Peter pressed his face into my shoulder, so I didn't realize he was crying until I felt he shoulders shaken, heard the tiny, choked gasp.
Hearing that, the tightness in my chest snapped. The tears started as a tiny shudder in my lungs, before slipping out my chest in a weak sob, and I clutched Peter tighter.
Then Peter spoke, his voice muffled against my shoulder. 'I thought you were smaller.'
Despite myself, I laughed, a painful, euphoric mix with the tears. 'And you still use Uncle Ben's hair gel.'
He gave a raspy chuckle, then hiccuped. May, her quiet aside with the agent ending, just made a soft scoffing noise, a relieved smile on her wet cheeks, before coming in and enveloping both of us in one giant hug. Her grip was almost as strong as Peter's; I figured if I was squeezed to death right here, right now, I'd die happy.
'Are you okay?' May asked, running her hand over my head, pushing hair out of my face. The corners of her eyes were lined with worry. I must have looked like a nightmare. 'Do you need a hospital?'
'N-no, I'm fine,' I said, voice hoarse. I had been looked at by paramedics who arrived in an ambulance, shortly before the FBI did. My burns weren't bad enough to need hospital care, although the aid would've been better. I rejected the offer, not because I didn't think I needed it, but because I knew being interrogated by the FBI in a hospital would've been far worse than in their offices. Those pale walls, that antiseptic smell, the claustrophobic maze of halls, the echoing intercom calls… I only tolerated them because Mom was always there to comfort me.
A lump formed in my throat.
'Are you sure?' May frowned, her fingers sliding down to the bandage on my brow. Gingerly, she lifted, and gasped softly at the sight of black stitches. 'Oh, god, how did this happen?'
I jerked away instinctively — both Peter and May released me from the hug, but Peter kept my sleeve pinched between two knuckles. His eyes widened when he saw the bad cut, right before I pressed the bandage back down. Peter's mouth opened slightly, but remained silent. I hadn't seen him in months, and remembering his expression of wanting-to-say-something-but-not sent a slight jolt of nostalgia through me.
To May, I spoke softly to hide how close I felt to crying again, 'Please, I'm fine. R-really. I don't want a hospital, May. I-I just...I just want to go home.'
May studied my face, brow knitting together as she bit her lip. She caressed my cheek, her warm hand smoothing over my bruised skin, away from the burns, and this time I successfully resisted the urge to flinch again.
Then she began to nod. 'Okay, if that's what you want, Mia. We'll take you home.'
'You're not in trouble?' Peter asked, glancing at the private offices. They overlooked the cubicles from the loft above. 'Agent Burke said you set off a security alert at JFK, skipping through customs.'
'Agent Burke?' I blinked, confused.
He pointed to the agent who'd been with me, the one that spoke to May, now on the other end of the room, — a middle-aged man with graying hair and a stern face, hands in his suit pockets and looking grumpy as he waited for the coffee machine to percolate. 'Him. He's your case agent or whatever, right?'
'Oh, yeah,' I shrugged, a little embarrassed. 'I, um, couldn't remember his name…'
'So?' Peter turned back to me, eyebrows rising in worry. 'You're safe now, right? They said you were chased all over Europe by the people who took you. What about the one who came off the plane with you?'
'Arrested. They're not after me anymore,' I shook my head, and saying those words were the greatest relief I've had in...well, since I'd woken up in Sokovia.
Brandt had been caught soon after I'd escaped the airport. I was surprised she didn't immediately explode to get away, but according to Agent Burke, she had already lawyered up. I had a sneaking suspicion it was to hide her terrorist connections (if the FBI found out, it would only be that much worse for her and whoever she worked for). Her mysterious employer had found out what had happened and sent her a text message, calling the whole thing off.
'Their plan only worked because everyone thought I was dead,' I explained with a shrug. 'That's the l-logic, at least. N-no one was looking for me. They d-didn't have to hide that way. That's why they tried s-so hard to catch me again.'
In retrospect, I was really glad I was picked up by the FBI. They had a whole task-force dedicated to missing children and kidnapping rings. If anyone had a chance at protecting me, it would be these guys.
But Peter still looked worried. 'But Agent Burke said he thought you might've been a terrorist. Because of that big fight and all. Did you really attack a security guard?'
My mouth opened helplessly for a moment. I didn't know how to defend myself without digging myself deeper. I was so tired. I didn't want to deal with this anymore. I'd already repeated my story a million times, to both Agent Burke and half a dozen other people. Trying to prove I wasn't a terrorist was a far more awful experience than trying to prove I was really Amelia Fletcher. Or that Amelia Fletcher wasn't a terrorist.
Eventually, I managed to stammer out, 'I-it was a just a, um, misunderstanding. I was just trying t-to get away…'
May smiled sympathetically, giving me another quick hug, squeezing my shoulders. 'I know. No one blames a kid for fighting their kidnappers. You were so brave. So, so brave.'
