Archive of Our Own

MJ shifts in the hard plastic seat, crossing and recrossing her ankles beneath the metal table as she takes notes while the pale-faced man sitting before her gives his statement. “And your wife, she was just… lying there?”

The man nods, licking his dry, cracked lips and swallowing hard. “Yes. I—I got home at 10, like every Thursday. When I pulled into our driveway, I noticed the lights were off inside the house. I thought—I thought that was a little weird, because Jess usually leaves them on.”

“I see.” The blue ink of MJ’s pen blots in the middle of a word, staining her fingertips. She continues writing on the line below, still the same page. “And you didn’t think to contact the authorities?”

“I mean, yeah, I thought about it.” The man runs a hand through his curls, hair graying in a salt and pepper fashion. It might have been an attractive color if it weren’t for the excessive oil his scalp produced, giving each strand an aggressive sheen. “But it’s not like Jess has never turned the lights off before.”

“Of course.” MJ flips to the next page in her folder, the short file provided by the district attorney. The man’s story is consistent so far. An easy case for her first official assignment, she supposes. “Tell me what you saw when you went inside.”

He sighs, more exhaustion than exasperation. “I called her name. You know, as I walked in. Jess didn’t answer me, and I figured she’d gone to the back. But when—when I started heading to our bedroom, I had to walk through the living room, and I—”

He chokes up, and MJ offers him a sympathetic nod. “Take your time, sir. I know this is difficult.”

The man wipes his eyes with the back of his deep purple sleeve. MJ regrets not bringing in a box of tissues. Noted for future assignments.

After a pause, the man releases a shaky exhale, nodding weakly. “Sorry. When I—When I walked into the living room, I felt something warm under my socks, and I noticed this… lump by the couch. At first, I remember thinking, ‘Why’s Jess gone and rolled up the rug?’ But after my eyes adjusted”—a broken sob escapes his lips—“I realized it was her body.”

Still consistent. The man’s either an excellent liar or simply a traumatized husband. MJ adds a note about his comparison to a rolled-up rug, though she suspects it’s inconsequential.

“After I turned the light on, I saw that the warmth under my socks was actually—it was her blood.” He stifles another sob. “I don’t know how I managed to call the cops afterward without throwing up first.”

MJ grimaces at his admission, not that she can blame him. “Thank you, sir.” She circles the estimated time of his 911 call. People far wiser than her can determine if his scenario times out appropriately. “I’m sorry I had to make you relive this again.”

“You’re… You’re kind for saying that.”

Out of her peripheral vision, MJ can see him wipe his eyes a second time, hand quivering as he lowers his arm.

MJ returns her attention to her notes, reviewing them a final time. Everything appears to be in order, so she clicks her pen, placing it down on the metal table and closing the case folder. “Well, sir, I appreciate you taking the time—”

Her voice disappears in her throat as she again meets the gaze of the man before her. Gone are the crystalline tears that lined the rim of his baby blue eyes. Now, his eyes are steel, and they pierce her with sharpened edges as he grins.

“Your skin is flawless.”

MJ’s feet are glued to the floor, her back stuck to the chair. She has nowhere to go.

The man reaches out and traces a spiral atop the middle knuckle of her left hand. He licks his lips, and his dry fingertips are sandpaper on her palm as he turns her hand over.

“If I took my blade,” he says, “and I ran it from the bottom of your neck to the top of your crotch, the way the blood would slowly seep out and cover your flawless skin…” He shudders, then grins at her again, a delighted, animalistic expression that is all teeth. “It’d be quite a sight.”

His thumb continues to gently stroke her palm, and when the man’s left eyelid flutters in a hideous wink, MJ can’t take it any longer. She tears her hand from his grasp, shoves the cold metal table into his gut, reaches for—

MJ awoke with a gasp, chest heaving as her body jerked upright in bed.

In bed.

Right, she was in bed. She was in her bedroom. Peter was sleeping beside her.

MJ bit back a groan, pushing her hair out of her face and grimacing at the sweat that beaded her forehead.

Another damn dream.

“Mm. You awake?”

Correction: she was in bed, she was in her bedroom, but Peter was now awake beside her.

MJ sighed, tiredly rubbing her eyes with the heel of her right palm. “When am I not?”

Peter’s left hand stretched out, fumbling around across their covers before finding her bare thigh. He gave her leg a comforting squeeze, eyes still closed. “You alright?”

MJ considered the pros and cons of saying ‘yes,’ a response otherwise known as ‘lying.’ Then again, for all Peter was terrible at lying to her, she rarely fared much better against him. “No,” she admitted. “But it was just a dream.”

Or so she hoped.

“A dream? Was I in it?” Peter removed his hand from her thigh and rolled onto his side. “Were we naked?” He dug himself further beneath their quilted covers. “Answer the second question first.”

MJ shot him a dirty look—though not the kind her husband was apparently interested in—but it was a look that went tragically wasted, as Peter’s eyes remained sealed shut.

“Are you sure you’re okay, miss?”

MJ’s gaze drifted from Peter, and—oh, God.

Not again.

At least a dozen people stood crowded around the foot of her bed. An elderly man with shockingly white curls and a rickety walker was closest, while two children—they couldn’t have been more than five—with shining red locks stood to his left. Behind the unlikely trio was a towering woman, at least six feet tall, a scar like lightning tracing the right side of her jaw. And that didn’t even begin to cover the variety of individuals all around and behind her.

MJ could not catch a break.

“Miss?” the old man repeated. He shifted closer to the edge of her bed, his walker rattling with the motion. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

MJ’s eye twitched. ‘No rest for the wicked,’ was it?

Ha. ‘No rest for the gifted,’ more like. If her ‘sensitivities’ could even be considered a gift.

“I said I’m okay.” Her tone was perhaps sharper than intended, but dealing with overbearing ghosts on top of her horrific dream all in one night—even MJ had her limits.

“I heard you the first time,” Peter grumbled, opening his eyes just a crack to send her a disgruntled look.

The elderly ghost hmphed at her snappy behavior, turning up his nose. “Fine. If you say so.”

MJ groaned, closing her eyes and falling back onto her pillow. She ignored Peter’s squawk at the sudden shake of the bed, instead rolling onto her side and praying that sleep—dreamless sleep—would finally claim her.

“Two weeks ago, three-year-old Annabelle Cortez was taken from the parking lot of Marino’s Supermarket when she wandered away from her 14-year-old cousin’s supervision.”

MJ’s attention snapped upward from the eggs she was intently scrambling, Benjy balanced on her left hip while her right hand worked the spatula. “Peter, turn the TV off.” Scoop and flip. “I don’t want the girls watching that.” Oops, she’d lost some eggs over the edge of the pan.

Peter gave her a thumbs up from their small kitchen table, scribbling on a yellow notepad with his other hand.

MJ hitched Benjy further up her hip as she switched off the stove and began serving eggs onto May and April’s plastic green plates, muttering under her breath every time she accidentally dumped some atop their orange slices.

“Careful, girls, the eggs are hot,” she warned as she crossed to the table where her daughters were seated with Peter, lowering a plate in front of each of them. “You don’t want to burn your tongue.”

May’s and April’s eyes were glued to the TV, MJ realized, which was still playing—

The same news station from before.

“Authorities are still uncertain of the girl’s whereabouts. The district attorney has stated he intends to pursue any new leads—”

“Peter, I told you to turn that off!” MJ scolded, searching around the room for the remote. Really, May and April did not need to be exposed to the horrors she often dealt with as part of her DA’s internship, no matter how watered down they might be on TV. “Peter.”

Her husband didn’t respond, his attention still captured by the yellow notepad.

MJ sighed. Whatever he was writing had better win a Nobel Prize.

Aha—there was the remote, tucked away behind the jug of milk still out by Peter’s cereal bowl. Switching Benjy to her other hip, MJ rounded the table and reached across—

Only to have her smartass husband pick up the remote and switch the channel over to Teen Titans, earning cheers from their two daughters. Peter grinned at her, an expression equal parts sheepish and cocky. MJ rolled her eyes.

“Thanks, dearest,” she drawled, sarcasm dripping like honey from her tone.

“Your wish was my command.”

A small smile flitted onto MJ’s lips despite herself as she sat Benjy into his high chair, giving him some dry Cheerios. “What have you been working so hard on over there?”

“Well”—Peter smoothed out the current page of his notepad before pulling MJ over to sit in his lap—“I have been writing down all the details of your lovely dream from last night. Creepy white dude, some kind of interrogation room, inappropriate skin-to-skin contact. Anything I’m missing?”

MJ’s nose wrinkled at the reminder. Ugh. She would pay good money to never hear her skin spoken about again.

After skimming Peter’s list, black ink staining her index finger as she traced it down the bullet points, MJ shrugged. “It seems fine? There are honestly some parts of that dream I don’t want to remember.”

Peter kissed her shoulder. “Just remember it for a few more seconds. Then it’ll be on paper and you won’t have to let it take up any space in your brain whatsoever.”

MJ hummed. She supposed even her husband was capable of speaking sense every now and then. “Alright. Fine.”

MJ closed her eyes, leaning back into Peter’s chest as she pulled the dream into her mind’s eyes once more.

The room is dark. Damp. ‘Unpleasant’ is an understatement, but MJ can acknowledge these types of interrogation rooms aren’t supposed to be 5-star. The man still sits across the table in front of her, his toothy grin stretched so wide his thin lips cannot be distinguished from the rest of his pale face.

Behind the man is a sign: Queens Department of Corrections.

“He’s in Queens.” MJ opened her eyes, tapping the notepad and telling Peter about the sign. “Maybe not too far from here.”

Peter snorted as he scribbled down her addition. “I’d rather not have a skin-peeling maniac living near us and our children.”

MJ chuckled as she slid off his lap, catching Benjy’s sippy cup before he sent it tumbling all the way to the floor. “Sorry, tiger. The future is what it is.”

“You know exactly how much I disagree with that.”

“Yes, I do. And I also know you’re going to be late for work if you don’t leave in the next three minutes.”

Peter’s gaze jumped to the clock above their TV, a mumbled curse escaping his lips as he flew to his feet. “Ned and I are finally supposed to start working on that new project today, too!”

“Mhm. All the more reason not to be late.”

Peter shot her a withering look, and MJ laughed.

“Don’t worry.” She returned Benjy’s sippy cup before tossing Peter his jacket and keys from the counter to her left. “Since you’ve done all the labor of meticulously recording my dreams, I’ll take the kids to school.”

Peter planted a kiss on her lips, the smacking sound causing MJ to scrunch up her nose and lightly push him away. “Michelle Jones-Watson-Parker, I am 99% sure you are an angel.”

MJ scoffed. “Only 99? Get out of here.”

With a wink and a wide grin—not at all charming—Peter did exactly that.

MJ sighed as she returned her attention to her kids. Benjy had stopped eating his Cheerios and instead was throwing them across the table, while May and April had just finished off their eggs and orange slices. “May, will you make sure April gets dressed so I can clean up the dishes?”

“Sure. As long as April stops trying to use my comb,” May said with an icy glare toward her sister, earning an eye roll from MJ and a stuck-out tongue from April.

“Thank you, May. April, leave your sister’s stuff alone. I need you both ready to go in 15 minutes.”

Her daughters nodded, diligently bringing their plates to the sink as MJ began wiping Benjy’s face with the nearest cloth napkin.

“I don’t know how you manage to make such a mess with only a sippy cup,” MJ remarked, an amused smile twitching at her lips as her son gurgled with delight. “I bet you wreak havoc at daycare.” Just like his father, of course, and maybe his namesake, too—but Peter would know better than her on that one.

