Trigger Warning: mentions of abuse, suicidal thoughts, homophobia, and depression, among other potential triggers. If you believe ANY of these may trigger you and would like to know which paragraphs/portions to directly avoid, I will give you the specific headline dates to avoid—or skip the chapter entirely, please. All my love.

This chapter will include characters and their perspectives outside of Lizzie (more-so than usual, at least).

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𝙉𝙊𝙏 𝘼𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙃𝙀𝙍 𝙏𝙀𝙀𝙉 𝙈𝙊𝙑𝙄𝙀.

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𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄 𝟏.𝟑: Who Are You, Really?

𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐀'𝐒 ─ 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐋𝐘𝐍, 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊 𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘

𝟏𝟖 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐄 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟕

───○☆ ✸ ☆○───

☆

           Arthur Langley knew he was a lot of things: a State-winning Wrestler for the prestigious Midtown School of Science and Technology, a robotics and engineering scholar with Ivy League potential, a younger brother to a cardiothoracic surgeon (no, he doesn't ever want to talk about Matthew. Ask his parents about Matthew), the #1 Employee of the Month at the local grocery store around the corner from school, along with multiple accolades for his community service and work with marginalized and immigrant communities in the area. Arthur Langley was a genius, but Arthur Langley had a heart.

Art had a future, and he knew it.

But sometimes his potential fell on deaf ears, and sometimes, he found himself acting out in a way that reminded him of his father on his worst days—with bruised knuckles and wrists too precious to afford breaking for his career, unwrapped and welcoming any kind of damage like an idiot. He knew better than that. Summer break meant more time at home, but Coach would be none the wiser to the injury. The best part about his sport? No one thought twice about the bruises.

There was a drugstore off the corner of where his family's apartment sat for over fifty years, the latter untouched by even the worst of New York's devastation. Part of him wished his home had gone up in flames that day, or that one of the Chitauri-aliens would've barreled through his living room, taking his brother and father out with no suffering. Arthur was only twelve then, but he knew well enough that no one should ever think like that about their family.

That drugstore was his second home—had been for ten years now—with an older white couple that had no children and two cats that free-roamed the drugstore with no complaints from customers. Art started coming there when he was seven, looking for band-aids to cover up the burn from the stovetop on his left leg, and Miss Tilly sat him on the counter-top and promised him her eyes worked well-enough after retiring from nursing. Greenie, her husband, was the working pharmacist who under-charged him for the ointments needed. He had fifty cents that day.

No surprise that he found himself there again, chapped lips and runny nose and a very bloody hand that Miss Tilly was left to fix again. "Baby, you've gotta get a haircut," was the first thing Miss Tilly muttered to him, running her frail hands through his long, shaggy hair after he sat down on the counter. Seventeen now, and still just as fragile. Lizzie braided his long locks the other day, and he already missed the feeling of having the hair out of his face.

Arthur flexed fingers and sucked in a sharp breath when he felt the alcohol hit the cuts again, and the lines of her face twisted in the same place. Tilly had empathy for people, and now she had the marks to show how many she helped. Art was only one of them. Even if he wanted to spit the word 'FUCK' very disrespectfully.

"Go ahead—"

"—mother-fucker," he hissed out before she could even give the full permission, throwing his head back and then forward to the crevice of his elbow so he could bite into his hoodie sleeve. A whimper escaped him, then he pulled himself back together, his misty eyes meeting with her green ones. "I'm sorry."

Miss Tilly sighed and patted his hand, dropping it gently and leaning forward. Their foreheads touched, and Arthur's chest split open like a fault-line. Every day he walked through that door with another injury, he swore he took a minute off their lives. Greenie was a blunt born-and-raised New-Yorker, and with age, his tolerance for people lowered. Arthur spent the last ten years convincing the man not to take his cane down the corner; he didn't know what would happen if that day ever came. He hoped it wouldn't.

"One more year."

When he turned eighteen, he would finally get to leave. Arthur stared down at his hands, swallowing hard. "One more year...I'm looking into some Ivy Leagues."

"Oh?" the woman asked him, with a smile. "Any particular one in mind?"

"MIT."

Tilly clacked her tongue. "You're going make us pack this whole place up to Massachusetts?"

Arthur could have cried yet again, but luckily, something broke the moment between the two so he could swallow up his emotions. Both of them looked up when they heard the sound of the bell chiming over the front door. Arthur cleared his throat, turning back to Miss Tilly to squeeze her arm in affection before he jumped down from the counter. He motioned that he would cover the register for her, and after a heavy sigh, the woman packed everything back into the First-Aid kit to take it around back. His phone ringing took him out of his head for a moment, and he pulled it out quickly to be sure it wasn't his mom.

Today       12:34 PM

Migraine Junior

You up for a run?

Arthur breathed out the biggest sigh of relief at his friend's text message, rushing to type the fastest response of 'PLEASE.' While he hated running, the idea of focusing on that hatred instead of everything else brewing in his chest sounded like a gift. Lizzie always had a way of knowing, without truly knowing, when he needed an out from everything. Her not finding out the truth about his home situation—the full truth—was the hardest part. With Taylor and Eli, the subtle details were missed. He didn't blame them. The fourth member of their group never missed a thing. Ever. He caught her staring one-too-many times at his baggy hoodies, but Lizzie met his parents. His parents loved her. To have fooled her, he believed, might be his saddest and greatest accomplishment to date.

Arthur looked up immediately when he felt the presence of the customer walking up to the front, and he set his phone down on the counter to meet their eyes. With his best fake smile, he was greeted with an nice-looking man in his thirties. He was attractive, Art noted despite himself, and he wrinkled his nose once at the damning thought. "Hi, sir. Did you find everything you needed?"

A bag of Doritos and a large Coke were set on the counter, a very boring combination that had been seen too many times to count during his time at the register. Art scanned them, bringing unwanted attention to his fucked-up hand. The man noticed, much to the teenage boy's frustration.

"I did. You might want to ice that hand of yours...not to pry," the guy didn't look like he had seen a fight in his life, and Art couldn't help but clench his jaw as he pulled the receipt out of the machine.

He sent him a short, awkward smile at the advice, not really sure how to reply to a total stranger telling him how to ice an injury he'd had more-than-enough experience with. "Ah, it'll be fine. Nothing new. Have a good day, sir."

