Chapter Thirty-Nine
✭

Two hours later I was still stewing about the bus incident.

No one was hurt, and I wasn't dead, but the event left me shaken nonetheless. I kept thinking about Spider-Man and his oddly familiar voice, disguised by an act I couldn't decipher. At the very least, it kept my thoughts busy, and I wasn't as flustered when I met Dmitri again at the library.

It also helped that he was wearing less-form-fitting clothes now. Just jeans and a windbreaker — a little light for November here, but I wasn't one to be pointing that out. Especially since I wasn't too cold myself.

The library was right on the plaza, a separate building from both the class halls and the theaters. It provided a warm, comfortable, and oh so silent environment to study in. I hadn't realized how the busy streets were giving me a headache until I stepped inside the library, with its muted aisles of shelves and distant hum of heaters and fans.

Luckily the library was bigger than the school it was built for, so there were plenty of places to sit without being overheard. Dmitri was already familiar with the place, and led me towards the left, along rows of desks lit by old green lamps at regular intervals. I recognized some others here as being in the theater with Dmitri earlier, and there were other folks, older types who didn't seem attached to the school. No one paid us a second glance, which was a relief because my nerves were on fire again.

I tried to keep a damper on it as we went over Dmitri's work. But as we were parsing through quadratic formulas without a calculator, I must have had a funny look on my face, because Dmitri eventually looked up at me to ask, "Is there something wrong? You look...concerned. Did I make a mistake?"

"No, no, you're fine," I just shook my head, chin on my hand. Like an afterthought, I added, "I almost got hit by a bus earlier."

Dmitri stared at me. After a pause, he tilted his head uncertainly. "Are you...okay?"

"What? Yeah, I'm fine." I blinked, remembering how normal people had conversation and I needed to be more specific. "Spider-Man, he, er, he pulled me out of the way just in time."

Dmitri's expression brightened, now that I gave him something to work with. "Oh, so he saved you?"

"Oh, yeah. I guess." That wasn't how I meant it. I didn't need to be saved...did I?

Dmitri watched me for a moment longer, maybe thinking I had more to say. But I didn't; I was too busy chewing on my lip and thinking about Spider-Man's voice. Where had I heard it before?

Perhaps sensing this conversation leading to a dead-end, Dmitri said, "Well, I like Spider-Man. I know I am new here and all, and maybe I don't understand, but it seems to me he is of good help, yes? New York is the only city I know that has its own superheroes protecting it. No place in Russia is like this, I can tell you."

"Hmm, not yet," I said, tapping my pencil to my notebook. While testing out my own answers to Dmitri's homework, I was multitasking with the material I had to study for my Freshman finals at the end of the month. Math and math seemed to go well together. "But I have a feeling we're only going to get more...special people out there. The Avengers can't be the only ones, if Spider-Man is any proof. After all, America can't hog all the heroes."

"It suits you. America always want to be saviors of the world," Dmitri said, before quickly backpedaling. "Er, no offense."

I cast him a look out of the corner of my eye, flashing a wry smirk. "None taken. So, how are those questions going?"

"Already it makes more sense when you explain it to me," Dmitri muttered, scratching down in his notebook. It had taken half a dozen tries and two pages full of notes, but eventually he managed to figure out the formula. "Although I am still partial to the calculator. Do you have something against technology, or do you just hate me?"

That actually made me laugh a little. Up to this point, I'd been winging it, not really knowing how actual, professional tutoring works — I figured just explaining what I knew to someone else my age wouldn't be any different if I was being paid for it than if it was in the classroom. Just yesterday I'd been helping Michelle with the Pythagorean theorem during class. At least Dmitri wanted to learn, and didn't doodle my face on every spare sheet of paper. It was nice to know I was doing a good job from his perspective.

"Because calculators are just there to check your answer, not give it to you," I said, pushing the graphing calculator out of his reach when he went for it again. Dmitri threw me a dirty look and I added, "I'm being serious! You can't use calculators as a crutch, you'll never learn to do it yourself. Besides, quadratic equations are easy to graph freehand, you just have to learn a few tricks. I can show you that, too."

Maybe I was being too hard on him, but it was just the way I grew up. During middle school I didn't have my own calculator and Uncle Ben refused to let us use one when Peter and I did homework in the kitchen. Uncle Ben was the kind of man who swore backwards and forwards on the ability to do math in your head. Sure, he didn't have a Master's degree in engineering, but he could still multiply 129 by 231 and get the right answer without even needing a sheet of paper. That's why Aunt May usually let him do the taxes. And sometimes Mom's, too.

