Black Light

You woke up in a white room in a hospital bed and surrounded by soft beeping. There was a soft pressure on your skull, like you were wearing a hat that was too tight. With your eyes closed against the bright light you raised a hand to feel your head—but you were stopped by the handcuffs that locked each arm to the rails on either side of you. Panicked, you struggled against your restraints, but to no avail. The monitors around you vocalized your panic with their beeping.

Suddenly a door opened and a man entered wearing a buttoned purple shirt.

“Y/n, I'm Doctor Banner. You're okay, the restraints are just a precaution, the others insisted.”

“Where am I?”

He approached the side of your bed closest to the monitors, moving softly but deliberately. “You're in an Avengers facility.”

“Why?”

He glanced at you, examining the monitors. “You sustained a head injury during a fight.”

You let your head fall back against your pillow.

“We won't know until we perform a more thorough assessment if there's any lasting damage. The physical damage didn't seem to be that serious, mostly blood loss and you'll probably have a scar at the site. I've called my friend, an ex neurosurgeon, to come and check you.”

“Ex neurosurgeon?”

“He didn't have his license taken away for being bad at his job, if that's what you're thinking. He was in an accident that affected his hands.”

“Well, I feel fine,” you stated. “Just hungry. How long was I out?”

“Only a day. I'll see if I can find something for you to eat, let the others know you pulled through.”

“Was there a chance I wouldn't?”

“I wasn't sure. They were worried.”

You nodded, closing your eyes. You heard the door close after him, and as exhausted as you were physically, you couldn't fall back asleep under the white lights and hunger rumbling in your stomach. So you sat, and waited, listening to the soft humming and beeping of the monitor. Realistically, it was probably only half of an hour, but it felt like half the day went by before Doctor Banner returned with another man by his side. The second man was tall with a thin face, dark hair, facial hair not unlike Tony Stark's, and a... Red cloak.

“Y/n, this is Doctor Strange. He's here to check up on you, make sure there was no lasting damage, all that,” Banner said, placing a tray on the stand beside your bed, adding, “We checked with Peter to see if you have dietary restrictions, so this should all be fine.”

You looked Doctor Strange up and down with sharp eyes, and then turned to see what was on the tray. “You look like a Hogwarts teacher.”

“Funny,” he said.

“I'll leave the two of you to your doctor-patient things,” Banner said, giving you a smile and nodding at Doctor Strange before leaving the room.

“So,” said the caped man left in the room, and you looked at him again. “I hear this isn't the first time you've sustained a head injury.”

“How do you know that?”

“I read up on your medical files,” he said. “Serious accident when you were fifteen, no parents, near total memory loss. And, nobody could find any record of your name so you were taken in at a boarding school.”

“Xavier's,” you said.

“For mutants?” He raised his eyebrow.

You nodded as much as you could. “Can I eat while we talk?”

Doctor Strange got up, and with a wave of his hand your handcuffs fell off. With slightly shaky hands, he opened a small fruit cup and handed it to you with a plastic spoon. “Eat slowly,” he said, and returned to a seat on the bed nearer your feet. “How are you feeling? Any loss of sensation, trouble moving?”

You shook your head, mouth full of plastic spoon, and wiggled your toes to demonstrate. “I feel how I normally feel after getting my ass handed to me,” you said. “Kinda light-headed, little extra tired. But I'm guessing that's normal, considering.”

He nodded. “I'm going to ask a series of questions, just to see if you have any brain damage, loss of cognitive function, all of that.”

You nodded.

“Clearly you know your name, but how old are you?”

“Twenty-four. I'm almost finished with my last years of school.”

“Where do you work?”

“Stark Industries, previously A.I.M....”

“What is the name of your best friend?”

You paused. “Stacy. Is she okay? A.I.M. said-”

“She's safe, Stark has taken care of everything.”

You nodded, and ate more of the fruit cup.

“What is the name of your boyfriend?”

You paused, looking down. “Peter. Peter Parker.”

He continued to ask a number of questions, until he stood.