Unless Ben decided to pay her another visit…

Unlikely.

Somehow, MJ got her kids out of the house and to their appropriate locations without a hitch, even arriving at the DA’s office five minutes early.

“Michelle!” Tony said, eyes lighting up when she entered his office. “Right on time. I’ve got some crime scene photos for you to sort through.”

MJ blinked. “Ah—okay.” A frown pulled at her lips. “Sir, don’t I need to finish—”

“Not that sentence, that’s for sure,” Tony interrupted. “Gotta prioritize these.” He handed her a small teal flash drive, presumably containing the relevant photos. “Go through the pictures, put all the usable ones into a slideshow.” He glanced at his watch. “Think you can get it done before 11? Because that’s when we’ve got two lawyers showing up to be briefed.”

MJ could read between the lines. Someone—though she wasn’t naming names—had perhaps forgotten about this particular task until now.

“Consider it done, Mr. District Attorney,” she said, fingers curling around the flash drive. “Do you want me to brief the lawyers when they arrive?”

Tony grinned at her. “This is why you’re Queens’ best intern.”

MJ bit her tongue to hold back a snort. “Thank you, sir.”

“See you at 11.” Tony winked before returning his attention to the stack of folders decorating his desk. It was a depressing sight, through and through.

MJ took her leave, heading into one of the smaller briefing rooms she knew had a working projector. It didn’t take her long to sort through the images, determining with only a glance or two which ones were clear enough for a slideshow. In fact, MJ would have classified this assignment as typical for her internship—

Until she had to put the photos in order.

Until MJ began clicking through the images in the projector, ensuring the pictures detailed the correct process of events. Until she saw what, exactly, happened at this crime scene, one slow second at a time.

She’s there.

A gunshot rings in her ears, a young mother desperately shushing her crying baby as she sits on the white bathroom floor, clutching the child to her chest. The wall of the tub is ice cold against her back, the square tiles rock hard beneath her bare feet.

“Shh…” the mother murmurs, panic rising in her chest as footsteps approach the locked bathroom door. She pulls her child closer, burying his cries in her shirt and swallowing a desperate prayer.

More footsteps echoed in the back of MJ’s mind, flats and dress shoes against the wooden floor. She didn’t turn around as three people joined her in the briefing room.

“Ms. Maximoff, Mr. Barton.” That was Tony, MJ distantly recognized. “Please have a seat. Ms. Jones-Watson will walk us through the scene.”

MJ took a slow inhale, trying to steady her breathing. She would not be overwhelmed by a bunch of photographs, especially not in front of her boss and two potential ADAs.

Not that these lawyers knew they had such potential.

Yet.

“We suspect Owens entered the Milan household shortly after midnight,” MJ began, “because the coroner puts the estimated time of death around 12:15. There was also a noise complaint reported in that area at 12:03.”

She clicked to the first slide.

The door bangs open, the metal handle cracking into the plaster of the wall and leaving a hideous, gaping imprint. In the back of the house, a man pushes his wife and infant child into the bathroom, whispering false promises that everything will be all right.

“Owens found Milan in the master bedroom, half-asleep, awoken by the noise.”

The man has just enough time to collapse into his bed beneath the covers, rising with pretend grogginess as his assailant charges in and lowers the shotgun at his skull.

“Where’s my money?”

MJ somehow kept her voice level as she clicked to the next slide, a close-up image of a bloodied calf. “When Milan refuses to tell Owens about the money they were supposed to split, Owens shoots him in the leg.”

“Excuse me.”

A woman’s voice, lightly accented, interrupted MJ. Tearing her gaze from the events unfolding before her, MJ pressed her lips together and turned to face the female lawyer—Maximoff, was it?—who was raising a skeptical brow.

“What makes you so sure Owens shot him in the leg first?” the woman continued. Her nails were painted a deep scarlet. “Not even the crime lab can tell us the order of the shots.”

MJ bristled at the lawyer’s dry, unimpressed skepticism. And though she knew the smartest option would have been for her to keep her mouth shut, MJ also knew exactly the fate that had befallen this poor man and his family, down to the second. She wouldn’t let the truth go unsaid.

So, MJ swallowed her pride and rephrased.

“My apologies. I should have stated it was… a theory.” MJ clicked to the next slide—a wider shot of Milan sprawled across his bed, chest riddled with holes. “I assumed the leg wound came first because it would be the least consequential. It would hurt Milan without killing him. Owens knew he couldn’t get any information out of a dead man.”

“And I might agree,” the lawyer said, “but why, then, would Owens shoot Milan six times in the heart afterwards? Seems like overkill to me.”

“Because it wasn’t immediate.”

Milan screams as a bullet is fired into his leg, blood oozing between his fingertips as he clutches his left calf. Owens raises the shotgun a second time, only to still as the unmistakable wail of a distraught infant echoes through the house.

“After shooting Milan in the leg, Owens went and shot Milan’s wife hiding in the bathroom with their child. The gunshot had startled the baby and made him cry.”

“Shh, please, darling!” Terrified tears stream down the mother’s cheeks as she gently—frantically—rocks her son, praying to any god listening that his cries will cease. “Be quiet for Mommy, please!”

His screams worsen, growing louder and louder, and the mother chokes back a sob of her own as she presses her baby into her chest, desperate for any way to muffle the sound.

“Until that happens, it doesn’t even occur to Owens that someone else might be in the house.”

“Please, no,” Milan begs, his words a ragged gasp through choked tears. “Please don’t hurt them!”

Owens levels him a hard glare as he steps out of the bedroom, following the baby’s wails down the hall. But as he nears the bathroom, the sounds taper off into an eerie quiet, and Owens pauses with his hand on the metal doorknob. A frown creases his lips, but he shoves the door open and levels the shotgun at the mother and her silent baby.

A guttural sob escapes the mother’s throat, her body slumping forward as she screams for Owens to shoot her, shoot her now.

Her child remains still in her arms.

“Meanwhile, the mother is trying so hard to silence her baby, she inadvertently smothers it.” MJ clicked to the next slide. The mother stared at her from the large screen with empty eyes, a circular hole decorating the center of her forehead. “By the time Owens finds her in the bathroom, she’s so consumed with guilt that she’s begging him to end her life.”

That was the last slide.

MJ returned her attention to the three lawyers before her, wiping the remnants of her vision from her mind. “And that’s my theory.”

Maximoff gave her a dubious stare, while the other lawyer—Bradley? No, Barton—appeared mildly intrigued. Tony’s face was oddly expressionless. MJ wasn’t sure if his lack of reaction was a good sign or a bad one, but either way she couldn’t say she was surprised when he asked to speak with her after the conclusion of the briefing.

Tony said his goodbyes to the two lawyers before dismissing them. Seconds later, MJ found herself being led into his office.

“Michelle,” Tony said, raising an eyebrow at her as he leaned against the edge of his desk. “What do you think you were doing in there?”

MJ bit back a sigh. “I was offering my thoughts on how the series of events played out, Mr. District Attorney.”

“Is that your job?”

Ah, there it was. She shook her head. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”

“Then don’t do it.”

Though MJ did her damned best to fight her frustration down, some of it seeped through, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “What, are you saying you don’t care about what’s in my head?”

“Not if it didn’t come from a law book first.”

MJ tried not to scowl at his comment. Tony sighed, clueing MJ in that her effort had been unsuccessful.

“Michelle, you’re a brilliant intern. And if you want to catch me during my lunch break and run one of your ‘theories’ by me, go right ahead. But presenting those theories to unsuspecting lawyers is not part of your job. Got that?”

When MJ didn’t reply—she was concerned the wrong response might escape her lips—Tony shook his head. “You’re dismissed.”

“Thank you, Mr. District Attorney,” MJ managed to mutter, offering Tony a tight nod before leaving his office. His admonishment was probably for the best, she attempted to reason with herself. What if they’d all demanded to know more about her theory and her certainty behind it? How could she have explained that she’d seen the grisly murders occur, as if she’d been in the house to witness them?

Ugh. MJ wanted these damn ghosts out of her head.

“I hope you realize this is all Greek to me,” Peter commented dryly, grinning at MJ over the top of the bathtub. His left elbow rested on the porcelain ledge while his right hand was busy holding open one of MJ’s numerous law study guides.

MJ chuckled as she allowed herself to sink further into the warm, soapy water, her red-brown curls piled into a messy bun atop her head. “I don’t know. I think there’s some Latin in there, too.”

“Ah, touché.” Peter cleared his throat, eyes skimming down the page until he landed on what MJ presumed was the next question. “When a jury determines—”

Right on cue, there it was.

MJ didn’t know whether to laugh or cry that she could see the question and four answer choices being read to her, clear as day, despite how Peter held the review book to face away from her. She responded before he could get more than another two words out. “B, jury nullification.”

Peter snapped his jaw shut, raising an eyebrow at her before flipping to the back of the study guide. Such a reaction made subtle irritation flicker in MJ’s stomach—she’d had more than enough skepticism for the day. In fact, she was pretty sure she’d had enough for a lifetime.

“B is correct,” Peter said, pulling MJ out of her moping. “I still don’t know how you do that.”

“Yes, you do.” MJ sighed, sitting up to rest her arms on the side of the tub. Water sloshed over, but if Peter got splashed, he didn’t comment on it. “Peter… I’m not sure I can be a lawyer.”

Her husband placed the review book down, away from the small puddle of splashed water, before he tucked one of her ombre curls that had fallen loose behind her ear.  “First of all, you’re going to make a great lawyer. Didn’t the district attorney himself call you brilliant today?”

MJ scrunched up her nose. “Well, yeah, but—”

“No ‘buts,’ accept the praise.” Peter’s expression softened when MJ refused to meet his eyes. “Let me guess. This sudden, completely unnecessary doubt is because of the dreams and the voices, am I right?”

“And the visions,” MJ grumbled. “Let’s not forget the visions.” What she wouldn’t give to wipe that poor mother’s misery from her mind’s eye.

MJ sighed again, her earlier frustration edging into her tone. “I swear I’m going crazy, Peter. I know things there’s no way in hell I should know!” Just yesterday she’d been able to tell that some random guy in the supermarket was lying about his job as he flirted with a cashier. “I—I see specific moments, memories of the past like they’re happening right in front of me. Like I am there.”

She groaned, dropping her head onto her arm. “Why can’t I just be normal?”

MJ had never asked to have these prophetic dreams. She’d never asked to speak to the dead. In fact, it would be lovely if the dead could stop speaking to her, just for an hour a day! Rest in peace? Yeah, MJ couldn’t even live in peace.

MJ was distracted from her wallowing when Peter gently raised her shoulders before pulling her into a warm hug.

“I’m getting your shirt wet,” she mumbled into his shoulder, and Peter’s response was to tighten his embrace.

“Don’t care.”

MJ chuckled at that, and Peter kissed behind her ear before pulling away.

“If it’s any consolation,” he said, giving her a teasing grin, “I think you’re normal. The most extraordinary woman I know, of course, but also totally, one hundred percent normal.”

MJ snorted. “You have such a way with words.”

“Well, we both know you didn’t marry me for my eloquence.”

“Fair. I’d say that was 5.7% of the reason I proposed.”

“Ouch, the truth hurts.” The wide grin on Peter’s lips didn’t match his supposed offense at her assessment. “But I mean it, MJ. Everyone in the whole world has their quirks. And ‘everyone’ includes you. Ergo, you are normal.”