Dmitri still looked doubtful, but he seemed to believe I wasn't doing this just to torture him. "Well, I hope so. This textbook is of no help at all. I have read it a thousand times and it still makes no sense."

With a somewhat derisive flick of his hand, he closed the book and pushed it away. I pulled it towards me, opening it back to the questions we still needed to answer. "I've never had an online class before but I'm going to take a wild guess and say it sucks?"

"You have no idea." Dmitri leaned back in his seat, running a hand over his face. I could see that doing all this math was starting to fatigue him. A long day of exercise probably didn't help, either. "Most of my classes are like that since coming here. It gives me more studio time to practice, but then I am left up all night doing this."

"An English textbook doesn't help," I commented, and made a face at the rather roundabout way the author had decided to describe solving the quadratic formula. Most of the questions had parenthesis, which changed up how to go at the formula, while the example we should be following had no parenthesis at all. There was no guide as to how to deal with it. Not to mention the book was published nearly two decades ago. "I'd hate to learn math in a different language."

"It doesn't matter how good at English I can get," Dmitri said, shaking his head. "I will always count numbers in my native tongue. If only our alphabets were the same...maybe I should have requested a translation."

I frowned to myself, looking over the book's instructions. It took me a few minutes to first read and translate in my head. Then I started to speak in Russian. "First identify the value of the coefficients, A, B, and C. Make sure that the equation is in the correct form: A-X- squared plus B-X plus C equals zero. When you have the values of A, B, and C, plug them into the quadratic formula…"

It was a little rusty. I hadn't spoken Russian since the Crucible, and since then it was either Sokovian or English with the twins. But when I looked up and was met with Dmitri's astonished look, I figured I wasn't so bad.

"You...what?" Dmitri blinked several times, a hand going over his face before he looked at me again, a bewildered grin pulling across his face. "You can speak Russian? And you never said anything before?"

I just shrugged my shoulders, fighting a blush rising to my face as I set down the textbook. "Sorry, k-kinda slipped my mind."

"But you speak so well!"

"Spent a year abroad," I said, which wasn't as much of a lie as it seemed. "Got a lot of first-hand experience."

"Abroad?" Dmitri tilted his head, and I wondered if I made a mistake, getting too specific. I felt a little embarrassed by this attention. "Where did you go?"

Of course, the first thing I thought of was Simmons' comment on the quinjet, so my immediate answer was, "St. Petersburg."

"No way! I'm from St. Petersburg," Dmitri looked absolutely delighted, while I just wanted to kick myself. If he asked me about the city, then he'd know I was lying for sure. Thankfully, though, he corrected himself before he could think of it: "Well, actually my father is from St. Petersburg. I was born here."

Now it was my turn to look shocked. "You're American? Seriously?"

Dmitri shrugged one shoulder. "My mother lives here. She is a journalist, I suppose you could say she's famous but...well, that's not important. She and my father divorced when I was only about a year old, and he got, er, what do you call it in English? Опека?"

"Oh, custody?"

"Yes! Custody, that is the word. So, I was born here, but grew up in Russia," Dmitri continued, pleased to have the correct translation. "It makes travel interesting, to say the least."

"So, w-why did you come back here, then?"

"My father had bad business," Dmitri said, and the brightness in his expression faded a little. His eyes grew distant for a moment, and he frowned. "He is a banker, travels a lot. I attended dance school in St. Petersburg, but my father, he said it would be too difficult for him if I stayed. So now I live with my mother until things settle down again."

"Oh," I said, and I could tell there was some unspoken thoughts there. Either Dmitri didn't know what was going on either, or he did and didn't want to tell me. Not that I blamed him. Already this was treading on personal ground I wasn't ready to go through. "It's okay. New York's not St. Petersburg, but I think it's pretty great. Having two homes is better than one, right?"

"Oh, I suppose I can learn to love New York, warts and all," Dmitri smiled wistfully, casting me a teasing look. "It has its charms, certainly. And Little Odessa is nice, even if my mother doesn't like me going there. She says it is low-class. But what she doesn't know won't hurt her, yes?"

