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𝙉𝙊𝙏 𝘼𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙃𝙀𝙍 𝙏𝙀𝙀𝙉 𝙈𝙊𝙑𝙄𝙀.

───○☆ ✸ ☆○───

𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 & 𝐓𝐄𝐂𝐇𝐍𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐘

𝟏𝟗 𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟕

───○☆ ✸ ☆○───

☆

"Did you do the homework for English?"

"Do you really think I did the homework for English?"

Arthur Langley sent a middle-finger to Taylor Brentwell, which only gained the response of two middle fingers from the girl. Junior year brought a few interesting changes (with one senior, Eli would like to mention) to the divided, but still associated group of friends. While Midtown tried to separate itself from the stereotypes of a modern-day high school—no one was pushing anyone into any lockers, save for Flash's commentary sometimes—it was still weird. Because haphazardly placed with their unofficially-assigned seats at the cafeteria table were three State-Ranked athletes, two brilliant mathletes, and a very unapproachable bookworm. Somehow it worked. Somehow the fusion of lunch groups came naturally that semester despite the difference of interests. Somehow happened because of one person. 

A loud sigh echoed across the long table, then a piece of paper appeared in front of Taylor and Arthur. Both of them looked up when they saw Michelle Jones with a scalding glare. "Don't copy word-for-word."

"I don't care what anyone says. You're the better MJ," Arthur cheered with glee as he snatched the paper from Taylor before she could copy first. "And yes, I'm absolutely only saying that because she's not here to beat my ass into next Tuesday."

Michelle rolled her eyes, then they lingered at the empty spot next to Taylor. "Where is MJ, by the way?"

"Her Ma told me she had a doctor's appointment when I called this morning to pick her up 'cause she wasn't answering, but she should be here by now," said her curly-haired best friend, and then her eyes darted over to the teenage boys next to Arthur. "Parker, have you heard from her today? She hasn't been texting me back. I think her phone's turned off. For the thousandth time."

Peter Parker was usually pretty quiet at lunch, save for when he was directly asked a question by someone. While Ned molded himself perfectly into the friend-group given that he bonded instantly with Arthur, Peter didn't have as much ease. He liked all of them, but having more people enter his life after becoming Spider-Man only made him worry about them finding out his secret. Arthur and Ned knowing felt small in comparison to the rest. Lizzie had been hiding the truth for years. His chest tightened when she was brought up, focusing heavily on the same English assignment Arthur was copying down.

Have you heard from her, Peter?

"Not today," he answered, clearing his throat when he looked over at his cellphone. The first few texts he sent went through. Since eleven, they haven't. Not Delivered. Peter thought he was doing a good job of not over-reacting so far. "I talked to her last night, but she said the same thing—doctor's appointment." 

As those words came out of his mouth, he noticed how everyone clung to the information. He still struggled to wrap his head around him being the one to know the most about Lizzie Carter at this table...well. That wasn't true. No one knew Lizzie Carter like Taylor Brentwell. She didn't need to know all of her best friend's secrets for that to be true—to no surprise, that very same teenage girl doubled-down on her rising concern.

Taylor wasn't satisfied by Peter's answer. "Maybe I'll stop by the apartment."

"I'd let her do her thing. You know how she is," Elijah added to the conversation, looking up from his homework when her knee began knocking into his in bouts of anxiety. Taylor frowned at her boyfriend's prompt, but the boy leaned to the side so that he could bump her shoulder. A knowing look crossed his face. "Don't helicopter."

"I'm absolutely going to helicopter. Sharon's birthday is soon."

Peter sucked in a sharp breath much louder than intended. Ned looked over at him, eyebrows raising at the reaction, and his face burned when he realized he'd caught the eyes of the others at the table once again. He opened his mouth to speak, but he didn't know what to say. Because he didn't want to say something he shouldn't about Lizzie—about how she was coping with the absence of her older sister—or lack of coping, rather. He wouldn't give that information away to anyone.

"Sorry," he finally decided lamely, then sent an awkward smile to the table. His own legs were now bouncing under the cafeteria table. "I just didn't realize her sister's birthday was coming up."

Peter saw how hard Steve Rogers' birthday had been.

"Lizzie will be fine," Arthur dismissed, glancing up to give a particularly-knowing look to Peter. Then, they reconnected with Taylor across the table from him, her brown eyes shadowed with disagreement. "You're worrying too much. Seriously. Her phone is dead twenty-three hours out of the day. Sophia would have said something if she wasn't okay. I mean, she's probably pissed you keep blowing up her phone while she's trying to sleep. She'll reply by Sunday."

The possibilities were well within reason, especially for Lizzie. Not answering her phone wasn't shocking for anyone to hear, but the absence from school without any further explanation added in rubbed Taylor the wrong way. Lizzie didn't have perfect attendance by any means, but being a student-athlete for years meant she had obligations to her schedule. She never missed when she said she would be somewhere. Two + two = Taylor was going to murder her best friend herself if she was having sweet dreams in bed right now.