MJ rolled her eyes, more affectionate than annoyed. “Be that as it may, I don’t feel normal.”

Normal people didn’t dread going to sleep every night for fear of the truth they might see in their dreams.

“The worst part is that I can’t do anything with what I’m shown. I saw exactly what happened to that poor family, Peter. But when I try to tell someone?” She scoffed, shrugging. “That lawyer lady thinks I’m clueless and Stark says I need to focus on my ‘real’ job.”

“You know they’re just threatened because you’re smarter than the both of them combined, right?”

“And yet I’m paid a fraction of their salaries.”

Peter burst out laughing, and MJ couldn’t stop a small smile from turning up the corners of her lips, too. It soon fell, though, and she rested her chin on her hand.

“Do you think I’m just too old for law school?”

Peter stared at her for an extended beat. “What?” He frowned. “Of course not. Did someone say you were?”

“No, no one said anything. But it’s hard not to notice that I’m the only mother of three in classrooms full of 22-year-olds.”

“You don’t look a day over 21.”

MJ sent him an unimpressed look. “Flattery will get you nowhere.” Though it did earn another small smile from her, even as she tried to hide it. “But I don’t know. The age difference already makes me stick out like a sore thumb. That on top of my weird, secret relationships with dead people?” She sighed. “Maybe the universe is trying to tell me I don’t have a future in law.”

Her own future, of course, was one MJ didn’t have the power to see. And normally, she was more than okay with that particular term and condition. But right now… It might have been nice to have some foretold guidance.

“Have you considered that maybe the stress is getting to you?” Peter gently suggested, slipping one of his hands into hers. His thumb traced slow circles on her knuckle. “You do so much, babe. No one would blame you for taking a break.”

MJ rolled her eyes. They might disappear into the back of her head at this rate. “I realize I’m stressed, Peter, but I don’t think it’s stress that’s causing… you know.” At least not all of it.

Peter tapped his chin with his free hand. “Are you sure? Who’s the scientist in the hou—”

He promptly cut himself off, an embarrassed flush heating his cheeks. “Wait. I didn’t—that wasn’t—”

MJ shot him a frosty glare, though she had to bite her tongue to hold back laughter. “‘Who’s the scientist,’ Peter Benjamin Parker? I think you’d better flip a coin, because if memory serves, we both graduated with at least one STEM degree.”

Peter groaned, and it was his turn to drop his head onto the edge of the tub. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. Translating thoughts into spoken word is indescribably complicated.”

“Oh, I know. I have the dual degree in literature and physics to prove it.”

Peter gave her puppy dog eyes. “Allow me a chance to rephrase.”

“Hmm…” MJ pretended to contemplate his request, biting her lip to withhold a grin. “Fine. You have one shot.”

Peter lifted his head, clearing his throat. “Since we are both very intelligent and accomplished scientists in our own right…” He paused, glancing at her. “Better?”

“Acceptable. I suppose I won’t make you sleep on the couch tonight.”

Peter snorted, sitting up. “How generous of you.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Anyways, Michelle—as scientists, I think there is a simple solution to your conundrum we are both yet to consider: the scientific method.”

Before MJ could ask what the hell he meant, the sound of Benjy crying crept into their bathroom. Peter gave her hand a quick squeeze before releasing it and jumping to his feet. “You get out the tub while I take care of that. Then meet me in the kitchen, okay?”

MJ blinked. “Sure?”

After an appreciative glance to her still-submerged body—a glance that earned him an eye roll and a casual middle finger from MJ—Peter disappeared out of their bathroom. Soon, MJ could hear him hushing and quietly talking to their son.

MJ drained the water from her bath, toweling herself mostly dry in a matter of minutes. She pulled on a pair of plaid pajama pants—possibly Peter’s—and a white camisole, afterwards making her way out of their bedroom and into the hall. At the same time, Peter exited Benjy’s bedroom, winking at her as he pulled the door shut with a quiet click. Sure enough, their son’s crying had transformed to deep, even breathing—he was fast asleep.

“Worked your magic?” MJ asked as they entered the kitchen together. She removed her hair from its loose up-do and took a beer out of the fridge. She probably shouldn’t have been drinking when she had work the next day, but… Well. Inner silence was her priority.

“Always do.” Peter grabbed his yellow notepad from that morning off the edge of the counter, flipping to a new page as MJ lowered herself onto the couch and took a swig of her drink. “Now. Scientific method. Are you ready?”

MJ grinned. “Blow my mind, tiger.”

Peter snorted but brandished his notepad with dramatic flair all the same. “I have about 30—maybe more—of your dreams and visions from the past year. I think we should send them to the relevant law enforcement agencies.”

MJ frowned. “Really? Won’t they just think we’re crazy?”

“If they did, that would be nothing new for this family.”

Fair enough.

“Besides”—Peter sat down on the arm of the couch, opposite to MJ—“if you’re really getting messages from the Great Beyond, don’t you think at least one person will get back to you?”

That was… not an unreasonable conclusion, all things considered. MJ told him so, and Peter laughed.

“Thank you. I try my best.” He tossed the notepad onto the coffee table in front of the couch. “I’ll scan and send ‘em all out tomorrow. I’m not expected to be in for more than a few hours, and even if I was, Ned could handle it.”

MJ took another sip of her beer. “Think you can take the kids to school, too?”

Peter pretended to consider her request. “Well… If it will make the morning easier for my beautiful wife, I’m sure I can manage it.”

MJ puckered her lips, and Peter leaned down to press a quick kiss to them.

“For what it’s worth,” he continued after pulling away, “I really think a lot of this is related to stress.” He pushed her curls out of her face, giving her a soft smile. “You have three kids, you’re going through law school, and you work for the DA, all while being married to me. Pretty sure you’re some kind of superhero for juggling it all.”

“I think you’re just trying to flatter me,” MJ mused, “but it’s really working.”

“Glad to hear it,” Peter said, grinning. “You should go to law school. You should study hard. You should become a heartless, scum-sucking attorney and buy your husband expensive electric cars.” He winked at her. “Just seems like the right thing to do.”

MJ shouldn’t have laughed. She shouldn’t have given her rotten husband the satisfaction of knowing he’d successfully cheered her up. But she did laugh, and she couldn’t find it in herself to regret it, either. “I love the way you put me first.”

Peter took her beer from her hand, ignoring the beginning of MJ’s mock complaint as he placed it on the edge of the coffee table. He effectively silenced the rest of her commentary as he all but fell over the arm of the couch when leaning down to kiss her.

MJ found herself laughing against Peter’s lips at his sudden lack of agility, and it wasn’t long before Peter started snickering, too. As MJ pulled her husband fully on top of her, she decided there could be no better distraction from her worries.

“Yep, I just emailed the last one,” Peter said. The sound of May and April arguing over God knew what crept into the background of the call. “I’m sure the responses will start rolling in any second now.”

MJ snorted, switching her phone to her other ear as she paused at a red light. “I thought you believed all my visions were stress-induced.”

“Be that as it may, there’s no reason people couldn’t politely thank you for your efforts.”

‘Politely thank.’ Yeah, two words that never applied to law enforcement agencies. MJ had a feeling she was more likely to be blacklisted and branded a looney tune than receive an inkling of gratitude from anyone Peter had reached out to. “Your confidence is inspiring.”

“I’m a born optimist.”

Born? MJ wasn’t so sure. If anything, Peter was a chosen optimist, given all that life had taken from him. Any other person might have become a dedicated pessimist.

“Well, Mr. Optimist”—MJ drove through the green light and pulled into the courthouse parking lot—“I’ve arrived at work now, so go redirect that positive attitude toward your squabbling daughters.”

She could practically hear Peter grimace through the phone. “They’re arguing over a hand towel.”

MJ bit her tongue to hold back a laugh. “Wow.” She smoothly turned into her parking spot, shifting her car out of drive and turning the key in the ignition to shut it off. “A noble fight, but make sure no one loses an eye.”

“Will do. See you tonight.”

“I’ll try to pick up dinner on my way home.”

“Aw, you spoil us!”

MJ chuckled. Shortly after, they said their goodbyes, with MJ rolling her eyes at the exaggerated kiss Peter blew her through the phone. She had just stepped out of her car and was tucking her phone into her purse when two perfectly-manicured scarlet fingernails snapped directly in her line of vision.

“Never mind. I think the problem of my busted car has just been resolved.” The woman flashed her a brilliant smile, and MJ blinked as she recognized her as the lawyer from yesterday—Maximoff, had it been? “One of the interns is here. She can give me a ride.”

Rule #1 of MJ’s internship with the DA: nine times out of ten, her decisions were made for her.

“An intern! Curly red hair? You know—er, Sheryl?”

MJ took pity on her. “Michelle.”

The lawyer snapped her fingers, mouthing thank you. “Michelle. Yes, I’ll have her back in two hours. Uh huh. Thanks.” The woman clicked her phone off before giving MJ a tight smile. “I owe you one. Let’s go.”

MJ suspected the car ride would be rather awkward, and her suspicions were proven correct within minutes: the only time the silence was broken was when her phone’s GPS spoke, guiding her to the address Maximoff had input.

“Uh… Do you mind if I ask where we’re headed?” MJ asked at one point, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel as she slowed to a stop at a red light. Truth be told, MJ wasn’t sure she was allowed to know the details of this impromptu trip, but she figured she had a right to a detail or two in exchange for providing transport.

Maximoff paused in combing her hair with her fingers, sighing as she began detangling a stubborn knot. “Stark wants me to interview some so-called psychic.”

MJ’s pulse quickened, knuckles paling as her grip on the steering wheel tightened. “He wants you to—what?”

“My exact reaction, Michelle. Why do I have to waste my time interviewing some old bat who can’t tell fact from fiction?” The lawyer rolled her eyes. “Ha. I’ll tell you why. The missing girl—you know, the one kidnapped from the supermarket parking lot?”

She didn’t wait for MJ to confirm, instead plowing onward. “The police are at a complete dead end. Not a single lead. But public pressure is higher than ever, which means I get sent on a wild goose chase to talk to some crazy lady who claims to know where the girl’s been taken.”

MJ prayed she hadn’t started hyperventilating. “I guess… everyone’s getting pretty desperate, then.”

“‘Desperate’ doesn’t cover half of it. I’d rather work with another half-decent theory of yours, Michelle, than go waste my time with this nut.”

MJ wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or insulted. Maybe a bit of both. Either way, there wasn’t a chance in hell she’d be explaining the source of her ‘theory’ from the day before to this woman anytime soon.

“At the very least,” Maximoff continued, “Stark could’ve sent some intern to take care of this.” She spared MJ a guilty glance. “Er, no offense.”

MJ chuckled, taking a left at the GPS’s instruction. “None taken.”

Fortunately, MJ was spared further awkward conversation with the lawyer when the woman received a phone call from her brother. By the time that was wrapped up, MJ had pulled her car into the driveway of a quaint house, a small building with pink and yellow flowers lining the brick walls.

“Huh,” Maximoff said as they walked together to the front door. “I kind of expected ivy. Like a witch or something.”

MJ might’ve laughed had the wooden door not swung open before either of them reached to tap the metal knocker. In front of MJ stood quite possibly the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, with warm brown skin and dark, rich eyes that seemed able to see right through anything and anyone.

Needless to say, she was far from the wizened, wild-haired old white lady MJ had been readying herself to meet.

“Welcome,” the woman said, a comfortable smile stretching across her red-tinted lips. “Forgive the cliché, but I’ve been expecting you.”

