"To forgive is to set a prisoner free… and discover that the prisoner was you."

Lewis B. Smedes, Forgive and Forget

"Move, lady!"

The man who yelled at her subsequently pushed her to ensure she received the message. What a douche. She didn't quite manage to restrain herself from flipping him the bird before taking a few begrudging steps forward to the building in question. At least he didn't go into the Stark Industries building. If he had, she would've worried obsessively over whether or not he would be the one interviewing her.

It was finally Thursday, so here Lizzie stood outside the impressive Stark Industries Building twenty minutes ahead of schedule. Staring up at the logo at the top she felt the faintest twinge of butterflies swarming in her stomach. Oh who was she kidding, the butterflies had nested inside her and reproduced vigorously. She knew she shouldn't be nervous, but emotions weren't ruled by logic.

It was worse knowing Jane was somewhere inside that building. They still hadn't spoken since what Lizzie had taken to calling "The Café Debacle". It had only been three days, but she could still hear Jane's hurt silence. The guilt was going to eat her alive unless she called and apologized again. But it could wait until after her interview when she wasn't as nervous. All morning, Lizzie had debated calling off the interview and hiding underneath her covers for the next ten years. However, her pride would never allow her to do something so cowardly. Straightening her shoulders and jutting out her chin as if to defy the world, Lizzie marched across the street to Stark Industries.

As soon as she passed the threshold of the gleaming glass doors, she regretted all her life choices.

The inside of the building was not only intimidating, but fairly… shiny. Lizzie thought it was ironic the color scheme was all white since the tabloids made it quite clear Tony Stark was no saint. The white also reminded her of a psych ward, which definitely didn't make her feel any better. And if that wasn't enough, there was a veritable army of burly security guards in the lobby, all of whom appeared to be conducting pat downs, scanning bags, and doing full body scans.

This wasn't exactly surprising, since the Avengers were rumored to be headquartered here. But, since the collapse of the organization called S.H.I.E.L.D, the government was conducting a thorough investigation in addition to taking a hostile stance towards organized superhero activity. The placement of extra guards might have been just as much about restricting the Avengers as it was about protecting them.

Giving her head a quick shake to scatter the errant thoughts, Lizzie strode over to the visitors' desk to receive a badge so she could go upstairs to the human resources department. The next thing she knew she was standing in an elevator with a bunch of well-dressed professionals hurtling up to the 20th floor. She noticed several of the elevator buttons at the top simply weren't labeled, yet no one made an attempt to press one. Musing on the curiosity of unidentified floors, Lizzie surmised they must be the private living quarters, perhaps for Tony Stark himself. Although, why he could possibly need ten floors all to himself was beyond her comprehension.

Stepping off the elevator, Lizzie found a smiling male receptionist, who chirped, "Good afternoon!"

Well. That was way too much enthusiasm for a workday.

She managed to bend her lips into a semblance of a grin before stating, "Hello, my name is Elizabeth Foster and I'm here for my interview with Mr. Faux."

The guy somehow managed to increase the size of his smile, which made Lizzie simultaneously terrified and impressed.

"Oh yes! Please have a seat. Mr. Faux will be with you shortly."

Taking his advice, Lizzie sank into one of the plush leather chairs in the reception area. She tried to discreetly wipe her palms on her slacks before taking in her surroundings. White was still the predominant color scheme, but the wood paneling and floor softened its intensity. It still made her feel out of place in her navy blue slacks and white dress shirt. Perhaps she should put her suit jacket on just to look like a consummate professional. Eyeing the hallway the receptionist disappeared into, Lizzie quickly put her arms in the sleeves as the sound of footsteps approached.

The secretary brought back an older fellow with a meticulous silver hair, who, like Lizzie, was dressed in a navy suit. His tan eyes were kind, reinforced by lines of laughter that decorated his face. It put her at ease to see Stark Industries employed at least one person who wasn't wholly terrifying.

"Ms. Foster, I'm Mr. Faux."

Standing up as if the chair had been lit on fire, she grasped his outstretched hand in a firm hold before replying, "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Faux."

"I'm glad you could make it in to meet with us today."

"Oh certainly, I'm excited to have this opportunity to talk with you."

He seemed surprised at her politeness, which rankled a bit. She wasn't a barbarian.

Mr. Faux's voice interrupted her brain's logic, "If you would follow me, we are going to be conducting this interview in our conference room with the current psychologist."

Oh, God. A conference room? With the person currently holding the position? If they wanted to intimidate the potential new hire they were doing a splendid job. But she refused to let it show on her face. What was that phrase? Confidence is key. She could do this. She would kick this interview's ass, return to the apartment triumphant, and feast on ice cream and wine.

