When we finally emerged from our home, bags in tow, I made sure to give Tony Stark my most withering glare to make sure he kept his mouth shut. He seemed to contemplate saying something anyways, but that fast-talking mouth remained blessedly silent. He at least had the decency to put our bags in the trunk for us before he climbed into the driver's seat. I thought it was a touch out of character–both the bags and the driving. Shouldn't people this rich have folks driving them around all the time? Maybe he wanted to do this himself, considering he'd mentioned not having exact permission to come track me down. I opened the door for Charlie, and then climbed into the backseat with her. Her fingers intertwined with mine, and I gave her hand a tiny squeeze. It was as if I was saying: It's okay. I've got you.

"We need to drop her off first. In Athens. I'll give you the address once we roll in closer to town." I informed Stark.

"Sure." It was funny. Athens was only really about an hour or so away, and yet Charlie had never once met her grandmother. Well, great-grandmother, technically, but I knew that she wouldn't like being referred to as such.

My father's mother–Magnolia Thibodeaux, though I'd always just called her Memaw. I couldn't possibly calculate just how many hours I spent as a teenager on the phone with her, detailing all my adolescent problems and daily events. The woman had a wicked sense of humor, and had often encouraged me into several very poor decisions. I loved her fiercely. My mother never approved of how close we were, but granted, of course, most mothers would tend to disapprove of their daughter's friendship with a self-proclaimed psychic.

Memaw had never once made a correct prediction or successfully communicated with any spirits, to my knowledge. My father and I used to joke that if Memaw predicted sunshine, then we ought to pack an umbrella for the day. I remember the sound of her long, crawfish-red nails clicking against the handle of the phone, the soft clacking of her beads and other such jewelry. She had always been crazy, in the adorable way that older folk were crazy. We indulged her and poked fun behind her back, and she would always have some new harebrained prediction for us, so the cycle could continue.

After the accident, I knew she was the only person I could trust.

It wasn't as if my family was unsupportive of me. My childhood was relatively happy. Daddy passed when I was still in high school, and Mother kind of shut down after that. My brother, Sterling, had moved to New York when I was in middle school, and I only saw him on Christmas. If I had told either Mother or Sterling about the things I saw and heard, I would have certainly been locked away and sedated for the rest of my life. When I called and told Memaw, she just asked what she could do to help me. Hearing voices, seeing dead people, somehow knowing things that I just couldn't explain…she just believed me.

She'd happily transferred ownership of her little cottage to me, and never once accepted any real payment. She knew very well that it was likely that she'd never get to see me in person again. But once a year, in an envelope with no return address, I would mail her a picture of Charlie. Even now, the next letter sat in my bedside table, waiting to be mailed the next time I ventured into town. I supposed it would be much better for her to finally meet her granddaughter.

The call had gone about as well as anyone could expect. She'd been more than shocked, naturally, to hear from me after so many years. I didn't explain much, but thank God, she was more than willing to look after Charlie for however long I needed.

I spent the entire drive to Athens holding Charlie's hand. She didn't speak once, but stared out the window for an hour. It was not lost on me that this was the first that Charlie had seen of the world outside of our cozy little bubble. She seemed so hungry for each glimpse of the modern world. The more concrete in sight, the more alert she seemed. I swallowed hard, attempting not to linger on this.

Finally, Stark pulled up in front of a little white house. The garden out front seemed to burst with lemon balm and butterfly bushes. I could spot huge leaves that no doubt covered fat yellow squash, long delicate stalks of okra, and a trellis of lima beans. Butterbeans, we'd always called them. It also happened to be one of my favorite pet names for Charlie. A deep blue wind chime tinkled in the breeze, hung on the porch, and I wished deeply that Charlie could hear it, too. I gave her hand another squeeze before we ascended the battered wooden steps together. I knocked firmly at the door, and almost instantly, it swung open.

It was remarkable how Memaw still looked exactly as I remembered her. I'd almost expected her to be practically decaying, but she moved surprisingly well. Her eyes–the same blue as Charlie's–still danced with mischief and merriment, and now, a bittersweet kind of grief.

"Annie, baby. Oh, beautiful girl, look at you." Memaw brushed a shaking, wrinkled hand over her heart. I could've easily collapsed into her arms and wept, but the tensing of Charlie's hand in mine kept me grounded.