Still, she waited until Arthur was finished, letting his words sink in, before she spoke again. "I hear you, believe me, but I'm still going over there when I get out of practice."

"Fine." Knowing it was a lost cause, Art sighed and raised his hands in surrender. "It's your funeral."

Peter ignored the uneasy feeling growing the longer he stared at the seat across from him. Empty.

Where are you, MJ?

───○☆ ✸ ☆○───

𝐔𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊 ─ 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘

"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."

Lizzie Carter had not seen him since January 12, 2014 in Carson Mayfield's office at the Triskelion. Right around the same time, Disneyland stopped being the happiest place on Earth. For three and a half years, one memory of the man stayed in her head. "This isn't a game, Lizzie!" he shouted, standing over her. "Stop being a little b—" and most days, she wondered what he would have finished that statement with. His hands on the back of her shirt, ripping her away from escape for the first time. Standing over her like she was merely collateral damage. Was it brat, slipping like venom out of a snake's mouth, or was it bitch, spewing with such hate she would never believe he was anything but the enemy?

The air stung her nose when their eyes connected, and their past wrote itself on that October day. Lizzie noticed a new and interesting detail about the man within seconds. The bend in his nose, a small scar off-colored just between his eyebrows that never healed properly from a break. She knew because she had one from the car accident last year. Monroe's scar was not by any accident, though. A hum escaped from her chest, satisfaction seizing control of her body as she reveled in the sight. Good. If she had to live with the scars he created, then so should he.

Lizzie couldn't give him control of the first word. She wouldn't. Not after everything. He would not get that from her, and to dig into their past, her brown eyes pierced directly into his when she spit out, "You missed Captain America by a few months."

Lizzie would have never given that information up if she felt scared. She would have lied—told the man that Steve Rogers was around the corner, waiting for the opportunity after all these years to show the man what a real fight looked like—but she didn't need Steve to fight her battles for her. Lizzie was not scared of Ian Monroe. She never had been. Three and a half years ago, she escaped. Three and a half years later, she refused. He would have to look her in the eyes this time.

Monroe put his hands in his jacket pockets, pushing himself off her father's car. "Pity me. I was really looking forward to finally meeting the guy."

Lizzie's mouth curved upward, and not because he made a joke. No. Amusement came from the way his shoulders dropped, like she provided some kind of relief to him with Steve not being there. Stupid. He hadn't learned. All these years. But she did. His naivety in believing that her anger was less than Captain America's may be the best joke yet—because Steve's anger was only a fraction of her anger, boiled over and burning anyone who knew Monroe's name in her life. It was that anger that scared her; because Lizzie hadn't been prepared for just how difficult it would be to control when she finally faced it.

Trying to maintain as casual a composure as possible, she blew out a breath and rubbed her nose. A tell. "I'm sure he would say the same if he were here."

Do better, MJ.

"Somehow, I doubt that."

Lizzie's brows raised expectantly, and then she looked around the half-empty parking lot with traffic passing in-and-out of the street on the Thursday morning. They were in a public place, and he'd strategically cornered her at a time where he knew she would be alone. The psychology facility wasn't as far away from the city as the New Avengers Facility, but far enough that anyone would have to put miles on their car to get to her. Her brown eyes clocked the security cameras set up on the corner, one facing the first half of the lot but not the furthest out where they stood. Lizzie wouldn't risk putting Therapist Gracie in danger going back inside. No one would else would be hurt again.

What's the next option, MJ?

Monroe had been watching her. Not just today, but long enough to have figured out which place she would be alone in every sense of the word. Her schedule with Therapist Gracie was consistent, moreso than anything else in her life recently. Lizzie wouldn't be able to get into her car without causing some kind of altercation, and he was expertly blocking any easy way for her to get in. The thought of escaping never crossed her mind, though. Her feet may as well have been glued to the pavement.

Turning her eyes back to him, she was careful with her words. "Next time you want to have a conversation with me, don't come to my school."

Surprise overtook Monroe at what hid underneath those few simple words. A warning.

"You're not easiest person to catch alone. I met your friends, you know. I would tell them to be better about posting their whole lives on social media...what are their names again? Art? Taylor? I remember that name. Been friends a while. Oh, and the ex-girlfriend, too. They all seem like nice kids. Can't imagine why they'd want to hang out with you."

He finished with a snort, another intended joke missing the punchline. Lizzie didn't give him the reaction he was hoping to receive when he purposefully brought up the names of the people in her life. Not the life Monroe knew. Not the person he knew. Not Agent Three. The man introduced himself to people that mattered to Lizzie Carter, and he did so knowing just how much it would get under her skin—and it did. Her ears buzzed, a silent rage festering to an extreme that made her vision blurry, but Lizzie didn't let any of that come out.

Three years and a half years.

"Again," she repeated, but this time, restraint wasn't a priority. The warning would be clear. "Next time you want to have a conversation with me, don't come to my school."

