Resolution

“JIM!” The new barista shouted from behind the counter.

A couple of customers shuffled awkwardly where they stood, watching... waiting for Jim.

No one came forward.

The barista called out again, “JIm! Tall hot chocolate with soy milk, no whip!”

Libby looked up from admiring her fresh manicure to take in the line of people still waiting in front of her to order and then rolled her eyes. “Just leave the damned cup on the counter and get back to work,” she grumped to herself, but still loud enough for everyone else to hear. “Some of us have more important things to do than wait for you to do your job.”

A dark haired woman, standing three people ahead of her in line turned back to glare at her, not that Libby was overly worried about it. At least the guy had listened to her and the line had started moving again. Yes, she knew she was totally slumming it, patronizing this dump of a coffee shop, but she’d met up with one of her old dealers here once upon a time and had fallen in love with the shop’s cinnamon buns. And so it had become a ritual, every Monday and Thursday morning when they were always freshest—it was her one indulgence, well—legal indulgence, anyways. The perfect balance of cinnamon, butter, and brown sugar, then barely a kiss of dark chocolate—totally worth the extra time with the personal trainer Daddy had paid for, and who knew when she’d be back for another.

The line moved again, the brunette ahead of her finally stepping up to the counter. “I’ll have your cinnamon buns, please. Everything you have in the display and whatever you have in the back, if there’s more, please.”

“Yikes, that’s a lot of cinnamon buns, miss.” the barista smiled at her as he rang up her purchase. “This will take me a couple of minutes.”

The two people in front of Libby said nothing, though one sighed, seemingly resigned to a longer wait, meanwhile, Libby fumed. As if her day wasn’t already a big, old, steaming pile of shit.

“Yeah, sorry about that.” The woman looked back to acknowledge the others’ frustration. “As an apology, I’m going to cover the orders for the folks behind me, too.” To her credit, she did look apologetic, Libby gave her that much. “And honestly, I’d have let them go first, if I could, but my boss is a real ball-buster and I’m on the clock—“ She grabbed what looked like a gift card from the display by the register and waved it in the air. “So I’ll get this, too, and you just use it ‘til it’s empty, right?”

The man nodded as he finished the transaction and placing the gift card on the cash register. “That’ll work fine,” he answered, nodding to the folks in line. He started popping boxes into shape. “Now,” he announced, “If you’ll gimme a tick...?” He let his question trail off. It was obvious what he was doing—“And I won’t forget about the back,” he assured the customer as he worked efficiently to empty the front case.

Libby had hoped that he would forget, even as the barista slipped through a door to what was obviously the kitchen—and grew angrier as she realized he hadn’t. She had to say something before it was too late. “Hey!” Libby snapped. ” You know, some of us were waiting to buy one of those.”

The woman glanced up at Libby, a look of disdain on her face. “I’m sorry?” she replied, then addressed the woman behind her more kindly. “Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, but were you going to buy a cinnamon bun?”

The woman shook her head, “No, just green tea,” she answered, barely bothering to look up from her phone.

The bun-stealer then asked the man behind her and standing in front of Libby. “Sir? Were you going to order a cinnamon bun today?”

The man also shook his head in the negative. “Not today, no. Only a latte and scone, if they’ve got ‘em.”

She smiled back in thanks, then focused on Libby. “Well, there you have it. It would seem I’m not the monster you think I am. Check your privilege, sweet pea. Most of us are trying to make a living here.”

Libby sputtered at the gall. No one talked back to her like that! “Well, you didn’t ask me, and I’ll have you know I had to trek halfway across the city to get here just for that cinnamon bun, so I think I’m entitled!”

The brunette smirked and cocked an eyebrow. “I think I figured that out all on my own already...”

Clutching at the strand of pearls draped down her chest, she gasped. “Well, I never—”

The woman rolled her eyes at that. “I figured that, too.”

Any other rebuttal was cut off by the barista stepping out from the back with a precariously leaning tower of boxes balanced in his hands. “Can I help you carry this out to your vehicle, miss?” he asked with a wink, completely oblivious of the situation at hand.

The woman’s eyes widened as she smiled in gratitude, “That would be a huge help. Thank you.” Without another thought to Libby or the bunless chaos she was leaving behind, the woman practically pirouetted through the shop door and out into the Manhattan morning, the barista following close behind.

“Sorry for the wait, folks,” A voice drew her attention away from the door and back to the teenage boy she was more accustomed to being served by. He stepped out of the backroom, still fastening his apron. “The backdoor was all messed up. Super weird, but we had a delivery going out and someone needed to hold it open and yeah. Anyways, I can help the next customer in line.” He offered the explanation to his patrons, who honestly didn’t seem to give a care.

Libby’s brain short circuited—if he’s—she looked at the awkward kid behind the counter—and then he—her eyes traveled back to the door that the bitch and barista had exited through.

Something funny was going on and she was going to get to the bottom of it. Libby wasn’t an idiot and no one was going to treat her like she was—even if it was over a damned cinnamon bun—especially today.