"...Hi, Memaw." I murmured. Her eyes flicked to Charlie, and I cleared my throat. "Memaw, this is Charlotte. She likes to be called Charlie." I had to awkwardly detach my hand from my daughter's so I could sign along to her.

This is your Memaw. Technically your great grandmother. My dad's mom. I then turned to the much older woman, realizing that I had neglected to inform her about Charlie's condition. "Charlie was born deaf. She can't read lips very well, so y'all might have to write notes or somethin'. But she reads and writes very well. Actually, she loves books, and I'm sure she'd love to look through your bookshelves. Let's see…she ain't allergic to anything, so if she tells you she is, she's lyin' to get out of eating vegetables. Don't let her stay up too late. She likes to sneak a flashlight into her room to read." I rambled, trying to think of any possible pitfall or trouble that she could be for the foreseeable future. Memaw gave me a wry smile.

"Well, that sounds all right. I think we'll be good friends. It'll be just fine, Annie." She sounded so sure of herself that I almost believed her. Still, anxiety had a firm hold on my heart, and it seemed very hesitant to let go.

"I can't thank you enough." I swallowed hard. "You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't an emergency. I can't tell you how…how sorry I…" My voice was breaking. A tear fell down my cheek as the elderly woman hushed me, shaking her head.

"I know. It's all right. I knew y'all would be comin' down soon enough." She tapped her forehead with a twinkling in her eyes, which pulled a soft, hesitant chuckle out of me. "I know I can't know anything. Not with…what happened to you, or what you're about to do. Just know that I love you, and I'm here to help you, all right? You'll always be my Anna Banana." She stepped forward and pressed her wrinkled mouth to my cheek. I surely had a bright red stain on my skin now. It used to so bother me as a teenager, all her lipstick prints. It was a bittersweet idea that Charlie would get to share this sentiment now.

"I…thank you." I was repeating myself now. What was a phrase stronger than thanks? How could I possibly express how much this meant to me? I glanced behind, catching Tony Stark tapping his watch. It was all so unfair. How was I meant to leave her here?

"Momma." Charlie's voice snapped me out of my daze. She used her voice so rarely, enough that I cherished each instance of hearing it. I loved the slightly stilted drawl, a result of copying the way my mouth moved even if she couldn't hear the words I said to her. I looked down at her to find a curiously stern expression on her face.

I'll be okay. She signed, and my vision blurred with tears. Another impossibly tight hug, and I pressed at least half a dozen kisses into her messy curls.

"I love you. I love you. I love you so much, more than you'll ever know." I whispered like a prayer.

The drive was quiet, though I couldn't tell if it was awkward or serene. Stark had at least pretended not to notice when I had cried for the first half hour, silently and stoically. My face was puffy and pink, which did it no favors. The next half hour, I spoke only once, when he asked me if the music was okay. I got the impression that this was some kind of olive branch, and had quietly requested something from the 90s, anything. So we chose to ignore each other while the car blared with Incubus and Radiohead.

Eventually, Stark cleared his throat. I supposed him keeping his mouth shut this long was some kind of record. Admittedly, he was running his mouth a lot less than I'd expected, and it had me on edge. Plus, I could see him cutting his eyes at me every few minutes, and then glancing back out the windshield. While I technically could find out exactly what was going on in his head, I didn't want another nosebleed. And…something about doing it made me feel a little nauseous, not just literally. It just wasn't right. Being able to shove through someone's boundaries, violate their privacy like that…it made my skin crawl.

"We'll get there in around twenty minutes. In the glovebox, you'll find dossiers on everyone else. Might give you something to do." He shrugged. I paused. He was being a lot more human than I'd expected from his obnoxious introduction.

"...How's your foot?" I finally asked, attempting to make nice. He snorted.

"Last I checked, an impressive shade of purple. You never apologized for that, by the way." Stark added and it was my turn to snicker.

"...Sorry." I tried half-heartedly to sound sincere, which only made him laugh again.

"You're a shit liar for someone who keeps things so close to the chest." I opted to not answer and instead popped open the glovebox, where a thick stack of documents laid waiting.

The first few pages were full of scientific mumbo-jumbo. I attempted reading it over, but after realizing I only knew maybe twenty percent of the words, flipped to the next section. The first file was my own, but I didn't see much information that I hadn't already reviewed inside Stark's cluttered mind.