“Well, thankfully there is no obvious brain damage or loss of function in communicating, and your memory seems just fine to me. I've been told you're a rather gifted engineer, so found some exercises for you to work on.” From somewhere under his cloak he pulled a notepad with a series of math problems and simple engineering puzzles.

At least, that's what you guessed it was. It would make sense if it were, but all you saw were meaningless scribbles and gibberish.

“Is this a joke?” You looked up at him, heart pounding.

“What's wrong?”

“This is gibberish,” you said, tossing the notebook away. “It's just wiggles and dots.”

“Miss Y/l/n,” he said, picking up the notepad, and turning it toward you. “This is a worksheet printout of a first grade math assignment from the internet.”

Your throat tightened, your eyes watered. “I can't read it.”

“Miss Y/l/n-”

“I can't read it. Why can't I read it?”

He sat back down on the side of your bed. “You were hit in the left side of your head. The left side of your brain controls logic and analysis,” he explained, clearly dumbing it down. “It also contains language. When you were hit, it must have damaged a very specific part of you that helps you interpret writing.” He scribbled something down. “You said you can't understand the numbers, but can you read what I just wrote down?” He turned the page towards you.

You shook your head.

“I'm sorry, Miss Y/l/n. As you heal, you may regain the ability to read, and to write, or you may need to relearn it. I can't say for sure. I know how upset-”

You tuned him out. You barely registered when he stopped talking and left the room, and finally, with your hunger sated by the small fruit cup, you fell back asleep.

When you woke again, you were still in the hospital bed, and Doctor Strange was gone, and Tony was in the room with Banner.

“-should be resting right now, not interrogated.”

“A.I.M. is an immediate threat, we need to ask her questions. Besides, Strange said she could communicate fine, I just need information and then she can rest all she wants.”

“Mr. Stark,” you said, voice thick with sleep.

Both men whipped their gazes to you. Banner opened his mouth to speak, but Tony cut him off, addressing you by your last name.

“Y/l/n. We need to ask you questions about A.I.M. Bruce here says you need to rest, but-”

“Who's 'we'?”

The door opened, and a woman with scarlet red hair entered.

“Ah, there you are Natasha,” Tony said with a tight smile.

You blinked hazily. You'd met her once or twice, but always in passing, and you'd always been wary.

“Nat here is going to ask some questions while you're hooked up to my new little lie detector.”

Bruce groaned. “I told you, Tony-”

“It's fine,” you said. “I can answer questions.”

“Great!” Said a falsely chipper Tony, who immediately set about hooking you up to a whole extra set of cords, as if the IV and the monitors weren't enough already. “Can we take off this gauze or will her brain fall out?” Tony asked Bruce, who replied with only a dry look. “Okay, fine,” Tony rolled his eyes and attached a few rubbery suction cups to the small part of your visible forehead. “So," Tony fixed his harsh gaze on you. “I know Peter said you were being blackmailed by A.I.M. But, honestly, I'd like to hear it all from you. Alright, Jarvis, roll cameras, record audio,” he said while typing something into the tablet he was holding, and then Natasha spoke up.

“What's my name?”

“Natasha,” you answered after a confused pause.

“Who is Tony to you?”

“My boss,” you swallowed at the guilty twinge in your gut.

He glanced at you. Apparently the twinge had shown up on his tablet, because he pushed. “Who am I to you?”

“My boss,” you repeated, eyes on small lump of your knees under the blanket. “Mentor, assassination target, role model.”

“You've got to be kidding me,” he said under his breath, though he sounded more surprised than anything else.

“Alright, what's your name?” Natasha asked, a hint of amusement under her cool facade.

“Y/n Y/l/n.” You stated with confidence. “Alias Black Light.”

“Birthday?”

“I don't know. Everything on my legal records is fake.”

“You don't know your birthday?”

“I don't have any memories before I was fifteen. I woke up in the hospital with just an age and a name.”

A long pause. “Alright then. Let's get into the real questions.”

Natasha proceeded to grill you about every little detail involving your association with A.I.M. And then, suddenly, Tony started removing all the apparatus he'd attached to you.