Somehow MJ managed to gather her wits and not make a fool of herself when she and Maximoff were escorted inside and seated at a small kitchen table. Distantly, she registered the beautiful woman giving her name—Liz Allan—followed by Maximoff’s brief introduction, too.

“And you are?” the woman—Liz—asked, redirecting her gentle gaze to MJ.

“I’m—uh, I’m Michelle.” Why was MJ getting the sense this woman already knew everything about her? “Michelle Jones-Watson.”

Liz nodded, though her eyes lingered on MJ for an additional beat. “It’s nice to meet you both. I can’t thank you enough for taking time out of your busy schedules to speak with me.”

“The district attorney is eager to investigate any new leads,” Maximoff said, the tightness to her smile revealing she’d rather have been anywhere but there. “We are here to serve the city in any way.”

MJ noticed Maximoff hadn’t bothered to pull a notepad out to establish even the pretense of taking notes, so she pulled one out of her purse, as well as a bright pink pen she strongly suspected April had tucked in there that morning. Jotting down her thoughts on Liz Allan’s theories served a dual purpose: recording any potentially useful information, and preventing MJ from embarrassing herself in front of this beautiful woman.

Honestly, Liz could have said she was a model and MJ would have believed her.

Not to mention she had the aura of being able to perceive and read people uncomfortably well, even beyond MJ’s suspicions that Liz already knew something about her. MJ wanted to keep her psychic sensitivities secret, and if avoiding eye contact with Liz by staring at a notepad would help her do that, then MJ needed no more convincing.

As Liz began to speak, MJ allowed her hand to wander across the page.

“The security guard took her. The little girl—Annabelle Cortez.”

Maximoff continued to give Liz the same tight smile. “The district attorney is aware of this, Ms. Allan. It was in the footage of several of the parking lot’s cameras.”

Liz’s calm, certain exterior didn’t waver. “He took her to Canada and sold her.”

“Canada,” Maximoff said slowly. “Right. Anything more specific, Ms. Allan? Canada is a very large country.”

“The name of the town begins with ‘F.’”

MJ glanced down at her notepad, and her heart dropped into her stomach.

At the top of her page she’d doodled an intricate, near calligraphic F. With a hasty glance at the lawyer sitting beside her—Maximoff hadn’t noticed the artistic letter, thank God—MJ flipped to the next page.

Liz watched the motion with a knowing look, and MJ continued to avoid meeting her eyes. She was so screwed, wasn’t she?

Maximoff nodded, a faux smile still plastered on her lips. “Right. Some place in Canada that starts with ‘F.’” She stood, pulling her phone out of her scarlet blazer’s pocket. “I’ll make a few calls.”

With her heartbeat pounding in her ears the way waves crashed into the shore, MJ waited until Maximoff had stepped away from the table before leaning toward Liz. “When you see… what you see, are you with the girl or the guard?”

“The girl is dead.”

MJ’s heart shattered at the blunt response, and Liz gave her a sad smile.

“She can’t read. She’s only three. But she knows the letter ‘F.’”

In the distant peripheral of MJ’s attention, she registered Maximoff giving them a strange look before stepping out of the room, probably heading to leave. The rest of MJ’s focus remained glued to Liz.

“You want a glass of wine, don’t you?” The mixture of certainty and sympathy Liz’s tone brooked no argument—her words were a question in technicality only. “Or maybe you’d prefer a beer. Something to quiet the voices.”

MJ slowly pulled away, fighting down bile rising in the back of her throat. She hadn’t met many people like—like herself throughout her life. Certainly none so open about their abilities. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not judging you, Michelle. I understand.” Sorrow flooded Liz’s eyes. “My partner and I broke up several years ago because I couldn’t stop drinking myself into oblivion for a moment’s peace.”

MJ’s mouth had gone dry. “And… now? What do you do?”

“I listen.” Liz’s voice was matter of fact, as if no other solution was a possibility worth considering. “I help in any way I can.” She placed a hand on MJ’s clenched fist—how long had MJ been holding herself with such tension?—and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Most of them, that’s all they want. To be heard.”

MJ’s chest constricted, and she jerked her hand away as she all but shoved herself back from the small table, weakly getting to her feet.

She should never have come here.

“Michelle…” Liz’s voice was soft. MJ couldn’t meet her eyes. Not now. Not when they’d reveal more to someone who already saw too much. “Why are you at war with who you are?”

MJ’s grip tightened on her pen, fingernails digging so deeply into her palms they threatened to break the skin. She busied herself with tucking the pen and small notepad back into her purse. “Ms. Allan—”

“Liz.”

“—Liz, I…” MJ shook her head, closing her eyes. “I just want to be like everybody else. I’m trying to be a good student, so one day I can be a good lawyer. My husband and I are doing our best to raise three wonderful kids. I don’t have time—”

“You do have time,” Liz promised. “You will do all of those things. I know you will. But that doesn’t change who you are, or how you can help so many helpless people. It doesn’t change the gift you have.” She tilted her head. “Michelle, even among the special, you’re special.”

This time, MJ was powerless to stop herself from meeting Liz’s sympathetic gaze.

“You’ve heard the voices since you were a girl, haven’t you?” Liz murmured, understanding the terror that glimmered in MJ’s eyes far more aptly than MJ would have liked. “I can’t imagine how difficult that must have been for you. Alone. No one to confide in.”

The first ghost MJ had ever spoken to had been that of her recently-deceased aunt. She’d only been six years old, and she’d thought Aunt Jackie’s presence had been a normal visit—

Until Gayle had called her crazy for talking to an empty chair.

“I’m sorry, I have to go.” The words were dragged from MJ’s mouth slower than tar, but she somehow managed not to stumble. “I’m Ms. Maximoff’s ride back.”

“I’m here for you!” Liz called after her as MJ opened the front door with shaking hands. “I’m here if you ever need help making sense of it!”

MJ left and didn’t look back.

“You good?” Maximoff asked with a raised brow as MJ climbed into the driver’s seat.

MJ took a slow breath. “Yeah,” she said after a pause. “I just… don’t like all the psychic stuff. Creeps me out.” Not necessarily a lie, albeit not the full truth, either.

Maximoff nodded. “Understandable.” She tapped something on her phone before offering MJ a comforting smile—perhaps the gentlest expression MJ had seen on her yet. “I know these aren’t much more than empty words, but don’t worry about anything she said in there. Liz Allan just wants her 15 minutes of fame, like everyone else who calls the tip line.”

“Yep,” MJ murmured, turning the key in the ignition. Her car sputtered to life. “I’m sure that’s it.”

The drive back to the courthouse was uneventful. Once inside the office, however, MJ could barely bring herself to focus on her work, completing maybe a third of what she was usually capable of. Even Tony noticed her distant, distracted behavior.

“You feeling okay, Michelle?” he asked, stopping at her desk on his way back to his office.

“Yes,” MJ lied. “I’m just tired.” She forced a smile onto her lips. “Nothing a little caffeine can’t fix.”

She stood to head to the coffee-maker, if only to avoid further conversation with her boss, but was quickly stopped by Tony stepping in front of her and holding out his hands in a ‘halt’ gesture.

“Go home.”

MJ blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“I said go home, Michelle. You look dead on your feet. We both know you won’t get anything more done like this.”

Typically, such comments from Tony filled MJ with all the energy required to supersede his expectations, but today… Liz’s face, her reassurance that MJ’s abilities were a gift and not the curse she’d always considered them to be—

They were all but etched into her mind.

“Thank you, Mr. District Attorney,” she murmured, grabbing her purse off her desk. “I’ll stay late tomorrow.”

“No need for that. I’m not sure we’d have enough work to give you, anyway. Our interview with Owens isn’t scheduled until Friday.”

MJ knew that was a blatant lie. Tony’s comment about not having enough work, at least. But right now, she couldn’t bring herself to disagree. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

As MJ walked to the elevator that would take her down to the first floor and out of the building, she had to wonder if he meant that literally.

On her way home, MJ made a quick stop to pick up two pizzas for dinner. Just because she was getting home earlier than expected didn’t mean she’d forget her promise. Not to mention she knew Peter wouldn’t think to prepare anything.

‘Knew.’ MJ hated that she knew. She wasn’t supposed to be privy to that kind of certainty, not toward anyone, even over a matter as simple as dinner.

Of course, if she truly was as ‘special’ as Liz claimed her to be, maybe she’d have to get used to that conviction.

MJ soon pulled into her driveway, noting with a small smile that all four members of her family were drawing with chalk on the sidewalk in front of their home. Well, ‘attempting to draw’ might have been more accurate. April and May appeared to be arguing over one of the chalk containers, while Peter was comforting a crying Benjy on his lap and simultaneously attempting to reason with his hot-headed daughters.

MJ would never tire of such a sight.

“Hey,” MJ called as she stepped out of the car. She raised her right arm, the two pizza boxes balanced flat on her hand. “I brought dinner.”

Moving closer to Peter revealed a certain distance in his brown eyes. His mind was clearly elsewhere—no wonder the family chaos was less controlled than usual.

MJ kissed the top of Peter’s head before sitting next to him on the cool concrete. Peter exhaled at her touch, handing a squirming Benjy over to her while she gave him the pizzas. Benjy’s tears promptly became a happy gurgle when he saw who now held him, and MJ laughed as she nuzzled his nose.

This was what mattered most to MJ. Her family. Not visions, not dreams, not ghosts. Only these four beautiful, beautiful people.

“Are you okay?” she asked Peter once Benjy had settled in her arms, and he gave her a wry smile.

“Define ‘okay.’”

MJ shot him a dubious look. “Peter.”

He chuckled. “Yes, yes, I’m okay. I’m just… wary.”

“Wary?” What did he have to be wary of? “Is it something with work?” Maybe he and Ned had gotten assigned to an additional project.

“Ah… Yes, it does have to do with work. But not mine.” Peter tilted his head. “Yours.” He stared down at the two boxes of pizza resting on his lap. “SHIELD called.”

MJ frowned. “‘Shield’?”

“It’s an acronym. Already forgot what it stands for. Strategic-something-or-other?” Peter shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. They’re some national intelligence agency with divisions in every state. The Texas division got our email, and they want to speak with you.”

MJ blinked. For all Peter’s teasing that morning about the emails, she had in no way expected a quick response. Hell, she hadn’t expected any response.

Or maybe she’d simply been afraid to receive one.

“Well, I guess I could call them tomorrow—”

“In person,” Peter cut her off. “They want to meet with you in person.”

MJ stared at Peter, disbelieving. “What, they expect me to drop everything and fly to Texas? Are you kidding me?” She laughed, and the sound was strained. “We can’t afford that! Not to mention I’d have to get time off cleared with the DA—”

“SHIELD will cover your entire trip,” Peter said. “Travel, paid time off, meals, incidentals, everything. Apparently they’ve already spoken to the DA’s office and your professors about you being unavailable for a few days.” He shot her a sideways glance. “It would seem Special Agent Fury doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

With a name like that… “Well,” MJ said, offering Peter as much of a smile as she could muster. “When’s my flight?”

“Have you ever been to Texas before?”

MJ blinked, pulling her gaze away from the plane’s small window. The interruption was unexpected, as the female SHIELD agent—Lieutenant Hill, was it?—had been silent the majority of the flight.

“Uh, once,” MJ said after she remembered how to speak. “A long time ago, when I was a kid.”

Her dad had taken her to an Astros game. She didn’t remember much of it, but the delighted smile on her father’s face as they’d taken a picture together in front of the stadium was a moment she’d always treasure.

“What part?”

“Houston.”

Hill chuckled. “Got it. This will be… quite a different trip.”