Monroe's head tilted to the side with intrigue. "Hm. I honestly thought I'd get you with that one."

"You don't know anything about me, Monroe."

"I don't know how true that is, Lizzie."

She had to remember to breathe, clenching her teeth together to avoid the innate urge to disown her own name coming out of his mouth. "If you have something you want to say, I suggest you do it now."

"We need to talk." Lizzie raised her arms up, gesturing around them to emphasize the situation he put them in, and then let them fall with a smack back to her sides. "Not here," he dismissed, eyes peering over her shoulder briefly. "Give me your keys."

Lizzie was sure she was dreaming now. Surely. Surely, there was no way the man could demand such a request from her. His hand outstretched for the keys she forgot she even had in her hands, and she knew he wasn't joking. The rigid edges had been cutting in between her fingers, serving as her only ground to reality. Moving them, her thumb pushed against the plastic end. In those short seconds, she was reminded that Ian Monroe was not an amateur villain—not a naive teenager. When brown eyes traveled down to the keys that never moved with the order, his tongue clacked disapprovingly against his cheek.

Then, they returned to meet her resentment head-on. "Not so quick to trust people anymore, Agent Three?"

Lizzie's first instinct was to break his nose again. Then, she wanted to wrap her arms protectively around herself, but she wouldn't let him see any kind of defensive position. Instead, she moved her body in a different way to appease the way it trembled at his words. She shifted the weight in her steps, a breathless laugh escaping her as a hand rubbed her mouth to silence shortly after. No amount of self-soothing would stop her now, the words having been loaded up and unavoidable. Her hand dropped again, and Ian Monroe straightened as a different, damning violence took over the grown features of Elizabeth Carter.

"Let's get one thing clear here, okay? We don't know each other. You proved that I don't know you, and you sure as hell don't know a damn thing about me. I'm not a kid anymore, Monroe—you don't get to make demands and expect anything out of me. You don't get my trust anymore." Lizzie held her own. The rage was a stilling force, forcing every word to come out as she wanted it to. Monroe's eyes darkened, and that made her brows raise at the silent attempt to combat her again. "In translation: I'm not fucking going anywhere with you."

"What if I told you it was about your sister?"

No.

Don't give in, MJ.

The seventeen-year-old girl convinced herself it was the cold wind that caused the sudden dryness in her eyes, burning until she found herself unable to see straight without blinking. She bit the tip of her tongue hard, the pain directing her to anything but the tears. Blood coated her mouth, and the man may as well have put a barrel against her chest. Looking at him, she tried to find any lies, but a bitter reminder broke her heart: she wouldn't know. Monroe fooled her before. He lied before. He was a liar, Lizzie. If there was one thing she knew to be true about the man, it was that; and she could only rely on what she knew. That, and Sharon echoing in the back of her mind after D.C..

Don't let anyone use me against you, MJ.

Jutting her chin, she squeezed her fingers tighter against her keys. Swallowing the taste of iron, the words may as well have been the bullet from the barrel. "It wouldn't matter."

"Ouch. Love lost between the sisters? I noticed the hair change." The startling dark-hair may have been a closer resemblance to Peggy Carter, but it was also the furthest shade the teenage girl could have chosen from Sharon Carter's blonde. Monroe was the first one to call her out on it, though. "Too close to Miss Congeniality when you looked in the mirror?"

"Funny, but no," and Lizzie's mouth turned into a tight-lipped smile. "She taught me better than you did."

Sharon had been with her this whole time.

Always.

"Double ouch. Looks like I taught you quite a bit. You seem to have taken my advice on the science geeks." Monroe wasn't hiding his plan well. The execution was sloppy, and Lizzie was prepared for anything to test her after the mentioning of Sharon. He wanted her to know that nothing was a secret from him; that he knew both lives. All of her. He didn't. "Tell me, how well does Peter Parker think he's hiding his obsession with spiders?"

She rubbed her eyebrow impatiently, lanyard coming up with her hand and distracting him. "I have somewhere to be, and that's not wherever the hell you plan on taking me...so, are you going to keep emphasizing the same point here or are you going to move?"

"That's it?" he asked, making her head physically jerk back as if he'd insulted her.

"Excuse me?"

"That's all you've got for me?" Monroe rephrased with the same amount of indignity, all defenses finally down. His hands fell out of his pockets, and that was the first time she noticed the scar on his wrist. An uncomfortable lump formed in her throat; it was the same place as the S.H.I.E.L.D. bracelet had been. "Almost four years, and that's it?"

Lizzie wanted to laugh. Because she could have spent hours seething profanities and lowblows at Ian Monroe, but trying to find the energy in that left her feeling exhausted already. The anger wouldn't settle by yelling at him, and she didn't want answers. She didn't need them anymore. With eyes that shied away from their legacy in that moment, Lizzie Carter finally told Monroe everything she hadn't said before.

"You aren't worth it."