That was the story I told. It went like this: Kidnapped by sadists, child traffickers, didn't matter, I was in captivity for six months in an Eastern European country. Escaping left me at a disadvantage because I couldn't speak the language (as far as they knew), in unfamiliar land. Amnesia reduced most of my knowledge of what happened over that course of time, but guessing from the scars on my body, I was malnourished, mistreated, possibly even tortured. Trauma-induced amnesia prevented me from remembering the majority of the experience. But I still managed to get away, sneaking aboard from train to train until I made it to London, always staying a step ahead of my pursuing kidnappers. But they finally caught up with me on the plane, and I made one last desperate escape attempt upon landing. The ensuing fight caused a panic attack and I lost all reason as I fled from the airport, leaving several bruised (but alive) security guards in my wake, until I was found again at my old home.
Enough truth made it believable. The FBI bought it. But I couldn't take all the credit; most of it was Agent Coulson's idea, advice he'd given me before I left the Bus. Not that I ever thought about telling the whole truth; I felt a bit guilty about it, lying to Peter and Aunt May, but I didn't want them to know what really happened. What they knew already was bad enough.
To Peter, I said, 'They've agreed not to press charges, because of my…' I paused, struggled to say the words. When they refused to come, I switched tracks. 'B-because of what I've been through. Only caveat is that I'm on a no-fly list for three months.'
'Fine by me,' May didn't sound the least bit concerned by that news. She put one arm around me, the other around Peter, and started ushering us to the elevators. 'I don't plan on letting you out of my sight for a long time.'
I found myself walking in a daze. I had finally comprehended everything that happened recently — or only convinced myself I had.
When Aunt May drove, Peter usually called shotgun. Not tonight. Tonight he sat in the back seat with me, shoulder to shoulder. Once, I might've complained by how close he sat, considering there was plenty of room back here for the both of us. But I didn't mind. The warm presence, the companionship, was something I missed when I parted ways with Wanda and Pietro.
Everything seemed to have moved so fast in just a few hours. Just this morning I was in London. I averted what could've been another major terrorist attack. I ran away from the Crucible, and finally made it home, made it impossible for them to touch me again. And now, I was finally going home. Going to sleep in a real bed that didn't belong to someone else, not locked up, not on the run, not constantly looking over my shoulder.
Above all, I understood I was lucky. Beyond lucky. I didn't blame the disbe
lief of the FBI — they had every right to initially believe I wasn't alive. Because I shouldn't be.
Cold rain pattered the windows as May navigated the streets. Lights bounced and blurred off the drops, flashing in the dark night. The car was utterly silent aside from the engine and the faint radio playing in the background. It was a new song I'd never heard of before. Had Lady Gaga released a new album?
May was talking, mostly to herself. 'If I'd known we'd be staying out so long I would've gotten some food. Hmm, maybe I still have some of that leftover meatloaf in the fridge. Oh! Lee's does late-night take-out, right…?'
Peter was unusually quiet. A part of me wondered if that was my fault. Was it because of how different I appeared? I could tell from the way they looked at me that I wasn't what they expected — dead or alive.
'How did you find me?' I asked, my voice soft enough to go unnoticed by May, who was still thinking out loud.
Peter turned his head towards me, a quizzical look on his face as he considered it, before shrugging one shoulder. 'I dunno. I just figured you'd...want to go home. Instinct, you know? Those emails helped.'
'You got my messages?' for the first time in an eternity, I grinned. I had been operating on the possibility that I was just sending those into the void, never knowing if they would ever reach their intended target, or anyone at all.
'Oh, yeah,' Peter snorted, leaning back in his seat. 'Cryptic mail in my inbox? No one else but you would do that.'
'Sorry,' I winced. I had been careful in how I coded my messages, but I never considered how difficult or confusing it might've been for him. 'I didn't think you'd be listening. Since I was, you know, dead and all.'
The words were funny on my mouth. The first five hours at the FBI were spent confirming my identity. Agent Burke had not been convinced by my initial story, considering I looked almost nothing like my previous self. How could the tiny, sickly child-like girl grow eleven inches and almost forty pounds in just six months? Even I was astounded by the change, when they measured me for their records. Convincing him I was only fifteen was almost as hard as telling him that, yes, I really was Amelia Fletcher.
'Ha, right,' Peter laughed wryly. 'The first thing Agent Burke told us was that you were an imposter. How did you get him to believe you?'
'The magic of DNA,' I shrugged my shoulders. Luckily that hadn't changed, despite exposure to Vita rays. 'Metro General still had old samples on file for the FBI to check against mine. Honestly, I was scared you guys wouldn't believe it was me.'
'I've known that face since you were a baby,' Aunt May said, and it almost sounded like a challenge. 'If they thought a little growth spurt was going to throw me off, they had another thing coming.'
'May almost bit off Agent Burke's head when he told her that,' Peter informed me.
'Oh, like he didn't have it coming! The nerve!' May said, holding up a finger and gesturing righteously. 'As if you kids don't grow like weeds. I knew a boy back in high school, freshman year, he was shorter than me and over the course of the summer, he grew a whole foot! Sure, no one recognized him when he got back, but that's not the point…'
The tension eased considerably on the drive home. I got more comfortable as Peter started to talk animatedly about what happened at school today (skipping class, getting a week's worth of detention before Aunt May had explained the situation to Principal Morita over the phone). That then led to realization that Ned had no idea what was going on; a brief argument ensued between he and Aunt May, as she didn't want the news to break out tonight, and rather wait until morning.