“We're done?” You asked, startled.

“Yes.”

“Do I have to stay in here?” You asked, hopeful.

Natasha spoke again. “This is the safest place to put you right now. The news just broke about Osborne, and A.I.M. has to know you didn't finish your job. Plus, you still need medical care.”

“Are you putting me here as a criminal? Or a patient?” You swallowed. “Is Harry...?”

Tony interrupted you. “You're technically a criminal. Like it or not, you started with A.I.M. willingly, and that makes you a criminal in the eyes of the government. As for Harry, he'll be in the hospital even longer than you, but he'll make it. We're keeping an eye on him in case A.I.M. makes a move.” And then he shut the door behind himself. You looked at Natasha, relief washing over you at thee news that Harry was alive.

“I feel like I just got put on a timeout.”

“I don't know why,” she said. “But he sees you as his responsibility. Don't ask me to explain the inner workings of Stark,” she shrugged. “But, I think there's a fair chance you'll be let off the hook in exchange for some community service.” She made her way to the door, and then looked back at you. “Peter wants to see you. Feeling up for it?”

Another forty five minutes must have gone by before the door opened again. But this time, it was Peter. Dressed in a Stark logo hoodie and his favorite pants, he closed the door softly behind himself as he came in. You struggled to sit up further, eyes bouncing all over him.

He swallowed. “I heard-”

“I don't want to talk about it, not right now.”

He looked sad when he broke eye contact.

“I have a lot to explain. And I don't really know where to start,” you admitted.

Peter sighed and went towards you, sitting on the edge of your bed.

You both paused for another extended moment of silence. You sighed. “How did I not realize you were Spider-Man?”

He laughed and shook his head. “I don't know, but I'm impressed you went far enough to put on a fake accent. That's commitment.”

“I mean, seriously Pete. How did I not recognize your voice? It sounds the same, even if it's kinda blurred with the mask. You even smell the same-”

“You smelled Spider-Man?” He turned to look at you with an incredulous face.

“We got pretty close when we fought, Peter! I have a good sense of smell!”

“Like super-smell? Did that come with the glowing thing or nah?”

You looked away, towards the ceiling. “No, just regular good smell.”

He kept his hands tucked into his hoodie pockets. “So. How did you become Black Light?”

You took a deep breath and then blew it out your nose slowly, thinking back. “I uh, I always had a bit of a rebellious criminal streak, growing up. I don't have any memories from before the age of fifteen,” you explained. “I guess there was a really bad car accident. My parents died, turned out it was a mutant hate crime-”

“I didn't realize you were a mutant,” he said softly.

“How else do you think I got my powers?” You scoffed.

“Well, I got mine from a radioactive spider,” he shrugged. “It was this whole thing on a field trip, I'll explain after you're done,” he shrugged, shaking his head and sort of just saying 'nah' with his whole face.

“Okay, you're gonna explain that to me first thing when I'm done. So, anyway, I woke up in the hospital, completely blank memory, and there was this bald guy in a wheel chair that came by not long after, and he took me in to his boarding school, for kids like me.”

“Troublemakers or mutants?” Peter asked.

“Mutants, but of course mutant troublemakers too,” you clarified. “Eventually I graduated, and moved out of the school, even though I could have stayed. I probably would have stayed out of trouble if I had. I moved around a bit, and then I stopped and went to school in California for a while, and then I transferred here, and that's when I started up with the troublemaker stuff again, and then Professor Noble recruited me as her personal assistant for A.I.M. projects, and then we met. Not Peter and Y/n,” you clarified. “Black Light and Spider-Man,” you explained. “On the rooftop that one time. You said my costume was like a kitty cat.”

Peter was surprised. “Professor Noble works for A.I.M.?!”