She huffed as she hiked her purse over her shoulder and stormed out of the coffee shop. The new barista—if he even was a barista—had been carrying enough boxes that he couldn’t have gone too far. She looked down the street, then turned to look up, seeing no sign. She made a hasty guess and turned left, taking a few steps before committing to the direction and going for it. She passed an alleyway as she went, paying no mind to it—had almost walked past it, when she heard them.

“That is not the same woman the kid was talking about—it couldn’t have been!” The man laughed in disbelief. “I thought she’d be some mix of Pamela Anderson and Mother Theresa!”

Libby stopped in her tracks. She recognized the voice immediately.

“Trust me... it’s her,” the cinnamon bun stealing bitch replied back. “I’ve been—“

The woman didn’t get a chance to finish her thought, because Libby had worked up enough of a head of steam that she stormed into the alley shrieking, “Seriously! You steal my cinnamon bun and then dip into one of the—“ Libby’s nose wrinkled as she took in the sight and smell of her surroundings. “ugh—most disgusting alleys in New York to laugh about it?!” She threw her hands up in exasperation, “What the hell is wrong with you people?!”

A new voice called out from behind her. “I think I’d be wondering more about the idiot woman who rushes into a dark, deserted alley after two complete strangers over something as stupid as cinnamon buns, thank you very much.” Libby whipped around, and paled as the tall, dark-skinned man moved closer. She knew the statistics, had watched that documentary on Netflix—odds were good that she wasn’t making it out of this alive. Perfect. This was how it was going to end for her... and Daddy would never know... or care.

The man, however, shifted to look around her and then sidestepped her completely, moving toward the other two, “And c’mon, Nat. Would it have killed you to grab my drink when you left? I told you I’d only be a minute.”

What?!

The woman chuckled, “Sorry, Jim, I couldn’t associate myself with such a wimpy drink order. Honest to goodness, what would Tony say?!”

The darker man scowled as he took a sip from the cup Libby had last seen on the counter in the coffee shop. “He’d say nothing because he knows I’d beat his ass for it. Lactose intolerance is serious business, Nat. Cut me some slack.”

“Aw, relax, Rhodey. She’s just teasin’... besides, it’s not like she had to make it! Tall hot chocolate with soy milk, no whip!” The barista faux-shuddered as he pulled off his work apron and tossed it into a garbage can beside him. “No one is allowed to speak of this,” He pointed to this Jim/Rhodey character and then the Nat woman “Seriously.”

The synapses in her brain were firing but she couldn’t quite grasp what she was supposed to be connecting. She put her hand up to stop the conversation. “Hold on.” She knew she hadn’t done enough of anything so exciting last night that her thought process would be so off, and she definitely wasn’t hung over, so why couldn’t she place them— And then Libby’s brain caught up with the insanity around her. In her amazement, she repeated herself, “Hold on—“ It all clicked, all of the people in the alley aware of when it finally registered for her simply from the look on her face. “Y-you’re Hawkeye.”

He gave her a wink. “That I am.”

She turned to the dark-skinned man next, “War Machine?”

He took a sip of his hot chocolate and nodded. “At your service.”

And finally, she turned to the woman who was pulling off a wig and shaking out her vibrant red hair. No introduction was needed there. “Shit.”

Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow, smiled at her, and then casually leaned over to reach into the car she was stood by. Libby was sure she was putting her wig down somewhere, but almost choked as Black Widow emerged a moment later with a cinnamon bun in her hand—having already taken a huge bite out of it. She chewed slowly, swallowed, and then spoke. “I can see why you come here every Monday and Thursday at seven-thirty, like clockwork—unless you’re too hung over or still coming down from whatever party drug you took the night before. Then you just send your driver, Hugo, who is a much better tipper than you, by the way.”

“What? How—?” Libby gulped nervously. None of this was making sense. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She backed up as she replied.

Black Widow shook her head in disappointment. “That’s not true, Libby, and you know it.”

Her stomach dropped. “Wait a minute... how do you know—“

“Your name? Your schedule? Come on, Libby, you know who I am. I had this all figured out within ten minutes of getting the phone call.” Black Widow cut her off, “And honestly, did you think we wouldn’t make it our business to look into the lives of people that wreak havoc in ours?” She took a smaller bite of the cinnamon bun, continued speaking even as she chewed, “I thought you’d be smarter than that, Libby, after all? You were pre-med, right? That’s what you told our Peter, right?” She took another step as she swallowed and took another small bite. “We did some checking into your background, Libby, and if by making it into pre-med you meant sleeping with your TA in exchange for copies of all the exams then getting caught and kicked out, then okay. You made it into pre-med.” She paused as she swallowed again. “Honestly, guys, you need to have one of these!” She called back to her two companions, “They remind me of this little place outside of Paris I found once on a mission. Sooo good!”

Libby wondered, ever so briefly, if she’d been caught up in some twisted prank. This was not her reality—could not be her reality.

And then Libby caught up with the plot.