The teenage girl decided she would stop drowning in a freezing current, and she took the first step out of the two. She would move because she chose to this time. Going in his direction toward her father's car, he had to purposefully move out of the way when he saw her ready to clip his shoulder. A nauseated trauma resurfaced to pull her under again when his hand latched itself around her wrist. Not tight, but enough for Lizzie's fight-or-flight to kick in, and regardless of if it broke her wrist again, she twisted the limb free and sent a bruising shove when she broke away. The man stumbled back, his hands immediately going up in surrender, and that was it.

That broke the facade, and she couldn't fight the physical any longer. A shudder escaped her when his actions mirrored a memory.

Don't let him back you in a corner, Lizzie.

"If you ever touch me again, I will not hesitate to break more than your nose next time—" she got out through a pointed finger and tight jaw, fearing she might never release the tension, but it kept the tears lodged safely in her throat. "—you do not get a free pass with me. You do not get forgiveness."

Monroe's hands clenched in fists in the air before they returned back flat. "We need to have this conversation somewhere else—"

"—why? You seem to be pretty good at erasing me from everything."

"Not someone's memory," he hissed back, not even denying his responsibility in the act. He looked around them again. Lizzie swallowed hard, watching his hands return back to his pockets. Something was wrong. The man was paranoid about more than just the reunion with his old protege. "If you drive, can we please go somewhere else?"

Lizzie considered driving him to the nearest police station. But, then, she considered driving him to her parent's apartment. The latter would serve more justice. All of the above included getting into the car with Monroe.

"Fine."

As she unlocked her car door, she purposefully opened the driver's side and took note of the gun in the side of the door. Mike Carter knew the daughters he raised, and he trusted them for this very reason. Monroe got into the car first, and Lizzie was given her last out.

She got in after, skillfully aware of where Monroe's hands were at all times. To his credit, he knew better and kept them clasped in his lap. Lizzie slammed the door shut, and then skipped the first step in her father's driving commands: always lock your door. Putting her keys in the ignition, Lizzie's hands slid around to grab her seatbelt. Without explaining, she pushed the piece down so that it was underneath her arm instead of her shoulder.

Monroe hummed when the car started, and instantly, her bluetooth connected with the last song played. A scoff escaped him, and her jaw hitched again. Somebody That I Used To Know had been the song she paused on. "I'd almost think that was planned."

"Go to hell."

"Been on my way for a few years. Give me your phone."

Lizzie was the one to scoff that time as she turned her head to see if there were any cars, and when there were none, she started pulling out of the spot. "Yeah, fuck off."

"You should know by now not to trust technology. Give me your phone," he repeated with more push to his tone, and Lizzie didn't budge. Instead, she paused before she pulled out of the lot and rooted through the pocket of her jacket. Blindly finding the power button, she pressed the other side as well and forced a shut-down. Monroe watched, and when she had to look his way to check traffic, she noticed a familiar vein return on his forehead. "Does your dad have a tracker in this car? Besides GPS."

Probably.

"Why the fuck would I know that, Monroe?"

"I see you got comfortable using your F words."

The patronizing didn't work anymore, and she took one hand off the wheel to flick him off before shuffling to the next song, an unknowing smugness appearing on her face at the first few seconds. It's Tricky by Run-D.M.C. came on. Monroe let out a sound similar to a guttural moan of despair. Her anger didn't dissipate, but knowing that she could let the man wither in a different kind of torture made her fingers loosen against the steering wheel.

"Where are we going?" she asked him, turning to look in his direction again. The close proximity to the man made the scar more identifiable now. "I'm not going to your secret hole in the wall with no identifiable features. So, if it isn't somewhere public, I can just take you to the police station right now—"

"Turn left."

Lizzie didn't move. "Where are we going?"

"I forgot how much you pissed me off."

"Oh trust me, the feeling is more than mutual. Where are we going?"

"We're not going far."

Be careful, MJ.

───○☆ ✸ ☆○───

𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 & 𝐓𝐄𝐂𝐇𝐍𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐘

Peter skipped the rest of the day. To his defense, he sent a short text message to May and the office called his fifth period ten minutes later. One benefit to his aunt believing Lizzie Carter was an angel sent to keep him alive. He got through fourth period by obnoxiously bouncing his legs to the point where Betty Brant glared at him across the room. By the time the bell rang for fifth period, he considered jumping out of the window—and Peter Parker was probably over-reacting—but right now, as he rushed through the athletic fields of Midtown with Happy on speed-dial, he didn't care.

When Happy Hogan actually picked up the first phone call, the panic grew. "Peter?"

"Happy? Happy, hey—hey, have you heard from Lizzie today?" he got out in a single breath, holding the phone with one hand as he jumped over the gate. MJ would've yelled at him doing that in plain sight. "She's not at school today, and her phone's turned off, and she didn't say anything about skipping—so, all of us are kind of worried—"

"—all of you?"

Peter's face twisted in frustration. "Seriously? That's what you got from that, Happy?"

