely. But too much work?” He shrank a little to meet her gaze. “Not even close.”

Bea pressed her palms to her eyes, trying to let the words sink in. “Say it again. What you said before.”

Tony grinned. “You’re stuck with us, kiddo. I’ll call our lawyer in the morning to touch base with the Family Court so we can settle on permanent guardianship.”

Bea’s skin prickled as a thought occurred. She looked up at him. “And this is real, isn’t it? You’re serious?”

His smile faltered, but he didn’t lose face. “It’s real. And yes, I am serious. Pepper’s always telling me to stop being so sarcastic with you.”

He turned to tuck his chair in, move a plant on the sideboard. Bea wiped her eyes while his back was turned. He wanted her to stay. She wanted to stay. He was willing to help her be able to stay.

Bea didn’t recognise the warm feeling in her chest.

It didn’t last very long. “Speaking of court,” he said, turning to lean against the cupboard. “How’s the news settling?”

Bea’s smile fell. She knew exactly what he was referring to. “Yeah, fine.”

“Gonna need you to translate that one.”

She shrugged, the words still rattling around her mind. Not guilty. “Not fine.”

Tony nudged a nearby stool with his foot, sitting back down at his desk. Bea joined him.

“What are you most worried about?”

That certainly was the question. A trial meant Bea might have to testify against him. It meant that she would probably have to look him in the eyes again and face everything that had happened. She would be stuck wondering which parts were real and which parts he’d manufactured so carefully in that lab of his.

Even now, with her scars gone and her magic seemingly back in full force, Bea wondered. Would she know if she was back there? Who was to say Cross hadn’t snatched her on the street and she was really back in that cold, damp basement being tested on like a rat? Maybe everything with Peter had felt so much like the illusion because this was the illusion.

“Hey, stop,” Tony said, taking the hand she’d pressed to her collarbone. “Just talk to me.”

She raised her free hand to massage her brow. “I don’t know how …” She hesitated, finding her words. “I’m worried,” she tried again, “I won’t be able to tell the difference between what’s real, and what’s … Cross.”

Tony nodded, brushing his thumb over her knuckles before pausing. He pushed her pyjama sleeve up her forearm. “Really did a number on yourself out there, huh?”

Bea made to pull away but he only held on tighter.

“It sounds like,” he started gently, “we need a code. Top secret, just you n’me.”

“A code.”

“Mhm.”

“Because we’re five years old.”

He smirked. “Don’t be like that. C’mon, let’s go through the senses, what works best? Talking? Maybe some kind of smelling salts, a weird candy that you associate with childhood?”

Bea wanted to joke, but it was a good idea—and he was offering to help. “Maybe … maybe touch? Like a pinch?”

He pinched her arm then, and she jumped with a “Hey!”.

“So,” he said, “not a pinch. Maybe a jab?” He tried to jab her then but her reflexes were too quick and she leapt away, laughing, but he hadn’t let go of her hand. He squeezed as she sat back down. She paused, looking at her hand.

“Could we do that?” she asked. “A squeeze?”

He squeezed her hand again, but this time he squeezed three times. “Like that?”

“Yeah,” she said, throat tight. “That works.”

“Alright, then.”

And he gave three squeezes.

Chapter Text

Bea ended the call and set the phone down on her nightstand with a sigh. What should have been a five-minute apology with Caroline and James Fletcher had turned into an hour-long conversation, and Bea was regretting ever having gotten out of bed.

They had taken her apology well, considering Bea hadn’t planned a word of it, but when Bea hesitated, Caroline had asked the dreaded question: “What’s wrong?”

Muscle memory had told her to brush it off, give some casual reassurance that everything was fine, but Bea knew they deserved better than that after what she’d put them through. So she sidled up to the months of trauma and sifted through the shit to figure out what was bothering her the most.

It should’ve been Cross, and the idea of court, maybe even the way her best friend had almost died in her arms all over again.

“I talked to Tony last night,” she’d said instead.

“About?” James gently pressed.

“He asked me what I wanted to do, and after talking to you guys about it yesterday, I told him I wanted to stay.”

Caroline sucked in a breath. “And?”

“He wants me to stay, too.”

Caroline gave a loud cheer and James, laughing, pulled the phone away. “Oh, hon,” she’d said, back at a normal volume. “We are so pleased for you.”

“But what’s the problem?” James had asked. “That sounds like good news to me.”

Bea paused then, measuring her words. She understood what Tony had told her last night, knew that he’d meant every word and had meant every word since she’d first stepped foot in the Tower all those months ago. Cautiously and carefully, she said “When you offered Vivian a forever home, were you … I mean, were you sure? Like, a hundred percent?”

“A hundred percent,” James answered without hesitation. “We wouldn’t have offered if we knew we weren’t a good home for her.”

Bea swallowed. “He told me once that no sane judge would ever make him the guardian of anyone.”

“Beatrice,” Caroline started gently. “That Stark is a smart man, he’s probably thought this through a thousand times more than you. If he didn’t think he could do it, he wouldn’t offer. Yes, he’s got a pretty questionable reputation, but it sounds to me like he’s ready and willing to change. If a judge can’t see the amount of dedication and care he has for you, they’re not a very good judge.”

“And it probably won’t be the easiest road, or the shortest,” James continued. “But one thing we’ve learned doing what we do is that trust is important. This whole process will be so much easier to bear if you have people around you who you can trust.”

The idea of trusting Tony used to make her blood run cold. Even before Cross, trusting anyone with any of her secrets was a gamble she wasn’t wiling to take. When had all of that changed?

“We clearly don’t know the full story here, honey,” Caroline had said, “and that’s okay. Granted, we haven’t known you very long, but we can tell that you’re more than capable of seeing this through. You’re a good kid, and Stark’s lucky to have you.”

Bea’s throat burned and she blinked furiously at the tears that stung her eyes. She thanked them then, these two people who were still barely more than strangers but who probably understood her just as well as the friends she’d made here at the Tower. They said their goodbyes, and Bea hung up.

Ultimately, the Fletchers were right—if she could let herself trust people again, maybe this wouldn’t be so hard. She still didn’t even know where to start with Cross. Tony probably already had a lawyer—he’d said as much on the phone yesterday—which probably meant there was a plan in place. Hopefully. And the way her heart drummed against her ribs every time she thought of sitting in the witness box, having too look at Cross as she detailed all the thing’s he’d done to her—well, hadn’t Tony said they’d gotten her a therapist? That’ll be a pretty decent job for whoever they are.

Bea was sick of being scared, sick of second-guessing everything. From now on, she promised herself, I’ll be braver.

She left her phone on the bedside table and started out the door down the hallway, into the bright open living area. Tony and Pepper were sitting at the dining table, knees touching as they talked in hushed whispers. A third place was set beside Pepper, and a stack of toast waited for her.

Tony’s eyes found her and Pepper turned to see what had him so tense.

“Oh, morning hon,” she called, waving Bea over to the empty place as she set two pieces of toast down on the empty plate and made sure all the condiments were within reach. “How did you sleep?”

“Not bad,” said Bea. She knew she was still in deep shit for running off last night, and struggled to meet Tony’s eye. She gestured over her shoulder as she said, “Just got off the phone with the Fletchers. I apologised.”

“Knew you would,” said Tony, softening now and taking a bite of his avocado toast.

“Speaking of,” Pepper said slowly. “You never told us how yesterday went.”

Her tone was airy and gave the impression of nonchalance, but the arugula and feta salad on her plate was untouched, though littered with prong-marks from her still mindlessly stabbing fork, and the wedge of lemon on the side had been squeezed to a pulp. Bea pretended she didn’t notice.

“It was okay.”

Pepper gave a knowing look, but it was Tony who spoke up.

“It went terribly,” he said with a smirk. “They were so nice and normal, it scared our Bea into never leaving.”

It took Pepper a moment to process his words.