MJ didn’t doubt it.

“So, what’s Agent Fury like?” she asked after a pause, fighting back a grimace as the small aircraft bumped through turbulence. “Stands to reason he has a lot of influence in SHIELD if he was able to get me down here so quickly.”

A smile quirked at the corners of Hill’s lips. “Influence. Yes, that’s one way to put it.”

Ugh. MJ knew she’d had a bad feeling about this trip. A regular bad feeling, at that, one unenhanced by her… gift. But still. The point stood.

“Agent Fury is a character,” Hill continued after a pause, nodding with a satisfactory expression that suggested her comment had explained everything.

It hadn’t.

MJ withheld a sigh, looking back out the window to her left. How different this landscape was compared to that of her home city, miles and miles away. Instead of rows of buildings and hundreds of people bustling about, this rural environment was nothing but yellow-green grass and select trees, plus the occasional farm.

Wait.

Was it just her, or was the ground getting closer?

“We’re about to land,” Hill said, capturing MJ’s attention once more. “The other agents will meet us at the airstrip.”

‘Airstrip’ was far too generous a word to describe the wide lane of dirt the small plane touched down on.

The long, consecutive flights had allowed MJ to work through most of her nerves, meaning she was surprisingly confident as she stepped out of the plane to face the Agents of SHIELD. Of course, her lessened anxiety did not stop her from muttering, “Holy crap,” as she took in the unusual sight before her.

Honest to God, MJ had never seen so many black SUVs and cowboy hats in her life. Did all SHIELD agents wear them, or was it just a Texas thing?

“Are you Mrs. Jones-Watson?” the man who stood at the front of the group called to her, lacking the strong Southern accent she’d expected. Then again, Hill hadn’t had one, either, so maybe the Texas division wasn’t the part of SHIELD they typically worked with.

Also, MJ had no idea why the man didn’t move closer to her instead of shouting from afar, but… When in Texas, do as the Texans do?

“I am,” she called back, offering him a nod and an awkward half-smile.

The man returned her nod with a curt one of his own. “My name is Special Agent Nicholas Fury.” He held up a sheet of white paper—MJ hoped he didn’t expect her to read that from this distance. “Did you write us this email?”

“Not technically, no,” she said. “My husband did. But I provided the information it contains.”

Though MJ couldn’t discern all the details of his face from such a distance, she had a feeling Agent Fury had raised an unamused brow at her quip.

“Well, Mrs. Jones-Watson,” Fury continued, “the incident you describe in this email bears an uncanny resemblance to a recent crime committed here, where a 17-year-old male abducted a six-year-old boy for what we believe to be his… personal sexual gratification.”

MJ’s stomach churned. She knew exactly what crime Fury was referring to, she had seen the lead-up to it all.

The poor boy. He’d been so afraid no one would find his body. Right now, even MJ wasn’t sure where he was buried.

“We have our perpetrator in custody,” Fury continued, “but no body to prove a murder actually occurred. And since our perpetrator is technically still a minor, his name was never released to any public outlets. You follow me so far?”

MJ crossed her arms over her chest. She didn’t appreciate the distaste simmering beneath his cold tone. “You have only moved from Point A to Point B, Agent Fury. So yes. I follow.”

Fury snorted, and he beckoned her to come forward. MJ begrudgingly did so, dry grass crunching beneath her shoes. She was slightly appeased when he, too, began closing the distance between then.

“Can you explain, then,” Fury said as he stopped two or so feet in front of her, tapping at the sheet of white paper with his free hand, “how you not only knew our perpetrator’s name, but used it three times throughout this message?”

MJ blinked. Was that all? “I saw it on his mail.”

Maxwell Wilson, the letters are all addressed to. Bills, magazines, college communications—each one has his name printed in crisp black ink.

“His mail,” Fury repeated, dubious, and MJ nodded.

“He was looking at it when he first saw the boy.”

But Max doesn’t care how crisp, how clean his name looks across these multicolored envelopes and papers. No, his attention is enraptured by the beautiful child riding by on his bicycle, brown hair fluttering in the wind. Training wheels, huh?

How sweet.

“He went out to get the mail from his mailbox, and that’s when he first spotted the boy.” MJ shifted awkwardly on her feet, not meeting Fury’s eyes when she spoke the final part of her explanation. “At least, that’s the way it was in my dream.”

She braced herself for his response, tension riddling her shoulders.

Fury scoffed. “I’m sorry, your what?”

Ah, there it was.

Despite that MJ had fully expected to be on the end of a negative—or at best, neutral—reaction, her eye still twitched at the blatant skepticism radiating from Agent Fury. Why had she abandoned her family just to speak to this guy, again? It was seeming less and less worth it by the second.

“In my dream,” MJ repeated, this time coolly meeting his gaze. She would not—

Huh.

There was something… odd about Fury’s eyes. And when they narrowed, it clicked: his left eye was fake. Not glass, necessarily, because the eye moved on its own and the pupil appeared to dilate much like a normal eye, but it was false all the same.

MJ’s left eye started itching, heavy as lead in its socket. She blinked, and the sensation vanished. Which was well and good for her, but perhaps not so hot for Agent Fury.

She supposed she should warn him. Eventually. Maybe in the final minutes before she returned to New York.

“A dream.” It was Fury’s turn to repeat her words. “Right.” He snapped his fingers, handing off the sheet of paper to another SHIELD agent. “Come with me, Mrs. Jones-Watson.”

MJ followed Fury through the crowd of SHIELD agents, joining him in the backseat of one of the many black SUVs. She was relieved to see Lieutenant Hill was the driver, and the woman threw a subtle wink to her via the rearview mirror.

Fury didn’t speak again until Hill had pulled the car out onto a dirt road of unending length.

“Don’t think I don’t realize what’s going on here.” He gave MJ a suspicious side-eye. “You work for the defense.”

MJ could only stare. He—what? She’d expected him to call her batshit crazy before considering that outrageous theory. “I’m sorry?”

“Don’t play me a fool, little miss.”

MJ bristled at his words, but somehow managed to hold her tongue. Seriously. She’d flown out here to help him, and this was the thanks she got?

“Come trial, you’ll be the defense’s star witness. They’ll put you on the stand, and I’ll be accused of having hired a soothsayer to help me solve this case.”

MJ closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She would not be returning home to her husband and children with bloodied knuckles. Or worse, a jail sentence. “Agent Fury.” MJ made a conscious effort to keep her voice level. “I am not a double agent for the defense. I had no idea my dream depicted a recent crime or even a real one until you arranged for me to come down here.”

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, but she ignored it. “If you no longer want my assistance, I am all too willing to fly back home.”

There. She’d handled that well, hadn’t she?

Fury sighed, adjusting his seatbelt. “I’m going to show you eight crime scenes. One of them is real. If you can tell me which one that is, I will consider hearing any additional information you have to share about the Wilson case.”

So he was testing her. Fine. MJ hadn’t failed a test since second grade, though she’d cut it close one time in eighth.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Agent Fury,” MJ said, extending her hand. Fury raised an eyebrow—the one above his false eye, MJ couldn’t help but notice—but shook it all the same.

When Hill asked Fury a question to confirm wherever she was driving, MJ tuned their conversation out, instead checking the notification that had made her phone buzz—a text from Peter.

Peter: landed safely?

Guilt tickled her stomach. She’d meant to text him after the plane touched down.

MJ: Yes

MJ: sorry for not texting sooner; I was approached by Agent Fury right away

MJ: He’s about to “test” me to see if my visions are reliable. and if he can trust me

Peter: babe, we’ve talked about this

Peter: stop using semicolons in texts

MJ rolled her eyes.

Peter: love u

Peter: Im sure you’ll pass whatever tests he has planned with flying colors

A soft smile flitted onto MJ’s lips despite herself. He always knew what to say, huh?

MJ: Dork <3

MJ: but you’re my husband, so you may be biased

Peter: pretty sure i am completely impartial!

“Mrs. Jones-Watson?” Fury’s voice snapped MJ’s attention away from her phone. “We’re at our first scene.”

MJ nodded. “Thank you.”

MJ: I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you tonight

Peter: looking forward to it ;)

MJ bit back an amused huff as she slid her phone into her back pocket. A shame she didn’t have time to come up with an appropriately witty—flirty—response.

Hill opened the door for her to step out the car, and MJ nodded her thanks before following Fury towards a small, rundown inn. The crowd of SHIELD agents with their cowboy hats behind her was far from comforting, but she swallowed her nerves, determined to focus only on whatever scene she was presented with.

Maybe MJ should have taken Liz up on her offer to ‘help make sense of it’ before she’d agreed to fly halfway across the country to Texas, of all places. In fact, common sense ought to have told her that, no prophetic talents required.

Too late now.

Fury pushed on a wooden door, the rusty hinges screaming bloody murder as it slowly opened to reveal a mussed up bedroom. Aged, spotted sheets were in disarray, empty bottles of wines decorated the top of a small nightstand—

Two bodies press together, heavy panting filling the room as legs wrap around a waist. A breathy moan escapes pink-tinted lips.

MJ grimaced, closing her eyes and shaking her head to dismiss the series of images. Fury looked at her expectantly, and she snorted. “Something happened here, alright”—she gave him a sidelong smirk—“but it was no crime.”

The second place MJ was taken was the fanciest damn house she’d ever seen. Not necessarily postmodern or full of expensive tech, as was becoming more commonplace among the wealthy in New York, but oozing enough excessive luxury that MJ had walked less than halfway up the pebble driveway before she spun a full 180 on her heel. “This isn’t it.”

A hum escaped Fury’s lips—MJ couldn’t quite identify his tone—but he snapped his fingers, turning all the SHIELD agents around, too, as they headed back towards the never-ending line of SUVs.

“Watch your step,” Fury warned MJ as they arrived at the next location, one of the most disgusting old warehouses MJ ever had the displeasure to visit. Which was saying a lot, because her dreams pulled no punches in immersing her into whatever gruesome setting was at hand.

A rat darted across her foot, and MJ somehow managed to limit her reaction to only a shudder. At this rate, her patience was going to wear thin much sooner than expected.

Why had she agreed to this deal, again?

One of the SHIELD agents stepped in a puddle of dark green liquid, and MJ grimaced as it splashed onto the cuff of her jeans. It took every ounce of self-control in her body, but she withheld an icy glare, instead giving the offending agent a curt nod as he gestured for her to step into the rickety elevator before him.

‘Elevator’ might have been too kind a word, MJ noted, nose wrinkling as she took in the ancient contraption. This moving cage didn’t even have real doors—only rusted metal bars.

The rest of the SHIELD agents finished piling in.

A second later, MJ stepped off.

She turned around, crossing her arms over her chest and staring Fury down. This wasn’t the place, either. “You are wasting my time.”

The elevator gate rattled shut, and MJ suppressed a smirk as Fury and his crew were taken upwards without her.

“You’re good,” Hill whispered after the SHIELD agents came back down. MJ simply winked in response.

They got back on the road. About 15 or so minutes into their drive, MJ stiffened, a tension like bubbling water humming beneath her skin. She’d compare the sensation of knowing to electricity soaring through her fingertips, but that wasn’t quite an accurate descriptor. Simply put, ‘knowing’ was not unlike a gut feeling amplified to supernatural levels.

“Take the next exit,” MJ instructed Hill, not looking to Fury for permission as she sat up and leaned towards the lieutenant. “That’s where we need to go.”

Hill exchanged a questioning look with Fury, who at first appeared skeptical before he reluctantly nodded his permission. Had MJ been a more excitable person, she might have cheered at his lack of disagreement.