"...Do I really still have that high score?" I murmured curiously, looking down at the old photograph of myself that had clearly been pulled from surveillance tapes. It must've been right around thirteen years ago, right before everything had gone to shit. I was leaned over the Mortal Kombat cabinet, and the man next to me had his hand firmly planted on my ass. I'd loved those jeans, with the sparkly butterfly decal on the back pocket. I tried not to think too hard about the man's thick head of curls and instead admired how vibrant my hair used to be. The photo was in black and white, but I could tell just by the exposure how bright it was. The copper of my hair had faded in recent years, and Charlie had made sure there were a few silvery strands here and there.

"Yup." Stark responded, popping the "p" at the end of the word. He hesitated, opening his mouth, but then closed it again. The back of my neck prickled with annoyance as I wondered what he'd decided was apparently too bold to say.

"I can't believe that game is still there. I can't believe the arcade is still there." A tiny smile curved my lips upwards. It was another lifetime ago. My reminiscing was interrupted, though, by the car jerking to a stop. I glanced up only to see a huge jet, parked in the middle of a huge, dried-out field. "We can't drive?" My voice sounded smaller now.

"What, you have something against getting there faster? You think I drive myself everywhere? Don't tell me you're afraid of heights, Red." I stared at Stark with an uneasy expression and he groaned loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Jesus Christmas. I'll give you a Xanax if you really need. C'mon. There's no other way to get there." He got out of the car before I could protest further, leaving me to my nerves.

The Xanax sounded tempting, but I needed my head focused and sharp, I was sure. Whatever was ahead, I'd need my wits about me. This was all so over my head. Charlie, I reminded myself. You are doing this for Charlie. It was only the thought of seeing her smile from ear to ear when I got back that pushed me to clumsily climb out of his car and then board his jet.

It was luxe, to nobody's surprise. Leather seats, an impressively stocked bar cart with crystal glasses, an enormous flat screen television…I could spy expensive-looking speakers, too, in each corner of the cabin. I felt exceedingly out of place as I stood in the middle of the aisle, wringing my hands. Tony seemed much more casual about the whole affair, easily sinking into a seat like a cat curling up in its favorite spot.

"You want that Xanax? Maybe a little liquid courage?" He lazily waved his arm towards the bar, but I shook my head as I took my place in the seat across the aisle. After a moment's thought, I stretched up my arm to firmly close the window. No need to see how high up we were.

"Suit yourself." He shrugged noncommittally. I returned to the bursting files, flipping to the next page. It contained the details on Stark himself. I devoured each line, my brow furrowing as I read about a sordid string of debauchery, terrorist groups, and how the man currently knocking back his second old fashioned had reverse-engineered his own heart failure. I stole a glance up, my eyes narrowing as I watched him lazily dab a spot of whiskey off of his t-shirt. This was the man who'd effectively performed his own open-heart surgery? Admittedly, it was far easier to connect him to the guy in the photos with his arm around two Playboy bunnies. He'd managed to step on every last one of my frayed nerves, but I could still see the wickedly mischievous brown eyes, the smirk, the broad shoulders. That made more sense than all the heroic accomplishments outlined in tiny font on my lap.

"What?" He asked, and it occurred to me I'd been caught staring. His face lit up in a shit-eating grin, and my cheeks were certainly red.

"Nothin'." I mumbled and ducked my head down again. Once again, out of my peripheral, I watched him open his mouth, and then close it again. "God, what?" I suddenly piped up, lifting my head again. His brow furrowed.

"What?"

"What?" I mocked in a deeper voice, attempting to mimic his tone. "What were you gonna say? Go on. I've watched you shut yourself up a million times on the drive over here. You had no issue antagonizing me outside my own home. What is it?"

"Nothing." The irony of the tables turning did not escape me, though I just felt more frustrated.

"Obviously it's not nothing, cause it wasn't nothing for me either." I huffed. I stared at him, the uncomfortable strain in his neck, and the way that his eyes darted over my face. Suddenly, it occurred to me: he was afraid. Of me, of all things. His hands were tight, gripping the armrest of his seat, staring at me like I was a live grenade. Was I blushing again? Silence settled between us, an awkward stalemate, and I decided to go back to my reading.