“Wait a sec? Your Peter? Did—?” She almost laughed at how ridiculous this was. “Did Tony Stark sic the Avengers on me? Really?” A rush of hurt welled up in her chest. “‘Cuz if this is about the whole rose oil exposure thing, that was an accident! You’d have seen the incident report!” She backed up again. “And I helped—even gave him CPR while we waited for an ambulance! You have to know that!” She thought back to that day at Midtown and how easy it was to bat her eyelashes and have everyone falling at her feet. And then Peter had literally fallen at her feet and she’d been a damned hero! Until—

War Machine tried to put her concern to rest, seeing as Black Widow was currently stuffing her face with the last of her pastry, “Oh, we get that, don’t you worry about that. Peter Parker has some of the shittiest luck on the planet and we’re not putting that on you.” He put his free hand out to assure her, then took another sip of his drink.

Libby took a deep breath to try and calm herself.

“It’s what happened after...”

Her heart stuttered in her chest and Libby wondered if she looked confused enough, if they would believe that she didn’t know what they meant?

Black Widow glared at her. “Don’t try pulling that garbage with me, Libby. You know exactly what we’re talking about.”

That was a no.

Oh, how she wished she really could forget.

Libby inhaled again as she recalled that morning; being called to substitute for Roger Harrington at Midtown again—this time for chemistry. She’d been stoned the night before and couldn’t help but be a little slow to start, but she knew at least that she couldn’t say no because Daddy would have gotten angry with her—again... and she was so tired of Daddy being angry with her. The fact that she was most likely still coming down was a complication she regretted but lived with, along with the inevitable and ever so cliché munchies. How she’d wished she had something to snack on. Libby’s undeniable sweet tooth had her wanting candy ninety-seven percent of the time after a night out, and it was just her luck that she had none. The desperate craving, of course, had brought to mind that guy who’d taken candy making classes in culinary school that had tried to hook up with her that night the week earlier when she’d managed to get that waiter fired for spilling water on her while trying to look down her blouse—and within minutes, a call had been made and a plan was in place. At least she was pretty certain that was how the morning had progressed? Again, she’d still been a little fuzzy. Not that it mattered anyways. Before the start of Midtown’s second period, she’d had Tristan (or was it Thomas?) unloading supplies and setting up a class for her and making sure she understood each step to the candy making process. Thank goodness he’d left detailed notes and the kids weren’t idiots.

Libby’s head was spinning at the recollection.

That he’d also stolen supplies and ingredients from his own school’s kitchens in order to get it all ready on time, no one needed to know. Libby sure hadn’t until it was too late.

He’d been promised a night with Libby, and if that’s what he did to get it, it was worth it.

Until it wasn’t.

A finger snapped in front of her face. “Hey! Sorry to interrupt your trip down memory lane, but, ya’ know—we’d really like to figure out what to do with you.” Hawkeye was standing directly in front of her with the others now.

“Do with me?! No, no, no, no, no!” Libby exclaimed. “The mix up was an accident, too! I didn’t even know that the candy would make it to Ms. Potts! I swear! And besides, the school did another—“

“Yes, another incident report, but I think that Daddy had a little more input into that one, didn’t he?” Black Widow was done with her cinnamon bun now, and was licking her fingers clean. “Not that an actual investigation really happened, even though staff members were concerned that you might have been under the influence—and then the whole thing with poor Trent and the culinary school.” The woman tisked.

“Trent.” Libby acknowledged to herself.

But the Black Widow continued, “And the fact that this one had involved someone not directly under Midtown’s mandate?”

Libby blanched.

“Don’t worry,” she cooed. “I’m sure you made sure that Daddy didn’t know he’d basically swept the near death experience of the fiancée of the great Tony Stark under the rug. Did he even know anything beyond the fact that it was a boy named Peter? Hell, did he even get that much? I know that Tony has protocols in place to protect Peter’s identity, seeing as he’s practically his son, so that can almost be forgiven but...”

Libby choked out, “Wait. Son?” Libby stepped back again, startling when this time found her pressed against damp brick. “But he said...”

“We know. We know! They say he’s an intern but that’s just to keep the press of their backs.“ Black Widow rolled her eyes and shrugged. “Imagine how crazy it would be if the world found out that our sweet, little Peter Parker was actually the heir to the Stark Empire?”

Libby gulped.

“Which means that no one is going to find out, right?” Hawkeye growled out.

Libby had never nodded so emphatically in her life.

“Good girl,” Hawkeye gave her cheek a patronizing pat and backed up a bit. “Maybe you’re not as dumb as you look?”

“Now, Clint, be nice,” War Machine chided his companion.

“Yeah, Clint. Be nice.” Black Widow teased lightly, “Besides, we still haven’t gotten to how the rest of that night played out, have we?”

Her cheeks suddenly flushed with anger and Libby proved to be as articulate as she was kind. “Screw you!” she spat out. That morning may have been a chaotic haze, but the memory of that evening was forever imprinted in her mind. Not even an evening out with Britt had managed to change that.

“You know, I’d think that someone in your current position would be a little friendlier, don’t you agree, Clint?” The Black Widow replied. “I get that it had been a bad night for you, but really?”

Libby lowered her gaze as she fought back that nauseated feeling that crept up on her when she thought about how that day and night had played out.

School had let out and the kids were gone, leaving her to finally enjoy the strawberry candy she’d specifically made to satisfy her craving all alone in the classroom. No one could say she didn’t have impulse control, after all. She’d almost spit out the cinnamon candy when it hit her tongue—her heart had been so set on the sweetness of that glorious artificial strawberry flavouring. Only a blink later, when she realized what had happened, her heart sank. If she’d gotten this flavour, then that meant...