“What?” She dropped the fork, looking back to Bea. For a moment, she worried that Pepper was the disappointed kind of shocked, but then her lips curled into a hopeful smile. “You’re staying?”

Bea nodded, fighting her own smile. “I hope so. I mean, if we can get Karen to agree.”

Pepper clicked her tongue and gave a dismissive wave. “Oh, to hell with Karen.”

Bea couldn’t help laughing. She’d never heard Pepper like this before, and the thought that now she’d get to witness Pepper all sorts of ways—joyful, tired, even cranky—made her heart soar.

Pepper reached over and took Bea’s hand, squeezing tight. She saw the woman’s shining eyes linger on her unmarred wrists for only a moment. “The Fletchers, they looked like such a good fit, I really thought you were going to go. I wasn’t hoping it wouldn’t work out, but I’m so glad it didn’t.”

“I didn’t actually think this was an option, but they talked me through it for the longest time, they really helped. But, for the record, I’m really glad it didn’t work out, too.”

Pepper’s face did something weird then, and she reached over to pull Bea into an awkward side-hug.

Bea hugged her back just as tight and whispered, “Thank you for what you said at the press conference.”

“Don’t be silly,” Pepper said quietly, pulling back to look her in the face. “You’re our Bea.”

They pulled apart and Pepper went back to her salad then, eating the wilted, stabbed arugula cheerfully. Tony grinned at her from across the table, and gave a wink.

“I think this is cause for celebration,” Pepper said through her salad, a polite hand covering her mouth. “You’re going out tonight, how about we have a spa day?”

“Your date,” Tony jeered. “How could anyone forget. Happy’s really looking forward to it, too.”

“First of all, it’s not a date,” Bea huffed. “And you’re the one who invited Happy, it’s not as if it was my idea.”

“Yeah? And why did I do that, can you remind me?”

“Cut it out,” Pepper told him firmly. “This is a good day, quit bickering.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Well, I’m afraid it’s not a good day yet.” He looked at Bea. “Go on, tell her what you told me last night.”

Bea watched him for a moment, wishing she didn’t have to ruin Pepper’s good mood like this. They all had matching under-eye bags after their sleepless nights—Tony and Bea had stayed in the lab until just before dawn, tinkering and talking even more. Something about late nights and the cover of darkness always loosened Bea’s tongue, often ending up cursing herself for it by morning.

Pepper put a hand on her arm. “What is it?”

“I want to testify.” The words felt as foreign in her mouth as they had last night, but no less true. “Against Cross. I want to tell the Judge what he did and be there when they lock him up for good.”

No one dared tell her the odds.

“Okay,” Pepper said. “We’re meeting with Jon on Monday morning, we can fill you in on everything that’s happened so far, and make a plan for what’s to come.”

Gratitude swelled in Bea like a balloon. “Okay.”

“Now, is there anything else we need to cover before today can officially be declared a good day?”

Bea forced the memories of pills and scars and dark thoughts that only came in the night out of her head, and smiled. “Nope.”

“Fabulous. You and me, spa day.”

She couldn’t read the soft expression on Tony’s face and utterly refused to let herself ruin anything more today, so she simply settled into her bubble of contentment and began spreading honey on her toast.

Bea had never been to a spa. The closest she had ever come was the living room floor between her mom’s knees, eyes closed as the comb gently detangled her curls. She’d never had her nails done or her skin pampered, her hair professionally done or her toes munched on by those creepy little fish. So when she followed Pepper through those enormous sliding glass doors, met by at least fifteen smiling faces, Bea was found herself just about hiding behind Pepper.

So much for brave.

But the ladies in the spa were welcoming and greeted them as if they’d been in a thousand times before, which Pepper probably had. Ever the CEO, Pepper quickly took the lead and rattled off everything they were looking to get done. Bea could barely keep up, only just catching words like age-defying and detoxifying and ultra-hydrating. It didn’t escape her notice that Pepper went for all the gentler services—Bea wasn’t sure she could handle a wax or a full-body massage quite yet.

They spent hours at the salon, and everything Pepper had chosen was perfect. After all their treatments, Bea’s skin was plump and soft against the plush white robe she’d been given, and she was certain her face had never felt so hydrated. Best of all though, her body felt well. Not a single ache or twinge in her joints, not a ghost of whatever had been plaguing her for the past few weeks. Maybe healing Peter really had affected her, but being there at the spa, she imagined herself as a plant getting watered for the first time after being left on the street.

Pepper never once mentioned the missing scars on her wrists, or the new lightness in her step. It was only during a hand massage that Bea realised even the remnants of the cut on her palm had healed, too—but she didn’t know what to do with that information, so she promptly tucked it away in her mind for ignoring.

Halfway through their day, Bea was so relaxed that she barely even protested when Pepper talked her into a hair treatment. It had probably cost an entire year’s tuition, considering it took three people to comb, wash and treat her curls. They fawned over her like she had hair made of gold and skin like satin, and it made something shine in her chest to accept the attention, to sink into a place that was safe and warm and free from everything she’d seen and felt.

Her body didn’t care about the expensive spa treatments, about the attention and the gentle hands combing through her hair. Despite having finally relaxed, her muscles still remembered, and when the staff lay her back in that chair to rinse her hair, they protested. Her shoulders ached and her hands felt trapped—she felt trapped.

But the staff were patient with her and didn’t complain when she had to take a break. They simply gave her a towel to keep her wet hair from soaking through her robe, and left her to her privacy as she sat up, breathed, and reminded herself that the memories were just that—memories. She stumbled through her old breathing exercises, flexing her wrists to relieve the phantom weights that had settled there.

She had swung her legs over the side and was just short of taking a walk around the room, just to remind herself she could, when Pepper knocked at the door. She let herself in and gave Bea a knowing look, neither speaking as Pepper settled on the chair beside her and began rubbing circles into her back. No judgement, no discomfort, just gentle kindness.

An hour later, with nothing left on the agenda but a steam treatment, they settled into their loungers with their cucumber water and basked in the lavender-scented air.

“God, this is so overdue,” said Pepper, stretching out like a cat. Bea couldn’t help but smile.

“Thank you,” Bea said. “For today, but also for everything.”

“Bea, thank you. I don’t get to do this often enough.”

Her brow furrowed as she fought a smile. “The staff know you by name.”

“Yeah, okay, fine, but it’s no fun coming without a buddy.” Pepper glanced across to Bea. “Unless you’ve totally hated today?”

“Oh, hated it,” Bea said facetiously, tilting her head back and breathing deep. “Worst day of my life, by far.”

Pepper laughed hard, coughing a little on the steam. Once recovered, she turned slightly more solemn and said, “How are you feeling about tonight?”

“It’s not a date.”

“Never said it was,” Pepper said gently. “You’re good together, though. As friends, obviously,” she said when Bea shot her a look, “but still good. You’re happier when he’s at the Tower, you sleep better. It’s like you feel safer when he’s with you.”

Bea let it sink in a moment, before admitting, “I do. Not that I don’t feel safe with you guys, it’s just …”

“You don’t have to explain,” Pepper assured quickly. “Just an observation.”

“He’s a really good friend. I don’t know if I could’ve done the last few months without him.”

Pepper gave a thoughtful smile. “Friends like that are rare. I think you’re both very lucky.”

Bea chewed her lip. “You don’t think he feels … obligated or anything, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

She sat up, choosing her words carefully. “I’ve been a bit of a mess and I haven’t really given him the opportunity to change his mind about being my … friend. He’s amazing, don’t get me wrong, but I’m worried I might’ve trapped him in all this.”

“Oh, honey,” Pepper said with a small laugh. “I don’t think you understand how much that boy loves you. He never stopped talking about you before you came to stay, and that still hasn’t changed.”

“I’m not even close to the person I used to be, though. How could he possibly feel any kind of way towards me when I don’t even know myself? How can he like me when I …” Her voice broke, thick with steam, and she swallowed.

