XXX. Emris

I sit perfectly still. Not stiff, not slouched—just controlled. One boot hooked over the other, spine tall, hands clasped loosely in my lap like I've got nothing to prove and no one to fear. My gaze tracks the silver conference table's reflection, mapping exits, calculating angles, and doing my best impersonation of a harmless government tool.

A S.H.I.E.L.D. liaison. That's what I am today. That's the part I'm playing.

Beside me, Tony exhales like he's bracing for a storm. His fingers drum once, twice, then go still on the table's surface. The tension coils in his shoulders—not visible to anyone who doesn't know him, but I've seen how he moves when he's relaxed. This isn't it.

Across from us, Natasha leans back in her chair with calculated indifference, but I see the flick of her eyes toward the door every few seconds. She's waiting for the crash.

And right on cue, the door hisses open.

Ross strides in like he owns the air in this room. Tailored suit, heavy gait, chin raised just enough to give the impression of height and superiority. He's already talking before the door finishes sliding shut behind him, some grumble about jurisdiction and deadlines, but his voice cuts mid-sentence when he sees me.

His eyes land on me like a searchlight, harsh and probing. Not curiosity—suspicion.

"Who's this?"

I don't flinch. I don't look away. I let my face go blank the way I was taught—just a flicker of polite interest, enough to show I'm present, nothing more.

Tony's voice cuts in smooth and cool. "Just one of our S.H.I.E.L.D. liaisons. Field support, low profile."

Ross doesn't buy it. I watch it in the way his jaw ticks, how his eyes narrow by a fraction of a degree. He's the kind of man who doesn't like not knowing who's in his room. The kind who assumes everyone else is a pawn, unless proven otherwise.

I make a point to breathe evenly. Shift slightly in my seat like I'm uncomfortable but trying not to show it. Keep the act alive. I've survived men like him before—men who smell weakness like blood in water.

He doesn't push. Not yet. But his gaze lingers too long. Like he's trying to place me.

Tony shifts forward, steering the tension like a conductor redirecting a chaotic symphony.

"So. What's the latest? We talking diplomacy or guns blazing?"

Ross drops a thick folder onto the table, photos sliding halfway out. Steve, Sam, and Bucky. Surveillance shots. Blurry, raw, unflattering. Faces frozen mid-movement like animals on the run.

"Fugitives," he says flatly. "You know the rules, Stark. Anyone harboring them becomes complicit. They've been warned. This ends now."

"Come on," Tony says, hands open, voice light but careful. "They're not terrorists, they're Avengers. You've seen Steve's record—Sam's, too. And Barnes—look, I know Barnes is complicated—"

Ross cuts him off like a guillotine.

"You want complicated? Let me simplify it for you. I don't care what banner they fought under. They violated the Sokovia Accords. That makes them enemies of the state. I want them in—or I want them put down."

The words hit like a cold blade slipping beneath skin.

I don't move. But I feel every syllable. Sharp. Calculated. Casual cruelty dressed as protocol. My spine goes a fraction straighter, my jaw clenches for half a second too long. No one notices.

At least, I hope they don't.

Because here's the truth: one wrong twitch, one incorrect breath, and I'm not just a guest in this room—I'm a liability. A remnant of something dangerous. A weapon they haven't decided to disarm.

Ross would see it in a heartbeat if I slipped. And then I wouldn't be in this facility—I'd be buried under it.

Tony keeps his tone easy, but I know the effort it costs him. "You'll get them. But I need time. Let me handle this before you make it a firing squad."

Ross stares at him but doesn't speak right away. He lets the silence build.

I glance at Natasha—barely. She's gone rigid in that way only someone trained to kill can be. Still, quiet, and ready to move at the first sign of escalation, we're similar in that way.

Finally, Ross gives a slow nod as if he's doing us a favor and not issuing a threat.

"Thirty-six hours," he says. "That's all you get."

He turns to leave, but his eyes skim over me one last time. Still searching. Still doubting.