She’d been relieved that the hallways of the school were near deserted, just the janitor and a couple of students leaving detentions. No one needed to see her trying not to panic as she jogged to her destination. It would be just her luck if that Peter kid had another reaction before she could try to make it right. The office was near empty, too, when she’d entered—just the secretary and one of the vice principals, who’d both been more than accommodating in providing a home phone number when she explained that one of the kids she subbed for today had forgotten something in her class and she wanted to let them know about it—no one needed to know what had actually happened, right? That was until the end of the call with May Parker, who was super laid back about the whole situation. Luckily, the kid was okay with strawberry, but she’d let him know about the switch and had done her due diligence. The vice principal who had overheard her entire conversation, however, was not nearly as chill. After a tongue lashing of epic proportions regarding withholding information from her employer regarding a potential health and safety risk and a lack of safety protocols in her classroom, especially after what had happened the last time, Libby had gone home to Daddy feeling significantly less okay than usual.

Then the phone calls started.

Libby had fielded the first one, it coming from a representative from the school division who’d decided to suspend her substitute teaching credentials until they could conduct an investigation into how the day had happened.

That had sucked. She’d only subbed a few times, but Daddy had counted it as actual employment and it wasn’t even like it was hard—just read someone’s notes, decide if you like the assignment or not, do something cool instead, and done.

When the phone rang again, Libby could hardly process what was going on. The words ‘legal representation’ were being bandied about by whoever was on the other side of the phone call and Libby was bolting through the hallways of her home screaming, “DADDY!”

Because Daddy always fixed everything.

Except this time—this time, a student who would remain anonymous had brought home the mixed up candy and given it to a family friend who’d had an extreme allergic reaction to the strawberry additive and had almost died.

Libby wasn’t a total idiot. That meant it was someone in the morning chemistry class... Peter’s class, but she wouldn’t panic. Daddy was on his phone fixing things in his den... all of this would be gone by morning and Libby would maybe ask Daddy if she could take a trip somewhere warm to get over the stress of all of the day.

But then her own phone rang in her hand again. Libby looked down to see who would be calling her directly at a time when she was so upset and almost puked when she saw ‘Stark-Legal Dept’ flash on her screen.

She ignored the call, legal meant Daddy anyways, and she needed to know what she’d done. Libby pulled up the search engine on her phone. Inputting ‘stark,’ ‘strawberry,’ and ‘allergy’ brought up a slew of articles about Tony Stark and dozens of ‘strawberry’ blonde conquests. No matches showed for ‘allergy,’ so at least her mess up hadn’t almost killed Tony Stark, to her relief, and the tabloid headlines offered a nice distraction to the yelling that Daddy was now doing from down the hall.

She’d scrolled down her screen, went to the next page, and then she saw it.

Libby had barely made it to the seat nearest to her.

The headline wasn’t like the others, no. This was a fundraising event for some allergy and anaphylaxis research group receiving a grant from The Stark Foundation. The snippet below it read simply, “Pepper Potts, CEO of Stark Industries and fiancée to Tony Stark, owner and Head of Research to Stark Industries, presented a cheque to a leading research foundation today. Ms. Potts was overheard sharing her own history with allergies and their challenges as a youth. “It was my grandmother’s strawberry jam, if you can believe it? It had always made my mouth itch but I never realized that it didn’t happen to everyone else. I don’t think anyone ever imagined that one day it would try to—“

The article cut off, waiting for Libby to click the link proper to read it in its entirety, but she’d read enough.

And Daddy was standing in the doorway waiting to speak with her.

She wouldn’t think about that conversation, though. She just knew that she’d needed to get drunk— now.

One phone call to Britt and an ordered uber later, Libby was determined to forget about her brief foray into education.

And it had almost worked.

Then she’d run into the boy and—

Hands clapped in front of her face. “Hey! Focus! Seriously!?” War Machine was in her face now, scrutinizing her. “Eyes look clear, pupils are good.” He scoffed as he stepped away. “I’d almost suspect that she was on something right now... I can’t believe someone gave her access to children.”

Libby flinched at the statement.

“Don’t worry, I think Tony’s made sure no one makes that mistake again,” Hawkeye replied. “But guys, really. Not to be all repetitive, but what are we gonna do with her?”

Libby threw her now trembling hands up in defence. “Look, I’ll apologize to Ms. Potts! I’ll apologize to Mr. Stark! I’ll do whatever you want me to do, just don’t hurt me, please!” Libby begged. She was reaching the end of her rope.

The three superheroes stood dumbstruck. “You’re really as dumb as dirt, aren’t you?” Clint couldn’t hide the amazement in his voice. “First off, we’re the good guys. We don’t ‘hurt’ people.” He air quoted as he spoke, “And B, how have you not figured out why we’re really here?”

Libby’s eyes widened as she panicked. “I don’t... I mean... I—“

Black Widow put her out of her misery, bluntly. “Peter, Libby. We’re here about Peter.”

Libby blinked in confusion. “But you said you knew it was...?” She trailed off.