Pepper sat up then, too, and took Bea’s hands in her own. “Pete is your friend first, no matter what, and whether what’s between you is platonic or romantic is for you two to figure out. But I promise you, people who love you, like really love you, they aren’t so easy to scare off.”

She squeezed Bea’s hands three times.

“That includes me and Tony, you know,” Pepper added in a low whisper.

Bea didn’t have words good enough to tell Pepper what it all meant to her, so she simply squeezed back, three times.

What was left of their hour in the lavender room was spent talking, with the unspoken rule between them of no more shop talk. They played an odd version of twenty questions where Pepper asked thoughtful things like, “When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?” (an astrophysicist) and “Who inspires you?” (Mom, in the most complicated way), but Bea could only come up with the dullest questions in the world for Pepper, like, “What’s your favourite colour?” (red, maybe gold, too), and “What’s your favourite movie?” (Working Girl, apparently an 80's flick that Bea just had to see).

Pepper didn’t seem to mind Bea’s terrible questions, answering enthusiastically every time. Bea loved learning new things about Pepper, and she got the impression the feeling was mutual when she cracked a joke funny enough to have Pepper laughing off her lounger.

Bea and Pepper, changed back into their clothes and looking considerably fresher than when they’d walked in, left as they were greeted, as if they’d been a thousand times before, and Bea had the strange thought that she could get used to this.

Happy was there to pick them up, fighting a smile at the sight of them. “You two look shiny.”

Bea flicked her hair dramatically, only relishing a little bit at how soft and defined her curls now were. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” she quipped and the laugh that followed was genuine.

The drive home was pleasantly uneventful, spent mostly pondering the night ahead with Peter as Pepper caught up on her missed emails. Despite everything she’d admitted, Bea really was excited to see him. It had been far too long since things between them had been normal, if she could even consider her life before normal.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

pedroparker: as promised, here are the details for tonighttt
pedroparker: time: 6ish? location: a surprise (deal w it). dress code: whatever’s comfortable (not at all related but u look really pretty in that blue dress u bought ages ago) uhhh what else, i’m (/tony’s) paying so all u gotta bring is you
bumblebea: oh def let the billionaire pay. also u should know i don’t like surprises.
pedroparker: i do know that but i think you’ll like it
bumblebea: i’m gonna ask happy
pedroparker: good luck he’s basically a fortress
bumblebea: you could just … tell me :(
pedroparker: and you could just … wait :(
bumblebea: wow

Bea leaned towards Happy in the front seat. "Hey, Happy,” she started slowly.

“Hey, Beatrice,” he mimicked.

“Tony’s asking for the address for tonight,” she lied. “Pete only told me the name, is it that place on, uh, Broadway?”

Happy clicked his tongue. “Nice try, kiddo. Tony knows exactly where we’re going tonight.”

“Come on, don’t you think I should know, too?”

He gave a noncommittal shrug and Bea sat back with a frustrated groan. Pepper didn’t look up from her phone.

“Do you know where he’s taking me?”

Pepper blushed slightly, but still didn’t look up.

“You do!” Bea cried, shifting to face Pepper. “Tell me, please.”

“It’s a surprise, Bea,” she said, brows furrowed like she really was sorry.

“Fine, fine,” she conceded, sitting back again. “Not even a hint?”

Pepper smiled then. “You’ll have fun, I promise.”

Despite her excitement, Bea wasn’t too sure about that. She debated texting Peter back, telling him outright that all she really wanted was to spend time with him. Nothing overboard, nothing Tony Stark would do, but he seemed keen on his plan—whatever it was that somehow included a fancy blue dress.

As soon as they made it home, Bea excused herself to her room with the terrible excuse that she wanted to ‘chill’ before tonight. Pepper and Happy only shared a knowing look before nodding, but Pepper caught her before she disappeared down the hall.

“If you need an extra pair of eyes tonight,” she started hesitantly, “when you’re getting ready, or if you can’t pick an outfit, just … let FRIDAY know. I’m happy to help.”

Bea couldn’t quell the tightening of her throat as she smiled, nodded once, and headed for her room. The offer was, of course, redundant since Bea knew exactly what she was going to wear and had no intention of letting anyone witness her pathetic makeup skills.

She tossed her phone down on the bed, kicking her shoes off as she went, and started rifling through her wardrobe for the dress. But as she pulled it out, admiring the silhouette and the beautiful shade of blue, she thought of the last time she’d tried the dress on and just how different everything had been. How different she had been.

Bea crossed the room to her mirror and held the dress up to herself, pulling the waist taut, and frowned when she grabbed at entire handfuls of extra fabric. More had changed than she thought, clearly. Perhaps a belt? Maybe a jacket?

Only three hours stood between her and Peter’s planned evening, yet the afternoon seemed to disappear—almost like it knew how desperately she wanted the time to stretch out and shortened out of sheer spite.

The next time she checked her phone, though, she had thirty minutes before Peter was due, and there was nothing she could do to make the blue dress fit. She considered asking for Pepper’s help, but something made her pause. The dress just wasn’t comfortable, so maybe she needed to try for comfort rather than beauty. Rifling through her closet one last time, she only considered the Stark Industries workwear for a moment before breezing past, and instead finding her Levi’s and a white satin blouse. A matching pair of shoes, some jewellery, and Bea finally felt decent.

A knock at her door, and Bea called, “Coming!”

But it was Tony who poked his head in. “Just me.”

“Oh.” Bea took a quick glance at the state of her room, as did he, but she let her shoulders relax anyway. “Yeah, come in. Is Peter here?”

“Not yet. Wanted to see how you were going.” His eyes skittered over to the blue dress slung over the back of her desk chair. “You look nice.”

“Will it do?” Bea worried, dashing back over to check one last time in the mirror. “Pete never told me what we’re doing.”

“It’s a surprise.”

“No, I know, it’s just that a heads up would be nice.”

He cocked his head. “Not knowing is kinda the whole point of a surprise.”

“Well, I hate it.”

“No you don’t.”

Bea chewed her lip, glancing back at Tony. “No, I don’t. I just … I want tonight to be normal.”

“And what does normal look like?”

Mattresses pushed together in the living room. Pizza in bed and grease stains on the sheets. Piled up homework and a boy who chooses the window over a door. “I’m not sure these days.”

Because the truth was, no matter how much she wanted it, those days weren’t coming back. She couldn’t undo all the awful things that had happened, and she certainly couldn’t go back to being the person she used to be.

“You’ll have fun tonight. Promise,” Tony said, checking his watch. “Pete’s here. You ready?”

Butterflies in their thousands erupted in her stomach but she smiled, nodded, and fetched her phone before following him out the door and down the hall, into the living room.

Peter looked incredible, enough so that Bea wanted to turn around and try one last time to make that stupid dress work, but then his eyes met hers and his face lit up. He stopped mid-sentence, talking to Pepper at the kitchen island, before excusing himself to meet Bea halfway.

“Hi,” he said almost breathlessly. “You look really pretty.”

Bea couldn’t fight her grin or the warmth that stained her cheeks. She gestured at his pressed trousers and his neat button-down, and said, “You too. Not pretty—I mean, you look pretty but also handsome. Good. You look nice.”

“You too.”

“You already said that.”

His eyes grazed down her, from her head to her toes. “It needs to be said twice.”

Tony groaned from the island, his arm slung around Pepper. “God, it’s like watching a car crash.”

“Hush,” Pepper laughed, gently smacking Tony’s shoulder. “Have fun, you two. Be young, be smart, and please follow the rules.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Peter said diligently, taking Bea’s hand in his own and leading her to the elevator. They said a quick goodbye before the doors closed and they were alone.

“Tell me where we’re going?” she whispered.

He squeezed her hand. “No.”

“Please?”

His eyes found hers, gleaming despite the low light, and he smiled. “Still no.”

Happy was waiting for them beside the beautiful black sedan Tony had taken her out in, and greeted them with a rare smile as he opened the back door. “Evening,” he said.

