Chapter 20

BEA P.O.V.

As we arrive at the base, a sense of unease settles in the air. Mira walks beside me, her footsteps echoing softly in the dimly lit hallway, guiding me toward my room with an almost reverent silence.

"My room wasn't ruined a year ago?" I ask, a twinge of apprehension lacing my voice, memories of the past flooding my mind.

"No," she replies, her tone steady yet gentle. "Yours was one of the few that managed to remain intact. We found some cracks and fixed them up."

She stops just outside my door, her eyes briefly meeting mine before she turns to leave. My gaze drifts to the door, and I feel a pang of nostalgia as I notice it now devoid of the vibrant foliage and flowers I had so painstakingly painted. The colours I once used to brighten my space have been hidden away, likely painted over in my absence. Taking a deep breath, I push the door open and step inside, greeted by a musty scent and a haze of dust that emanates from the draped sheets covering the furniture.

As I lift one of the sheets, a cloud of dust billows into the air, causing me to sneeze. Reflexively, I clasp my hands together in a prayer-like gesture and clap, using my small trick to clear the room. Almost magically, the dust settles, revealing a space frozen in time.

Everything remains eerily unchanged, like a carefully preserved relic of my past. The wall beside my bed—shared with my beloved Koda—is a vibrant tapestry of life, a mosaic of photographs capturing moments of laughter, love, and the camaraderie of friends. Handwritten letters and messages form an intricate collage, whispering stories of times spent together. A pang of guilt gnaws at me as I pull my gaze from the wall, overwhelmed by memories that threaten to drown me.

I walk over to the wardrobe, my fingers trailing along the wood as if reconnecting with an old friend. The first thing I spot is my cherished green jumper, its fabric worn yet soft.

"Hey, how about this?" Mira suggests, grinning as she pulls out a pair of faded grey joggers and the green jumper I had first arrived in, a token from an earlier time.

"You still have this?" I ask in disbelief, my heart swelling with nostalgia.

"Yeah, I found it in the rubble," she replies, a hint of warmth in her voice. "I mended it and kept it safe because it reminded me of you. Now you can have it back."

"No, you keep it," I insist, offering it back with a smile imbued with fond memories of better days spent with those I loved.

"Alright, then how about this?" I suggest rummaging through the wardrobe. I pull out a black Henley long-sleeved button-down, a cosy green flannel, black leggings, my favourite grey beanie, and my quirky llama socks. Just as I tie the flannel around my waist, a voice cuts through the air like a striking bolt of lightning.

"Steve and Nick want you to come to the kitchen."

"Thanks, Mira," I reply, taking a moment to gather myself.

"You know where you're going," she offers, a knowing smile gracing her lips.

"Yes, thanks again," I say, feeling a mix of gratitude and nostalgia as our paths part. I leave my room behind and make my way down the familiar corridor toward the kitchen.

As I approach, I pause in the shadows just outside the entrance, taking in the lively scene before me. Steve leans casually against the counter, radiating a sense of authority and ease. Surrounding a sturdy wooden table, Nat, Clint, Petro, Bruce, Wanda, and Vision are engrossed in animated conversation, their voices rising and falling like waves crashing on the shore. Sam and Peter are locked in a friendly debate with Tony, who stands across from Steve, gesturing dramatically with his hands.

Suddenly, Nick catches sight of me. His expression lights up as he moves closer, a reassuring smile on his face as he squeezes my hand gently.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice smooth and comforting amidst the cacophony.

"Yeah, it feels surreal to see everyone again," I admit, scanning the familiar faces that spark a whirlwind of memories.

"What do you mean?" he inquires, his curiosity piqued.

"They all look so...different. Older," I reply, a chuckle escaping as I try to lighten the gravity of my words.

"Hey, Fury, you going to show us your new friend?" Tony interjects, a playful glint in his eyes. We share a laugh, the tension in the air slightly alleviated.

"I told them I had a surprise," Nick responds cheerfully, nudging me forward into the light.

Emerging from the shadows, I approach the counter, instantly met with a chorus of confused expressions.

"So, you're Fury's new lady friend, huh? Well, I need to warn you, he snores," Tony quips, his tone teasing yet lighthearted.

"Thanks, Tony, but Nick and I aren't like that. He's more like that family member you didn't really want at first but can't imagine life without now," I say, my playful tone earning a few raised eyebrows around the room.