"Hey, she won't hear it from me," I said, holding up my hands in innocence. From the sound of it, Dmitri's mother sounded like a piece of work. I'd been to Brighton Beach, and honestly it wasn't that bad. Certainly, one of the nicer neighborhoods of Brooklyn, and it was the closest we'd ever get to summer ocean swimming. If she thought it was low-class, then Dmitri's mother must be pretty well off. Which honestly wouldn't be surprising, if she was famous and could afford to send Dmitri here. "All you rich folks with your secrets, I don't want any part of it."

"You joke, but it is annoying," Dmitri said, shaking his head in frustration. "Half the fun of this tutoring is that I don't have to go home so soon."

"And the other half is doing this without a calculator," I said, taking the calculator just as Dmitri was deftly reaching for it again. "Thought you were pretty slick, huh?"

"Cannot blame me for trying," Dmitri flashed me a grin.

~o~

It was near twilight by the time we were finished, and I separated ways with Dmitri. Taking the train home was a nice, quiet ride to collect my thoughts, and leave me completely unprepared when I discovered both Peter and Ned waiting for me when I got back to Aunt May's.

Honestly, I should have been expecting this.

I had completely forgotten about the text I sent Peter, so of course he was a little annoyed I left him hanging for hours on end. They were gathered in the kitchen, so I was stuck there, recounting my day, including the interview with Tony Stark (sans Bruce Banner) and the weird first impression with Dmitri, then my latest near-death experience with the bus. I left out the part about the panic attack completely, deciding it not worth getting into right now.

"Wait, wait, wait, who cares about the guy? Tell me about Tony Stark!" Ned cut me off, waving his hands in the air. "And Spider-Man! He saved your life? How? Don't leave me hanging here!"

I kind of wished Aunt May was here to mediate all of this, but she was still at work. I was on my own to navigate this conversation. I could feel exhaustion starting to drag me down. I just wanted to take a nap.

Even so, I had to restrain myself from rolling my eyes. Leaning against the table I said, "I was just being stupid, okay? I walked onto the street and I didn't see the bus coming. Spider-Man, he — he pulled me out of the way. He said hi and then he swung off. That's it. That's all. End of story."

"And what happened with Tony Stark?" Peter asked, returning with a glass of milk. Ned scooched aside so we could all sit at the table together. "You texted me but didn't say anything. And then the bus thing happened? Are you okay?"

"I, um," I stammered, suddenly wishing we were talking about Spider-Man again. I didn't want to explain the panic attack to them, the mural or what I was thinking then. "I w-wasn't feeling so hot, and I missed the appointment. But then T-Tony Stark showed up and kind of did a speed-run interview. He was actually kind of nice, in a way."

It was hard to think of Tony Stark as nice after only a ten-minute conversation with him, but I didn't know how else to describe it. He had done me a huge favor, and for what? Just because he felt like it? Because it wasn't a big deal? He didn't even mention it as a favor, but I still felt like I kind of owed him one.

"That's awesome," Ned whispered, slurping his milkshake with wide eyes. "Did you ask for his autograph?"

"What? N-no, I didn't ask for his autograph," I said, making a face. As if I was in any state of mind to even think of it at the time. "He did call me Beanstalk, though, so there's that."

Peter snorted a little too hard at that, and I kicked him under the table. "Ow! Hey, come on, it's funny!"

"Yeah, I know, it's hilarious," I said sarcastically. "He mentioned you, Peter, by the way. He actually remembered we were cousins w-when I said I knew you. How well do you actually know him, anyways?"

"Oh, well, you know," Peter grinned sheepishly, giving me a half-hearted shrug and not quite looking me in the eye. "I spent the summer just being an intern, right? We talked a lot, I guess. He really helped after, well, after Uncle Ben, you know?"

"Oh," I said, my suspicion dying immediately. Of course, Peter would get attached to his personal hero. And after Uncle Ben died...well, I could only imagine what that must have been like for him. Maybe there was something about Tony Stark that made Peter feel better about what happened. "I guess I wasn't sure. Stark gets a lot of bad press. But he wasn't so bad in person, I think."

"Lucky," Ned groaned, throwing his head back. "You got to meet two superheroes in one day! The only superhero I met was Hawkeye, during the Incident — and all he has is a stupid bow and arrow. He doesn't even fly."

"What, uh, what was he like?" Peter said somewhat haltingly, scratching behind his ear. "Spider-Man, I mean?"