The bag of items just barely found its way into the stranger's hand when Arthur's phone lit up again. Two pairs of eyes glanced down at the screen. Art noted Lizzie's response with a time to meet at the school's athletic fields, and he found his hands buzzing with electricity to get to Midtown already.

"You, too."

An uncomfortable feeling set down Arthur's spine as he watched the man walk out of the convenience store with his snacks, but when his phone buzzed again with the second notification reminder, the encounter was forgotten like a gust of wind.

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𝐔𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐍𝐘 ─ 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘

𝟎𝟑 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟕

"You're going to break your fingers."

Peter Parker hated Lizzie Carter, and that was the only thought repeating throughout his mind when he hit the punching bag one last time—incorrectly, apparently—for good measure. Wiping the bead of sweat on his brow, the teenage boy turned around to see her leaning against the door frame of the New Avengers workout facility. Much like expected, not an ounce of emotion showed on her face, stoic as she reprised the role of Lieutenant Lizzie. The anniversary of Berlin was not doing any favors for their partnership recently. Officially having passed the year mark, everyone in the facility moved with an air of caution.

Peter didn't lose anything that day. Everyone else lost everything. The past year for Peter, he spent trying to understand who Lizzie Carter really was. He thought he knew the scary, annoyingly-perfect softball player that exuded confidence he could never achieve and showed love to the plant they grew together freshman year. Peter knew nothing about who she was when she left the walls of Midtown School of Science and Technology, save for her aunt's illness at the time. Then, he saw her on the tarmac that day, and Peter gathered enough pieces when she was arrested to know he didn't know who she was at all.

"I haven't broken any yet," he told her, and then he returned back to the punching bag in front of him like she had not advised him of anything. "Is Art coming today?"

"No," she said, crossing her arms over her chest as she watched him adjust his stance incorrectly. Her eyes stayed on him, a silent question hanging in the air, but she remained just as closed off now as she had the last few weeks.

Peter turned back around in a beat. "Is everything okay?"

Lizzie nodded, ducking her head down for a second to glance at her worn-down black Nike's. When she returned to eye-level, Peter hadn't moved an inch after asking his question. "He's okay. He said his mom just needed him to help around the house."

Arthur Langley just recently came out to Peter Parker, who responded to the information in a similar fashion that he responded to Lizzie's: "That's cool," and then he carried on tinkering with Tony's suit. Lizzie could only shrug at her best friend in a way that said the unspoken question of: What did you expect? It was Peter. But somewhere in between that conversation, Peter went to Arthur without Lizzie, and Peter found out about how Arthur's parents felt about his sexuality. Even though Lizzie and Peter never openly spoke about the circumstances with one another, mainly because Peter knew Lizzie never would, a mutual understanding rested in the air of making sure he was okay.

"All right. That's fine. I can just run today, or something—"

Lizzie clacked her tongue. "Actually, you're going to spar with me so you don't break your fingers."

"I'm not going to...wait, you want to fight me?"

"I dream of it every night."

Peter flushed, his cheeks burning despite himself and he prayed that his face was already red from working out. Based off the way Lizzie's mouth dipped into a smirk, he knew he was wrong.

"You haven't fought since—"

Since he let a building fall on top of them.

"—I'm aware, Parker," she said. "But I also don't want you breaking your fingers."

"I'm not going to break my fingers, Lizzie—" suddenly, a cold pair of hands were grabbing his wrist, silencing him immediately when a thumb went into the pressure point around his curled up fist. Peter yelped at the searing pain circuiting through his nerves, yanking himself free so that he could send daggers to Lizzie. She raised her brows at him. "What the hell was that?!"

Lizzie rubbed her nose once and turned away, pulling her hoodie over her head while she kicked off her tennis shoes, leaving her in her sports bra and a pair of leggings. The clothing was thrown off to a corner without much thought, and he watched her move around the padded floor in complete silence. Suddenly, music cut through the workout facility, and a satisfied hum escaped the teenage girl's mouth as her bare feet found their way back to him.

Dream On by Aerosmith burned into their ears.

"I can't train without music," she answered the unasked question plainly, and he continued to stare at her like she was a psychopath. Lizzie noticed, bur didn't say anything more. Throwing her head down, he watched her pull her hair into a ponytail. It had grown a lot in a year, to the middle of her back down, but still dyed a startling dark. As she collected her hair, she finally spoke. "That pressure point I just hit is what you'll feel in your entire hand if you keep your fingers like that."

"You couldn't have just told me—?"

"Tried. You didn't want to listen," and finally, the girl looked up with her hair out of her face. Licking her bottom lip in thought, her eyes observed Peter's tight shoulders. Not a fighting position at all. "C'mon, partner. You said you want to train with me."

"Okay, but I thought we could maybe talk about it first or something, like, you know, a signed consent-form in case you rip my head off—" Peter was a rushed of jumbled words now, deciding that the only way he was going to get out of being murdered per the last year's worth of threats made by the girl was through excuses. All of the angry MJ threats came back in one fell swoop of commingled horror. Peter blanched again when she said nothing to his first attempt. "I just, I don't think this is a good idea. I know you were cleared for your shoulder, and really, I'm so so happy for you, but I don't want to—"

"—don't want to what, Parker?" she finished for him, tilting her head and twisting her lips into a taunting smirk. "Hurt me?"

Peter noticed how her eyes were constantly flickering to his stance and the position of his body, and the way that he hadn't moved once in the last minute because he thought he could turn invisible if he tried hard enough—but no, Lizzie was eyeing him up like a hunter stalked their prey. Observing, calculating, and Peter hadn't seen that side of her since Berlin. Her urgency to suddenly train made more sense. It did not, however, alleviate any of his spiking anxiety.

Lizzie, however, was excited to finally test the Spider-Boy's heightened senses for herself without the aim of severely harming him. Trying to figure out the best way of doing that just needed more time, and Peter had no idea she was plotting the best way of doing so the entire time he stood there protesting the idea of them sparring altogether. So when he went to speak again, his shoulders rising with his first breath, Lizzie was quick.

Peter's arm outstretched before his mind processed the object coming towards his ribs, arm pushing away the knee going to make direct contact into his side. With his arm distracted, both of Lizzie's hands slivered in to knock two considerate taps to his neck and the other side of his ribcage.