I supposed I should've expected it. I hadn't been around people in so long, especially not people who knew about my abilities. I tried to put myself in Stark's expensive, uncomfortable-looking shoes. How would I feel, knowing I was sitting across from someone capable of learning every dark, shameful secret I'd ever harbored? The walking on eggshells was making a lot more sense. I felt hot with shame, and wondered if it would make it worse or better to assure him that I didn't do that kind of thing–especially considering I'd already done it. I hadn't had a choice at the time–

Or had I?

No, I tried to insist. I was thinking of Charlie. I needed to protect her. But was that an excuse? Did that justify invading his privacy, the one place that everyone was supposed to be safe? I swallowed hard, and suddenly decided that maybe I needed to shut up and leave the billionaire alone for a while. Tucking my feet up underneath my lap, I felt so guilty that I'd hardly noticed that we were now soaring through the air. I busied myself again with the files, but now I could feel his eyes boring holes into me, like I was squished between some slides under a microscope.

Each person was equally skilled and intimidating. I'd spent several minutes starstruck and baffled that Captain America was apparently a real person–though he looked exactly like his action figure in all the photos attached. (Seriously, did they oil him up for these photos, or what?) One of the men I was meant to help, Clint Barton, was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent with apparently a penchant for archery. I thumbed a few redacted sections, wondering briefly what exactly was deemed not need-to-know information.

I tried to memorize names and faces. Phil Coulson, a man with a good-natured smile, and an almost comically long list of redacted information. This was second-place to a woman called Natasha Romanoff, with short, scarlet hair, and what looked to be lethal skill in almost every form of martial arts. The only person in these files that I didn't think could snap my neck as easy as breathing was the other man I'd seen with those fluorescent blue eyes, Dr. Selvig. I tried to take note of his specialties, figuring that surely he was taken for something to do with his astrophysics background.

By the time I reached the last dossier, my head was swimming. The type was too small and close-together, and I was feeling a little put-out by the knowledge that I was about to be surrounded by all these brilliant, completely accomplished people. And what was I? A stay-at-home single mom. Yeah, okay, doctorate in music theory, but what use was that around here? What was I gonna do, sight read someone to death?

My thumb brushed over the last name: Dr. Robert Bruce Banner. I sighed heavily, reading over yet another veritable laundry list of achievements. Nuclear physicist, multiple PhDs (which made my one in the fine arts seem very pathetic), and several various awards and accolades for work in gamma radiation. SEE REVERSE, the file said, next to a paperclipped picture. As I glanced at the photo attached…well, he didn't look much like the egotistical, recluse scientist I had been imagining him to be.

Clearly, the photo was old, judging by the grain and the warmth of the film. A man stared up at me, maybe around mid-twenties, with dark, brooding eyes and a messy head of curls. His lips were slightly downturned, as if uncomfortable with being photographed. I paused, staring.

"Is it true?" Stark's voice snapped me out of my reverie. For some reason, as if I'd been caught doing something wrong, I slapped the file shut, momentarily forgetting about the other half of the profile I was meant to read.

"Is what true?" I asked, startled.

"About you. That you can…see ghosts."

I shifted uncomfortably. Yes, it was very true–but not something I tried to dwell on.

"Sort of. It's not…I'm not an exorcist. I can't call up anyone's dead grandma or anything. But if someone from the other side is hanging around, yeah, I can see them. They don't seem all that impressed with me, so they don't talk much." I muttered. Stark lifted, and an expression of hope flashed across his face.

"Any here?" Without thinking, I shook my head.

"No. Nothin' here." I didn't miss the brief disappointment on Stark's face, and wondered briefly if maybe I should've lied.

"Oh. Well. We're here." Stark waved his hand briefly. I leaned over and curiously lifted the shade again. Unfortunately, the view outside did very little to clear things up. I couldn't get a great angle of the surroundings outside, just a tarmac. It looked almost like any other landing strip.

"Where's here?"

"You'll see." He answered very unhelpfully. I rolled my eyes and stood, groaning softly at the stiffness in my legs and back. God, I was getting too old.

I stepped off the plane, squinting in the glare of the sunlight and trying to keep my breathing even. Every exhale, I reminded myself: Charlie. For Charlie.