I took this as his attempt to change the conversation, and maybe not talk about Uncle Ben anymore. We still hadn't talked about what happened. I wasn't even sure where Peter had been at the time, only that Aunt May had been the last to find out. "Eh. He's shorter than I thought. His suit's kinda lame up close."

Ned laughed while Peter made a face.

"Well, it's not like he's a freaking Avenger," Peter said, sounding a little annoyed, then added under his breath, "No matter how hard he tries."

Then he cleared his throat, and a little louder, he said, "Not everyone's rich and famous or a god, you know. Some guy's just have to make do."

"Peter, Spider-Man's practically wearing pajamas."

"They're not pajamas!" He said so sharply that it actually made me jump a little. Peter blinked, unclenched his fists, before slumping back. "I mean, have you heard of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen? That guy doesn't even have a suit. I heard he just wears regular clothes and a black scarf over his head."

"Oh, yeah, so lame," Ned rolled his eyes, shaking his head in disapproval. "I heard he's a total wacko, too. Goes around beating people to a bloody pulp, like some sort of maniac. At least Spider-Man just webs them up for the police to get."

I knew about the Devil, another new arrival since I'd been gone. No one knew where he came from, either; although violent, the guy didn't seem to have any powers aside from kicking tons of ass. And unlike Spider-Man, he didn't seem to have a friendly, public persona, and only operated at night. In my opinion, a lot creepier than any hero I'd heard of, and I was secretly glad that I didn't live in Hell's Kitchen anymore, so I wouldn't have to deal with that.

"And you don't see the Devil saving people from buses, do you?" Peter threw me a significant look.

I threw one right back at him. "Okay, fine, just because Spider-Man looks stupid doesn't mean he's not a bad hero. And yeah, sure, maybe he saved my life. Not that he should get an award for acting like a basic human being or anything."

I was still unwilling to admit I ever needed saving, considering what I'd been through. Still, it was Ned who asked, "Still kind of cool, though. I've only seen videos of him, but is it true that his web-shooters are mechanical? I have a bet with Michelle that they're organic, that they come from his body."

"What? Ew, no," Peter and I said almost simultaneously, shuddering at the revolting thought. At least we agreed on that. I continued with, "No, they were definitely mechanical. Some sort of trigger-action lever attached to tubes and canisters. I'm not sure, he was gone pretty fast. But they were probably the nicest part of his suit, really."

"Must be a smart guy," Peter remarked, trying to sound casual and failing. "To be able to just make one of those himself, right?"

"Unless he got someone else to make them for him," I pointed out, eyeing Peter and trying not to smirk. "You really like this guy Spider-Man, don't you?"

"Uh, what? No, I don't!" Peter retorted almost immediately, straightening as if caught off-guard. He glanced between me and Ned, pulling at his collar before glancing away. "I mean, I think what he does is great and all, but like, the guy himself? Total loser. Doesn't do anything cool like show up to parties or hang-out with famous people."

I frowned, a little confused by Peter's mixed signals here. Considering how hard he was arguing for Spider-Man, he was quick to deny even liking him. What was going on here? Wondering what he was playing at, I decided to give a little leeway and said, "Well, the rich and famous aren't everything. He might be a show-off but at least he's not going around signing autographs and kissing babies like Iron Man or Thor. He seems a bit more down-to-earth, I think. I kind of feel bad for not thanking him, actually."

Peter blinked, then smiled. "He's probably used to it, you know? Spider-Man's busy, he can't hang around."

What was Peter's deal? Before I could call him out, though, Ned gasped.

"You didn't thank him?" Ned demanded, scandalized. "Mia, how could you!"

"Oh, come on, I was freaked out!" I protested, hunching up my shoulders helplessly. "Honestly, Spider-Man's lucky I didn't sock him in the face on accident. I don't like people jumping me from behind."

Peter rubbed the side of his face, frowning as if considering something unpleasant. Looking at me, his eyebrows raised uncertainly. "But you are okay, right?"

"I said yes, didn't I?"

"I-I mean, I know, but," Peter inhaled through his nose and I knew I had a big storm coming. "It's just that, Mr. Stark called me, and he told me you had some sort of panic attack? Right before your interview…"

At first, I didn't believe my ears. My blood went cold. The look on my face must have said enough because Peter's voice died out as soon as I turned my head to stare at him, aghast.

"Wait, what?" Ned frowned between the two of us. "Mia had a panic attack? Like a real one?"