'Mia's not going anywhere, Peter,' she told him sternly, as Peter held his phone in his hand, fighting the urge to call Ned. 'She'll be here tomorrow when you can call him, okay? I don't want the apartment swarmed in the middle of the night. We all need some sleep after today.'
That finally got him to put away the phone, somewhat reluctantly. I didn't offer my opinion either way — I was too tired, and to be honest, I agreed with May. I didn't want to be mean to Peter or Ned, but I wasn't ready to deal with seeing everyone at once. Right now, this was enough.
I didn't fail to notice that neither of them had brought up Mom. Not that I blamed them; I wasn't exactly jumping at the chance to bring it up myself. What could I say? What could they say that would make this any better? And we had already reached a nice, happy mood in the car. I didn't want to ruin it now. The whole day left me numb enough that I didn't have to think too hard about it.
Agent Burke had been the one to confirm what I had already figured out on my own. That Mom was dead. Dead long before I ever managed to escape the Crucible.
There was something to be said about having that kind of information told to you by an impersonal party. To be fair, Burke seemed sympathetic, tried to soften the blow as best as he could.
But nothing could make it hurt less.
The only thing he could offer me was a certainty. That my life wasn't hanging in the balance anymore. I wasn't going to Social Services, or some distant relative on the other side of the country (didn't have any to begin with). My guardianship now fell to Aunt May. As far as bad news went, it could've been worse.
Of course, all our belongings were lost during the alien attack — the Incident, it was called here. Some local colloquialism. It was jarring to find myself disliking it; like I wasn't a New Yorker anymore, that 'local' didn't apply to me anymore. My home had been destroyed, and what was left of my old life with it.
Left with nothing.
No, not nothing. You still have family. I had to remind myself. It was hard to feel positive like this. A part of me just wanted to cry. But I didn't want to do that in the car, or when Peter or Aunt May could see it. They were already doing so much to help me. The last thing I wanted was to be coddled.
Queens was far quieter than Hell's Kitchen, and I had to admit, the lack of constant police sirens in the night would be a welcome relief. I had to drag myself out of the car; I wasn't even hungry anymore, I just wanted to sleep, but I had a feeling I wasn't going to bed until May was sure that I'd been fed.
Peter and I ended up camping on the couch in the living room. He had school tomorrow but didn't seem concerned. We sat on either end, facing each other; I had about three different blankets draped over my shoulders, my hair dripping wet after the best shower of my life. The flannel pajamas and sweatshirt were May's — I had no clothes of my own that weren't stolen or dirty.
May was talking on the phone and frying eggs in the kitchen. Peter had once again gone silent, studying the upholstery of the couch. He was thinking hard about something, I could tell by the way his tongue stuck out of his mouth a little. But about what? I almost expected him to be talking nonstop, wanting to catch me up.
I had just opened my mouth to prompt him when he blurted, 'What happened?'
I stared at him, taken aback. 'What do you mean?'
Peter hesitated, perhaps surprised by his own words, before continuing slowly, 'I-I just mean… how did you get back? Agent Burke told us what you told him but that can't be everything, can it? You didn't tell him the whole story, did you?'
His tone wasn't accusing, but the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. How did he know? What did he know? Did he think I was lying? Did he know something I didn't? My thoughts shot to every awful thing that happened. Sokovia. London. The fight on the bridge, the boat exploding, the train, fighting for the gun…
I shuddered. It took me a moment to calm myself, to push away the images. My story had been vague. Of course Peter would make an assumption like that. It was a completely reasonable question to ask.
'I-I...no.' I admitted, my mouth suddenly dry. I clenched my hands into fists when my fingers started to shake, and hid them under the blankets. I couldn't quite look Peter in the eye. 'It wasn't everything but… there's just — a lot happened. I-I don't really want to talk about it.'
'Oh, okay,' Peter said, frowning as he sat back. He almost seemed disappointed, and as i
f realizing this, sat forward again. With a new, earnest tone, he added, 'N-not that you have to! I mean, I want to know, but if you don't want to tell me, I understand. It's not a big deal. You just got back, after all. We've got all the time in the world now, right? Everything's going to be fine.'
I studied him for a moment, pressing my lips together. It seemed Peter was trying to convince himself more than he was me. I was thinking of how to respond, maybe apologize (because I knew the curiosity was killing him, it would be the same with me if our positions were switched); then May swooped in with two plates of egg sandwiches, and the smell was so intoxicating I didn't wait before biting into mine. At least it gave me more time to think, time to settle myself again.
Say something. He needs to know.
But what? It wasn't just what Coulson told me not to say. There was a lot I just didn't want to tell Peter. Not ever. What would he think, if he found I actually killed a man? Maybe even more.
Silence fell again as the two of us chewed on our sandwiches, while Aunt May puttered off, doors slamming, followed by muffled noises. Talking to herself again. Turned out the guest room wasn't as clean as she thought.
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