“We do, Libby,” Black Widow smiled reassuringly, “But that doesn’t mean there shouldn’t be an accounting. And Jim told you exactly what this was about.”

Libby stared, still clueless.

“After, Libby,” Black Widow supplied, the smile lessening ever so slightly. “It’s about what happened after all of it.”

Oh.

Then her mind grasped onto what she hoped was a life preserver, “Wait! You said yourself that the kid has the worst luck, right? So we can just chalk this all up to the universe, right? After all, it’s not like I’m ever gonna see him again!”

Widow’s eyes narrowed. “No, you won’t,” she said. “You see, the discovery of his ‘issue’ with roses—that could be chalked up to bad luck, Libby. The mix up with the candy? While his luck was definitely in play again, we think it goes without saying that your carelessness is the main reason behind that fiasco. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Libby was smart enough to say nothing.

“However, the idea that you could run into a sixteen year old boy that you knew who was obviously in distress in a dark alleyway in New York City in the middle of the night during a rainstorm and LEAVE him there after he’s asked you for help—“ Black Widow was struggling to rein in her temper as she snarled the rest, “That was not just his bad luck, Libby. That was cruelty.”

“But—“

Black Widow raised a hand, bringing pause to any response Libby may have had.

“Did you run into Peter that night in that back alley?”

Libby opened her mouth to answer... to try and explain how she’d already been so angry when she ran into the boy, but was cut off.

“No. Not a sound from you. Just nod. Yes or no. Did you run into Peter that night?”

Libby knew not to push her luck. She nodded ‘yes.’

“Did he speak to you?”

A nod, ‘yes.’

Widow’s eyes narrowed. “And you spoke to him?”

Libby’s cheeks flushed as she recalled the words she’d screamed at the boy, nodded another ‘yes.’

“Did he ask you for help?”

‘Yes.’

“And you declined?”

Libby looked down on the ground. ‘Yes.’

“Because why? Were you mad at him?”

Libby scowled and didn’t answer.

Widow laughed derisively, “Did you blame him?!”

Libby scowled, still refusing to answer. How could she when she didn’t know herself!?

But Widow didn’t need her to. “Alright then, so then you decided to punish him?”

“What, no!” Libby gasped.

“You decided to make him suffer?”

“No!”

“You decided to ruin him—break his heart—instead of taking responsibility for your own mistake.”

And Libby understood that they wouldn’t hear, no matter what she said. Her fate had been decided.

Libby’s eyes found a discarded chip bag on the ground, focussed on it instead of the tears suddenly fighting to escape.

“Was it a fair trade?”

Libby blinked, allowing a single tear to trail down her cheek, before shaking her head, ‘no.’

And again, the alley was silent.

—Until it was unexpectedly broken.

“I am sorry for what I said to him that night.”

The three superheroes glanced at each other, looks of disbelief on each of their faces.

Libby cleared her throat, and spoke again, just a hint louder than her earlier whisper. “I was drunk, and I was angry that night. You’re right. My Da—“ she stopped, realized how idiotic she’d sound if she continued, and corrected herself. “My father didn’t know the entire story but did his fix anyways.” She wiped a tear from her cheek and raised up her eyes to speak to the trio. “I know I’m a screw up. I get it... and this one was huuuge. And then Peter was there and...” Libby choked on a sob and shrugged helplessly. “I couldn’t be the only one that was miserable, right?”

“Libby—“ War Machine started to speak, but Libby was feeling emboldened by her tears.

“I promise, I’m not going to bother any of them anymore, if that means anything to you, and if I could take back what I said, I’d do that, too.” The tears kept coming. “Peter’s a cool kid—listened to me rambling during both classes—and definitely didn’t deserve my shit. Can one of you please tell him that?—that I’m sorry?”

No one replied for a moment, then War Machine spoke up again, “I can do that for you.”

“Thanks.” She offered a warbling smile in appreciation. “And I don’t know if you’re up on current events, but if it makes you feel any better, my father has made sure that I will no longer be an embarrassment to him or his name and is sending me off to a ‘clinic,’” It was her turn to air quote, “Where I will be made to become a ‘person worthy of his time, resources, and energy’ so really, don’t worry about running into me anywhere. I’m gone, so... yeah.”

A low whistle reverberated through the alley. “Damn, Libby.” Hawkeye whispered, “Daddy said that? That’s cold... even for an asshole.”

Libby laughed at the statement. “Yeah, well—“ She wiped angrily at her tears. “What’s cold is buying all those cinnamon buns when my flight out to wherever the hell the man is sending me departs from JFK sometime after five-thirty tonight and I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

The abrupt change in attitude brought Widow back into play. “Yeah, well, it serves you right... and take a deep breath so you don’t start hyperventilating or something. Peter would be mad at us if he ever found out we’d done this and actually caused you physical harm. Besides, this was the worst thing I could think of that he’d maybe approve of.”

“Just maybe?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “He’s that kid—the one that cries at the end of Disney movies and sees the good in everyone. He’d be devastated if we actually hurt you, but we had to do something.”

Libby snort laughed. “Well, the cinnamon bun thing was pretty shitty of you.”

Black Widow grinned, “Thank you. I’ll be able to sleep with a clear conscience for once.”