I smile at him. Just a little. Just enough to be forgettable. The expression feels foreign on my face.

He leaves.

The door closes behind him with a hiss. For a second, no one breathes.

Then Tony lets out a low whistle and slouches hard in his chair. "God, I hate that guy."

"Get in line," Natasha mutters.

I say nothing. Because I'm still thinking about those photos. About how fast things are unraveling.

And about the line Ross just drew in the sand.

No one moves.

Natasha lifts her coffee cup, steam curling toward her cheek, and sips like the world isn't one spark away from burning down. Her expression is unreadable, but I know better. That's not peace—it's calculation. The kind of calm you only learn after surviving years in shadows. She's already ten moves ahead, and from the crease in her brow, none of those moves end well.

Tony paces. Back and forth. Back again. Fingers raking through his hair, mouth twitching with half-formed curses.

I stay seated, watching him. Watching them. The way Natasha follows his movement with her eyes. The subtle cues passed in silence, a kind of battlefield shorthand I haven't cracked yet. They've been through wars together. They understand each other in a way I'm not part of.

Yet.

A quiet panic curls in my stomach, slow and insidious.

Are they about to cut me out?

It would be easy. One coded look. One phrase. I'm a ghost with a fake badge and too many secrets. No ties. No protection. I can already feel the floor shifting beneath me—Stark's protection is the only thing keeping Ross's leash off my neck.

I glance at the table. My eyes fixate on the small things to slow my thoughts.

Tony's coffee cup—half full, still steaming. A fingerprint smudged on the rim.

Natasha's—black, no cream, disciplined to the bitter end.

The file Ross left behind—closed, but the corner of a photo sticks out.

And there, near the edge of the table, a pen. Ross must've left it.

I stare at it too long. It's a stupid detail, but it anchors me.

Then Natasha breaks the silence. Voice low, like she's thinking aloud.

"We'll need someone fast."

Tony pauses mid-step. Doesn't respond right away. His fingers twitch like they're already building something. His brain's in overdrive. I recognize the look—the shift in focus, the inward turn. He's pulling up blueprints in his head. Connections. Timelines. Contingencies.

He's not pacing anymore. He's hunting for the answer.

And then—

There it is.

His whole body shifts. Subtle, but unmistakable. Like someone flipped a switch behind his eyes.

He has an idea.

I straighten slightly.

Nat doesn't miss it. "I've got someone downstairs," she offers, casual, but not unprepared. "Quick. Good connections. Wants to bring Barnes in."

Tony waves her off, still somewhere three steps ahead. "I've got someone better."

His eyes land on me.

I freeze.

It's not dramatic. Not some sweeping, cinematic moment. Just one look. But I know.

I know.

I'm not getting left behind this time.

No more sitting on the sidelines while others fight. No more being hidden away like a classified file. I'm in this now. Whether it's strategy or desperation that put me in his sights, I don't care.

He nods at me. "Grab your gear, Kid. We're going to Queens."

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The apartment building is painfully ordinary.

Red brick exterior, rusted fire escapes curling down like metal ivy. It smells like pizza, concrete, and someone's bad laundry choices. Kids scream down the hallway two floors up. A dog barks non-stop somewhere to our right. It's all too loud. Too alive.

Tony strolls beside me like he owns the place.

I keep my head down as we walk, looking up every once in a while to look for any possible threats. Everything about me being here screams wrong. I feel it in the tightness of my chest. In the itchy silence of trying to pass as something I'm not.

A SHIELD agent.

A "liaison."

A person who belongs in a building like this.

The elevator rattles as we step inside. The metal doors close with a squeal, and the lights flicker overhead. Tony leans casually against the wall, thumbs tapping out a rhythm on his phone, but I know he's watching me from the corner of his eye.

He's trying to read me again. Figure out what version of me stepped out of that cell.

"Relax," he says lightly. "You're not being ambushed. Not unless May's been taking Krav Maga lessons."