Mr. Faux was already a little too far ahead of her so she had to quicken her pace to catch up, which was easy since she was so tall. They walked down several long hallways, and Lizzie thanked all the deities that flats were a part of her ensemble today. It would've been painful in heels.

Mr. Faux stopped abruptly in front of a nondescript black door leading to a glass-walled conference room. A man was already seated inside. He would've fit in well amongst her professors. He wore a tweed coat, which must be a prerequisite for all absent-minded academics, and a red bowtie, which left Lizzie imagining him as an older, slightly more frazzled Doctor Who.

Mr. Faux opened the door and gestured for Lizzie to enter. "Ms. Foster, allow me to introduce Dr. Wilkes, who will be retiring in a few short months."

"Don't say retirement, it makes me feel older than I am," the man complained.

Lizzie thrust out her hand to shake his own and gave him a winning smile. In the most authoritative voice she could muster, she declared, "I'm Elizabeth Foster, soon to be Doctor Foster."

He straightened in his char a little at this. "Dr. Foster? You wouldn't happen to be related to the astrophysicist, Dr. Jane Foster?"

"I am actually. She just told me she started working here about a few days ago."

"I see. I meet her during her required psych evaluation, and I must say her work is fascinating."

She laughed nervously, "Well, that's Jane for you."

His indigo eyes peered into her own, seemingly probing her expression for something she could not name. She wanted to avert her gaze to the blank flat screen TV dominating the wall behind him, but her eyes didn't move.

The moment passed abruptly when Mr. Faux interrupted, "Ms. Foster, would you take a seat here, please?"

Idly, she wondered if Stark Industries exclusively bought comfortable chairs to lure the people into a false sense of security. Rumors were Pepper Potts, CEO of SI, was a shrewd business woman, so it was entirely possible.

Before Mr. Faux could begin, she asked, "What role would you expect me to fulfill within this position?"

Mr. Faux glanced at his colleague. "Would you like to take the reins on this one?"

"Sure. We need someone who can conduct annual psychological evaluations for certain employees in addition to new hires. However, you would also have appointments with any employees who desire to talk to someone about an issue, or employees for whom the company deems an evaluation is necessary."

"Ok. "

This question transitioned into Mr. Faux asking her all of the standard interview questions: Were you convicted of a felony? What is your fatal flaw? Name a time when you had a conflict, and were able to resolve it.

Lizze felt confident she aced the HR portion of this interview, but her nerves exploded after Mr. Faux asked Wilkes to jump in with his own questions. She knew he'd been watching her closely throughout the whole interview, which wasn't surprising. Psychologists were taught to observe and listen, not to prattle on with questions. A good doctor only asked one, which was quite possibly the only one worth asking.

"Most people become psychologists for two reasons: either the genuinely want to help people, or they want to better understand themselves and their trauma. Which is it for you?"

No one ever asked her this question. Even when she was interviewing for Columbia's graduate program, they only discussed her GPA, her extracurricular activities, and what she wanted to do with her degree. The only people who could even guess why she wanted to be a psychologist were her mother, her uncle, and dear cousin Jane. It was almost too personal to tell a stranger, but she could gloss over the unsavory parts of her life to answer it.

Slowly, she began, "It's a little bit of both to be entirely honest with you. I think I became a psychologist because I saw one to deal with a traumatic event. I still talk to him occasionally. I've had to accept that my trauma still affects me. It will always haunt me, but I've learned to accept that part of myself."

Taking a calming breath, she continued, "I also chose this profession because I want to help others. I've traveled to a lot of places and met many people who helped me realize everyone suffers in different ways every day. I ended up deciding to do my research with veterans suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder because it is stigmatized in our society. People can never fully understand PTSD unless they have experienced it firsthand.

"Everyone thinks if you go through something traumatic and you move on linearly. But, it doesn't happen like that. Sometimes the pain festers and manifests in unexpected ways if no help is given. If I could assuage the pain of others, then I might be able to leave the world a better place than I found it."

The silence was somewhat deafening after her answer, but her gaze didn't waver from Dr. Wilkes' face. Lizzie thought she might have glimpsed an expression of approval, but with his poker face it was hard to tell. Mr. Faux appeared to be only slightly bothered behind his polite stoicism.

Mr. Faux was the one to break the silence, "Well those were all our questions for you, Ms. Foster. This is your chance to ask your own."

"What qualities are you looking for in a candidate for this position?"

Mr. Faux was off like a shot to explain how they wanted someone who was motivated, caring, and empathetic in addition to a thousand other adjectives.

Dr. Wilkes' response to the question was quite simple, "Someone who is strong in spirit and compassionate in nature."

Dear God, he might as well start writing fortune cookies during his retirement.