"What? I'm just curious...whatever. Anyways, lookin' at her schedule now... 'says she had an appointment with her therapist at ten. The reports were downloaded by noon. She clocked in and out of her appointment, so—"

"—okay, well, where did she go after that?"

"Why would I know that?"

"Why wouldn't you know that?" he challenged without pause. "Happy—come on. MJ and I know you have a million eyes on us. I'm sure there's a tracker in my backpack right now, so can you please just let me know if she's at least somewhere safe? That's all I want to know."

Happy's annoyed, hot breath echoed into the phone, and Peter's glower grew as he continued to veer his way off school grounds. "First of all, we don't have trackers in your backpacks. Second of all...Lizzie's tracker in her phone was turned off. The emergency shutdown glitches our system. Her last alert pinged just outside of her therapist's office. I'm pulling up the video cameras around the place right now."

"Why would she do an emergency shutdown?"

"Because she knows it glitches our system."

"Why wouldn't she want anyone knowing where she is?" Peter followed up with, letting the questions roll one-after-the-other as he tried to weasel himself into his partner's brain.

Where were you, MJ?

"She's a seventeen-year-old girl. I don't ask questions I don't want to know the answers to."

"I'm going to stop by her Ma's place right now. I was going to call her, but I figured it was work hours, y'know? And Missus Carter kind of scares me...but maybe MJ just stopped at home 'cause she didn't have a good session—hey, watch it!" Peter moved seconds before a bicycle passed by him, nearly cuffing his arm and causing goosebumps to rise on his skin when his senses were set off. The pause gave him the chance to reorient his spiraling thoughts. "Happy? Anything on the cameras?"

"Camera cuts off the view of her getting into her car, but she leaves the lot within a few minutes. The GPS system of her pop's car is off, too."

"See? I told you, something weird is going on!"

"Yeah, yeah...whatever. I think she's just doing something she doesn't want Soph knowing about. Lizzie is smart. If she were in trouble, she would find a way to tell us, Peter," Happy explained, echoing a similar argument to Arthur Langley at lunch. Much like Taylor, Peter wasn't convinced. "What about that one girl she was seeing on-and-off for a while—"

"—C.T.? They broke up a year ago. Happy, she's not dating anyone. You're not listening to me. She told me months ago she felt paranoid—"

"You know, not dating anyone doesn't always mean—"

Peter thought he might have a full-on temper tantrum in the middle of the city because Happy wasn't listening. There seemed to be no middle ground; either there was a reaction like his and Taylor's (the right one) or one like Happy, Eli, and Arthur's. Because Lizzie was smart. She would have tried to tell someone. Right? Lizzie wouldn't turn her phone and GPS off without a reason. That reason was the unknown variable. Peter groaned when Happy kept diverting the topic and pulled his phone from his ear to promptly end the unhelpful call. He would find her on his own—and hope that the bad feeling was the correct one.

Is that what you really want, Peter? No, he thought to himself. He would much rather be in the majority thinking she was perfectly fine.

Where were you, MJ?

───○☆ ✸ ☆○───

𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐂𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐘 ─ 𝐔𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊, 𝐍.𝐘.𝐂.

Wherever Lizzie expected their destination to lead them was not a cemetery. The sight of the tombstones lodged a lump in her throat, and a sharp ache stitched into her sides as unwanted memories invaded again. The last time she stepped foot inside of a cemetery, Lizzie Carter buried her Aunt Peggy. Driving away and leaving her there introduced the teenage girl to an entirely new side of grief. The five stages that circled around in continuous, never-ending agony. Such a large part of her identity since birth revolved around the weight of her last name. The death of the matriarch—the super-hero of Lizzie's lifetime—put a distance between Lizzie and the Carter legacy. Things had not been the same since.

She paused at the entrance, waiting for any direction to go left or right, and the man silently directed her toward the right. Swallowing, she found herself able to brave a few words. "What are we doing here?"

"I'll show you. Stop here."

Lizzie took the instruction, and she pulled where the man said to. There was a hum of the engine to distract them, but when she turned that off, they were left in the silence. Her hands flexed around the steering wheel when she heard his seatbelt click, and then his door, and he kept it open as the silent gesture for her to do the same. Lizzie hated it. All of it. Everything about the exchange felt like she was walking into something she wasn't ready for.

After she unclasped her seatbelt and opened the door, she grabbed a hold of her father's gun and slipped it into the waistband of her jeans under the cover of her jacket. Monroe didn't notice, too distracted looking into the distance at the long-rows of gravestones. She followed silently behind, watching him shove his hands back into his pockets. By now, she decided it was a reflex. Leaves crunched around them, the maintenance workers only beginning the first of many hours of clean-up. Lizzie noted where they were when she first drove in. That, and a red car two ways over belonging to a middle-aged couple.

Good, MJ. Remember your surroundings.

When Monroe finally stopped at a certain plot of land and stood in front of the headstone, her footsteps slowed to a halt. He crouched down to brush a few leaves off and brought full attention to the name.