There was only one house along the exit they took off the pseudo-highway. A large home, much like the house from earlier, but far older in its design. Rather Gothic, MJ determined, and very well-kept. The yellow paint on the exterior walls couldn’t be more than a few years old.

Inside was just as beautifully maintained. Despite the occasional clumps of dust—as if the residents had been too distracted the past few weeks to conduct their regular cleaning—anyone could see the home was both lived in and loved.

It was the dread hanging over the building that didn’t mesh with the rest of the comfortable atmosphere.

“You sure this is where you meant to go?” Fury asked, leaning against the white door frame.

MJ didn’t know what to say. She’d never put full faith into her gift before. Most of her life had been dedicated to suppressing her visions, pretending the dreams were fiction and the ghosts were her imagination. “I’m…”

MJ trailed off, fingers brushing the edge of a wooden picture frame that rested upon a small table. The photo was dated to be almost seven years old, and captured in it was a family of four—a little boy and a little girl, plus an elderly man and woman. Grandchildren, grandparents.

Though all four faces in the portrait were smiling, there was a chasm between them, an all-consuming void that emanated entirely from the young boy.

“I’m sure,” MJ finally replied, realizing she might have allowed silence to stretch for too long. “And you know this is the place, too.”

Fury snorted. The fingers of MJ’s left hand twitched in frustration, but when her attention was snagged by a spiraling wooden staircase that led to the second floor, the anger dissipated.

A mumbled Excuse me slipped out her lips as she placed her foot on the first step of the stairs. Then the next one, and the next one. Her footsteps thundered in her ears like a storm beating against a rocky shore, and it wasn’t until the first note of quiet jazz broke through the haze that MJ realized she’d forgotten to breathe.

She reached the top of the steps.

The wall before MJ was lined with more wooden picture frames and photographs, all capturing moments from the life of a typical white, suburban family. Minus the immediate parents, that was. Birthdays, Christmas dinners, after-school recitals—no event went unaccounted for.

MJ stopped in front of a photo that depicted a… barbecue, of some sort, based on the grill and plates of meat in the background. Though the picture hung like any other on the striped wallpaper, neither isolated nor centered, tremendous agony pulsated from the image, not unlike a serrated blade being dragged against the inner walls of MJ’s stomach.

Standing in the foreground was the young boy from the photos downstairs, as well as three adults—a dark-haired couple and a man with shockingly blond hair. His blue eyes glinted like snow under the sun.

MJ shuddered, averting her eyes from the nauseating image.

She almost touched it, though. Touching the photo might have communicated with her the source of such raw, devastating guilt. But just as she’d reached out to allow her fingertips to flutter over the wooden frame, movement in a room at the end of the hall stole her focus.

Following the sudden, subtle motion soon revealed to MJ that the source was a young girl, lying on her stomach atop her bed. Her eyes were closed as she swayed to gentle jazz from her black headphones, the same music MJ had heard before.

MJ paused. This wasn’t any young girl.

This was the granddaughter featured in so many of the photographs. She hadn’t aged a day, however, her appearance identical to the seven-year-old picture MJ had first seen downstairs.

MJ pushed aside any lingering nerves and entered the bedroom. Ghosts always wanted to talk to her, didn’t they? Hopefully this child would be no different.

The girl looked up as MJ stepped through the threshold, slowly pulling her headphones out her ears.

MJ offered her a small smile as she knelt down before the girl, a few inches away from the end of the bed. “Hi. What are you listening to?”

The girl shyly returned her smile. “Billie Holiday.” The Southern twang to her voice was the most pronounced MJ had heard since her arrival in Texas. “My brother said I’d like her.” Her smile fell. “It’s… him you’re here about, right? What he did to that little boy.”

MJ winced. Though this was the confirmation she sought, receiving it from the suspect’s younger sister was not how she’d hoped to acquire it. “You saw what happened?”

The girl nodded. Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she could no longer look at MJ. “He hurt him really bad, miss. The little boy”—she sniffed—“he was crying, and he wouldn’t stop crying, and when my brother started touching him he didn’t stop until—until—”

“Hey,” MJ said soothingly. She wished she could embrace the girl like one of her own daughters. “Shh. It’s okay, sweetie. You don’t have to tell me everything at once.”

The girl sniffled again, nodding as she sat up and rubbed her eyes.

“Take a deep breath,” MJ encouraged her. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

In her peripheral vision, MJ noticed Hill at the end of the hall, watching her speak with a perplexed expression. Of course, MJ was no stranger to those, and she kept her attention trained on the child before her.

“Alright,” she said once the girl’s sniffling had died down. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself or your beautiful home instead?”

The girl managed a nod, putting on a brave face. “Yeah. Okay.” She placed her headphones aside, clasping her hands in her lap as she sat up and crossed her legs. “This is my grandparents’ house. They raised me and my brother when my parents got sent to jail.”

“I’m sorry,” MJ said, knowing the transition couldn’t have been easy on a child so young.

The girl gave her a watery smile. “It’s okay. I like my grandparents better, anyway.” She pushed her hair behind her ear. “It was nice for a while. But when I was eight, I got the flu. Really badly. And I was so thirsty all the time, but no one was listening, because that was the first time Max had gotten in trouble with the police. After a while…” The girl shrugged, picking at her fingernail. “They stopped hearing me at all. But I stopped trying to be heard, too.”

MJ’s heart clenched. The flu. What a sad and—and unfair reason to die. “Do your grandparents still live here?” she asked instead of dwelling on the girl’s tragic demise, and the girl frowned.

“Not really. Not in the last few months. I think that’s why my brother brought the little boy here.”

MJ nodded. That explained the collection of dust in the otherwise well-maintained home. “I see.”

“After he’d made the boy stop crying with a—with a pillow,” the girl continued, voice wobbling, “he took him away. But then Max came back a few days later, and he—he buried the little boy in the yard.”

With a shaking hand, the girl pointed to the window in the left wall of her room, and MJ could see an expanse of fresh dirt outside, nearly half an acre’s worth.

The perfect place to hide a body.

“Thank you for telling me,” MJ said quietly. She wished she could squeeze the girl’s hand. “I know it wasn’t easy.”

The girl’s response was to sniffle again, wiping her eyes with her sleeve and giving MJ as much of a smile as she could muster. “I just want to help him.”

“I will do everything I can to make sure that little boy is found,” MJ promised. “Okay?”

The girl nodded. She swallowed hard before responding. “Could you—Could you check on my brother, too? He knows what he did was wrong, he really does. And I’m… I’m worried about him, too.”

“Of course,” MJ said. “I’ll tell him you’ve been thinking of him.”

The girl smiled, her shoulders falling and a glimmer of hope appearing in her brown eyes for the first time since MJ had entered her bedroom. “Thank you, miss.”

“Call me MJ,” MJ replied—or rather, started to reply. The grating, obnoxious sound of someone clearing their throat from downstairs interrupted her before she could get more than the first word out. She shot a dirty look down the hallway, if only for the sake of catharsis. That had been Fury, no doubt, getting in her way even when he didn’t know it.

MJ sighed before turning back to face the girl. “You can—”

Oh.

The girl was gone. Perhaps having at last delivered her intended message she could… move on to a better place.

MJ descended the stairs, where Fury and his SHIELD agents were all waiting expectantly.

“Have a nice chat?” Fury drawled, and MJ somehow stopped herself from rolling her eyes.

“This is definitely where it happened. The crime.” MJ stopped on the second to last step, keeping herself a level above the small crowd standing before her. “Maxwell Wilson’s sister saw everything.”

Fury’s shoulders stiffened, a reaction noticeable despite what MJ suspected were his best efforts to hide it. “The dead sister?”

“Yes,” MJ said. She widened her eyes into the most innocent expression she could muster. “If you’re concerned about her credibility, Agent Fury, what with her being related to our suspect, let me reassure you. She wants the little boy to receive justice as much as we do.”

Fury gritted his teeth, levelling what was not his first and likely not his last glare at her. “I have been patient with you all morning, Mrs. Jones-Watson. But now I draw the line. I don’t know who has been feeding you classified information about this case, but they and you will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law for it. We are done here.”

He waved his SHIELD agents around, and this time MJ did roll her eyes as they all began filing out of the old house.

“Hey,” she called, crossing her arms over her chest and raising a cocky brow. “Don’t you want to know where the body is?”

Oh, how MJ relished the way every single agent froze on the spot. Maybe she revelled in that satisfaction far longer than she should have, and yet not a single speck of guilt made its way into her system.

“Follow me,” she ordered, not waiting for permission as she navigated through the crowd of SHIELD agents, taking an immediate left to head toward the side yard the perpetrator’s sister had been so kind as to point out to her.

MJ didn’t have to walk far. The second her feet moved from grass to dirt, a force like a steel chain wrapped around her waist and dragged her forward and forward and one step further—

There.

MJ knelt down, the pull dissolving into a simple thrum beneath her skin as her right hand skimmed the surface of the dirt.

“He’s here,” she said without turning around, knowing perfectly well the SHIELD agents had followed her. “His body’s buried about three feet deep.”

Hill took a step forward, as if to investigate herself, but Fury raised a hand to stop her.

“As much as I believe you think the body is down there, Mrs. Jones-Watson,” Fury said coolly, “need I remind everyone else that this area was swept with bloodhounds less than a month ago? If there was a body, we’d have already found it.”

MJ rose from the ground, straightening to her full height. Even from several yards away, she knew she was nearly eye-to-eye with Fury. “Maybe Wilson moved the body here after you’d swept the area, knowing you wouldn’t be searching it again. Or maybe your dogs had a cold, Agent Fury. But I know the body is here now.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one with the choice to make.”

Fury ignored her final comment, as she’d suspected he would. “You ‘know’?” he repeated, taking a slow step towards her. MJ didn’t flinch. “You ‘know’ the body is there? You’ll have to forgive me for having a few doubts, because the only way someone could know the body’s here is if they buried it themself!”

It was becoming less and less strange for MJ to be so certain when someone was lying through their teeth. She could tell—Special Agent Fury was deathly afraid of the truth, and he was putting on this absurd skeptical front to cover up that fear.

“So,” Fury snapped, “why don’t you give it up and tell me what you’re really doing here? Who you’re really working for?”

When MJ made no motion to acknowledge his demands, he took another threatening step towards her. “I am talking to you!”

Oh, that was it. MJ was done with this bullshit.

“You’re ‘talking’ to me?” MJ repeated. “No, Agent Fury. You’re not talking to me. You’re yelling at me, trying to intimidate me, and attempting to ridicule me. And through all of that, the only thing you’ve actually managed to do is make an ass out of yourself.” The bite of her tone had more venom than a rattlesnake, and it was her turn to take a step towards Fury. “And you know what? You really ought to calm down.”

MJ leaned in towards his ear, dropping her volume to just above a whisper. “We both know you can’t see clearly when you get this worked up.”

She tapped beneath her left eye as she glared at him, and given how he blanched at her comment, she knew her trump card had been effective.

Fury swallowed. MJ watched him combat the wariness threatening to find home on his face until he finally took a deep breath and said, “I will tell you this one time, Mrs. Jones-Watson.” He spoke with a far more even tone than before. “If we do not find a body here, I will not hesitate to charge you with aiding and abetting. Understand?”

MJ crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re standing on it.”

“Holy shit, MJ. You said that to him?”

MJ frowned. “Peter Jones-Watson-Parker, there had better not be any children near you.”