A wave of confusion washes over the group, each face reflecting disbelief and curiosity.

"I'm confused," Tony states slowly, his brow creasing in genuine confusion.

"Me too," Sam agrees, nodding his head in solidarity.

"I think we're all confused," Bruce adds, his voice calm yet steady. "What did you say your name was?"

"It's Sarah Cooper," Sam replies, glancing back at me for confirmation.

"No, it's not. It's Bea," I clarify softly, and the air thickens with a stunned silence. The uncertainty in their eyes is palpable, a mixture of hesitation and heartbreak, until Nick's steady voice breaks through the tension.

"I know this is confusing," he says, the irritation in his tone barely concealed, "but this is her. We've verified everything—no, she didn't die; she just made it look that way." Beneath his frustration lies a deep concern that resonates with the crowd, a tension hanging in the air.

"But what? No," Tony protests, his disbelief boiling over. "Bea? No, this isn't her! We watched her die. We buried her." His voice quakes with suppressed anger, and I watch as hurt alights in his eyes. "You're not Bea. You don't even look like her." With a swift motion, he taps his chest, activating his suit, which quickly envelops him like a protective shell. He raises his hand, poised and ready to defend himself.

"I changed my appearance so you wouldn't recognise me," I respond, my heart racing, sensing the charged atmosphere around us.

"Bullshit," he retorts, his voice edged with defiance, and I notice everyone instinctively reaches for their weapons, the tension rising like a brewing storm.

"Hold your ground," Nick commands, trying to maintain order amidst the chaos. His voice is firm, though I can hear the urgency behind it, echoing through the room as I step forward.

Feeling the weight of their disbelief, I run my hands over my face before pushing my fingers through my hair, desperation clawing at me. As I do this, the makeup I had applied—crafted from delicate flower petals—begins to dissolve, trailing down my face like a fading memory. My hair, once dyed, gradually returns to its natural hue, a cascade of colour that had always defined me. I curl my hands, summoning warmth from within until tendrils of golden light envelop my hair, swiftly drying it and illuminating the space around me. The room erupts in gasps, the shock radiating through their expressions as the truth of my existence begins to sink in.

"Bea," Tony calls out, his voice carrying a blend of surprise and warmth that envelops me like a soft blanket.

"The one and only," I reply, managing an awkward smile that feels a mix of nostalgia and apprehension. "So, you recognise me now?"

"Yeah," he answers, stepping closer and enveloping me in a tight hug. I feel the familiar thrum of warmth in my hands, and I instinctively tense, hoping I don't inadvertently scorch him. When he finally pulls away, he reaches for my hands, but I quickly retract them, the heat still flickering beneath my skin.

"Hands still hot," I remind him with a hint of mirth, trying to diffuse the moment.

He flashes a knowing smile, one that carries the weight of unspoken memories. "You haven't changed a bit; it's been forever. How do you still look the same?"

"Doesn't matter. I'll tell you later."

An uneasy silence settles among us like a heavy fog, and no one seems to know how to move forward. Clint, ever the action-oriented one, scans the crowd and then strides purposefully toward me, pushing past familiar faces laden with questions and concerns. When we finally reach each other, I throw my arms around him. The hug is brief, but I can feel the tension in his embrace as if he's holding onto a thread of hope.

As we part, I turn to find Wanda standing there with tears tracing down her cheeks, glistening in the low light like glass beads. She launches herself at me, wrapping her arms around me with such intensity that I feel the breath escape my lungs.

"After I got Vision back, I thought I'd get you too, so I went back to the cave," she sobs, holding on tighter as if I were a lifeline. "But you were gone. I searched everywhere for you; I thought you were dead."

"No. Not dead," I whisper, my voice trembling as I gaze down at the floor, fighting against the tide of emotions that threatens to drown me.

I feel fresh tears pooling in my eyes, and in a moment of impulse, I pivot back to Wanda, who still clutches my right hand. Without thinking, I punch her lightly on the arm. "What was that for?" she asks, confusion knitting her brow.

"For not making them forget," I reply, my tone turning serious, the weight of my words hanging in the air.

"I couldn't bring myself to," she admits, her guilt palpable.

"So, they just thought I was dead," I say, frustration spilling over as the reality sinks in.