𝐀𝐇𝐍 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐘
𝐀𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐋 𝟐𝟐 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕 - 𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟓 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟏

"When I was a kid, I would always ask my teachers why my name looked different than everyone else's. Thought I was dyslexic, you know? Turns out, just Korean. My father's surname—Ahn. It means peace. He was kind. Gentle. My mother named me Remy after the archangel of hope, Remiel. She's not a Christian, funnily enough, but there was a bible in the hospital room where she had me...spoiler alert, I didn't bring much hope or peace to the family name when I came out as bisexual."

Lizzie read over the engraving. "Why am I standing at your grave?"

"Because I want you to know who I am. Only seems fair, Agent Three," he answered, and then paused with a chuckle when he saw her blank expression. "Oh. You mean, why are you standing at my grave when I'm also standing at my grave...S.H.I.E.L.D killed me. Six years ago. Killed him might be the better way of putting it."

"I'm not big on suspense, Monroe."

"Really? Couldn't tell. Your humor is as dry as my sex life."

"Hard to take a joke when you don't find the person funny," she threw back, crossing her arms over her chest to ease the chills rising from the gust of wind. "So, what? They killed the old you, you got a new name, somewhere in between that you decided to join the evil Nazi's plotting mass genocide again, and now we're here. What am I supposed to take away from this? The story ends the same."

His brows furrowed at her agitation and unwilling participation in his last history lesson. "You used to be more open to listening."

"Did I? Because I would disagree with that."

"'Because I don't know you?'" he took that information with another nod to his head, accepting that repeating line. Then, his mouth pulled to one side in discontent. "The story might end the same—doesn't mean you shouldn't pay attention to what caused it to happen. You've sat through more than enough of my history lessons to know that."

You've got to give to get, MJ.

But Lizzie didn't want to know.

"So tell me what caused it. Spark-notes version, Monroe."

Monroe glanced down, weighing his options, before he decided to take a seat on the ground in front of his old identity's memorial. Lizzie stayed standing, her arms only tightening further around herself. "When I created the Rising Tide, there were...investors in the organization. All of the names we were provided of enhanced individuals would be sent to the investors. The ones that we worried were a real threat, we sent with high priority."

"I'm assuming these investors were HYDRA, and the names were added to Project Insight."

"I didn't know who they were at the time."

Lizzie's jaw clenched, arms untangling so that she could rub her mouth to keep herself quiet. Trying to stop the irrational, temperamental side threatening to come out didn't work. "You had to know they were doing something with those names. They weren't creating a fan-club."

"Didn't care," and the man shrugged to further his dismissal.

"You sound a bit spiteful of enhanced individuals. You also told me years ago that you created the organization after the Battle of New York. The timelines don't fit. You would have already been working at S.H.I.E.L.D. when the Battle of New York happened," the slip-up made Monroe look at her, and she jutted her chin in the direction of the gravestone. 2011. "You sold yourself out with the gravestone. The Battle of New York didn't happen until May the next year."

The hint of a proud smile appeared. "Good job, Agent Three."

"So, what's the lie, Monroe? Better yet, what's the truth?"

The man pulled his hand from his pocket and pushed his sleeve up just enough that the scar was noticeable once again on his wrist. The color told her it was years old, but not so long that the raised-skin healed completely. The bracelet Carson Mayfield made as a technological shackle was the variable that never made sense to her.

It tracks every movement I make, every place I am, and most importantly, it monitors what I do on any electronic device.

"How did you manage Project Insight with that on, Monroe?"

For what it's worth, I trust you. Naive, Lizzie.

"I didn't manage Project Insight, and I found a way to take it off when I needed to. It just hurt like hell...got a nice reminder of your friend Mayfield's work forever," he answered sharply, and she realized she hit a nerve with him for once when he grit his teeth together. "You know, she was the one who had oversight over the operation, right?"

The man throwing out Carson's name in an attempt to stir doubt throttled her anger back to her throat. So much for rational Lizzie. "Oversight given by Director Fury himself. She didn't have anything to do with your plan to execute half of the world. Last I remember, she was the one bleeding out on the tarmac trying to stop your investors. You want to know what reminder your friends gave her? Paralysis from the waist down."

"A lot of people were also saved that day."

"And what did you do to help make that happen? Because I remember what Steve did. I remember my sister. Natasha, Sam, Maria, Carson...but not you. You think leaking files after the fact was going to get you a medal? You were the one who tried to kill me that day—"

Monroe reeled back at her words. "Kill you? I was trying to keep you in a safe place away from everyone else, Lizzie."

"'Safe?'" was her baffled interjection, stepping forward. Glaring at him in disbelief, her eyes started to burn against unwanted tears. "In what world was I safe with you? I shattered my knee that day because of you. I broke my hand trying to get away from you. What did you say, huh? 'Stop being a little bitch'."

"Brat."

"Excuse me?"

"I was calling you a brat," he corrected, though it may not have been too far off from a real insult. No matter the difference, the color washed from her face all the same. "I never said bitch, and I wasn't trying to kill you, Lizzie. I was trying to get into the system to protect everyone on that list. Not take them out."