"Ribs are open," was all she said, indicating to him that he'd just left her two open attempts to injure him, or kill him for that matter. The acknowledgement of his errors struck a competitive nerve in him, because Lizzie made him look like an amateur. Peter knew how to fight. He'd lived this long. He just...wasn't a trained spy, and he never found himself in close-contact fights often enough that it was important to fixate on.

"Fine."

Peter gave in with that one word, and Lizzie's eyes lit up like he gifted her the best present to date by accepting the challenge. Purposefully, he took a few steps away from her, rubbing his clammy hands on his black sweats to alleviate his growing nerves. He couldn't hurt her. Peter, whatever you do, don't hurt her. Lizzie hummed as she watched him put distance between them, not moving back like he had, but rooting herself in place.

"Everyone fights different, Peter," she said, having to raise her voice to carry over the sound of the music. "First part of training with a new person is to figure out how they fight. How does Art fight?"

Lizzie asked him this, but Peter knew better now. He watched her every move as she slowly stalked around him, all the while remaining relaxed—at ease—lies. "I don't know. He uses his fists."

Art hit hard.

"Art fights offensively," she corrected him, and Peter's hands flexed at his sides when he noticed her take a particular liking to his left leg. Suddenly, he balanced out his weight to evade her attempt at a weak point in his posture. Lizzie seemed to notice that, tilting her jaw up at his correction, unaware of how closely her words were beginning to mirror her first training with a certain Carter woman. "Everyone moves their body differently, and if they know how to fight, then they know how to use their body to their advantage. Art uses brute force because he can. You fight offensively because you can get away quickly. You do react better than him, but you don't pay attention to every piece. You're not worried about the next hit, and he's ready to give it. It's why you hate training together."

Peter's mouth dried as he stood there, listening to the girl explain his fighting style to him and feeling very much like she had a microscope to him. Everything she said made sense; Arthur and Peter did hate when they trained together, only because it involved Peter being able to effortlessly escape any swing the boy would try and pummel into him. But when Arthur had him down, he couldn't get out (he could, but it would involve throwing the teenage boy across the room and Lizzie would murder him).

His eyes met hers, ready with his next question. "So...what's yours?"

"Now, why would I tell you that, partner?"

Peter got his answer when the girl swept forward like a blur, leaving him blinking in surprise when he found himself tripped up and on his back. A loud sound echoed through the room when he smacked against the padding, and he coughed hard, rolling over on his side to groan at the sudden impact taking his breath away. But when he saw another flash of skin, Peter's hand reached to grab a hold of Lizzie's ankle, aiming to sweep the girl off her foot with a tug. What he hadn't been expecting was for the girl to recover from his pull and not fall down, her weight shifting to her healed leg with a jump. As she curling her body around, she moved so that her foot was twisted—oh, she was trying to hit him in the face.

Lizzie found herself entertained the entire time. Peter Parker looked like he was ready to kill her, his hair starting to curl around his sweaty temples. Even when he noticed her plan, she couldn't stop the snort that escaped her mouth when the boy chose a different path of getting the fuck away. She watched him scramble to his feet again, dropping hold of her ankle and allowing her to readjust her body—not giving him a second, Lizzie pushed herself into his boundaries again and fully swung.

Peter's hand went out like she anticipated, but the last few hits were honest play to her. Lizzie stopped being so kind with her breaks, and when she threw her right arm out—her bad arm out—and clipped Peter across the chin, adrenaline surged through her. She was fighting again. The knock against his jaw was just enough to make her partner pissed, like Lizzie expected, and she watched the teenage boy's energy shift. His uncomfortable place in a defensive position turned into a confidence while working offensively, and he opened himself toward her so that he could blindly strike. Hit. Block. Another attempt, and Lizzie saw his nostrils flare when she ducked underneath and evaded, light on her feet.

"You're getting pissed. You're not thinking. I hit your jaw any harder, and you're out," MJ instructed with a gravel to her voice as she knocked his hand away again. She allowed him to push them back a few feet so he had more control, brown eyes catching his in the midst to see a trademarked frustration resurfacing. "And you're holding back. You're not going to hurt me, Parker. I can hold my own just fine."

Peter practically growled at her. "Can you please stop talking?"

"What, am I making you mad?" she pressed into him, taunting him as her smile grew.

He took another launch at her. Peter may have enhanced senses, and be levels stronger than her, but what the boy did not have was the ability to see through her movements. Peter reacted, but he didn't observe. Her fingers flexed around his wrist to stop him in place, forcing Peter to stare at her. Cloudy, amused brown irises continued to egg on his growing irritation. While he was happy to see her enjoying herself, he was not happy to see himself being showed up.

"You used to love talking to people when you fought with them, Parker," she pressed, her voice low. "You don't want to talk to me now?"

Fucking, fuck. Fuck-fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

Peter took another stupid shot, a kick that she avoided by crowding into him. Like a joke, she mirrored what he tried to do and sent his legs out again. Peter knew better now and he bent his knees, purposefully dragging them both to the ground. Lizzie let out a grunt when she hit the floor, falling on her elbow. He moved over her hastily, attempting to put a good amount of weight on her arms to keep them down, but she thrashed just enough for her knee to come up and send a hard blow into his ribcage.

"Fuck—" came out of Lizzie's mouth as she rung out her arm. Peter's blood pounded, the fire fleshing up his side as he crumbled away to hiss out. The act of him falling away from her gave Lizzie the chance to heave the upper half of her body up. Peter didn't realize getting the teenage girl on the ground was a bad decision—because, while she felt more comfortable on her feet, Lizzie could find her advantages when someone bigger than her took her down. Ian Monroe taught her that.

They dove back into a rhythm, the two of them beginning to observe defining characteristics in the others fighting style. Lizzie's legs were the strongest part of her body, so when she clipped his shoulder with her foot, he hadn't been expected the force to send him on his back again just as he tried to sit back up. Peter grunted and showed his own tell by trying to get away. Lizzie fought ruthlessly, quick. Peter was used to fights ending in a matter of minutes. He depended on his webs.