“But hold on a sec?” Hawkeye was looking bothered by something. “Did you just say you don’t know where you’re going?”

Libby shrugged. “Yup. It has been determined that I am consistently unable to make the best choices for myself and as such all decision making is being handled by people who are much smarter and better connected than I am.”

“That’s what Daddy says?”

They’d all caught the shift in inflection immediately.

Libby nodded, “Of course.”

“And does Daddy often make these types of life decisions for you?”

She couldn’t stop the look of incredulity on her face if she’d tried. “Do you honestly think I picked pre-med on my own? Hell, even the teaching was a stretch!”

They all chuckled at that.

Then Widow had to ask, “A question. Is there paperwork in play that gives him the power to do that?”

That warranted a headshake ‘no.’ “Not that I’ve ever been made aware of. He just...” Libby shrugged and left the rest unsaid.

“And, if I may ask, when was the last time you were allowed to make your own decision?” War Machine inquired politely.

Libby’s whole demeanour softened as she answered, “ That was Bolivia,” she replied. “I was allowed to choose where I could do a six-week volunteering stint for some charitable organization my Da—father is on the board of. It was incredible! I mean, the organization sucks—I’m pretty sure it’s a front for something ‘cuz nothing ever got done, but I had a chance to meet some real people when I’d go into one of the villages and fell in love with the culture and the food and...”

“And Raoul.” Widow interrupted.

“And Raoul.” Libby deflated. “I swear, he’s the nicest, kindest, most sincere man I’ve ever met—and he was so much more interesting than the guys I’d met here! He was there doing research on the flora and fauna found at the base of one of the smaller mountain ranges there for his thesis—“ She did manage a soft smile as she reflected, “He invited me to go see what he was working on one weekend and that was it—I was hooked.”

“And that was why you stayed for two years?”

Libby sobered. “I’d have stayed forever if I could have.”

And they all understood. “Daddy?” Hawkeye asked this time.

“Daddy.”

“Well that sucks monkey balls.” Hawkeye replied. “What happened?”

Libby looked over to the Black Widow, who’d backed off a little, along with all the rest. “Do I even need to bother explaining?”

Widow smirked. “I told you I’d only taken ten minutes. The floor is now yours.” She leaned against their car and waved her on. “I’m all ears.”

“It’s not all that thrilling,” Libby explained. “Once my six-weeks was up, I knew I couldn’t leave. I’d met some people that helped me figure out the visa thing so I was totally allowed to be there—Raoul and I wanted to see if what we were feeling was real and so I stayed. When I didn’t come running back, he got angry and demanded I come home.” Who ‘he’ was went without saying. “It was pretty easy to disappear what with Raoul spending all his time off the grid in the middle of the jungle so we were happy... and I was happy. I mean, don’t get me wrong. It was super hard at first, but it was so beautiful there and the air was clean and I thought that maybe I... we could find a future there, and I did! I was living my own life, making choices, being productive—falling in love... and then Raoul asked me to marry him.” Her smile grew wistful.

“I swear, Libby, if you tell me you said no—” War Machine whispered, “I will be very unhappy if you said no.”

“Don’t be an idiot. Of course I didn’t,” She rebutted. “But now... I wish—“

“He found you when you filed the paperwork.” Widow surmised.

Libby’s eyes glistened once more. “I guess my name was flagged somehow. He knows plenty of people in power, so I shouldn’t have been surprised. He had a private investigator waiting for us at the courthouse when we showed up to be married.” She took a calming breath. “The P.I. was kind enough to pass along a message from home. If we went along with the marriage, he’d have had Raoul’s research funding revoked, have him arrested on trumped up drug charges, and would have basically ruined his life and the lives of his entire family... I couldn’t let him do that—I didn’t have a choice.” She sighed. “I was accidentally almost killing your poor Peter one month later.”

No one said a word until—

“Well, I’m embarrassed that I only went back those four weeks. You are quite the interesting creature when we get past this period of what I can only guess is self-destructive behaviour?”

“Pfft. Don’t try to rewrite my history—I was quite the party girl before I left for that trip—and detox without any support other than Raoul and a couple of new friends from the village was not ideal.” She almost shrivelled in on herself as she realized. “And it took me nothing to fall back into old habits...”

“Not that I’m excusing it,” War Machine interrupted her self-chastisement. “But you have been under extreme duress, and if your support was back in Bolivia—”

“Not that any of that matters,” Widow then interrupted him. She’d shifted from revenge to problem solving in a blink. “I know a really great rehab facility somewhere that your Daddy would never be able to find you, if you’re truly interested in getting better.” She had a mischievous glint in her eye. “We’d obviously make a quick pit stop along the way, if that’s okay with you, and then you’d be set.”

Everyone’s eyes bugged at that, including Libby’s.

“What?”

“Hold on! That place over at—?“

“Weren’t we just supposed to buy all the cinnamon buns?”

Widow held her hand out to stop the noise. “Look, never let it be said that I can’t adapt to the situation. Obviously we’ve stumbled onto something bigger than we thought, and we were doing this for Peter anyways—and you know he’d be pulling those big ol’ brown eyes out on us and begging us to fix this if he was here.”