After a moment of silence, Mr. Faux went on to say, "Well those were all of our questions. It was a pleasure to meet with you."

Shaking his and Dr. Wilkes' hands, she told him, "Thank you so much. When should I hear back from you about the position?"

"In about a week."

"I look forward to it."

In truth, she was not. She was actually freaking out about having to wait a week to see if they would reject or make her an offer of employment.

Oh well.

It was probably best to celebrate an interview well done with wine. After she had shaken their hands and left the conference room, she shot off a text to one Darcy Lewis to start celebrating. Darcy gave her an affirmative answer, and asked to meet at the lobby of Stark Industries in twenty minutes.

Lizzie resigned herself to wait on one of the simple wooden benches littering the lobby. Her phone, a typical source for amusement, was low on battery so she resolved to do some people-watching instead. Even before she went to graduate school for psychology she had always observed the human populace. It was intriguing to watch people, gauge their emotions, and make a guess about their lives. After spending five years to study the human mind, she became exceptionally good at reading people both physically and emotionally. From a safe distance, of course.

In a high profile place such as Stark Industries, the habit became much more entertaining. There were obviously people who thought highly of themselves, and they would stride right past, ignoring Lizzie as if she were a part of the furniture. However, the scientists were her favorites. You could always tell who worked in the labs based solely on how they conducted themselves in public. Most scientists walked in a rush as if their work would simply vanish from their labs if left alone long enough. In addition, they had a certain thirst for knowledge that showed in their rapidly moving eyes and waggling eyebrows.

Suddenly, she saw them.

She'd been so focused on people-watching that she'd almost missed them. Two men in exercise clothes were quickly making their way towards the elevators in the back of the lobby. What grabbed her attention about them was security waved them through without a second glance. Weird. Why would they do that? She blatantly stared at them, surmising neither would notice her unabashed curiosity. As if he felt her gaze, the man with coffee-colored hair stiffened, looked over his shoulder once, and said something to his blond companion. Their brisk pace slowed.

Strange.

The light haired guy was broader than his friend, almost comparable to Jane's Donald. She imagined many women would swoon over his shoulder-to-waist ratio, but her eye was instead drawn to his companion. This man was the direct opposite. He seemed to be all lithe grace, but just as physically fit as his companion. Despite only being able to see the backs of their heads, she knew their faces were probably equally gorgeous.

Damn genetics.

Lost in her thoughts, she took too long notice that the brown haired man was now blatantly staring back. Oops.

Instead of responding in embarrassment akin to any other sane human, Lizzie opted to send him a defiant look, complete with a raised eyebrow. It was a free country, damnit, she could stare at whatever the hell she wanted.

The moment was short lived because a woman in a sweater and jeans blocked her view. Confused, she looked up at the woman and realized it was Darcy. Lizzie's split second of hesitation was enough for Darcy, who took advantage of the delayed reaction to hug Lizzie in a dramatic fashion.

"Liz! I've missed you so much!"

Spitting out a string of Darcy's mahogany hair from her mouth, Lizzie said, "I couldn't tell at all."

Darcy didn't let go, but squeezed tighter.

"Um…Darcy, your hair is in my mouth…"

Darcy's grip didn't loosen. She was going to break Lizzie's back at this rate. Lizzie settled for patting her on the back before attempting to struggle.

"Darcyyyyyyyyyyyy. Let me go," she whined.

"Noooooooo. It's been over a year since our grand excursion in New Mexico. I demand hugs as compensation."

"Fine, fine, but you can collect them sporadically. Not all once."

"I suppose I can live with that bargain."

Her arms dropped and Lizzie gasped for air gratefully. She surreptitiously glanced around, but the man with the brown hair was now long gone.

Lizzie and Darcy ended up at a dive bar reliving their memories from Lizzie's visit to New Mexico and catching up on life. Darcy opted to move here with Jane and finish her last few credits for Culver online. Lizzie could never put into words how much it meant that Darcy was taking care of her cousin when she couldn't. Knowing Darcy would be living in New York was fabulous news, and it sparked an idea in her slightly inebriated head.

In a fanciful tone she asked, "Darcy, where art thou going to live?"

Ok maybe she was pretty buzzed at this point. But, in her defense it had been a stressful week with this interview and the submission of her dissertation. She deserved a break. Hopefully, the choice didn't come back to haunt her in the morning.

Darcy, who was slightly more in control of her faculties than her friend, absent-mindedly told her, "I have no idea. I'm crashing on Jane and Th—Donald's couch right now since they're living in the tower. It's just everything in New York City is so freaking expensive. I don't know how I'm going to be able to pay to live in a shoebox much less a studio apartment."

"I have the most brilliant idea. Of all time."

"Really? Give it a go, mini-Jane."