Bea slid in first, then Peter, and in no time at all, they were on the streets of New York City.

She had grown up here—maybe not in these exact parts, but the city was her home—and yet she’d never seen it like this. The car’s tinted windows made all the lights seem to shine so much brighter in the darkness, and there were people everywhere. They were in amongst all the honking, the shouting and laughter of tipsy partygoers, but Bea had never felt so at-ease.

She glanced to her left in the darkness to find Peter watching her, a soft smile on his face and unspoken words in his eyes. He reached for her hand and this time it was Bea’s turn to squeeze, once, twice.

Happy continued driving to a destination unknown and Peter continued to hold her hand, leaving Bea wondering what their night ahead might have in store.

Chapter Text

“Table for Parker?”

“Yes, sir. If you’ll please follow me.”

The host led them through the restaurant, the name of which Bea couldn’t remember or pronounce, past round table after round table of fine diners dressed to the nines, and Bea wished she had just worn the blue dress. Why, god why, had she chosen jeans?

Their table was modest, but as the host gestured with an outstretched arm for them to sit, Bea realised there were only two place settings. She glanced at Happy, who had followed them in, and at her presumably confused expression, he gave a small laugh.

“I’m not that mean. Kids, if you need me, I’ll be at the bar.”

The host offered to show him the way and, just as they left, a server appeared with two menus and a wine list. “Can I get you started with some drinks?”

Bea looked to Peter, feeling rather like a deer in headlights, but he was entirely calm. He smoothly ordered sparkling water for the table and two very sensible alcohol-free cocktails from the drinks menu.

The server walked off and Bea leaned in, peering at Peter through the small table candelabra. “You’ve done this before.”

“Oh. Uh, yeah, I guess I have.”

“Tony?”

“Partly,” he shrugged. “I’ve never been here before, but we went out to another nice place a few months ago. It was an award thing, really cool, except I had to wear a suit.”

Bea’s lips curled. “You own a suit?”

“I do now,” he said, shrugging. “No idea what I’m supposed to do with it though.”

Bea chewed her lip. “Speaking of formalwear, I wish you’d told me not to wear jeans.”

“Why?”

She gestured at all the people around them. “I am severely underdressed.”

His gaze flared. “You look beautiful. You always look beautiful, but especially tonight.”

Bea was glad for the low lighting.

Their server returned with their drinks before Bea could think of a single sane response, and asked if they were ready to order.

They both apologised, picking up their menus for the first time, and the server left them to it with a promise to return shortly. Bea was grateful of the barrier between Peter and herself, and did her best to distract herself with food.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, scanning the prices. “You said Tony’s paying, right?”

“More or less,” he said.

She lowered her menu. “Which is it?”

He made an innocent, inquisitive noise, but didn’t look up.

“Is Tony paying?”

“Relax, will you?” He lowered his menu slightly then, meeting her eye. “I promise, it’s all sorted.”

“That would be so much more believable if I were in a Wattpad mafia romance, or something.”

“Lucky for you, this is just a regular Wattpad romance.”

She couldn’t help the girlish blush that took over, or the funny feeling in her middle.

He cleared his throat. “So what looks good?”

Bea genuinely had no idea. She was still tumbling over the name of the restaurant in her mind, let alone all the fancy words before her. If she had to hazard a guess, it looked Italian, but it was far too late to be asking and Tony would have a field day if he found out she didn’t know a word of the language.

“Bea?”

“I can’t pronounce it,” she admitted quietly and he grinned at her. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“You’re laughing at me.”

He schooled his grin into a more tempered smile, but the humour was still there. Bea could barely fight her own smile. “Which one are you looking at?”

“The one with all the p’s.”

He scanned the menu, eyes lighting up as he found it. “Pappardelle alla Puttanesca?”

Bea’s cheeks warmed at his smooth accent. It suited him. All of this suited him. The dressing up, the expensive restaurants, and the servers who look only too happy to help. He was comfortable here, confident even—more so than Bea had ever seen him—yet she was supposed to be the one joining the family? She, who couldn’t pronounce pappardelle and who wore jeans to a five-star restaurant?

“Huh,” she said, forcing herself out of her thoughts. She wriggled a little in her seat and did her best to look present, interested, but there was no denying the mood had shifted.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she smiled. “Pappardelle. Weird that you pronounce the e.”

“Bea.” Peter had abandoned his menu entirely, eyes set on her. “What’s wrong?”

“I think I might get the Pomodoro instead. Except I’m not sure what a study technique has got to do with food.”

He huffed a laugh, but didn’t let up. “We don’t have to stay, you know.”

She looked at him over her menu and saw the honesty in his eyes. He wasn’t hurt or annoyed, not frustrated that she was ruining what should’ve been a beautiful night.

Bea was thankfully saved from having to lie as their server returned with a gentle smile, ready to take their order. Peter took the lead after a confirming nod from Bea, and promptly asked for two Pappardelle alla Puttanesca.

“Hey—” she tried to protest, but the server was nodding and Peter was continuing. She glanced back down at the menu, tearing her gaze over the illegible pastas and gnocchis and salads. The fact was, Bea couldn’t afford the puttanesca and, even though it sounded significantly nicer than the pomodoro, it was the only dish that seemed even remotely within her price range.

Not that she knew what that was these days. Bea made a mental note to ask Tony about her savings account.

But then the server was gone, menus too, and Peter was smiling lopsidedly, almost apologetically. Before she could argue with him, he spoke. “Mr Stark said you and Ms Potts had a really fun day.”

“We did,” Bea said slowly. “Listen, I feel like we need to talk.”

His shoulders drooped. “Did I do something?”

The hurt in his eyes tugged at her heart. “No, this is perfect. Really, I’m having fun, I just … Last night was a lot, and I really think we need to talk about it.”

“I mean, we don’t have to,” he said with a wry smile.

“Pete, you know how much I love avoidance as a coping mechanism, but I just need to know what happened. Only if you want to tell me, obviously, but …”

He turned solemn. “Of course I want to tell you.” He took a long sip of his drink before launching into the story. He went on patrol straight after school, hoping to get a couple of hours in before heading to the Tower. Thursdays were usually quiet, but something was happening downtown and there was no sign of the cops. Three men had cornered a young girl in a backstreet, whistling and jeering at her, never letting up despite her attempts to walk faster, to tell them no, even when she swatted one of their groping hands away. Peter didn’t even think twice, but taking on the three of them and trying to get the girl to run was more than he was ready for. Even now, he couldn’t figure out what went wrong but one of them must have had a knife, and his senses were just so overloaded that he never saw it coming.

Bea could barely find her words. “But you said the cops dealt with it?”

“Karen called them for me.”

She frowned, picturing Spider-Man with her CPO, bright pink with rhinestone-flecked glasses and all.

“She’s my suit lady.”

“Oh,” she said. “Like FRIDAY?”

“Yeah, she’s cool, you’d like her.”

“If she’s the reason you’re still here, I already do.”

Peter’s expression was unreadable. “Bea, I’m so sorry.”

“For what?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe I put you through that after what happened to you.”

“Peter—”

“And then I don’t even say thank you for it, like who am I? Was I raised by wolves?”

Bea let out a soft laugh. “Peter—”

“May barely let me apologise before she started on me about you—”

“Peter. It’s okay. I promise, it was actually kind of … therapeutic? Maybe?” She shook her head. “Anyway. So what was wrong with your tingle?”

“My what?”

“Your tingle. You know, your senses.”

“No one calls them a tingle but you.”

“They should. So?”

He shrugged. “Other things on my mind, I guess. It’s like, for the first time, Spider-Man doesn’t have my full attention.”

Her heart dropped, and she wrung her hands in her lap. “That’s not—”

But then their server was back, setting plates of steaming pasta before them both with more grace than Bea had ever witnessed. Her plate was surprisingly full—she’d expected teeny tiny portions from a fancy place like this—and the sight of it made her stomach flip. Don’t be weird, she begged herself. Don’t be—but then the smell hit her nose, and all hesitation was completely forgotten. The richness of the tomatoes, the savoury sauce, it all smelled phenomenal.