"At first, yes, but then they grew suspicious when they asked about your body. I wouldn't tell them anything. Then I heard you outside with Steve and Bucky, and I knew you were alright. That's when I notified Fury," she explains, her voice trembling with the memory.

"I was fine. I am fine," I insist, trying to reassure both her and myself, though the lingering hurt clings to the atmosphere around us.

I scan the room, weaving through the sea of familiar faces, only to find that everyone else remains frozen in their spots, waiting and watching.

"Why did you leave?" Steve finally asks, his voice thick with emotion, and the sorrow etched across his features tugs at my heart.

"I didn't want to watch you all fall apart. You were doing so well without me," I reply, my own heart aching as I remind myself of my difficult choice.

"We could have used your help. It was horrible seeing you and then just watching you walk away," he replies, hurt spilling from his words like ink on paper.

"But you seemed okay," I counter, desperate to find a semblance of justification in my actions.

"How do you know?" he presses, the pain in his voice cutting deep.

I glance at Nick, catching his gaze for a moment before shifting back to Steve, and then I sigh, weighing the heaviness of my truth. "HYDRA found out about me and captured me. Two days ago, I managed to escape, and Fury found me just yesterday." My statement settles in the air like a weight.

"You knew," Tony states flatly, his eyes shifting toward Nick with a spark of accusation.

"Yes," Nick replies with calm resolve. "I had a tracker implanted in her when she wandered off at the age of two. After Wanda informed me about her actions, I reactivated the tracker. Seven months ago, I received an alert indicating her vitals had spiked. I tracked her down to the HYDRA base, but I was a day too late. Thankfully, I found you in the woods."

"I'm sorry," I murmur, tears slipping silently down my cheeks.

"You shouldn't be. You did exactly what I taught you to do," he reassures me softly, wiping the tears away with gentle fingers.

"Wait, you're saying you both knew?" Clint interjects, disbelief threading through his voice. The hurt lingers in the space around us, a heavy fog of disappointment.

"I didn't know for certain until we had a solid lead," Fury replies, his voice steady yet sombre.

"And you've known for years?" Clint's words drip with disappointment as he shifts his gaze toward Wanda.

"How did you know?" Sam asks, his expression devoid of emotion, piercing through the tension in the room.

"She helped her disappear," Pietro's voice calls from another room, as though his presence can dispel the gloom.

"You knew too?" Nat's eyes glisten with unshed tears, her facade of strength crumbling under the weight of the truth.

"I'm her big brother," Pietro states with pride, though his eyes are filled with sorrow for what we've all endured.

"We're twins," Wanda adds, a mix of pride and grief evident in her tone.

"Still older," he quips with a cocky grin.

"By twelve minutes," I chime in, a flicker of amusement breaking through the tension. I turn to Pietro, and in a heartbeat, he wraps me in a heartfelt embrace. "It's good to see you."

"Good to see you too," he replies, his voice warm with affection. "Did you see the mural?"

"Yeah, it was cute," I respond, warmth spreading through me as I remember the colourful images.

"Bucky McBoing Boing's idea," he laughs, a nostalgic spark in his eyes at the sound of the old nickname.

As I scan the room again for Bucky, my heart sinks when I realise he's nowhere to be found. Hopes begin to crumble within me, the brightness of the moment fading into a shadowed abyss. Where is he? The familiar knot of guilt tightens in my stomach.

"And Nat, I've known for two years. Honestly, I don't understand why you didn't tell me sooner," Pietro states, his gaze directed firmly at Wanda.

"Or any of us," Sam murmurs, his voice heavy with disappointment as it echoes in the silence.

"Well, I for one am just grateful you're not dead," Tony chimes in, pulling me into another embrace, this one brimming with relief and the comforting warmth of friendship.

"I am too," I admit, feeling the burdens of worry lift slightly from my shoulders.

As Tony steps back, Steve approaches from behind, wrapping his arms around me without hesitation. "I am so sorry. I had to leave."

"I knew you weren't dead. I never thought I imagined you," I reassure him, hoping to soothe the ache that lingers between us.

"I looked for you," he confesses, vulnerability surfacing in his tone.

"I know you got so close," I whisper, feeling the weight of opportunities lost.

"If I just kept going, I could have saved you from them," he replies, regret like a shadow in his voice.

"But we can't change the past," I remind him softly, hoping to weave a thread of peace through the shared sorrow as we stand together, grappling with the painful history that binds us.