For that insult, Lizzie retaliated in the only acceptable manner: sticking out her tongue.

"Ha. Ha. Fuckin' HA. We'll come back to Jane in a 'mo, but I think we should be roommates if I end up getting this job."

Darcy's face brightened with excitement as she shouted, "HELLS YES! WE'RE GOING TO BE THE BEST ROOMIES EVER! Also can I say I'm now super excited to get out of Jane's spare room? I'm so sick of hearing them have se-"

Slapping her hands over her ears, Lizzie immediately babbled, "Lalalalalala, I can't hear you! LALALLAALALALALA!"

Darcy snorted with laughter before managing to choke out, "It's a fact of life, Lizzie."

"I know, just don't tell me about it! I don't need the mental image."

"Alright, settle down, Ms. Rowdy. We can't be thrown out of the bar yet."

In response, Lizzie drank the last of her whiskey and coke in a few short gulps and gestured to Darcy with her glass. "Last time was your fault entirely."

"Was not!"

"I have two words for you: gin and tonic."

"That's three words."

"Semantics."

After a few heartbeats, Darcy finally prodded Lizzie, "So are we going to not talk about why your dear cousin has looked so melancholy the last few days?"

Guilt washed over Lizzie and her throat tightened. She managed to push the guilt out of her mind and tried for faux innocence. "Why? Has Jane been melancholy?"

Because she studiously avoided eye contact with Darcy, she missed the slightly exasperated look from the other woman.

"Look I know you guys had some sort of spat-"

"No, we did n—."

"—and it's clearly bothering you. I'm just saying if you want to talk I have two ears, and I could surely spare one for you."

"I know," Lizzie inhaled shakily, "I'll talk to you about it later, just not tonight."

It was always difficult for Lizzie to confide in people. She was so accustomed to being independent that it took time to trust and understand her friends would be there for her to rely upon. Lizzie only ever fully divulged to two people in her life: her mother and Jane. Over the years she'd become better at trusting others, but it was a hard habit to break.

"Alright, but we should probably leave because I'm done for the night," said Darcy with a slight wobble as she slid out of the barstool.

"Ugh, I don't know how I'm going to make it back to my apartment. It's so farrrrrrrrr,"complained Lizzie.

Logic reared its head slightly in Darcy's mind, prompting her to say, "Look, we could do a platonic drunk girly slumber party at my temporary residence if you want. Stark gave Jane and Th—Donald, damnit words, humongous beds in all the rooms so we'd each have a side to ourselves if we used mine."

Lizzie was too tired to contemplate the consequences when she acquiesced. "Alright, but if you try to cuddle me, I swear I will kick your ass."

"Hey! I'm a great cuddler!"

"You're an octopus."

"You wound me with your words!"

"You'll recover, I'm sure."

The ride up in the elevator to the 70th level made them both feel a bit queasy, so the logical solution was to sprawl on the floor. They didn't account for the fact that it was only 8:00pm, and most people would still be utilizing the elevator. Thankfully the only encounter they had was when a black man with a military haircut in old U.S. Army sweats stepped on at the 69th level. He warily stared at the two before his confusion drove it away.

He opened his mouth hesitantly, "Are you two alright?"

There was an incoherent moan from Darcy, so Lizzie took on the challenge of talking and attempting to act like a normal human being.

It took a few seconds for her muddled brain to explain, "She lives on the 70th floor, and I'm just escorting her up."

There. Her explanation was succinct and to the point. Brilliant for being incredibly intoxicated. Or at least she thought so. But, the man in the Army sweats was not suitably impressed.

What a party pooper.

He glanced at her sharply for a moment, and Lizzie realized she'd said that out loud. Oh well. She was saved by the (figurative) bell when the door chimed the 70th floor.

Grabbing Darcy, they managed to stagger their way to the apartment door, but not before Lizzie threw the dude a sloppy salute. Somehow they managed to stumble their way to Darcy's room, and fell into a heap on the bed before sleep claimed them.

Lizzie woke up to the sound of pounding. Groaning she rubbed at her temples, and prayed that Darcy might have Tylenol. The longer she was awake she realized the pounding was coming from the door. Feeling queasy, she glanced at Darcy who was still passed out on the left side of the bed. She dreaded who might be on the other side of the door, because of the only two options, neither was someone she wanted to talk to. As much as she wanted to wake Darcy and make her deal with this, she knew it was probably time to face the music.

Yanking open the door, she wasn't the least bit surprised to see Jane standing there in her pajamas, preparing to do another round of furious knocking. As soon as she realized it was Lizzie standing there instead of Darcy, her hand slowly lowered and her face paled.

Taking a deep breath, Lizzie told her, "We need to talk."