You nodded. “Then we met in class, and around that time A.I.M. officially recruited me. It started simple, just some small thieving jobs, nothing I hadn't done before, and a few run-ins with you—Spidey—and Daredevil. Then Daredevil beat me in a fight, messing up my ribs, and they forced me to drop out and be Black Light full time on call, and they threatened you and Stacy then I realized I was in too deep with no way out. So, like the selfish asshole I was, I think it was around then I dug myself in deeper and got Harry to team up and help me take Spider-Man down. Ah, shit, wait—I got Harry into it, and then the ribs shit happened, and it just escalated. Tony has a recording of me telling him all the details earlier.” You shook your head, and you whispered. “I shouldn't have done it. Any of it. I'm so sorry, Peter...”

Peter didn't say anything, he was just looking at you. Suddenly he looked off to the side, opening his mouth to speak with just the hint of a half smile.

“I got my powers when I was in highschool,” Peter said. “Not too long after, my uncle Ben died because I didn't use them. He always told me 'with great power, comes great responsibility.'”

You took a slow, deep breath.

“After that, I became Spider-Man. I was obsessed with getting revenge on the guy that killed Uncle Ben, nothing could have stopped me. So I can only imagine how Harry felt when his dad died. And he's never been the most stable guy anyway, he's had some problems, among other things...” Peter sighed. “My point is, you may have nudged him a little, or maybe a lot, but he was on that path already.”

You stared at him, eyes wide.

“What I'm saying is, you could have done better, but it's not all your fault.”

You laughed wetly, and realized you were crying. “I'm so sorry, Peter. I don't want to be the bad guy anymore.”

Peter closed the gap between the two of you and wrapped you in a hug, wincing when you squeezed his ribs just a little too tightly. “It's okay. We're gonna take care of it.”

During your recovery, you were limited to the Avengers compound. He wouldn't tell you the details, but Tony said you wouldn't have to worry about getting in trouble for what you'd done as long as you helped them take down A.I.M.. Apparently he'd gotten the idea from Natasha's own shady past and bargained with some pretty high-up people.
You met with a therapist provided by Tony almost daily, and then weekly, to help you with your brain damage. It took two years to get to a place where you could write your own name again, but visual puzzles got easier and easier. Tony built you a device that looked like regular glasses to analyze written language and then speak it to you, while Natasha kept you in physical shape, determined to get you out on the field again. Life on the Avengers compound wasn't half bad, and it helped that Stacy lived there for a time, though of course it was more for her safety than out of a desire to keep you company. She was furious with you for a month after finding out the truth, but, life moves on, and you were eternally grateful for her patience on your bad days, the days where you forgot words and could only cry in frustration with yourself.

And, once they knocked down the first pieces, A.I.M. fell like a domino chain. You watched the footage with pleasure, not allowed to help physically take down the AI.M.-Bots, but the day you finally gave testimony against the organization, with Mr. Adams's cold, furious glare on you, was one of the more satisfying days in your recovery.

“Breaking news, Spider-Man and Black Light were spotted teaming up as a duo to rescue passengers from a crashed bullet-train-” Stacy's voice floated from the TV.

“Babe, we're on TV again!” You called from your spot on the couch, a big squishy piece generously gifted by Aunt May. "On Stacy's channel!"

“What is it this time?” Came Peter's voice from the kitchen.

“The bullet-train,” you replied, watching your costumed figures rescuing tiny people from a smoking silver wreck. “This helicopter footage is garbage,” you called over your shoulder again.

“Three years after the disappearance of super-powered ex-villain Black Light, she returns. About six months ago, rumors of her reappearance as a reformed hero began to surface, and in the last month we've gotten a few lucky sightings. It appears she's begun teaming up with long time New York City favorite, Spider-Man. The two are credited with saving one-hundred and twenty-three people from the wreck pictured. Several passengers sustained serious injuries from the crash, but every life was saved by our heroes quick response-”

“Alright, you can come into the kitchen now!”

You clicked off the TV, and went to the next room to find the dining table impeccably set, and Peter hanging up a Spider-Man themed apron you'd bought him as a joke upon moving in together.

“What is all this?”

“I made Thai food, like from that one place we went to a million years ago when we first started dating.”

You wrapped him up in a big hug, burying your face in his chest.

“You're too amazing, Peter.”

“I know. Happy anniversary,” he said, squeezing you tightly and kissing the left side of your head.