“Thank you,” they both said as the server left and, their conversation forgotten, dug right into their meals.

Pepper’s rigatoni with those charred bell peppers had been amazing, and their chicken cacciatore had been pretty spectacular. But this? Beatrice had never tasted anything quite so delicious. The perfect balance of rich and salty, with some subtle sweetness. Even if she hadn’t gone without food for as long as she had, it’d still be the best thing she’d ever eaten.

The good food seemed to lighten both their spirits, and conversation quickly shifted to better, gentler things. Homecoming plans were in the works, and the school was abuzz with it all. Betty and Flash had finally gone official, then had promptly broken up less than two weeks later. Betty now had her sights on Ned, apparently, but he was hilariously oblivious. Peter said he’d just been too preoccupied lately with everything that had happened, but then Bea heard all about Ned’s brand new Millennium Falcon Lego set.

“Over five thousand pieces,” Peter gushed.

“You should tell him to bring it by the Tower some time.”

He shrugged. “None of them really visit the Tower that much. Mr Stark would be fine with it, but since I don’t technically live there … It feels weird.”

“Yeah,” she started slowly, setting her fork down. “I wanted to talk to you about that actually.”

She should’ve discussed it with him first. It clawed at her from the inside out, this unshakeable feeling that she was intruding on his life, squeezing herself into crevices too small for her just to feel apart of something.

“Is this CPS stuff?” he asked. “What happened?”

Bea nodded. “Remember how I met with the Fletchers?”

“Mm.”

“We talked. A lot. They really helped me, and I think … Well, I made a decision.”

His expression was unreadable.

Rip it off. Like a Band-Aid.

“I—I want to stay at the Tower.”

The words sat between them for almost an eternity, shrouded in silence despite the quiet chatter from other tables around them. She searched Peter’s face desperately but he was frozen, watching her over his pasta.

“Say something,” she whispered.

“Are you serious?”

“Peter—”

“That’s amazing!” he said, almost jumping out of his seat. He remembered himself at the last moment, instead shifting to the edge of the chair and leaning in close. “You’re staying? At the Tower?”

Relief washed through Bea, so shattering she could have cried. “The Fletchers encouraged me to talk to Tony, and I—I did, last night when I couldn’t sleep, we talked and he wants me to stay, too. Not just in New York, but at the Tower with them, and Pepper, Pepper wants me to stay.” She was rambling, but anything was better than the silence.

“Oh my god, that’s great news.” He seemed extra fidgety then, but settled for reaching for her hand across the table. She let him take it, let him cradle it in his. “Mr Stark didn’t say a thing before I left, he—” Peter paused, shaking his head. “I am so happy for you, Bea. It’s about time something good happened.”

Bea schooled her racing heart. “Are you really? Happy, I mean. It’s not … weird?”

“What? Bea, of course I’m happy, are you kidding? We’ve been neighbours forever, it’ll kinda be like that again. We stick together, you n’me.”

Her free hand shot to her forehead, and she took a deep breath. The relief she felt was on a cellular level, just about. He didn't resent her, and if her gut feeling about him was right, he never would.

“So what’s next?” he asked.

“Tony said he’d talk to Karen, we might be able to sort it sooner rather than later. I mean, if she agrees.”

“She doesn’t need to agree. I mean, she does, but you made a decision. That’s all that counts.”

They emptied their plates, finished their drinks and tipped their server, but Bea didn’t walk out of the restaurant—she was absolutely floating. Peter’s hand was in hers, the night was still young, and everything was going to be just fine.

They were waiting together at the curb, under the warm glow of billboards and neon signs, while Happy left to collect the car. Frankly, Bea had forgotten he was with them at all, but there was no forgetting him after his stern glare, hard enough to crack cement, and a strict instruction to stay put.

Bea wasn’t running off tonight.

Especially not when Peter leaned over in the backseat of the car and asked if she was ready to call it a night yet. When she met his eyes and shook her head, he grinned, before leaning forward to whisper an address to Happy.

“Where are we going?” she murmured.

“It’s a surprise,” he returned in the same tone.

“Oh my god,” she said dramatically. “I love that place, always wanted to go.”

He turned, and Bea thought she might never get sick of the way he looked at her.

They ended up in the parking lot of the coolest retro diner Bea had ever seen. The back seemed to go on forever, and there was a section to the right that flashed with bright neon lights. “Pete, I’m not sure if you remember,” said Bea, “but we literally just ate.”

“I know.”

She paused, looking at him. “So why are we at a diner?”

“This isn’t just any diner,” he said, and climbed out of the car. Happy was next, and Bea decided she was too curious to not follow suit.

It was a busy night—the parking lot was almost full, and nearly every table, booth and barstool inside was taken. But that wasn’t what had Bea’s jaw dropping to the floor. To the right, with all those lights, was the most elaborate, colourful, intensive retro arcade she’d ever seen.

Happy left them both with a clap on the shoulder to sit at the bar before Peter took Bea’s hand again and led her into the arcade. Every machine was so well-cared for, and Peter seemed to know every last thing about them. He was especially excited to show her Cosmic Chasm which she’d only ever read about, but Bea’s attention was stolen completely when she spotted it. The most modern machine in the arcade, wrapped in red and blue and emblazoned with Spider-Man Adventure across the front.

“I can’t believe you didn’t lead with this,” said Bea, dropping a token into the slot.

“That’d be pretty conceited, don’t you think?”

“It’s a Spider-Man arcade machine. A machine specifically dedicated to Spider-Man. You’re telling me that’s not the coolest thing you’ve ever heard?”

She was too busy choosing her player to notice the blush creeping up Peter’s neck. She’d expected there to be no choice at all—there was only one Spider-Man, after all—but Bea was able to choose a Spider-Woman, entirely identical to Spider-Man, only with crazy curvy hips and chest, and long, luscious hair on display.

“You got something you want to tell me?” Bea murmured under her breath as the Spider-Woman leapt through the loading screen.

“She’s a friend from work,” he joked.

“That’s what they all say.” She clicked her tongue as she mastered the controls. “Won’t somebody think of the children?”

Bea failed miserably, her button-pushing skills a little rusty after so long. Peter was laughing mercilessly at her as they walked back through the arcade to the diner. “That’s the lowest score I’ve ever seen on any game.”

“You have no jurisdiction here, buddy, you still play Subway Surfers,” she bit back with a click of her tongue. “In my defence, I wouldn’t have died if the stupid game had just let me do a triple backflip.”

“Not the game’s fault, clearly Spider-Man just can’t do a triple backflip.”

Bea scoffed. “I’ve seen Spider-Man do better than a triple backflip, I’m sure he could pull it off if the situation called for it, which it did.”

“You died trying to jump over a stoplight, Bea.”

“The game has some seriously flawed logic.” She gave him a quick sidelong glance. “I prefer the real thing, anyway.”

They found a table for themselves in the diner, still bustling with families and truckers, and a scowling waitress approached to take their orders. Bea was still full from their life-altering puttanesca, but they asked for two cheeseburgers, both for Peter, fries, and one of their specialty cake-shakes to share. Bea tried asking the waitress for her recommendation but she had actually become quite red in the face, so Bea picked the first one she saw—red velvet.

“Do the others know?” Bea asked when the waitress stormed away. Chatter had picked up from the tables around them, and Bea couldn’t shake the paranoia that they were all talking about them.

“About the Spider-Man game?” Peter said, playing with a napkin. "I don’t think so. If Mr Stark knew, he would’ve bought it already.”

“Now that’s an idea,” she laughed quietly. “I wonder if any of them have their own arcade games.”
Happy was still at the bar, typing away on his phone, occasionally sipping on a Dr Pepper and glancing their way to make sure they hadn’t split on him. Again.