But Peter had gone pale, pressing his lips together, only now realizing his mistake. I didn't look at Ned, just glared at Peter for a second longer. My voice was stiff when I answered, "It was real enough."

And with that I rose from my seat and stalked out of the room.

"Mia — shit — Mia, wait!" Peter called after me, and the sound of a scramble followed. A few seconds later he caught up with me at the bathroom door, snagging my arm. "Wait, please, I'm sorry —"

I whirled on him. "So, what are you, best buds with Tony Stark now? Does he always call you when someone has a dramatic breakdown at work?"

"What, no, no, that's not it at all!" Peter said, holding up his hands and frantically shaking his head. "I'm always sending him texts, you know, but he usually doesn't reply. B-but today! Today he just called me during Decathlon, just out of nowhere! I had to answer because, well, it's Tony Stark! He told me he met you. I guess he was just checking to see if you were telling the truth. Then he mentioned the panic attack thing and, I don't know, I got worried! And then you didn't say anything at all about it just now, so I was just wondering…"

Peter's explanation was turning into a nervous rambling mess, so I knew he was at least being sincere. That didn't make me any less angry, felt like a major invasion of privacy. I guess I didn't really blame Peter, he didn't know but I wished Tony Stark had more tact.

Oh, who was I kidding? It was Tony Stark.

"Wondering if maybe I was keeping it to myself? Maybe I didn't want Ned to know just yet?" I demanded, managing to keep my voice level, if somewhat tense.

As much as I loathed even thinking of the experience, I had planned on telling Peter...preferably him and Aunt May together, so I had some sort of buffer.

It wasn't that I didn't trust Ned or anything, but I'd never shared emotionally distraught situations with him, and starting with a panic attack seemed like a bad way to go. I'd probably have to tell him eventually, now that he knew, but I wasn't ready just yet.

I kept my voice hushed so Ned wouldn't overhear. "Did it ever occur to you that I'd tell you later?"

Peter's voice was tiny. "N-no... I just wanted to help —"

"Help? Help how?"

"I don't know! I just figured if I'd been there, I could've — I could've —" He struggled to come up with any retroactive solution to this.

"I don't need you to hold my hand, Pete," I cut him off. Maybe he didn't mean to sound condescending, but that's how it came off to me. Without thinking, I snapped, "I didn't need it in the Crucible, and I don't need it now for one stupid interview."

I only realized what I said when I was done.

"The Crucible?" Peter blinked, confused. "What's that?"

My back went ramrod; horrified with myself, I swallowed, but my throat was dry. My fingers started to twitch and I clenched them into fists, looking away. "Nothing. Forget about it."

"No, wait," Peter's voice raised with some manner of alarm, and he tried to stop me when I turned away again. "Mia, what're you talking about? What's the Crucible?"

I wrenched myself out of his grip, stumbling — Peter was stronger than I anticipated, even with my own strength. "I-I said, just forget about it!"

And with that, I stormed into my room and slammed the door.

Now alone, I slumped against the door, letting my head fall back with a sigh. I didn't want to start an argument about Spider-Man. Really, I didn't have a problem with him, aside from my own personal questions. I didn't know how to explain to Peter or Ned that it felt like I knew him somehow. Spider-Man had shown up longer after I'd been taken. I wasn't even aware of him until after I got back. What did I really know?

But that was it, wasn't it? I knew what it was like to be chased, to be in danger. A lot of my own choices, my own actions, had led to disaster. The absolute last thing I wanted would to turn myself into some sort of hero and pretend I had any idea of what I was doing. It was different with the Crucible, when I went after the twins to save them — in the end, I didn't really have a choice. That was me fixing a mistake, not trying to save the day. I definitely wouldn't do it again unless I absolutely had to.

I kept my old backpack tucked under my bed, hidden and easily reached. From it, I pulled out the polaroids I had taken in France. Of me, Wanda, and Pietro. The stupid selfies and the three of us standing in front of the fountain in Nice. Right now, I wished they were here with me. At least with them, I didn't have to explain myself. They questioned everything, trusted nothing. In a strange way, life made sense when I was around them.

Now? Not so much.

A part of me wondered what they would think, if they knew I'd met Tony Stark today. They certainly wouldn't be excited, not in the way that Peter and Ned were. Hell, I'd imagine they'd be disappointed, that I didn't try to get revenge for him.