Both men grinned, then Hawkeye laughed as he started to plot on Libby’s behalf. “Do you think Tony will clear us to borrow the jet?”

“Of course he will. I’ll bring him back a bottle of Supay and we’ll call it good,” she gave Libby a wink and stood up. “Now, are you attached to your old life or are we looking for a whole new start?”

“Whole new—? Wait. Are you being serious right now?” Libby looked from Widow to Hawkeye to War Machine and then back to Widow, looking for some clue that this was some twisted practical joke.

“As a heart attack,” Widow replied.

A million thoughts ran through Libby’s brain. “Okay, I can leave the suitcases, absolutely, I’ll just need my passport out of the safe and—“

“I’m sorry.” Widow put a hand up to cut her off. “You misunderstand me. I meant a whole new start... from scratch, Libby—or Elizabeth or Beth or Betty or Margaret or Roberta or—or—or—whoever you want to be going forward. Do you get my meaning now?”

And she did. Libby didn’t think she’d felt so excited in—how long had it been since she left Raoul’s side? “I do! I get it... and I’m ready! I mean, I’m ready to go right now. I don’t need anything.”

Widow pushed off the car then and called out to the group. “Alright then, jump in everybody. This bus is leaving for parts unknown with a brief stopover for a priority pick up in South America!” She smiled at Libby as she walked around to the driver’s side door.

Libby couldn’t help but squeal as she rushed toward the back passenger side door. “Oh! Um... Ms. Widow?” Libby called out cautiously as the thought came to her. “Did you mean it when you said I could pick my name?”

“If you’d like to, yes.”

It had taken her no time at all to know what it would be. “Perfect! Can you tell whoever you’re asking that I’d like to be Mia? Mia Flora? You can pick the last name, I guess? I’m hoping it won’t stay whatever it is for long anyways...” Libby blushed as she verbalized her deepest wish.

Widow nodded, then slid gracefully into the car.

War Machine smiled at the request. “That’s a pretty specific name selection. Do we get to hear the story behind it?”

Libby beamed. “No story. Just Raoul. He doesn’t like calling me Libby—thinks it’s too plain for someone so...” She lost herself in a memory for a second then went on. “So when he calls for me, it’s ‘mi flor’... my flower.” She spoke more earnestly than even she thought herself capable of, “I hope that when all of this is done, I can be with him again, but if not—it’s not a horrible thing to have a reminder of being truly loved by someone for the first time, right?” Her eyes glistened once more.

“Right,” War Machine agreed. “That’s really mature of you, and I must say I’m impressed— now get in the damned car, Libby. We’ve got places to be.”

She did as instructed and opened up the door on her side to enter as War Machine got in from the other side. “Oh.” Libby carefully pushed aside the bakery boxes that had been stacked in what would be her seat. “That’s funny. I’d almost forgotten all about these things,” she chuckled.

Hawkeye jumped into the front seat. “Well, I didn’t, now gimme a box—I had to work whole fifteen minutes to get those things and I will lose it if I don’t get one right now.” He reached back, making a grabby motion with his hand.

Libby handed a box up to him as War Machine opened one of his own before sitting back in her seat and buckling her seatbelt.

Widow started the engine and put the car in gear as she looked back at Libby in the rearview mirror. “Are you going to ask for one, too? There are plenty, you know.”

Libby looked shocked, “Would you actually say yes to me if I did?”

Clint guffawed, “No, she wouldn’t—don’t fall for it, Libby—correction, Mia. She’s totally setting you up for failure.”

Widow smacked at Hawkeye’s chest with the back of her hand. “Clint! I’m not a total jerk! Besides, we’re essentially kidnapping her, so that has to count for something.”

War Machine shook his head, “We are not kidnapping her... we’re helping her. Don’t even joke about that—geez, people!”

“Relax, Rhodey,” Hawkeye soothed, “We know you that the military has trained your sense of humour out of you. It’s all good, buddy.”

War machine harrumphed and took a bite out of his bun. “Shut up, Clint,” he mumbled around his mouthful, “And damn, these are delicious.”

“I know, right?” Libby piped up. “And really, I’m all good... great, in fact—but thanks—“ She looked up at Widow speculatively, “If you meant it.”

Widow crooked her eyebrow again, “And now you’ll never know.”

Libby smiled so big she thought her face would split. “They’re best fresh though, so I hope wherever you’re taking these, you’d do well to get there quick.”

Hawkeye didn’t even apologize for the crumbs he was spitting all over as he answered, “We’re on our way now.”

* * * * * *

He tracked Peter as he walked silently up to his mentor, planted himself in front of him, and leaned forward to press his forehead against the man’s chest.

Tony, who was stood at the floor to ceiling window of the penthouse living room, wasted no time bringing his arms up and around the boy to pull him into a firm hug. “Rough session today?”

Peter nodded—offered up nothing more, just sniffled and burrowed himself further into Tony’s chest.

Over the last weeks, Tony had learned to recognize what Peter needed after his counselling appointments. Some cues were a little more obvious, like today, and Tony was grateful to not have to worry about giving his most favourite adolescent what he needed. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of Peter’s head. “I’ve got you, kid.”