“Uh…”

MJ needed no further clarification. “If the girls repeat that at school, it’ll be on your head. You will take the fall with their teachers.”

Peter laughed, the sound crackling with static through her phone. “Deal. I have no problem being the cool parent with our wonderful daughters.”

MJ snorted. “Hey, girls,” she called, raising her voice so May and April could hear without Peter putting her on speaker. “Who’s cooler, me or your dad?”

“You are!” MJ heard two voices chorus in perfect unison before both promptly dissolved into giggles.

“You’re wicked, you know that?” Peter said. The sound of fabric rustling flitted through the line, probably him moving the phone to his other ear. “Turning my own children against me.”

“You did that all on your own, tiger.” MJ sat down on her hotel bed, crossing her legs as she leaned back against the fluffy white pillows. For all his apparent distaste towards her, Fury had chosen a damn nice room.

“But to answer your question,” she continued after a pause, “yes, I did say that to him.” She chuckled. “It was incredibly satisfying.”

“Did he have someone start digging it up afterwards?”

“No,” MJ said, adjusting the left strap of her cami with her free hand. “They need a warrant first. I think they either got it this afternoon or are getting it tonight. Either way, we’ll head back out first thing tomorrow.”

Peter hummed. “There’s supposed to be some nasty weather going through Texas overnight. Is waiting a smart idea?”

MJ snorted. “Hell if I know. But they need a warrant if they want to use the body as evidence in court, so it’s not like there’s much of a choice.”

“I guess,” Peter admitted. “Ooh! Does that mean you’ll be coming home in a day or two?”

The eagerness to his voice was the most endearing sound MJ had ever heard. “What, are you missing me already?” MJ teased, and she could all but picture Peter rolling his eyes, a fond smile tugging at his lips.

“Sue your husband for wondering when he might get his wife back.”

MJ snickered. “Love you, too.”

“Uh huh. Just so you know, the DA’s office is also begging to have their best intern back, so it’s not only me who’s been mourning your absence.”

“Mm. You’re mourning my absence, they’re missing my productivity,” MJ corrected. She had no qualms about acknowledging that she worked with many brilliant people, but brilliance did not always translate to organization in that particular office. “I bet—”

She was cut off by a knock at her door. A frown creased MJ’s lips as she glanced at the clock on the nightstand to her left. Who on Earth was paying her a visit after 9:30 at night?

“You can go see who that is,” Peter piped up. “I’ll still be here.”

“Right,” MJ said. “Thanks. Uh—give me a sec.” She placed her phone on the nightstand, sliding off her bed before creeping to the door and peering through the peephole.

Her eyes widened.

MJ glanced down, suddenly feeling underdressed in her black camisole and tiger pajama pants, “Benjy’s” gift to her on her last birthday. She grabbed her bathrobe from her open suitcase, tying it around her body before grabbing her phone again.

“It’s Fury!” she hissed. “Why is he here?”

Peter snickered. “Wow. Is there something you want to tell me, babe?”

MJ rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stop an amused grin from tugging at her lips. “Yes. I’m leaving you for the angriest, most skeptical man on the planet.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have let you go to Texas alone.

MJ laughed. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Yes, go find out what your unexpected visitor seeks. Girls, tell your mom goodnight!”

Two badly-synced cries of Goodnight, Mom! filtered through the line, earning a soft smile from MJ.

“Goodnight. I love you guys.”

“We love you, too. Try not to kill Agent Fury.”

MJ silently thanked the universe for blessing her with the most patient husband in the world as she hung up her phone, tossing it onto her bed before she unlocked her door to allow Fury entry.

“I’m sorry for disturbing you at such a late hour,” he said as MJ gestured him inside. She nodded to acknowledge his apology, closing the door behind him.

“There’s something I wanted to…” He cleared his throat. “Something I need to speak with you about.”

MJ raised an eyebrow at his correction. “Okay,” she said after a pause. “Is it about the case?”

“Not exactly.” Fury met her gaze, a genuine—if wary—curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Tell me, Mrs. Jones-Watson. No one in SHIELD knew about my surgery. They all thought I’d gone crab fishing with my niece. So who told you about my eye?”

Ah. Perhaps MJ should have predicted this conversation would occur sooner rather than later.

“No one told me,” she finally replied. “I… felt it. I don’t know the details of what happened, just that”—she furrowed her brow, touching beneath her own left eye—“someone you trusted hurt you. The replacement is the result.”

Fury chuckled. “Someone I trusted, huh?” He shook his head, amused. “I like that explanation. Might start using it.”

“Do you find it… helpful?” MJ asked after a pause. Fury was being oddly friendly to—well, no. Oddly polite to her. She didn’t mind his change in attitude, and in fact she appreciated it, but no psychic sensitivities were helping her understand the cause. “The eye, I mean. It looks very realistic.”

“It does,” Fury agreed, tilting his head. “I’ll give ‘em that.” He shrugged. “Honestly, though, I’ve found it uncomfortable the last few days. Itchy. Sore.”

MJ recalled the itching sensation that had flooded her own left eye earlier in the day, when she’d first spoken with Fury. “You might want to get it looked at,” she advised. “I’m sure the craftsmanship is very skilled, but… I don’t think that eye is a good fit for you.”

Fury raised a brow. “You think, or you know?”

A smile quirked at the corners of MJ’s lips. “You sure you want the answer to that?”

“Touché,” he admitted with a nod. “Thank you. I’ll keep your advice in mind.” Fury hesitated, awkwardly shifting on his feet before adding, “Any, uh… other premonitions you want to share about my health?”

MJ bit her tongue to hold back a laugh. Was this really the same man who’d been angrily carting her around in a stuffy SUV earlier? “Nah. Just a feeling you’ll be around a long while.” She paused, a smirk inching onto her expression. “Once you get that eye checked out, that is.”

Fury laughed.

He laughed.

It was strange. All the laughter MJ had previously heard from him had been that of derision, but this was honest, open amusement.

She found she preferred this side of Fury.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Fury finally said, still chuckling. “I’m grateful to you for speaking with me after today. I’m still not sure how much I believe in all of your psychic powers, but”—he clicked his tongue—“well, that’s for me to think through.”

“I appreciate you taking my dreams seriously,” MJ replied. Her smirk widened. “Even if it took some extra convincing.”

Fury snorted at that. “Understatement of the century, Mrs. Jones-Watson.”

They exchanged a few more basic pleasantries before Fury wished her goodnight and took his leave. Once he’d gone, the chaos of the day hit MJ like a sledgehammer, and she was asleep within minutes of her head hitting the pillows.

The pale-faced man smiles at MJ, a grin stretching so wide across his cracked pink lips they’re nearly imperceptible against his skin. “Do you know how beautiful you are?”

MJ blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re beautiful,” he repeats, leaning towards her. His lashes are almost blond, and MJ shudders that he’s close enough for her to see that. “But you could be even more beautiful, sweetheart, if you let me help you.”

MJ pushes her chair away from the table. What does he want from her? Why is she even here?

When the man’s ice-cold fingers wrap around her wrist in a vice grip, MJ’s stomach drops through the floor.

“Don’t you know how beautiful you’d be if I could open you up?” he croons, his eyes icier than his grip as he grins wildly at her. “If I could take my blade and slit you down the center of your chest—don’t you realize how beautiful I could make you?”

MJ tries to pull away. His grip doesn’t slacken, even when she stands and attempts to yank her arm out of his steel hand. “Let me go!”

“Let me open you up,” the man repeats. He slams his other fist onto the table, the metallic clang echoing in the small room and making MJ wince. “Let me open you up!”

MJ looks frantically for an exit around her, but all four walls are solid concrete. His shouts become more frantic, more insistent as the pounding of his fist increases.

“Let me open you up! Open up! Open—”

“—up!”

MJ sat bolt upright with a sharp inhale, heart beating out of her chest as she immediately surveyed her left wrist.

No bruises.

Just a dream.

Just… a dream.

“Open up!”

MJ jolted at the voice, her shock compounded by the banging on her door. Had… Had it not been…?

“Mrs. Jones-Watson, you need to open up!” the voice repeated, louder than before. “We’ve gotta get you out of here!”

MJ shoved off her covers, nearly tripping over her cast-aside shoes but making it to the hotel door in one piece. Her fingers fumbled with the two locks, and she muttered a curse under her breath.

When she at last managed to pull the door open, she was met with a blast of stinging rain, the shrieking wind causing her to cover her ears with both hands. Her nails caught on the edges of her silk sleep cap.

“Ma’am, we need to get you to the airport!” the SHIELD agent at her door shouted. MJ leaned forward, recognizing them as Lieutenant Hill. “If we wait any longer, there won’t be a runway left!”

“I don’t understand!” MJ yelled back, blinking freezing rain from her eyes. “We still need to excavate the body!”

“As of right now, there is no body! This is Tropical Storm Allison—we’ll be lucky if there’s still a crime scene!”

MJ’s heart shattered.

The next few hours passed in a blur. Her bag was packed and shoved along with herself into the backseat of a now-signature black SUV. Despite the strong winds, pulsing rain, and glaring lightning that threatened them from every angle, SHIELD got her to the airport, while the car radio sang of never-before-seen levels of flooding across parts of Texas.

Next thing MJ knew, her plane was touching down in Queens. But it wasn’t until Peter had helped her into their car that her shattered heart began rearranging its pieces into the shape of frustration.

“Ned is with the kids,” Peter said as he climbed into the driver’s seat, his first attempt at conversation since their reunion. “Thankfully, he didn’t ask why you were in Texas. Or what was bringing you back so early.”

‘Thankfully.’ Yeah, because her trip to Texas had been a complete waste of time. That little boy would never see justice, all because of the godforsaken weather.

“You know,” Peter began again, picking up on the aggravated discontent MJ was emanating, “there’s always a chance the rain might not wash away the body—”

“Don’t, Peter,” MJ snapped, pushing her loose curls out of her face. “It’s useless. The body is gone, and Maxwell Wilson is going to get away with murder.”

“You don’t know that, MJ.”

“Yeah? Maybe I do! I’ve known everything else all damn day—why should I be wrong about this?”

Peter stared at her, his expression unreadable, and MJ somehow managed not to wilt beneath his intense gaze. Finally, he said, “Say you are right. But that doesn’t make any of whatever’s going to happen your responsibility, much less your fault.”

MJ’s fists clenched, nails digging so deeply into her palms she knew they’d leave bruises, and the guilt, the grief, the outrage bubbling inside her at last boiled over.

“Then what am I responsible for?” she snapped, glaring at her husband. “I am sensitive to shit most people will never think twice about in their entire lives, Peter. I am too sensitive to practice law. But I can’t do any good with all these stupid sensitivities, because I am not sensitive enough to know that it’s going to fucking rain!”

MJ slammed her fist against the car window. The resulting ache in her wrist grounded her as she squeezed her eyes shut to fight back hot tears.

She’d failed. She’d failed the victim, the little girl, even Agent Fury.

And that was on her.

“MJ—”

“Shut up and drive.”

MJ could feel Peter’s eyes linger over her, even as she continued to stare adamantly at the road ahead. After a lifetime, though, he turned forward and began the drive back to their home. MJ made no attempts at further conversation, and neither did Peter. She wasn’t sure if he was as content to stew in silence as she was, but he didn’t debate her need for quiet, which was all she could ask of him at that moment.

Once home, MJ thanked Ned for staying with their kids on such short notice, which Ned reassured her had been absolutely no trouble. They talked briefly about her trip and the project he was partnered on with Peter at work, while Peter made sure May, April, and Benjy were all sound asleep.