For what it was worth, Bea did feel bad for what they’d put him through, and the fact that his night had been sacrificed to babysit them only made it so much worse. She made a silent promise to make it up to him, somehow.

A second waitress approached, not quite so stern-looking, but still intimidating. Her ponytail was taller than she was, and she seemed to look down her sharp, contoured nose at them both. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said, sounding anything but sorry. “You’re that kid off the news, right? The one who went missing.”

She said missing like it was the punchline of a bad joke. Bea tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace.

“Yeah,” she said for some reason, and mentally kicked herself for it. She’d spent so many months lying—years, honestly—and yet, she couldn’t have just said no?

The waitress nodded and turned on her heel, heading back to the kitchen where the other waitress was watching.

“Okay,” Peter said slowly, watching the two of them whisper conspiratorially, throwing glances back at them. He turned back to Bea and reached for her hand. “That was weird. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” she said, with a small scoff as if to say why wouldn’t I be? But the chatter around them had quietened and she could feel eyes on her, watching her. Waiting. For what?

“We can go.”

Bea rolled her eyes. “I promise, this is no big deal. It’s been such a perfect night, let’s not let them ruin it.”

So Peter started talking again and Bea did her best to look like she was listening. Happy was still sitting at the bar, was watching them closely with a furrowed brow, as if trying to read her mind. She did her best to tilt her head in a way that said everything is fine, but she knew it wasn’t.

And then it happened.

Quick as lightning, Peter stood and moved in front of her, blocking something she hadn’t seen coming. The waitress had returned, a milkshake in hand, but clearly with no intention of setting it down on the table. Peter had caught her raised arm, poised to throw the shake in Bea’s face.

Bea shot to her feet, her chair clattering behind her.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” Peter demanded, forcing some space between her and Bea. But then he turned, eyes meeting Bea’s a moment too late as the second waitress rounded their table and hurled a cup before Peter or Bea could stop her.

She felt the milkshake before she saw it. Thick, clinging, and ice-cold, but worse than that—red. Dark and congealed, instantly staining her white top.

“You’ve got some nerve coming in here after what you did. Smiling, laughing n’all that,” the waitress snarled. “Murderer.”

Peter called out for Happy as he slid an arm around Bea’s waist, pulling her away from the waitresses, but Happy was already there. Both girls scurried, but they’d already caused their commotion. The other diners had stood and were all talking at once, some scolding the servers and some throwing their own cruel words at Bea.

Liar.

Mother-killer.

Gold-digger.

But Happy was there and they were moving—he was a human wall surrounding them, making a path towards the door. The night air was jarring but Bea was still sinking, deeper and deeper into her shackles, back into the nightmare. To the fear, and pain, and cold.

Happy was saying something, and Bea tried to say, “I’m fine,” but she couldn’t move. Her top clung to her chest, her stomach, exactly the way it had so many times before. In the cage. In the room. With Peter, not even seventy-two hours before. The familiarity of it, that was something she could hold onto, and she tried, but their words stuck like flesh on bone. Murderer. Liar. Mother-killer. Gold-digger.

Then they were at the car and Happy was handing her napkins and antibacterial wipes, and Peter was helping to get most of the excess off. Bea could barely look at the blood, let alone clean it off. She didn’t want to be there, she didn’t want to be standing there outside the diner covered in blood and she didn’t want to be there, inside herself, trapped in her head with all those memories—

Peter pressed a hand to her cheek, the other holding her arm, and he made her look at him. You’re safe, he seemed to be saying. It’s just milkshake, everything’s okay.

But Happy was talking, too, still wiping at her palms with the napkins. Are you hurt. Are you okay. Get in the car.

She didn’t remember moving, didn’t remember nodding and saying I’m fine. Didn’t know who she was trying to convince, because she certainly didn’t believe it. Didn’t remember climbing into the backseat, tugging her seatbelt on, or driving the entire way back to the Tower.

Her top was sticky and heavy, and red muck had gathered under her fingernails. She remembered the feel of it, of blood on her hands, so similar. The way it had turned tacky against her palm after Sarge reattached her severed finger.

No one spoke the entire drive back—even if they had, Bea hadn’t heard it. The Tower was quiet for a Friday night, and when Happy asked FRIDAY to get Tony, Bea didn’t have to object. According to FRIDAY, Tony and Pepper had gone out for a date night of their own and wouldn’t be back until late.

The doors opened to the main floor and Bea instantly started towards her bedroom—she needed to be alone, needed to get through whatever the hell this was without any witnesses.

Happy called after her but she did not stop.

Peter tried to slow her but she did not stop.

Her hand closed around her door handle and she watched with a new kind of pain in her chest as Peter’s face fell. She closed the door behind her.

FRIDAY instantly lifted the lights of her bedroom and she was able to move slowly towards her bathroom, peeling her clothes off as she went and avoiding any sign of her reflection. She forced the shower as hot as she could stand it and sank to the floor, letting the water wash over her and her lungs fill with steam. Each breath was conscious—in, out. In, out. In, out.

Milkshake, Bea found, was much easier to wash off than blood. And it didn’t have quite the same colour to it as it swirled down the drain, either. Light pink instead of red. Cloudy, watery, instead of thick. She’d let it control her, let it drag her all the way back to the chair, but she refused to let it continue a second longer.

It was barely a conscious decision when Bea, dressed in fresh pyjamas and her hair in a braid, sat down on her bed and reached for her nightstand. The little bottle was exactly where she’d left it, though its contents were dwindling. She emptied it and took a long sip from her water bottle.

Bea was in control. She was going to stop thinking on it all, get some sleep, and everything would be better in the morning.

Chapter Text

Bea felt her mistake before she consciously formed the thought. She could feel every bone, joint, and muscle, every tooth in her mouth and every pump of her blood through her heart. Her second thought was that she should probably be grateful she could feel anything at all.

Grateful.

It took a conscious effort to pry her crusted eyes open. The first thing she saw were the stars—not from outside, though it was dark and the city lights below cast a warm glow on her ceiling. There were stars in the corners of her room, gently illuminating every dark crevice. She blinked, twice, her eyes straining with the effort, and realised they were twinkle lights. Someone had gone to the effort of putting up lights for her.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, clocking the pain radiating from her elbow to her shoulder. What had she done?

Deciding to take all the pain in one go, she forced herself to sit up and swing her legs off the bed, making her head swim and her vision flurry with white spots. Surely she hadn’t slept that long.

A lot of her time these past months had been spent counting the minutes and hours, guessing the time based off sheer instinct alone. If she’d only fallen asleep a few hours ago, then why was there an old cup of cocoa on her nightstand? Why had the stained clothes she’d left on her bedroom floor been taken away, and why was her desk chair pulled out like someone had spent hours sitting, watching?

She tried her phone, but the screen was dead, so she plugged it in and tossed it on her pillow with a resigned sigh.

Water. She needed water.

Her body was functioning better than her mind—it wasn’t until she felt the cool water on her face that she really came to. She washed away the crust in her eyes, the drool on her chin, and rinsed her dry mouth out before slurping a few handfuls of water.

The mirror was not kind. Black rings circled her eyes, her lips were dry and cracked, and her hair was frizzing from the loose braid she’d managed—when? Last night? Longer?

It hit her then what she’d done, why this pain was so familiar. It was the cost of another dreamless night, the price of her peace. The events of the diner came rushing back all at once, and Bea fell to her knees at the toilet and heaved.

Murderer. Liar. Mother-killer. Gold-digger.

Her eyes and nose leaked pathetically and bile burned at her throat. She flushed the toilet and rose, rinsing her mouth again and not daring to meet her own eyes.

There was only one way to get rid of the pain—to feel like nothing, so that she might not have to feel absolutely everything. She needed more. The logic was flawed, but it worked, and that was all that mattered.