Peter thought he got away when his senses prickled, goosebumps traveling across his flushed and sweaty skin. Heightened by Lizzie barricading his escape, the teenage boy worked faster than her and sent her on her back just like before. This time, he pushed his left leg down on both of hers, feeling the pressure of her trying to break free against him to kick his ribcage again. At once, both arms reached to grab at his exposed upper half, but Peter expected that too, and a loud slam against the padding secured Lizzie to the floor.

With no way out, she accepted her fate and allowed her chest to heave for some necessary breaths, dropping her head against the padded floor to find Peter's stare. Her ponytail was messed up, baby-hairs stuck to her forehead where she was sweating, and her heart rate beat hard against his ears, all details Peter focused on before he finally accepted the eye contact. The way they lit up, instead of darkening like he anticipated when he beat her, made his insides twist. Instead, the teenage girl acted like she planned to be caught. A smile stretched across her face again, drawing his eyes momentarily to her reddened lips—and an intrusive memory, that he knew what they felt like, came to mind just as fast as it disappeared.

Peter had a headache.

"I win," was his dumb response.

Lizzie threw her head back more to laugh, and Peter huffed, letting of her arms so that he could fall back into a seated position next to her. The two of them remained unmoving, save for Lizzie's arm coming around to rest along her abdomen as she found a normal heartbeat again.

Finally, she tilted her head to look at him. "So...what's my fighting style, partner?"

"Annoying."

"You kept running away from me."

He huffed out a breath. "You were trying to kill me!"

"I was not—"

"—okay, sure. You've had that scary look in your eyes all week, MJ."

His response hadn't held a deeper meaning, but when the comment silenced the other half of his conversation, Peter Parker looked over at her. Her mouth was pulled to the side, and his attention traveled briefly to her neck when she swallowed hard. Since the moment she stepped into the training facilities, he knew something was up. While she had her colder days, their partnership since the accident had only gotten better—today, Lizzie reminded him of someone else. Before Homecoming. But after Berlin.

Deciding she would either break his ribs or answer honestly, Peter decided to ask. "What's going on?"

Lizzie sighed deeply. That must have been the question no one asked her yet and she was vehemently avoiding, because Peter cracked the case like it was rocket-science. She pushed herself up into a sitting position like him, pulling her knees closer to her chest so that she could wrap her arms loosely around them. All of these things were important to Peter. All of these things were important about Lizzie, because when it came to her opening up about personal thoughts running around in her mind, she gave up little. Usually, the only thing he had to depend on as a give-away to her emotions was her actions, not what she was saying.

"Steve's birthday is tomorrow," she revealed the information with a strain in her voice as she focused on the wall ahead of her. The music still sounded in the background, a stark contrast to the shift in energy, but unbeknownst to Peter, the sounds sheltered Lizzie in comfort. She pushed her lips together tightly when she felt the lump form in her throat over her next admission. "It's been over a year since I've seen Wanda—Carson. My sister."

Peter never met either of those three women, but he knew that the last one was the key to everything. Sharon. The name belonged to a stranger, no more than a name that carried a heavy weight around Lizzie and her family. He didn't have siblings; most of his life had been spent by himself, and when Ned became his friend, that friendship was the closest thing he could compare it to. Even that wasn't the same, and he learned that too over this past year. Lizzie showed him the devastation that came from the unknowns of someone she was meant to share her entire life with.

Never taking his stare off of her, he watched her reach up to her neck. Tucked under the fabric of her sports bra were two sets of dog-tags, and his heart clenched. "I'm sorry you can't be with them, MJ. I'm...I'm sorry that it's been a year."

Peter knew just what the root of her pain meant, and him addressing the time made her suck in a sharp breath like he'd finally landed a painful blow. Lizzie's fingers stitched together, hands rubbing anxiously to rid themselves of the growing tension in her chest. While she hadn't had a panic attack in over two months, she couldn't help but feel like one was around the corner any time she got too close to the wrong emotions.

Finally, she lifted her head and turned to meet his eyes again. Giving him a half-hearted smile, she nodded once at him. "Thanks for today, partner."

Peter knew she was thanking him for more than the conversation.

"MJ?"

"Hm?"

He paused, considering whether or not he should just forget his next words, but they seemed too important to him to go without saying. Peter felt an unusual pinch in his chest. "You know you don't have to be perfect around me, right? I just...you can breathe, you know...I'm here."

Lizzie Carter was full of flaws, but most of the word never saw them. No one saw them. She preferred it that way, Peter decided. For her sake, but also for others. He learned after their conversation in D.C. about D.C. that her past was riddled with ghosts, and although his closet may be full as well, hers came with a different price. One she had still not fully opened up about.

He watched her process his words, swallowing with more difficulty to contain the tears threatening to greet her eyes. Every part of her body was tense, hands clawing into one another as her teeth clenched to show a prominent vein in her neck. Peter's own eyes burned with unshed tears as he watched her struggle so much to keep everything in—to physically fight back against everything she was feeling.

Peter didn't know what to say, so he did the only thing he felt he could and moved closer to her so that they were shoulder-to-shoulder. Lizzie welcomed his presence immediately, and he relaxed when her body curved against his. Now that they were next to each other, he could feel the thunder rattling her body uncontrollably and without permission. None of this was something Lizzie could keep within herself, but he remained (sadly) impressed with how well she fought against it.

"I still haven't healed from D.C.," was the first thing MJ admitted to him, one of her shaky hands reaching out to rub her lips, a soothing mechanism as she processed her next words. "...and I don't know if I ever will."

Peter watched her hand move again to rub at her knee. Just like before, and all these months later, he still remembered the same name that prompted the physical response. "Lizzie?" Again, she hummed once to show she was listening. "I know you said you weren't ready to talk about it, but...who's Monroe?"

Lizzie's head shook, a silent protest to herself of the question and the mere name coming out of Peter's mouth. Tears broke with that one, and he wished he could erase the last few minutes and go back to when they were sparring, because Peter hadn't been prepared to see his partner cry. A string of profanities left her mouth as she rubbed the tears away, sniffling. "Fuck. Sorry."

"MJ, it's okay—"

"—it's not," she interjected, her voice cracking.

Peter hated it. Lizzie caught his eyes again, and he understood how much it took for her to do so. For a few seconds, she searched for something in his expression, and he didn't know what he needed to do for her to know he was there. Words formed around her lips, but she struggled to get them out. Anger creased the space between her brows, but none of it was at him. The anger, the pain, the tears, everything was being shown to him as she put together an answer for him.

