The Revenge of Devil | Irondad, pepperony

Chapter 32

You must want to fight for it.

The words occupied her mind for so long that after a while it ceased to matter. Michelle thought about them every free moment. Home. During breaks. During the classes. And especially when she met Peter in the hallway. In fact, it didn't even have to be Peter, but just someone who looked alike; there he wore the same backpack, this one had a similar jacket, the other one had the same hairstyle. Michelle partly drove these little things crazy, partly reassuring her, because that's how she was sure that Peter hadn't really and completely disappeared from her life.

Of course, she wanted to fight for it, for herself, for both of them. But it wasn't that easy, was it? At least not for her. Natasha Romanov was talked about, she had already had hundreds of such battles, which she had to deal with. She was not afraid. Well, as soon as Michelle uttered the thought in her head, she realized it was stupid. Agent Romanov also knew fear, and probably felt it very often a few months ago. Michelle thought that when Natasha had so many fights behind her, it was easier for her. It wasn't true. Yes, the very first fight is usually the hardest before we emerge as winners, but the truth was that other obstacles, other battles are similarly difficult. No journey is easy and always had some obstacles.

The more she thought about it, the more cowardly she felt. When she compared herself to the Starks or the Avengers, these were really trivial problems. At least for them. It wasn't that easy for her. They didn't grow up in the same environment as her, they didn't know what it was like. They don't know how difficult it is to open up to others when she has worked all her life to ensure that no one reveals her weaknesses. She did not grow up in a loving environment, she did not have the same parents as Peter, with whom she could come up with any problem. It was difficult for her to confide in others, and especially in such a serious situation. But what else could she do but tell Peter if she didn't want to lose him?

In order to move on, you have to overcome this, she persuaded herself as she glared at the phone. Her fingers itched the urge to grab it and dial Peter's number. But she didn't. Not yet. Come on, it's not that hard. Nice step by step. One day you would get into a similar situation anyway. The sooner you get it over with, the better, right? Don't put it off again. It's better to tell Peter than anyone else. There are only two ways to solve problems; either you will flee from them, and they will overtake you in time, or you will stay, fight and defeat them. You have to prove to Peter that it's worth it. Show him you're trying. That you didn't give up.

These clever speeches will be useless, said the second part of her, the one that would rather escape. Michelle had had enough. She didn't like it, she got tired of it. She missed Peter. So she grabbed the phone still laying on the table and unlocked it. But before she could dial Peter's number, there was a jingle announcing a new incoming message. Her heart pounded when she saw Peter's name on the screen. He wrote to her. He wrote to her.

If you want to talk about it, I'll be here.

She took a deep breath. And before she could change her mind, she answered him.

I am ready.

•••

Teresa sat on a bench in a small park, hiding behind a newspaper, pretending to read newspaper articles and world cases with interest. In fact, she unobtrusively mapped the surroundings and listened intently to the surrounding sounds. Maybe it was a little unnecessary, given that she often walked peacefully through New York and none of the Avengers had found her yet. Yes, they probably weren't looking for her, but even so, she thought that at least Tony Stark or Black Widow wouldn't be vigilant and would try to find anything. She offered herself like a silver platter and still nothing. She was bored. She probably expected more from this game.

But she had another plan for some time. It was actually ridiculously simple, and she marveled at how they could be the elite, the salvation of mankind. They are so trusting. And their friends are so careless.

It will soon be time for her to wear a nice dress at the wedding.

•••

Peter stood at his desk in the workshop, thinking. He always liked to come here, because even though there was a little bustle here at times, it calmed him down and it always helped him clear his head.

His eyes wandered to his suit, which lay nearby. He walked over to it and took it in his arms. He rubbed the cloth between his fingers and immediately all the memories came to mind. "Hello, old buddy," he said quietly, then stroked the small spider-shaped drone he had on his chest. He hadn't even remembered the suit in those months, and in fact, he was a little surprised by himself. He was more prudent, more restrained in his use of the suit, and he thought carefully about when the moment might come when he would put it on again.

"I hope you're not thinking about taking it and going out to catch the bad guys?" Tony's voice came through the workshop.

Peter had to smile. "Don't worry, it's not really in question. I was just remembering old times. I guess I'm sentimental. But now somehow I don't miss it. I guess I have other things I need to deal with," he said cautiously because he still had their minor argument on his mind.

Tony nodded as he approached him. "That's nice. You can help an old lady cross the road without a suit. If Mom heard that, she would be pleased."

"I'll tell her like a wedding present," Peter joked. Tony laughed at that, too, but then became serious. He put his hand on his son's shoulder.

"But now seriously. I'm glad it's no longer tempting you to do stupid things. I know you may have been wondering who was behind the death of Beck and Ross, but you still wouldn't solve it and risk it unnecessarily. A special, best-trained team is working on it. It is not our concern and it is not our duty to look for the killer. It's directed by Everett Ross now, do you understand?"

"Yes," Peter muttered in response. "It is not our concern," he repeated after his father, examining his suit, its familiar folds, and its design.

It is not our concern.

He wasn't sure if the name Beck was just affecting him, but a chill ran down his spine as if an unpleasant premonition lay in wait for him.

It is not our concern.

It was weird. Perhaps for the first time, the words did not bring relief to him. The words aroused in him fear.