Only, it wasn’t just her logic that was flawed, she realised as she returned to her room. She distinctly remembered emptying the thing, but even if she hadn’t—the bottle was missing. Bea swore under her breath, massaging her aching temple. She didn’t have another solution.

If only there were a makeshift hospital close by—say, two floors below?

Barefoot and still in her pyjamas, Bea slipped into the hall. The entire floor was dark and quiet—it had to be well and truly past midnight—and she didn’t dare make a single sound as she crept past the living room and towards the elevator.

The doors slid open in anticipation of her, and the moment they closed, Bea whispered her destination. FRIDAY was silent, but the elevator quickly dropped and soon she was stepping out onto the MedBay floor and slipping into the first room she could see.

The medicine cabinet was full and, by the dim light of the city beyond the window, Bea strained to read each label. It seemed to be alphabetised, but she could barely decipher the i’s from j’s, let alone the o’s from the p’s and q’s.

The lights hummed above, then came FRIDAY’s quiet voice. “Hi, Beatrice. How are you feeling?”

The sudden voice made Bea jump. “Terrible,” she muttered.

“That’s understandable. Dr Banner estimated you had taken three times the recommended dosage.”

Bruce. Last Bea had heard, he was back at the Compound. She imagined Tony, unable to wake her, panicking and calling the closest thing they had to a medical professional. And if Tony had, then Pepper would’ve, and … the thought of Peter seeing her, knowing—it made her stomach ache.

“I have notified Mr. Stark that you are out of bed and appear well.”

Shit.

“He seems quite agitated.”

Before Bea could even attempt to protest, the light switched on. She blinked furiously against the fluorescent lights, ignoring the growing panic in her chest, and squinted at the figure in the doorway.

“Evening,” came his even, cold voice, and though it should’ve scared her, it soothed her racing heart. She blinked twice, then three times, and saw the furrow of his brow. There were same dark circles under his eyes as hers, and the anger in his eyes that were tinged with something like relief.

She turned back to the cabinet and continued her search. “Is it?”

“Restlessness,” Tony started as he stepped through the room. “Muscle aches. Bone pain. Drowsiness.”

“Okay, Dr. Google.”

“Mood swings. That’s a good one, Google won’t give that one away too quick, but you can take it from me. Let’s see, what else … Vomiting. Impaired judgement. Paranoia.”

Bea slammed her palm on the cabinet door, sending the pill bottles inside rattling. “Jesus, I get it, alright?”

“You do not get to be the angry one here, Page,” Tony hissed, and Bea flinched at the name. He slammed his own hand down on the table between them, a little plastic bottle landing there.

Bea didn’t have to look at the label to know what it was.

Fine, so what if he knew? He had taken it. He was clearly worried, and there was no point in lying. She only prayed her voice would remain steady. “So what.”

“So, what the hell were you thinking? Here I thought you’d have better survival instincts, considering. Seriously, after everything you went through, it’s a couple of idiotic waitresses that tip you over the edge? You wanna tell me how that makes any sense?”

“It wasn’t—”

“I’m so serious right now, do we need to have a conversation about this? About the danger you put yourself in? Because I’m not sure you realise the severity here, why would you be so stupid?”

Bea shrank a little, but kept her chin high. “Don’t call me stupid.”

“We both know you’re not, but what you did is borderline moronic.” He paused, raking a hand through his hair, and sucked in a breath. More gently, he said, “Kid, if you weren’t enhanced, that dose would’ve killed you. Is that what you wanted?”

Bea’s gaze was locked on the window past his shoulder, too ashamed to meet his eye.

“Not a rhetorical question. Is that what you were trying to do?”

“No,” she said firmly. “No, I … I just overshot it a bit.”

“A bit,” he scoffed, tone turning harsh again. “Jesus, why are you taking them at all?”

She felt the answer lurch to the tip of her tongue but she swallowed it down, refusing to let her pathetic little excuse become truth. Reality. But then her eyes met his—his solemn frown and those tired eyes—and it left her mouth before she could stop it. “I can’t sleep without them.”

“Yes you can,” he countered just as quickly. “This prescription was barely enough to tide you over since the house visit, even if you were only taking one. Which we obviously both know you weren’t.”

She ignored the dig. “They stop me dreaming. When I take them, it’s like … nothing. I fall asleep and all I do is sleep.”

Tony was quiet, waiting for her to go on. May she should have shut her mouth, but the silence was worse.

“I couldn’t keep it up, the dreams, they were—they were ruining me, it’s like I’d fall asleep and wake up strapped into that damn chair again, only it’s not them doing things, it’s you, and it’s Peter, and Mom, and Sam, and—”

Her voice broke, an awful sound escaping her, but Tony was still silent. The pill bottle still sat neatly on the table between them.

“I saw what they turned my mother into,” she said through the ache in her throat. “I saw what they did, and I swore I’d never let that be me. My life would be more than that, I would be—but after what he did … It was the better alternative.”

“Talking is the better alternative, kid,” he said quietly. “Us. We’re here for a reason.”

It was Bea’s turn to scoff. “And at what point do you get sick of listening to the broken record? At what point do you realise that nothing you say will fix what’s going on in my head, and that I’m well and truly a lost cause?”

“In the wise words of Cady Heron,” he said earnestly, “the limit does not exist.”

Bea was surprised at the little laugh that escaped her. “I can’t believe you’re quoting Mean Girls to me right now.”

“And I can’t believe you’re telling us—me—to give up on you. You think I’ve ever given up on anything in my life? Don’t answer that, that one was rhetorical, because I’m fairly sure the answer is no, never, and I’m not about to start now.”

Bea sniffled, wiping at her nose. She crossed her arms over her chest as she grumbled, “How’d you know I was here anyway?”

“How do you think.”

Oh. Right.

“Hearing that you were finally awake and your first move was to visit the MedBay wasn’t exactly comforting.”

“You really need to tell FRIDAY to mind her own business.”

“No, I don’t,” he said and Bea knew he was right. “For the record, Banner doesn’t keep drugs like that up here. And, since you promise you’ll never pull a stunt like this again—” He paused for Bea’s confirming nod before continuing, “—I guess we don’t need to be up here anymore.”

Her gaze dropped to the floor. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I really didn’t think. Healing Peter, it … I didn’t realise it would be so much.”

Tony’s expression was unreadable but there was pain behind his eyes. “Appreciate it,” he said, “but I don’t think it’s me you need to apologise to.”

She nodded. “I’ll talk to Pepper in the morning.”

Tony rounded the table, leaving the little pill bottle behind, and Bea met him halfway. He wrapped a warm arm around her shoulders as he led her out the door and back to the elevator.

“I’ll have to thank her, too,” Bea said quietly.

“What for?”

“The twinkle lights. They’re nice.”

“Ah,” he said, and she noticed the hint of a smile as they stepped into the elevator. With his free hand, he slipped his phone out of his pocket and began tapping away. “Group effort, actually. Pep’s idea, but you should’ve seen the kid scaling your walls while you were comatose. He was so worried, Bea. Text him before I do, okay?”

Bea nodded, the shame like a lead weight in her gut. She was grateful he wasn’t harping on about it, but she almost wished he would. Maybe yelling and screaming with a few good hits would shock her back into the Beatrice she used to be.

Then she noticed—the elevator was moving, but not up. They were going down, down, down—so far that she wondered for a horrifying moment whether he was taking her to the lobby to dump her on the sidewalk, but his hand was still gripping her shoulder, grounding her, and she had to remind herself that he never would.

“Bit late for a drive, isn’t it?” she asked, but he remained quiet beside her.

The doors opened, and Bea expected to see all his beautiful cars lined up, but they must have visited a different level of the garage, because there were cars, but also … junk. Everywhere, piled up in teetering towers.

“Did you rob a thrift store?” she joked, disbelieving, as she began to wander through the winding trash and treasures. There were cabinets and dishes, tables and chairs, but also tyres and cars, and old broken televisions. Crates full of crockery, rusted air-conditioning units, and stacks of bricks. She found iron pokers and baseball bats, and …

The most beautiful car she’d ever seen.