But I wasn't interested in revenge. Subconsciously, I never made the connection of that cool businessman on the balcony to be the same guy that dropped bombs on Sokovia. Maybe once, years ago, but now? I believed it when Tony Stark first said he was a changed man, that he was Iron Man, that he was no longer making weapons. Maybe he was a hypocrite — Iron Man was one hell of a tool, that's for sure. But he was the only one that used it. There were would be no other Iron Men. Any actions he took, he was responsible for.

I respected that. I wasn't sure if the twins would. There was a lot of bad blood. I didn't think they'd ever forgive him.

But they wouldn't think I was weird for being suspicious of Spider-Man.

Maybe I should have brought them here. Maybe they could help make sense of this world I didn't understand anymore.

"Are those your friends?"

I jumped, looked up from my bed to see Peter leaning against the doorframe, his shoulders hunched and hands in his pockets. He nodded at the photographs, which lied open in my lap. "Were they — were they with you, you know...over there?"

"Oh," I covered them with my hands, annoyed at myself at having missed hearing him open the door. There I was again, lost in another reverie. "Yeah."

I didn't say any more than that, just looked down and shuffled the photos together.

A look crossed over Peter's face. I couldn't decipher it and I didn't want to ask. Was he still thinking about the Spider-Man conversation? It had gotten more intense than I expected, and I hoped he wouldn't bring it up again. I just wanted to let it lie. I was trying to focus on the good memories and not dwell too long on the bad.

After a moment, he shifted away from the door and stepped inside. When I didn't say anything to stop him, Peter came to sit down next to me, the mattress squeaking a little beneath him. My first reaction was the flip over the photos so he couldn't see them — then, after a second thought, I slowly reversed my hands, and allowed them to face up again.

I think I surprised both of us when I actually offered one to him. Peter took it after a moment, peering at the photo Agent Coulson took, disguised as a tourist. "Who are they? They look older than you."

I hesitated before I answered that, wondering if it was a betrayal to reveal who they were. But this was Peter, and I trusted him above everyone else. "Wanda and Pietro. They're t-twins. I actually don't know how old they are. I never thought to ask. They, um, they were there with me, when I escaped."

"From the Crucible?" Peter asked. Just hearing that name again made the hairs on the made of my neck stand on end, and when I shot him a look, Peter gave a small, apologetic shrug. "That's where you were, wasn't it? The Crucible. Whatever it is."

"Whatever it is," I agreed, deciding not to tell Peter any more than that. He didn't need to know what happened, certainly not what they did to me, only that it had been a place, that it was real. Taking a deep breath through my nose, I said, "Actually, I probably wouldn't have gotten out alive if it weren't for Wanda and Pietro. We made it all the way to England before they decided...they decided they wanted to go back."

"Back where?"

Another pause. "Sokovia."

Peter gaped, astonished. "No way. Sokovia?"

"Where they're from. Where they were k-kidnapped." And where I'd been taken, but I left that part out. "Maybe they would've come with me here, but they were worried about the civil war that just broke out. And I-I guess they wanted to find their family again. What was left of it."

"Oh," Peter nodded, and I was glad there were no pressing questions to that. "What happened to them?"

"They're okay." I said, my voice quiet. Peter threw me a confused look, so I went on, "At least, I think so. I don't know. Sokovia isn't exactly safe. I haven't heard anything from them since we last said good-bye."

"They're probably all right," Peter said, handing me back the photo. "I mean, if you managed to get through Europe together on your own, then Sokovia can't be that bad, right?"

I chuckled. "I don't know, maybe. But yeah, I think you're right. They're tough. Tougher than me, that's for sure."

I sighed, and a long pause fell over between us. Peter's hands fiddled uselessly in his lap, looking for something to do. So, I handed him another photograph, without a word. It was my photo, the one where I was all beat-up, but smiling, holding up a peace sign. It looked so stupid to me now, but I decided not to say so when it made Peter smile. "You look like shit, Goose."

"I felt like shit," I said with an approving nod. "That was just after we got away for the first time."

The soft light from the window behind us glanced softly off the shiny photo. Peter played with it a little, thumb running over the date I'd written at the bottom. "This was a week before you got home."