Doesn't add up. Why the change of heart?

"How did you know about Project Insight in the first place?"

"All HYDRA affiliates were notified."

"'Affiliates,'" a heartless chuckle echoed above him. "Downplays the loyalty a little, don't you think? Members. All HYDRA members were notified. You knew what the plan was before, and you didn't think to tell anyone? Like, I don't know, Director Fury?"

Monroe's jaw clenched. "Things weren't that easy, Lizzie."

"Because you'd have to make that choice? Between HYDRA and S.H.I.E.L.D., and you worked in spite of S.H.I.E.L.D. for years."

"You're assuming you know everything."

"You fed me lies for months. I'm taking every word out of your mouth with a grain of salt right now," she bluntly said, and then she looked at his headstone again. "Your story has holes in it."

He hummed. "And which ones did you notice?"

"I'm trying to figure out why, if you didn't care about what happened to the enhanced individuals while running the Rising Tide, you suddenly gave two-shits and decided to be the hero that saved the day by reprogramming the system to save their lives."

"Not all of the names on that list were enhanced individuals. They were normal people—people who were flagged just because they got a high SAT score—people who didn't have any leg-up in life other than their brain." Lizzie waited for him to continue, and he looked up at her. For the first time since they began the mental trip into their nightmares, she saw Monroe. "People like you."

"You really want me to believe you double-crossed HYDRA because of me? Really?"

Monroe shrugged like her reaction didn't phase him, a disconnect from the brief pain that flashed across his face. "You believe what you want, Lizzie. Clearly, you already have been."

"Because it's very hard to believe that you cared about me at all. You had multiple opportunities to stop what happened that day just by saying something to someone. If you were so concerned about the people on that list, you should have told another person what they were planning."

"I'm not sure if you noticed while you were there, but no one trusted anyone in S.H.I.E.L.D. and with good reason."

"I trusted you."

Those three, little words.

Monroe cracked under them. "I know you did."

"I cared about you."

"I know."

"Then, why did you hurt me?" Lizzie felt like a child asking that, and her voice cracked just enough for her to reel herself back in. But her heart hurt. "What was the point of it? Was there any reason or did you just want to see if you could play me, too?"

"I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I planned on telling you the right way—at the right time—but I knew how it looked regardless of how I said it. I'm not an Avenger, Lizzie, and I'm definitely not going to be looked at in history books as the hero. I'm not going to apologize for my story, but I am sorry for hurting you. I wasn't..." the apology had been on his mind for years, and now that he was deep into it, Monroe failed to find the right words. "I hate kids. I think they're disgusting, and I'd never had a full conversation with one until you showed up as an annoying, little buzz in my ear everyday. I care about you, Lizzie. You don't have to accept it or want me to, but I've always been looking out for you."

"You're right. I didn't ask you to."

Monroe sucked in a sharp breath, her words a blow worse than the job she'd done on his nose. He stood up after that, and as he dusted off his pants, Lizzie's hands tightened into fists. No, MJ. She wouldn't feel sorry for hurting him. She couldn't.

"Well. As much as I'd like to continue having this conversation, it's clear you don't. There's something you need to know, though, Lizzie," he started, and she had enough experience with that sentence to know nothing good ever followed. Monroe glanced around the now-deserted cemetery, the couple having left long ago with the workers nowhere in sight. "I wasn't lying about your sister. I know that you don't trust me. I know you have no reason to, but I've been cleaning up messes since the Triskelion happened. HYDRA's got you on a short-list, and your sister's been poking around in places she shouldn't."

HYDRA's got you on a short-list. Somehow, when paired with the sentence about Sharon, she couldn't have cared less. All she cared about was her sister. What are you doing for me, Sharon?

"She told me you reached out to her," and that she didn't want Lizzie there. "That was over a year ago. Where is she, Monroe?"

He shook his head, rubbing his eyebrow in agitation. "I did. I gave her names. I shouldn't have. I don't know where she is, Lizzie. All I know is that she's with Mayfield, and other people know that they are together."

"Why does that matter?"

"Because your sister and her friend are wanted on American soil, which means they can't come back here, and HYDRA still has leeches. They don't let go of something when they have an end-goal, and after the Triskelion, they're going after everyone they can. Them being together means it's a two-for-one. They don't want your sister and Mayfield incarcerated, Lizzie. They want them dead."

Lizzie read between what he wasn't saying. "They want me dead."

"No," he denied, meeting her eyes again. "You're no use to them dead."

"Project Insight would beg to differ—"

"—you were a statistic to them at that point, Lizzie. You weren't a name. You weren't a person. But now they know who you are. They know your last name, they know who shows up to your softball games, they know who would come running if you were ever in danger. You're collateral, Lizzie. You're the bait, and they will use you. Fury dug himself into an early grave hiding you from Pierce. They're betting that others will do the same."

You're collateral, Lizzie.