It was old, for sure, with scratches and dents all over the body, but the bones were there. She could barely make out the logo on the hood, but it looked like a car whose prime lay somewhere in the 1970s. Beneath the grime and dust, she was a beautiful shade of emerald and, inside, the torn seats were real brown leather.

“What’d you find?” Tony asked.

“Nothing, it’s just super cool.”

“And super old,” he countered.

Bea turned to face him, offended. “So are you, but you don’t hear me pointing that out.”

“Real funny, but unlucky for you, this beast doesn’t run.”

She looked between him and the car. “Could it?”

“Pardon?”

“Could we make it run?”

The way he was looking at her was as if Bea had grown a second head. “Obviously, but why would we want it to?”

She shrugged. “I’m sixteen. Would be cool to have a car.”

“And you want … this one? The one with no seats that looks like an acne-ridden teenager.”

Bea nodded.

“Fine, why the hell not. But if you want it so bad, you’re gonna be the one to do her up, get her running again. You up for that?”

She nodded again, beaming at the idea.

“God, I’ve created a monster,” he muttered, conceding. “I’ll have her sent up to the garage, there’s a spot in the workshop you can keep her in for now.”

“Really?” she beamed. “Thank you.” She looked around the room again, finding more treasures the longer she looked. “Seriously, what is all this stuff?”

“It’s an experiment of mine. For you. I feel like you have a tendency to keep things bottled up.”

“You don’t say.”

“My point exactly, and I had all this space down here, all this junk, and I thought …. why not?”

She shook her head. “Why not what?”

“So there’s this thing called a rage room.”

Bea gasped and clutched the the wing mirror of her dinged-up new car. “I could never.”

“You don’t have to, but consider this space and everything inside it yours. Do what you want with it all, but keep it in mind. Studies show serious benefits.”

“I feel like breaking things isn’t the healthiest coping mechanism.”

“Maybe not,” he said, “but it’s fun.”

Bea wasn’t sure she agreed. Tony showed her around the space, at all the treasures he’d somehow collected—from remodelling, from the other avengers changing up their spaces, from sheer online shopping. There was a large open space in the middle of everything, where she found golf clubs, more baseball bats, and light dumbbells.

Maybe it would help. It’d tire her out, at least, but destroying such beautiful things like that, it … it seemed so violent. Bea didn’t want to be that person.

She was glad to head back upstairs when Tony suggested it, but there was nothing to do. The sun hadn’t risen yet and the rest of the Tower was still quiet. Going back to sleep wasn’t an option—maybe Tony would let her stay in the lab?

But as they stepped out of the elevator and onto the main floor, Tony steered her towards the kitchen, sitting her down on a bench stool at the island as he busied himself at the stove. He fetched things from the fridge, from the spice rack, but Bea wasn’t paying too much attention. It was still strange to see him like this—not Tony Stark, but just Tony.

“You ready for tomorrow?” he asked.

“I’m not totally sure what day it is today.”

He shot her a look as if to say don’t be funny, but she wasn’t trying to be. “It’s Sunday. About three-thirty in the morning.”

Only lost one day—not so bad.

“So tomorrow is Monday,” she checked, and Tony gave a confirming nod as he stirred a small saucepan. “And Monday means …”

“Therapy, which—well, you know. No shortage of things you two can talk about, that’s for sure.”

Despite herself, she let out a quiet laugh.

“Jon’s also coming by. Said he’d sit down and talk you through what to expect with court and everything. He’ll be here first thing, but you don’t have to meet him if you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” she said quickly. “I need to know what’s coming so I can be ready for it.”

“Alright, stand down, soldier. We’re gonna do everything possible to minimise the angst so that all this—” He paused, giving a wide, circular gesture at her entire being, “—doesn’t keep happening. Alright?”

“It’s Cross,” she pointed out, sounding a little defensive. “I don’t think we get much of a choice.”

“I think you’d be surprised.” He reached up and fetched two mugs from a cabinet. The first said Thank God It’s FRIDAY and the second had the Stark Industries logo. “Pick one.”

She pointed at the FRIDAY mug, and watched as he poured some of the mixture steaming on the stove into the mug. He set it down before her, filled his own, and turned off the stove.

“Your job this week,” he said, cradling his mug as he leant on the counter, “is to talk to your therapist, and get as much sleep as you can.”

Bea laughed, wrapping a cold hand around her mug. The drink smelled divine. “Like that’ll ever happen.”

He gestured for her to take a sip and she did, feeling the warmth spread throughout her chest as it travelled down to her stomach. Sweet and spiced—Bea could taste cinnamon more than anything else, but also vanilla and nutmeg.

“I was a terrible sleeper as a kid,” he explained. “Too much in my head, whatnot. On bad nights, usually around this time, Mom would make this for me and within the hour, I’d be out like a light.”

Bea’s face dropped as she looked down at the sweet drink and back up to Tony.

“It’s just milk,” he assured, taking a sip of his. “Few spices, bit of maple syrup. Nothing in there will make you sleep, per se, but it’s nice."

She nodded, taking another sip, before looking back at him. “What if I dream?”

“Then you come find me and we’ll talk about it.”

“That’s so embarrassing, never in a million years.”

“Obviously,” he said casually. “That’s why it’ll be tit for tat. You tell me your weird dreams, I’ll tell you mine.”

She squinted at him. “Why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you’re inherently untrustworthy of others. Not your fault, but might be something to bring up of Monday.”

She gave a small laugh and he stood, downing the last of his spiced milk.

“C’mon now, off to bed, or you’ll be crabby as all sin in the morning.”

“It is the morning.”

“You’re right. We’re doomed.”

She stood as he rinsed his mug, still cradling hers, and followed him out of the kitchen and down the hall. He walked her right to her bedroom door but, before she could slip inside, he placed a hand on her shoulder.

“We’re going to talk more about this in the morning, you, me, and Pep. But for just right now, you need to know that this doesn’t change anything. We’re gonna help you through this just like anything else. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, and he squeezed her shoulder three times.

They said their goodnights and Bea slipped inside, closing the door behind her. With her mind pleasantly quiet for once, she sat on the edge of her bed and watched the city beyond her window as she finished her milk.

Things were going to change—they had to—but, for the first time, Bea was certain it would be a good thing.

Chapter Text

“I feel like you’re not taking this seriously,” Tony said, sipping his coffee as Bea swung her legs. She was breaking rule one billion and twelve, no sitting on the lab workbenches.

“Because you’re lying.”

“This isn’t about me.”

“Well if you’re not sharing, then neither am I.”

“I don’t know what more you want from me.”

“Some honesty, maybe?”

“You would know if I was lying. I am a terrible liar.”

“Exactly.”

Tony sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why would I lie about Froot Loops?”

“You don’t even like Froot Loops.”

“Exactly. Nightmare.”

“Tony.”

“Beatrice.”

She rolled her eyes and groaned, moving to slide off the desk and leave Tony to his stupid jokes and his stupider projects, but he stopped her with a raised hand and a look.

“Don’t be like that. C’mon, I told you mine.”

“You did not.”

“I did, and you even made fun of it. Promise I’ll be nicer about your dream.”

Bea sighed and leaned back on her hands, tilting her head back to the ceiling, which was somehow just as pristine as the rest of the place. Tony had cleaners, not that Bea had ever seen them, but … did they mop the ceilings or something?

“Am I really gonna be the only vulnerable one this morning?”

She wanted to tell him to suck it. To piss right off, because he was turning this into a joke, and her dream hadn’t been a joke. None of them were.

After her first rescue, the dreams had all been the same. Different in some ways, sure, but mostly the same. Waking up in the cage, being tormented by whoever her psyche had chosen to be The One to inflict it all, then coming back to reality only to second-guess every last detail. It had been awful in the beginning, but there had been an element of familiarity about them. Reliability, almost.

But not anymore.