Peter didn't know Monroe, but he knew he hated him for whatever he did to MJ.

"Ian Monroe worked for S.H.I.E.L.D.. He got picked up after hacking into their systems to try and find information on enhanced and gifted individuals...he, um," Lizzie paused, lips pushing to one side. "I told you he was my teacher...but it was just him. I spent more time with him than I did anyone while I was in D.C.. Four days a week, for hours, it was just us. He was the first person I came out to. That mattered to me. He was the first person to truly challenge me, not just tell me I'm smart but a smartass...turns out both of us were lying about who we really were that whole time."

Peter connected the dots faster than he would have before, not knowing the other details of her past. His face darkened at her insinuation. "He was...?"

HYDRA. He didn't say the word out loud.

"Depends on who you ask," she cut in with more venom laced in her words than he was expecting. Again, her jaw clenched. "He was. And he wasn't. It doesn't really make a fucking difference to me anymore."

"It does."

Peter's two words were simple, but effective. Lizzie looked at him again, watching his eyes flicker to every inch of her face for a greater hint to her emotional well-being. She hated to be the one to tell him she had nothing left to give.

"I will never be able to explain to anyone what those five minutes did to me, Peter, and I wish I could give you something more," as she said this, her face twisted into a grimace, head shaking once again as those memories hit the blocks in her mind. Lizzie brushed the tears away, a sad, empty laugh coming out of her chest. "It's funny, because in the grand scheme of every horrible thing that happened that day..."

She couldn't finish her sentence, pushing her lips together to stop herself from saying anymore. In the grand scheme of every horrible thing that happened that day, Monroe was five minutes of trauma that should have blended in with every other second—but it didn't. Because that was the one pain of that entire day that could have been prevented. That was the one pain that Lizzie should have known better than to create for herself. Lizzie knew better now.

Peter did something surprising, and he wrapped his arm around her carefully—slowly—like someone would introduce themselves to a wounded animal. Unbeknownst to him of just how much the teenage girl just need someone to hold her. Lizzie fully crippled herself into him that time, her head tucking underneath his chin as she continued catching her tears on his shirt. He didn't mind one bit.

"Thank you for trusting me, MJ," he muttered to her.

"Thanks for making me cry," she nudged him, making sure he knew she was joking. "I needed it."

───○☆ ✸ ☆○───

𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐘 - 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐌𝐒𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐆, 𝐍.𝐘.𝐂.

𝟎𝟒 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟕

The Fourth of July was never a holiday that devastated Lizzie before. Before, she spent the scorching holiday with family, grilling and spending far too much money to watch firework shows out of the city. Before, she was able to celebrate Steve Rogers' birthday with him—but she couldn't do that this year, and Lizzie Carter did not know many more years after this one that she would have to endure the holiday without him. Her solution to Steve Rogers not being there was not her brightest, and definitely not her best, but there was not much else she could do. She would blame it all on Taylor Brentwell this time.

Lizzie's face twisted as she rushed to grab the Red-Bull from Taylor's hands, taking two long gulps to get the taste of literal acid out of her mouth. Taylor winced, watching her best friend chug the energy drink, then return it to give the curly-haired brunette a small gag. "Geez, Taylor. What was that, rubbing alcohol?"

"Vodka, but close," Taylor informed her, shooting her another wince when Lizzie's face twisted pitifully at her. Until the seventeen-year-old girl became focused on a pair of eyes behind Lizzie instead. "Someone looks very interested to have a conversation with you, by the way."

Lizzie's eyebrows raised in interest, but she didn't turn around. Instead, she hopped up on the kitchen counter. "What kind of conversation?"

"The kind you like to have at parties," her best friend said slyly, pursing her lips innocently and taking another sip of the Red-Bull. Lizzie shot her arm out, knocking Taylor's elbow just enough to slosh the drink onto her chin. "Oh, screw you, bitch. We both know you're a flirt. Out here kissing Peter Parker—"

"Taylor."

Taylor grinned when she noticed Lizzie's eyes darken, a red flush starting to take over her cheeks. Whether that was from the alcohol or the question, who knew. "What? I worked so hard on that spreadsheet, and you hate every single girl on that list—"

"—I don't hate every girl on that list," she dismissed, rolling her eyes. Lizzie's hands rubbed against her jean-shorts; she was hot. Like, fever hot. Is this what it felt like to be drunk outside of her parent's house? "I just think there's certain people who aren't good for him."

"So, you don't have any feelings for Parker."

Lizzie raised her hands, like she had nothing left to say. "I don't have any feelings for Parker, Taylor. Besides, nothing has changed between us since we kissed. It was just a...get-it-out-of-the-way kind of thing for him."

Taylor's face said what she wasn't. Bullshit. "So...you're giving out first kisses for free now."

"Are you wanting one?" Lizzie shot back, grinning when Taylor wiggled her eyebrows suggestively and purposefully turned her body so that she was now standing in-between Lizzie's legs. Purposefully, the teenage girl locked her ankles around Taylor's body so she couldn't escape. Immediately, Taylor's curls were puffing in her face when she let out a scoff. "I'm not letting you go until you agree to stop bringing up Peter. Yes, we kissed. No, it's not weird. No, I'm not in love with him."

Lizzie made sure that she said those words directly into her best friend's eyes, so that she would be able to tell that her words were honest. Although the familiar irises were cloudy and red from the alcohol, there was an acknowledgement afterwards—but Lizzie lost her a second later. Taylor was drunk.

"Liz, you don't understand. The most drama that's happened between Eli and I is the fight we had last night about who drives better—which, don't you dare even defend him when your driving is atrocious—" Lizzie smirked as she slurred her words, and Taylor slapped her hands on her best friend's thighs to shake her dramatically "—and that's it. That's literally it. God, I love the boy with my whole heart, but I'm literally depending on your love life to entertain me...am I talking a lot?"

"Mhm. Worse than me on a bad day. You shouldn't have shot-gunned that beer earlier."

Taylor's eyes glossed over again at the memory from an hour ago. "He shouldn't have doubted me."