I don't laugh. I don't do elevators or new buildings or new people. Not without checking the corners. Not without background knowledge. Not without a weapon.

He clears his throat. "You're gonna like the kid."

"I don't like kids," I mutter.

Tony grins. "Yeah, I hate it too."

I glance at him. "What?"

"That I'm bringing him in. He's only 14, and I'm dragging him into a fight that is not his. Kinda like I dragged you in."

That catches me off guard. He says it like it's armor. Not an insult. I wonder how long he's been wearing it.

The elevator lurches to a stop. We step into a narrow hallway. Mismatched paint. A flickering ceiling bulb. It smells like someone burnt toast and tried to cover it with cinnamon air freshener.

Tony knocks twice, casual. Like this is a weekly visit and not a recruitment mission with international implications.

The door opens.

The woman standing there is... warm. Not just in expression. Everything about her radiates softness and comfort. Like the hallway stress stops at the threshold of her home.

Tony lights up. "May! You're looking radiant."

"Tony," she says, clearly amused. "You're early. I didn't even have time to panic-clean."

Tony gestures to me. "Don't worry, this one's immune to domestic anxiety. Emris, this is May Parker."

I nod stiffly. "Ma'am."

She waves me off like that was far too formal. "Come in, come in! I just pulled muffins out of the oven."

The warmth hits me instantly.

The apartment smells like vanilla and sugar and coffee. Soft rugs underfoot. Worn-in furniture that looks like it's been lived in. Photos line the walls—real ones, not the kind you forge for a legend file. A boy and his aunt. School dances. Holidays. Smiles that look real.

I hover near the wall, arms folded, doing my best impression of a silent statue. The smell of fresh pastries makes my stomach clench, but not from hunger.

This is what normal looks like.

And I don't belong in it.

Tony makes himself at home, dropping onto the couch like he's done it a hundred times. He's already halfway through a muffin before I've taken two steps into the living room.

"You want one?" May asks me, already holding a plate toward me.

I shake my head. "I'm good. Thank you."

She nods, not offended. Just turns and disappears into the kitchen to grab coffee for Tony.

I scan the room. Old books. A crocheted blanket draped over the couch. A cracked mug holding pens. There's a baseball cap hanging on a hook with a handwritten sticky note under it that says DON'T FORGET THIS TIME, PETER!!!

My throat tightens. Something bitter curls up from my chest.

Footsteps.

Then—

A boy walks into the room.

He's average height. Messy brown hair. T-shirt with some geeky science pun on it. But the second he sees me, he stops cold.

His eyes go wide.

Then he sees Tony. Then back to me. His brain stutters visibly. Like he's trying to do three equations at once.

Tony doesn't miss a beat. "Peter Parker, meet Agent Devereux. She's the strong, silent type."

I give him a look that's half warning, half reluctant agreement.

Peter shifts his weight. "Uh. Hi."

His voice cracks slightly. He clears his throat like it betrayed him.

I nod.

There's a beat of silence.

Peter glances at Tony, then back at me. His eyes flicker with curiosity and something sharper underneath. Recognition, maybe. He knows I'm not just here for muffins.

I study him just as closely.

Normal kid. Normal home. But something about the way he holds himself says otherwise.

This is going to be interesting.

Peter leads us down the hallway like he's walking us into a trap he forgot to set.

His hands twitch at his sides. Shoulders tense, but not hostile. Nervous. I've seen it before—on civilians, on new recruits, on targets too green to know what's coming. He keeps glancing back like he expects Tony to disappear or me to stab him.

Honestly? Fair instincts.

His room is exactly what I expect.

Small, cluttered, barely controlled chaos. Posters of science fairs and space stuff line the walls. A Death Star LEGO set half-built on the dresser. Textbooks stacked on a chair like a forgotten fortress. There's a backpack slumped open by the bed, web-patterned notebooks spilling out. The bed itself is unmade. Sheets twisted. A hoodie on the floor. A cereal bowl with suspiciously fossilized milk rings under the desk.