"So, why are they waiting?" she asked in confusion. "They've had three and a half years to make a move."

"They were dormant for decades in the heart of S.H.I.E.L.D. waiting for the perfect opportunity. My best guess? That opportunity hasn't presented itself—and it won't until your sister, Mayfield, Rogers...all of them come back for you. Because they will. I know it. You know it. HYDRA does, too."

"This is why you were wiping my identity off the internet?"

Monroe didn't seem to expect that to be the follow-up question. "I tell you that the evil Nazi's plotting mass genocide are out to get you, and that's your question? Yes. That's why I was wiping anything to do with you off the internet. There were videos of you at the airport in Germany with the Avengers. Shit ones, but still enough to get a match in facial recognition. People that work for the Rising Tide today that will do anything to figure out who you are, and the second they do, that name gets fed back to those investors. The less people that know about your double-life, the better."

Everything made sense. All of it. Dots were connecting into place for her that were once scattered around with nonsense. Everything except for one.

"Why are you still protecting me?"

Lizzie couldn't tell a lie from the truth with Ian Monroe. But when he answered, she believed him.

"Because you deserve it."

───○☆ ✸ ☆○───

When Peter arrived at an old cemetery in Upstate New York with even more thoughts beating up his brain than before, he had to take a second between swinging to catch his breath (his anxiety, apparently, forgot he was Spider-Man). The mundane act felt more like a soothing mechanism than a necessity; the part of Peter that was still Peter. KAREN could be heard in his ears, notifying him that he finally reached his destination. Why that destination turned out to be cemetery didn't concern him as much as finding the person tied to the coordinates.

His eyes zeroed in on a dark-haired figure sitting down in front of a grave, then Mike Carter's car parked only a few feet away on the side road. Dropping to the ground, his suit crunched against the leaves as he walked in her direction. "KAREN, I found her."

I found you, MJ.

"She looks like she is cold, Peter. Do you want me to turn on your heater when you approach?"

"Yes, please. Thanks, KAREN."

When he got closer, he noticed that KAREN was right. Though he could only see her back, her body trembled and held itself against the chilly weather. He tried not to think about how long she'd been outside, or why she was in front of an unfamiliar name. Who the hell was Ahn? Why were you here, MJ?

Lizzie jumped when he sat next to her, recoiling to her unoccupied side to put space between them. A cold fist went straight for his nose, but Peter caught her wrist without any trouble and held it away from them both. Upon seeing the familiar colors of the suit, a rattled inhale was taken before she released it again and dropped her hand. Peter pulled off his mask just as the heater in his suit turned on. Mirroring a memory, both of them unconsciously leaned their bodies into one another as if she hadn't just tried to break his nose in the same time-frame.

MJ wouldn't meet his eyes, which gave him the perfect opportunity to look at her without getting flustered about being caught. Immediately, indications of recent crying caught his attention. Being partners with Lizzie Carter came with a lot of baggage and a lot of secrets, but he knew that going into things. Saying it didn't bother him would be a lie, but the secrets and the baggage were never because his partner wouldn't tell him something. It was because she couldn't—and he understood that. He understood what she couldn't tell him with her words.

At least, he was trying to.

"How did you find me?" she asked with a frown.

Peter's mouth pulled to one side. "Your Airpods. KAREN's still connected to them...do you want to talk about it?"

Lizzie hesitated, dropping her head so that she could hide the way her bottom lip trembled under the question. She didn't think anyone would find her, but if she were placing her bets on who in her life was determined enough to figure out a way, Peter Parker was up there. Along with her parents and her best friend—but Peter had not been in her life for years like they had. He was a new piece. A person who didn't get to meet Lizzie Carter before Washington, D.C. killed something inside of her.

He would have loved that Lizzie. But the person sitting next to him could never be that girl again, no matter how hard she tried to pretend. Her life had been chosen for her the moment she was born, and for thirteen years, she got a free-pass. Living in the in-between and ignoring what it was doing to everyone around her, but Lizzie knew she couldn't do that anymore. She couldn't let people like Monroe get too close to her friends. Her family.

Because what if it hadn't been Monroe following her? Collateral.

I'm sorry, Peter, was what she wanted to say. I'm sorry that I'm not who I used to be. I'm sorry you're living with the consequences of my past. I'm sorry you found me.

Biting down on her lip and lifting her head, she nodded. Once for herself, and then another for him. Finally, she turned her attention away from the gravestone and to her partner. Peter tried his hardest to control his sharp inhale, but under the review of tearful brown eyes, he could feel himself falling apart with her.

"Yeah. I think I do."

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Author's Note:

(me pretending nothing is happening)

Pretty pictures!

Let me know what you thought of the chapter! It took a while, but the conversation between Monroe and Lizzie was almost four years in the making. I wanted it to be perfect, and while I still have my nitpicks, I hope all of you enjoyed (or suffered like me) reading this chapter. All my love to you for your consistent support in this story, but even more, in your love and protection of Lizzie.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!