After a senior lacrosse player made the remark that a girl could not shotgun a beer faster than he could, Taylor stepped up to the challenge before Lizzie. Mainly because one-of-the-two needed to be somewhat coherent enough to call Arthur or Eli to come pick them up later. The boys had to get up early in the morning for weights, which most of the athletic coaches purposefully did for the very reason happening now—drunk teenagers.

When they found themselves around alcohol, Lizzie usually took over as mother-hen to make sure her friends weren't going to accidentally trip and break their necks. Eli's seventeenth birthday party was the worst. Today would be the first time she actually drank in public, outside of the few drinks her and Taylor stole at her apartment years ago, and she was trying to find a comfortable place in the party. Taylor was that comfortable place, as of right now.

"I think we should do Jello-shots," Taylor decided with a definitive attitude.

That was a terrible idea. Lizzie smiled down at her and then leaned over her body to look out the window. Most of the party-goers were outside. The Williamsburg neighborhood always had big pools, and while a good amount of the students at Midtown were wealthy, not all of them were. So, a pool was a plus. Taylor knew more of the people than Lizzie did, given that it was Eli's senior class, but they were both surprised to find that people from other schools in the boroughs showed up, too.

"Good luck getting there," Lizzie said, dropping her ankles and allowing the girl to step away from her. Already, she was eyeing up the bucket of Jello-shots near the ping-pong table. Before Taylor could fully get away, she swept up the girl's wrist and stopped her with a serious warning shining in her brown eyes. "Don't get pushed in, please."

Taylor waved her off. "I know how to swim!"

"Not when you're drunk!"

"I'm not drunk!"

Lizzie snorted loud at the bullshit lie, watching her wave with a middle finger raised before she shut the sliding doors out to the backyard. With Taylor gone, the safety net dropped around her. The music blared louder, reverberating off the walls and vibrating the counter. Her attention was diverted elsewhere. A pair of eyes had been burning into her the entire time she spoke with her best friend, likely belonging to the person Taylor pointed out, and she searched through the odd bunches of individuals to find them.

She found them without much difficulty. A teenage boy in a navy-blue polo and pair of plain khaki shorts stood across the room, his eyes showing over the red solo cup until he realized he got caught. That gave her the time to unabashedly check him out. The Rolex watch solidified that he came from one of the upper-east side families hanging around the party. Lizzie wasn't going to come to him, that was for sure.

When he finally braved another look her way, he recognized the unspoken challenge made from across the room, and she watched as he muttered lowly to a friend next to him before parting through the awkward slew of teenagers to get to her. Lizzie leaned back, relaxing against the cabinets, taking in more of the boy's features as he got closer. He was cute. Lizzie knew why Taylor was grinning now, though. If there was one thing Lizzie had, it was a type.

Dark brown hair and light brown eyes caught up to her, and an awkward hand crept up to the boy's neck as he rubbed away his sudden nerves. Lizzie smiled, speaking first. "Hi."

"Hi," he repeated, and then he winced. "I'm blowing this, aren't I?"

"You've only said hi," she pointed out with a twinkle in her brown eyes. One that swept the boy instantly under her feet, and the boy beamed at her words. He was very cute, but she also reserved half of her attention to Taylor's scream when she inevitably fell in the pool. "What's your name?"

"Harry. Harry Fleanor...and you're Lizzie?" Lizzie's attention dipped, if only slightly, when the boy already knew her name. The suspicion clearly projected on her face. Harry's eyes widened after catching on he screwed up, and then he was pointing back toward his group of friends as an excuse. "I've got a friend on the baseball team at Midtown. He told me your name. I'm not a weird stalker. Promise."

Lizzie peered over his tall frame and back to his friends. Although she didn't recognize the specific player he pointed to, she did appreciate that he explained it. Still, she gave him a look. "You know... that's definitely something a stalker would say."

"You caught me," and to emphasize what he hoped was endearing, he raised his hands up. All he received out of the girl was another smile, barely noticeable as her lips turned up on either side. Noticing a brief pause in the conversation, Harry peered outside and tried to continue it as best as possible. "Is that your girlfriend?"

"Basically...but no. She's very straight and very taken."

Harry nodded like the news wasn't exactly what he wanted to hear, and Lizzie knew he was fishing by this point. "And, um..what about you?"

"I'm not straight, if that's what you're asking me," Lizzie answered without missing a beat, watching for his reaction. Her first boyfriend, Ben, had an interestingly homophobic reaction—apparently, believing she was experimenting in the past. Lizzie wasn't sure where her hopes lied for this boy when his eyebrows shot up, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Lizzie beat him to it. "I'm not taken either."

"Oh...okay. Okay. That's cool."

Lizzie, in her heart, found herself wondering if she may be solely interested in women based off the reaction he had. She had to remind herself that not every single teenage boy felt that way, but they fell definitely in the minority—luckily, she could name one off the top of her head. While she could have easily cleared up the exchange by telling him she was bisexual, she didn't want to. Luckily enough, Taylor could be heard among the music slamming the sliding doors closed, drawing as much attention to herself as she could without breaking glass.

Lizzie sent the boy a kind smile. "I better go babysit her."

"Right! Right, yeah. Sure."

Lizzie jumped off the counter and slid past him with a nod and another smile that may have been more for the sake of her own conscience than his. Taylor's eyes brightened when she walked over to her, holding up red and blue Jello-shots that had small American flags stuck into them. Not caring this time, Lizzie snatched two of them out of her best friend's hands.

Taylor watched her, seemingly impressed. "I was going to ask how the conversation went, but I can see it went well."

"Yeah, thanks for leaving me."

"I was told not to interfere with your love life."

"Interfere a little, please. He asked me if you were my girlfriend."

Taylor's nose scrunched up, and she looked back over Lizzie's shoulder at the boy. "Did you say yes?"

"I told him I wasn't straight," Lizzie answered instead, deciding that was the better response to give since Taylor currently had one-functioning braincell. That single braincell worked well, though, and her best friend could piece together the rest of the story. A disgusted curl of Taylor's mouth formed, and when she took the two Jello-shots like a woman on a mission, Lizzie caught ahead of her ideas. Grabbing a hold on her, the stronger of the girls secured Taylor's unstable frame to the ground. "Stand down, crime fighter. He didn't say anything."

"He didn't have to—"

"—Taylor, we're not getting into fights tonight—"

"—psssht, 'til someone pisses you off and you start swinging—just, Lizzie—I'm literally just going to talk to him and tell him if he has a problem with two girls kissing to say it to my face. Better yet—c'mere—hey, douche!"