This place smells like teenage boy, vanilla deodorant, and printer ink.

I drift to the wall, lean back with crossed arms. Watch. Absorb. Tony moves like he owns the place, like this is just another boardroom meeting with some nervous MIT intern.

Peter clears his throat. "S-So... does she talk?"

Tony doesn't even look up. "Not unless she's insulting someone."

I quirk an eyebrow. He's not wrong.

Tony's already poking around the desk like a bloodhound in a server room. Taps the computer tower with his knuckles, looks over his shoulder. "Nice rig. Built it yourself?"

Peter fidgets. "Uh—yeah. For school. And... Minecraft."

Tony hums like he doesn't believe him. "Cool, cool. So, about that web-slinging vigilante everyone keeps talking about..."

Peter flinches.

Just slightly.

Tony notices. Of course he does.

He hits a few keys. The screen flickers to life, and footage appears—blurry, jittery phone camera clips of Spider-Man. Swinging between buildings. Sticking to walls. One clip shows him saving a kid from a speeding car. Another, yanking a bike thief off a moving moped.

Tony watches, arms folded. "Hell of a gymnast."

Peter tries to deflect. "That could be anyone in a mask—"

Tony grabs a stick and hits some compartments on the ceiling.

The blue and red suit falls from the ceiling, and Peter grabs it quickly and throws it into his laundry in the closet.

When Peter turns back to Tony he freezes like he's been shot.

Tony pulls the crumpled red-and-blue spandex from a pile of laundry. "This thing. Let me guess. Halloween costume?"

Peter deflates. "Yeah. That's me."

Silence.

He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly more sheep than spider. "I—I didn't mean to get involved involved. I just... I couldn't ignore it. The senses started about a year ago. Then the strength. The climbing. I made the web-shooters in chem class. The suit... it's still a work-in-progress."

I study him.

All nerves and sincerity and too much heart in one fragile body. Fourteen or fifteen at best. His eyes look older than his face. I know that look. The weight of a secret. The ache of responsibility. He talks like he's got a cause. Like it means something to him.

It did for me once too.

Before it was stripped out of me cell by cell.

A flash of memory stabs through me—brutal and cold. Fourteen. A concrete room. Adrien's blood on my knuckles. My trainer shouting in Russian. No mercy. No weakness. No friends.

I blink. Push it down.

Tony nods slowly, still inspecting the suit like it's a museum artifact. "You know how insane this is, right? You could get killed."

Peter shrugs. "So could anyone. At least I'm helping people."

That earns a flicker of something in my chest. I'm not sure if it's admiration or warning bells.

Tony rolls his eyes. "Great. A bleeding heart and a genius. Just what I needed."

He looks at me. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

I don't answer. But I already know I'm not getting left behind this time. This is recruitment. Soft, sarcastic recruitment—but recruitment all the same.

Tony turns back to Peter. "You got a passport? Ever been to Germany?"

Peter blinks. "No. I-I have homework."

Something escapes me before I can stop it—a short, breathy laugh. "Homework."

Peter glances at me like he just heard a unicorn sneeze. "What? It's due Monday."

Tony throws his hands up. "I'm gonna pretend you didn't just say that."

Peter's eyes go wide with panic. "Wait—my aunt can't know. Seriously, she'll freak."

Tony moves toward the door, casual mischief in every step. "Guess I'll go tell her now. Should only take—"

Thwip.

Web shoots across the room.

Tony's hand sticks to the doorknob mid-reach. He stares at it, then at the thread of silk connecting his wrist to Peter's palm.

Peter winces. "Okay! Okay! I'll go!"

I drop into a crouch by instinct the moment the web shot out. Combat reflex. My muscles are still tense when he says it.

Tony turns, mildly impressed. "That's one way to say yes."

Peter gives me a sheepish look.

I just shake my head.

This is already chaos.

And we haven't even left Queens.