I nodded, not really knowing what to add to that. My time in Europe was largely a blur now, with bright spots of clarity interspersed. I remembered the scary moments, the fast moments, every time I had to think on my feet. The moments that were quiet, that were calm, seemed to fade into the background. I guess the length of time would've felt a lot different to Peter, who only had his regular life, the routine of school to think about.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Peter asked eventually, and when I frowned, he continued, "I mean, to the FBI. You never mentioned Wanda or Pietro. You said you were all alone. Why?"

It took me a moment to find the right answer. "A lot happened, Maverick. There were things we did that I normally wouldn't do. And they'd already been through enough. I didn't want them to get in trouble. We were just trying to survive."

"Do you miss them? Wanda and Pietro?" Peter asked, and there was a strange note in his voice. Concern? Jealousy?

"Every day," I said, but then cast him a smile. "But I had to get back here, no matter what. They're my friends, but they're not you, or Ned, or Aunt May. Home meant something different to them. There wasn't anything wrong with that."

That must have been the right thing to say, because Peter smiled back and nudged me with his elbow. "Aww, look at you, being all mushy. And you didn't spontaneously combust!" He laughed when I cuffed him across the head. "Hey, you think they'd like me? I mean, if they think you're cool, then they'd think I'd be awesome."

"Oh, is that so?" I said, mocking offense. "Well, I told them about you, if it makes you feel any better. Wanda thought it was funny that you and Pietro have similar names. I don't know how you both managed to be so annoying, though."

"Ugh, you're so mean, you know that?" Peter huffed, blowing hair out of his eyes and scrunching up his nose. He looked back down at the photo, opening his mouth to say something, then paused. Then he tapped the sign in the background of my selfie. "Wait, you took this in Nice?"

"I — what?" I wasn't expecting the question, and leaned over to check. I hadn't been paying attention to what was behind me when I had taken the picture. But indeed, above my head was a hanging sign, with the French name of the bakery we had dumpster dived behind — Boulangerie de la Nice. My eyes fought with the difficult French sounds in my head; even harder than it was in English. "Oh, y-yeah. That's where our train led us."

But Peter didn't say anything. His eyes drew back down to the date at the bottom of the photograph. "This was three days before the terror attack in Nice. When the Ten Rings blew up that boat." he looked up at me, eyes wide. "You were there when it happened?"

I froze, mouth agape. I had completely forgotten about the HMS Adelaide. That I had taken photographs right before it exploded. Photographs lying less than four feet beneath us, still in my backpack. They were like a beacon in my head, bright and blaring, demanding attention.

"Mia?" Peter asked, when I didn't speak for several long seconds.

The explosion was still clear in my head, the piercing noise, the invisible force that had knocked me off my feet. I had to pull myself back to the present, to remind myself I was sitting on my bed, that I wasn't back in France, running from the Komitet.

"N-no," I lied, and it was bitter on my tongue. I looked away, put my hands over the photos still in my lap, tried to keep my hands from trembling. "We'd l-left just the day before. We d-didn't hear about it until we saw the-the news in Paris. We were…. we got lucky, I guess."

"Damn," Peter just shook his head, astounded. "I remember watching it on TV. I can't imagine being so close to it. Were you scared?"

"I was scared of a lot of things, exploding boats notwithstanding," I admitted, chuckling nervously. "We were paranoid. It was hard not to think anything bad happening wasn't somehow our fault."

"Well, at least you know this one wasn't," Peter said, handing me back the polaroid. "Just a small world, I guess. Hey, me and Ned are heading down to get some shawarma later, wanna come?"

And that was that. I was almost disappointed that the topic ended so soon, because my own curiosity hadn't died. But I knew I should be relieved, because Peter was no longer suspicious. I wasn't even entirely sure why I lied. It just felt too risky, too personal. There was still so much I hadn't told Peter, and if I had revealed to him I was there, if I showed him the pictures I still couldn't look at, then I'd have to relive so much more. I wasn't ready for that. I still hadn't figured out what it all meant.

Although Peter was satisfied, I was not. In fact, it just raised old questions I'd forgotten. Maybe Peter was right, that we had nothing to do with the attack. But it didn't feel right — maybe I was still paranoid. I was the only one (aside from Wanda and Pietro) who knew that the Extremis soldiers were responsible for the destruction of the HMS Adelaide. That the Crucible had been more or less in charge of them in that time, until SHIELD raided the compound. Until that day in Paris, when I watched the news, I had no idea the Ten Rings had anything to do with it.

So, what was the connection? What tied Extremis to the Ten Rings?