Lizzie should have expected for Taylor Brentwell to forcefully grab her face and plant a sloppy kiss to her lips, but she only had the opportunity to blink in surprise before her best friend let her go. Taylor didn't miss a beat, throwing another middle finger up over Lizzie's shoulder, making the other girl knock her arm down to avoid any further attention to them. Taylor beamed, turning back to face her with a look of accomplishment polishing her sweaty complexion. Lizzie was too focused on the amount of people that were staring at the two softball players right now, a panic starting to rise in her chest.

"He looks very uncomfortable right now."

"I can't imagine why."

"Whatever. Don't act like you didn't love it. I know I'm not Parker, but—"

"Alright. Alright, alright. Come on before you start singing on the table. We're going to go play some ping-pong, and I'm going to tell your boyfriend you're drunk and kissing me again."

"Ugh. Whatever, drunk, you too!"

Lizzie hated that she could translate that.

───○☆ ✸ ☆○───

𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 ─ 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐋𝐘𝐍, 𝐍𝐘𝐂

𝟎𝟓 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟕

"Hey!"

Sammy Carter's baffled exclaim hit the walls when his older sister barreled past him, nearly sending chunky (but fast) legs straight up in the air. His apple juice cup tightened in his hold, dark brown eyes peering over the corner to watch as Lizzie hunched over the toilet and expelled an amount of liquid that should not have come out of a body that small. Sammy screeched when he saw it, his apple juice clutching in his armpit as he blocked his hands over his eyes to hide the sight.

"Mama! Sissy's dying!"

Lizzie wretched again, supporting the upper half of her body by gripping her knees tightly. Sammy's shrieks were too loud against her eardrums, causing a hot flash to creep up her neck and she was entirely sure she was dying. Sophia Carter appeared around the corner as though she teleported, swooping Sammy up to her hip and going into the bathroom to set a Gatorade and Tylenol on the counter in only a few seconds. The swift actions made both Lizzie and Sammy nauseous, each blinking at their mother like the superhero she was, just before Lizzie ruined the moment and hunched over the toilet again.

"Oh, baby..." Sophia sighed, leaning her head against Sammy's as they watched Lizzie slither down to the tile floor into a fetal position. "Sammy, sissy's just got her first hangover."

Lizzie groaned again from the floor. "Help."

"I made you breakfast. Hashbrowns and pancakes, you need something in your stomach before you take the medicine. Drink your gatorade," then Sophia paused to peer down the hallway where Lizzie's room was, the door cracked open from her sprint. "Is Taylor alive?"

"No."

"Whenever you revive her, tell her she's got a Gatorade and breakfast too," Sophia muttered to her middle child. Lizzie sent her mother thumbs up and returned to withering away, praying that the pounding in her head would stop. "Bad decisions have consequences, MJ!"

The stupid Jello-shots.

───○☆ ✸ ☆○───

𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐎𝐓 ─ 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊 𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘

𝟎𝟒 𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟕

"Who's the dude?"

"Huh?" Taylor looked up from her phone and then her own brows furrowed. "Who the hell's he?"

Very clearly out of place was a thirty-ish man, staring down at his phone in the pathway between the softball and baseball fields. Presley, her sophomore teammate, asked the question first and sent a look when Taylor only repeated the same thing. They continued walking past the guy, but Taylor didn't ignore the way the man looked up from his phone when he heard their shoes scuffling against the gravel. Taylor Brentwell may not have been as in-tune with her surroundings as her best friend, but she wasn't stupid.

Her grip tightened on her backpack strap when she made eye contact with the guy. Presley had a different goal in mind while Taylor was distracted, noticing another one of their teammates leaving the parking lot ahead of them.

"Hey, C.T.!" Presley called for the player walking to their car. Taylor decided she would never do anything with Presley ever again after that. The animosity she had for Catherine Clemins was not a secret to anyone on the team, including the coaches and assistants. "Who's the guy?"

C.T. looked briefly at Taylor standing back from the conversation before she focused on Presley again, shrugging. Hiking her bag up, she cleared her throat. "Don't know. He stopped me to ask when the season started. He knows someone who plays on the team."

"Who?" Taylor asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

Another awkward pause, and C.T. cleared her throat with a hesitancy in her answer. "Said he knew Lizzie...so, I guess you don't know him?"

"Obviously not," clipped back Lizzie Carter's best friend, suddenly more aware of the stranger now that he was asking about MJ. Curiously, she turned back around to see if the man remained in the same place. He was. Still staring down at his phone. Taylor got a bad feeling in her stomach and clenched her teeth. "Clearly he doesn't know her very well if he's asking when she's playing again."

The undertone of Lizzie Carter's absence on their team made C.T. frown. "That's what I thought. I didn't tell him anything."

"Dude, why is it always Lizzie?" Presley asked, groaning as she threw her head back. "She's not even on the team anymore."

Taylor Brentwell wanted to swing at Presley for the comment alone, but she couldn't do that to another teammate. Even if she wasn't technically on school grounds after they reached the parking lot. Specifically when that other teammate was also standing in swinging-distance, and she didn't trust Catherine not to take a chance and stomp on her head while she was down. To Taylor's surprise, C.T. Clemins was just as displeased to hear Presley's remark about her ex-girlfriend. That prompted some kind of irony out of Taylor, especially since their fight in the middle of a game happened because C.T. made a snide remark about Lizzie cheating.

C.T. grabbed her car door, shoving her bags into her backseat as she did so. "Hey, Presley, maybe stop talking shit about someone just because they're a better player than you." 

Presley's mouth opened, and she looked to Taylor for support—assuming she would take the opposing end of anything C.T. did—but that was where she was wrong. Taylor didn't move a muscle, staring blankly at Presley until the girl went to open her mouth.

"Leave it alone before I say something, too."

Taylor and Catherine watched as she took a daring look between them, before mockingly saluting with a roll of her eyes and walking away. The taller of the two softball players had to bite back her frustration, glaring at Presley's disappearing frame. Then, the cold front sucked out the camaraderie when Taylor remembered she was left alone with her arch-nemesis.

"Well. So glad that I got to deal with this after practice," Taylor started, and then she awkwardly faced C.T. "I'll see you later."