—And he always would, especially after what had happened that night. That he’d almost lost everything because of a woman they were now whisking away to a new life and new future... He almost couldn’t believe it.

Tony patiently gave Peter the time he needed to ground himself, waited to feel the muscles in Peter’s back to untense before squeezing him tightly one more time. “Hey, Pete, guess what?” He asked softly.

Distraction was a good thing on days like this.

A mumbled, “What?” escaped from Tony’s chest.

“Nat came by while you were in my office talking to Dr. Horne.”

Peter pulled back a little. “I thought I’d felt the quinjet taking off but she hadn’t said anything when I saw her yesterday. Did she need me for anything? Should I call her?” He was curious and always ready to assist.

Smiling sadly at the boy’s eagerness to help, even as he was battling his own demons, Tony just shook his head. “Nah, she’s good,” he answered, “but she was running an errand as a favour for me and decided to do something nice for you at the same time.”

“You’re a billionaire, Mr. Stark.” Peter scrunched up in nose in confusion. “What kind of favour would you need a lethal spy-slash-assassin to do for you? Pick up your dry cleaning?”

Tony chuckled. “Funny, you smartass—you know that’s what cheeky interns are for when they irritate me and need to learn a lesson.” Tony chucked Peter’s chin playfully. “Now hush and go to the kitchen. She says to eat as many as you can as soon as you can. Apparently they’re better fresh, so...”

“What?” Peter leaned over to peek around the man, then noticed the stack of bakery boxes on the kitchen island. “Why did she bring me baked goods?”

Tony grabbed Peter and pulled him into one more hug before releasing him and giving a gentle shove toward the kitchen. “Who knows?” –Tony knew. “Maybe she just decided to do something nice for you because you’re so amazing?”

Peter disagreed. “Yeah, right. I’m pretty sure she’d—“

“Hey, you shush—“ Tony cut him off, knowing exactly where Peter was about to go—had participated in enough conversations about Peter’s ongoing issues with self-worth to see it coming from a mile away. “I think she adores you as much, if not more than the rest of those knuckleheads do, so stop trying to convince yourself of whatever garbage your brain is telling you, okay?”

Peter clamped his mouth shut, scowling.

“Good boy,” Tony gave the boy a pat on the head. “Now, go open up a box and tell me if they’re as good as she promises they are.”

Peter rolled his eyes then made his way over to the counter and opened up a box. “Fine. I will.” He pulled out a cinnamon bun, “But I’m pretty sure if Ms. Natasha really loved me, she’d do something totally bad ass... like murder Flash for me or something.” he scoffed and took a bite.

All Tony could do was shake his head in playful disagreement. If only Peter knew— that because they loved him, they hadn’t touched Flash; and because they never wanted him to be disappointed in them, they’d done the same for Libby... Mia.

Tony knew that for a fact.

Peter groaned in culinary bliss, “Oh, my gosh! These are so good!” Peter exclaimed after choking down that first bite. “Where did she get these!? Is it somewhere in New York? Please tell me it’s somewhere in New York.” Peter begged, looking more joyful than he’d had since—

Tony had watched every minute of footage from that night once everything had settled and had seen a grin just as bright when he’d presented Pepper with that damned candy.

“’Mis’r S’rk!” Peter called out as he crammed the rest of the pastry into his face, “C’mon!”

Tony huffed out a laugh as he shook off the memory and sidled up beside the boy. “Come on, what? Come watch you inhale baked goods! Fine,” he ruffled Peter’s hair, then grabbed a cinnamon bun of his own. “If you insist, and yes, by the way, it is in New York and if you’re really nice to me, maybe we can see about picking some up as a treat every so often.”

Peter nodded happily. “Awe-thum.”

“Geez, kid! That’s disgusting! Chew then swallow! I’d actually prefer that you not choke and die—and Nat would be pissed if these actually killed you.” Tony teased. “And I’ve gotten used to having you around, ya’ nut.“

Peter finished his bite, then smiled softer. He leaned into the man’s side. “Sorry, Mr. Stark.”

Mr. Stark pulled him closer. “Don’t apologize,” Tony couldn’t bear to hear another apology from him as long as he lived, “Just don’t forget it.” He planted another kiss, this one firmer, on the top of his head. “Now let me try this allegedly magical—“ Tony took his own bite. “Oh, my!” He, too, couldn’t contain a moan of appreciation. “I think I might be buying me a bakery this week.”

Peter giggled at Tony’s ridiculousness. “Don’t you think that might be going a little too far, Mr. Stark.”

Tony looked upon the boy with a sincerity that would cast off any doubt—for his family—for those he loved most? Tony smiled. “Never. I’d do anything for you.”

Peter was watching his face as he answered, caught a glint of something familiar... that he’d almost missed once before, in a medicated haze all that time ago. “You’re not just talking about a bakery, are you, Mr. Stark?” Peter asked hesitantly.

Tony felt a vibration on his wrist to signal an incoming message on his StarkWatch. A quick glance conveyed the following. “Over Atlantic now. See you in a few days.” He breathed a sigh of relief and then shrugged as he answered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Peter—now, less talking and more eating, kid, and hand me another cinnamon bun.”