C.T. didn't really have any reply to give, but before she could get into her opened car door, her brown eyes returned to the man. "Hey, Taylor? You're gonna tell her about the creepy dude, right?"

Taylor kissed her teeth to avoid saying anything unkind. "Yes. I'm gonna let her know, C.T.. I know it might surprise you, but we don't keep secrets from each other."

So maybe Taylor couldn't help herself. The not-so-subtle comment was made toward their argument. After C.T. tried to call Lizzie a cheater, she came quick to her best friend's defense—assuring both Catherine and the rest of the team that Lizzie Carter was the furthest thing from a cheater.

"Have a good one, Catherine."

───○☆ ✸ ☆○───

𝐔𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊 ─ 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘

𝟏𝟗 𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟕

"Hi, Lizzie. Happy belated birthday."

"Thanks," Lizzie replied politely, trying her hardest not to sink into the couch to avoid the conversation that would inevitably happen. "How's the little one growing?"

Therapist Gracie was pregnant!

"She's definitely going to be a fighter," Gracie said as she unconsciously touched a specific location of her stomach, and Lizzie couldn't help but admire the mother's intuition of where her unborn child was located—but then, she stopped. Lizzie's eyed widened as big as saucers, and a grin stretched out over Gracie's face when she saw the reaction. "I was waiting for that—"

"—it's a girl?!" she jumbled out with excitement, accidentally bouncing in her seat. Gracie continued to grin at her, confirming the news with a nod. "Oh, my god. I totally knew it. Did anyone else say it was a girl, because all of you thought it was a boy—"

"Well...my mother said it would be a girl before I even told her I was pregnant. She beat you on that one."

"Are you excited? Or disappointed? Did I make you terrified to raise a teenage girl?"

Therapist Gracie's mouth twitched as the only indication she knew Lizzie was (accidentally) wasting time talking about other people instead of herself. "I'm very excited...and no, you didn't. I hope my daughter grows up to be as strong as you. I'd be honored."

Lizzie deflected, swallowing hard and playing with the frayed fabric of her ripped jeans. "You should've seen me driving here today."

"You drove yourself?"

"I did. I got my license last week."

Therapist Gracie smiled. "That's a big accomplishment, Lizzie. How are you feeling about it?"

"I almost cried on my way here," she admitted, biting down on her lips. An unconscious urge to roll out her right shoulder didn't go unnoticed by Gracie, whose eyes darted to the injury with interest. Concern. Lizzie caught the change of gaze, and her hand tapped her shoulder lightly. "It's okay. I just...I think my body's so used to being broken now-a-days, I have to remind myself sometimes it's not."

"How are you feeling about that? It's been a year since the accident."

The accident. The accident.

"Homecoming was last week. I went with my friend, Michelle, again. It was nice...normal."

Therapist Gracie had been seeing Lizzie for well over a year now. In that year, the woman tested and bent and broke every boundary blocking the passage to the teenage girl's broken mind. When the woman felt like she was getting anywhere, Lizzie Carter would close up. Deflect, with a lighter problem, an easier problem, until the nightmares that she crawled free from would be forgotten. Therapist Gracie didn't forget anything. Not because she had enough psychology reports of Elizabeth Jay Carter to write a book, but because Therapist Gracie's heart broke for her patient. In a way she promised herself she would never allow happen when she started her work as a therapist.

"Is it weird that I don't...feel anything about that accident?" Lizzie asked quietly, more-so to herself than to the other (two) in the room. Glancing up, she made eye contact with Gracie and her lip dipped in, conflicted. "It was the one that caused the most damage. It took the longest to heal. I had so many surgeries this time, but..."

"But it was all physical."

Lizzie closed her eyes briefly, hands flexing at those words. Homecoming didn't scar her. Not like the others.

"I still can't talk about that day with anyone. People have asked about him. People have asked me what happened. You've asked me what happened, and I just...I fucking can't—I'm sorry," she corrected herself of the slipped profanity, chewing on her lower lip as her nerves started to rattle up inside of her. Gracie always waited for this moment. She never pushed. Lizzie hated how effortlessly it worked every-time. "Homecoming...I thought that Homecoming would break him. Because I know how it feels to see someone like I'm sure I looked that night...but it didn't. He didn't let it shake him."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Gracie asked softly.

Lizzie nodded immediately, a choked laugh coming out of her mouth. "It's a great thing...and I'm so grateful for that...but I feel like I'm letting him down. Because I don't know if I'll ever be a good partner until I let go of my past."

"I can't speak for your partner...but I would say, from what I have heard from you personally...you're not a bad partner, Lizzie. Your past doesn't make you a bad partner. Nor does it make you any less capable of doing anything you put your mind to. It's easy to think people see the same things we think about ourselves, but those are just thoughts."

Just thoughts.

When Lizzie exited the psychology facility, toying with her keys to appease her fingers' need to be moving, the October weather burst against her face to numb her face. Fifty-eight minutes of reluctant tears falling, minus a two minutes Lizzie took at the end to feel when Baby Therapist Gracie kicked for the first time during their session. She puffed out a heavy breath, the New York air different upstate than it was in Brooklyn. It reminded her of Washington. Not home.

The walk to the parking lot was short, but she put an extra pep in her step to get to the seat-warmers. At least, until she saw a person leaning up against her father's car. Then, she stopped. They weren't tall; plainly-average, wearing a thick, black coat over a pair of dark-wash jeans. A dark baseball cap hid their identity, and with them tucking their chin low, Lizzie only knew the gender of the person.

Slowly, she approached the vehicle. He could have been a stranger passing by, and she would not have even noticed him. The thought made her sick. Nausea churned her stomach more than her session had as she took in the unfamiliar differences of the man—trying to think back to the months she'd spent feeling watched. Followed. How many times had she walked past someone who resembled him? How many times was he there?

Lizzie wouldn't run from him this time.

"Finally decide to man up and talk to me face-to-face, O'Captain?"

Ian Monroe lifted his head to finally face her. "Agent Three."

▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂

Author's Note:

well.

This chapter went through 3 different variations, and if you're reading this, I decided to give up and press Publish instead of staring at my screen for another three hours...well. Let me know what you thought about this chapter. This is the official end to the INTERLUDES. 

All my love.

❤️