“You should come over for dinner soon,” MJ said as she and Ned exchanged a tight embrace. “It’s been too long since we’ve all hung out together.”

Ned chuckled, grinning at her as he pulled away. “I’d love that. Just text me when.”

MJ said goodbye before dragging her suitcase to the bedroom, avoiding eye contact with Peter as he passed by her in the hall on his way to briefly speak with Ned, too. By the time Peter joined her, she’d almost finished unpacking her clothes—which hadn’t been much, admittedly, given she’d expected the trip to only be two or three days.

Peter sat down on their bed, his gaze not leaving her back, and MJ sighed. “Say what you want to say, Peter.”

He shrugged. “I just want you to talk to me. I know you feel guilty about what happened, but that’s obviously only scratching the surface of whatever’s going on.”

MJ sighed a second time, her hands pausing halfway through folding a pair of gray sweatpants. She placed the clothes aside, turning around to face Peter.

“When I was out there,” she said, resting her back against the dresser, “when I was working with those agents in the field… It felt right. For the first time since I started hearing those voices, I felt like I belonged somewhere.”

MJ found her shoulders were stiffening, and she did her best to relax. “It was like—finally! This is what I’m supposed to be doing. This is why I can’t sleep at night, this is why I know things it should be impossible for me to know. This is how I can help people. This is why I am the way I am!”

She shook her head, bitter. “But in the end, it didn’t matter. I guess God decided enough was enough and played some—some sick joke on me by washing everything away.”

And worst of all? There wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. Not now. Not after the fact.

MJ noticed Peter raise a skeptical brow, and she rolled her eyes. “Right. You’re thinking I’m the most conceited, self-involved person you’ve ever met.”

“Whoa,” Peter said, holding his hands out defensively as he got off the bed. “Wait a minute. I didn’t—”

“You’re thinking, ‘What kind of person believes God would unleash a historically-destructive rainstorm just to screw with their head?’” MJ pushed herself off the dresser. “Admit it! That’s what you’re thinking!”

“No, that’s not what I was thinking!” Peter retorted, meeting her glare with one of his own. “I’m thinking  you should go back to Texas and read the mind of your 17-year-old pedophile, and—”

“‘And leave me alone?’” MJ finished, crossing her arms.

Peter’s mouth opened and shut before he gave her a sheepish grin. “That… may have been in there.”

MJ almost laughed at his admission. Soon, however, his suggestion sunk in, and her arms dropped to her sides.

“Actually…” she murmured, scrambling to find her cell phone amidst her unpacked things. “That’s a great idea.”

One call to Lieutenant Hill later, and MJ had plans to return to Texas in two days to speak with Maxwell Wilson six hours before he was released on his own recognizance. She’d be cutting it close, but it could work.

It would work.

It had to.

“You’re just going to talk to him, alright?” Fury instructed MJ as he and Hill walked her toward one of the prison’s ‘consultation’ rooms, for lack of a better term. Upon her initial arrival, MJ hadn’t failed to notice that he’d taken her recommendation to heart and now had a black eyepatch over his left eye. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

MJ rolled her eyes, an amused smile flickering across her lips. “With all due respect, Agent Fury, I don’t know of anything else I am allowed to do.”

“Don’t play smart with me, Mrs. Jones-Watson.” Where before such words might have been biting, there was now a teasing undertone to them, and MJ didn’t bother smothering her laugh. “Just get whatever you can out of him. Any info is good info.”

MJ nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

Fury and Hill were forced to end their journey alongside her when they reached the far corridor of the hall, and next thing MJ knew a guard had whisked her away into a—well, “cage” might have been the most accurate term, as the four walls of the room were nothing but white metal bars.

As soon as another pair of guards led Maxwell Wilson into the room, MJ felt it.

“Don’t touch me!” a little boy cries, his pants at his ankles as he tries to escape his captor. The smell of steak and barbecue is suffocating, the soft green grass scraping like barbs beneath his bare feet. “Stop it!”

“Aw, c’mon,” the older man croons, a dangerous glint in his steel eyes. “We’re just having fun, kiddo. Why don’t we let this be our little secret?”

They were all around her, MJ dizzily realized. Dozens of men of all ages, of all generations, each a victim as much as a perpetrator. A fatal cycle—do unto others as was done unto you.

She took a deep breath.

No more.

“Thank you for speaking with me,” MJ said, giving Wilson the warmest smile she could muster as he was seated across from her. It took all of her willpower not to shudder when he returned her smile.

“It’s no trouble.” He hesitated. “You’re not with the TV crews, are you, miss? My lawyer says I shouldn’t speak to—”

“No, I’m not with the press,” MJ promised, shaking her head. “I’m… a friend of your sister’s.”

Wilson tensed, giving her a strange look, but MJ pressed on.

“She’s happy, you know. Worried about you, but happy.”

Wilson’s brow furrowed in confusion, and he slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand—”

“She saw what you did. At your grandparents’ house. And she told me where you buried that poor child’s body.”

Panic flickered in the boy’s eyes. “She—what?” He shook his head, desperation creeping into his tone despite his evident efforts to brush off her words. “You’re crazy, lady. My sister’s been dead for seven years.”

Perhaps he was right to call her crazy. It wouldn’t have been the first time. But MJ knew what she knew, and she was no longer going to deny it.

“It’s kind of sad,” she mused, tilting her head as she stared straight at him. “You’re a nice young man. Smart, too. Kind to your grandparents, and to your friends. But when I listen to your soul…” MJ closed her eyes. “All I hear are small animals being tortured. Children crying.”

Wilson swallowed hard. He wanted to leave, she knew how badly he wanted to get out of there.

But not yet.

“You didn’t walk into this room alone, Max,” MJ said, staring both into and beyond his eyes. They were still surrounded by the dead, dozens of men who were watching their conversation with similar distress. “You brought the past with you.”

No more pretending.

This was real. It was true.

She could do this.

MJ pointed at the empty space to Wilson’s right. “Over there, standing in that corner, is the ghost of the man who molested you at the Easter barbecue your aunt and uncle took you to when you were eight. Standing next to him is the man who molested him at a summer camp in Michigan in 1981. And that man’s soul is forever haunted by the souls of the three men who took advantage of him when he was 10 years old, back in 1968, on a school trip to Washington DC.”

MJ’s hand shook as she recounted each tale, but she refused to back down. Not when she could end this violence now. Today.

“Guards, I—I want to go,” Wilson stammered, staring fearfully at MJ as he stood and took a step back from the table. “Guards?”

In seconds, Wilson had been ushered out of the room. But MJ didn’t need him anymore.

The others remained.

“Please,” she begged, closing her eyes. “I know you can hear me. All you have to do is speak—speak and help me break the cycle.”

Silence.

Had she—?

“I can help you,” a gravelly voice whispered, and MJ’s shoulders sagged with relief.

It was over.

Fury adjusted his eyepatch as he, Hill, and MJ stood outside a cell block, waiting for the gate to slide open and allow them access. “And you’re certain Wilson told everything to his cellmate?”

MJ nodded. “Teenage boys never could keep a secret.”

Fury shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you found out that after five minutes alone with the kid.”

A smirk played on MJ’s lips. “You sure you don’t wanna know who told me?”

“Hell yeah I’m sure. I need plausible deniability.”

MJ snickered. “Let’s be honest—you probably wouldn’t believe me.”

“Well, don’t place your bets on that.”

MJ raised an eyebrow, but before she could comment on his total change of heart, the gate before them slid open. A uniformed guard served as their escort.

“Daniels,” the guard called as they walked down the block. “Special Agent Fury of SHIELD wants to speak with you.”

A teenage boy with rich black curls sat up on his bunk, looking their group over with a scrutinizing gaze. “What for?”

Fury stepped forward, while MJ hung back with Hill and the prison guard. She didn’t need to be close to observe their interaction, and she wasn’t sure how close she was legally permitted to get, anyways.

“I understand your cellmate is Maxwell Wilson,” she heard Fury say. “In any of your conversations, did he mention a six-year-old boy?”

Even from afar, MJ could see the teen’s upper lip curl in distaste. “I don’t talk to pedos.”

“Just because you don’t talk to him doesn’t mean he didn’t like talking to you.”

“Well, he didn’t. So leave me alone. I don’t want to think about that sicko.”

MJ hummed. Clearly a different approach was needed. Fury knew it, too, based on the way he returned to speak to herself and Hill.

“Any suggestions?” he muttered, and MJ tilted her head, keeping her eyes trained on the boy. Although there were no friendly ghosts around to share information with her, that didn’t mean…

Hm.

“Tell him you know about the kiss,” MJ said. “But whisper. You have to whisper.”

Fury shot her a skeptical look, and MJ rolled her eyes.

“Trust me on this.” She had a good feeling about it, no psychic sensitivities required.

Fury sighed and relented, returning to the boy’s cell. MJ could no longer distinguish their conversation from the mutters along the rest of the cell block, but when Daniels’s eyes widened and his hand all but flew to cover his mouth, she suspected her ploy had been successful. Said suspicions were confirmed less than an hour later, as she, Fury, and Hill victoriously exited the prison toward one of SHIELD’s staple black SUVs.

Fury hung up his phone, giving them both the most genuine grin MJ had seen on him yet. “That was the State Attorney’s office,” he said triumphantly. “Daniels’s statement was delivered to the judge, and permission has been granted for Maxwell Wilson to be formally charged.”

MJ cheered, and even Hill cracked a smile.

“Not to mention we had a full three hours to spare before Wilson would have originally been released,” Fury commented, tapping his watch before he held open the SUV door for MJ.

MJ nodded as she climbed inside. “I’m glad I was able to get back to Texas in time.”

Although three hours was a greater buffer than she could have ever hoped for, it was nonetheless a reminder of just how thin the ice they’d been skating on was.

“I have to ask,” Hill said once she’d situated herself in the driver’s seat. She glanced at MJ through the rearview mirror. “How did you know about the kiss thing? Did… Did a ghost tell you?”

MJ fought down a laugh at Hill’s pause. “Actually…” She smirked, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I made it up.”

A strangled noise escaped Fury’s throat, not unlike a cough and a gasp fused together. “I’m sorry? You what?”

MJ shrugged, keenly aware that sheer delight was painted across her features. “I figured he’d either be so embarrassed or so afraid that he’d talk either way.” And since she’d requested Fury to whisper, no one would be the wiser about said hypothetical kiss, regardless of if it had actually occurred. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Fury stared at her a beat longer, then shook his head. “I guess you really do see more than I ever will,” he grumbled, though a mischievous smile tugged at his lips when he tapped his eyepatch.

“Honestly, I’m just glad my… gifted sight has finally been put to good use,” MJ admitted as Hill began driving away.

“And I’m grateful you were willing to offer us your services down here,” Fury said with a nod. “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Jones-Watson. It’s been an honor working with you.”

“Call me MJ.”

Fury raised a brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“My friends call me MJ,” she repeated.

Fury frowned. “I’m not sure how I feel about nicknames.”

MJ snorted, knowing very well he often went by ‘Nick.’ “Alright. How about Michelle?”

Fury hesitated, but nodded again, a grin stretching across his lips. “It was great working with you, Michelle. I hope you’ll stay in touch.”

MJ winked at him. “You couldn’t keep me away if you tried.” She paused, frowning as she shifted in her seat to face him directly. “Hey, there’s one question I’ve had about all of this since you first contacted me.”

“Shoot.”

“Why is a national intelligence organization like SHIELD working a case local law enforcement could be responsible for?”

This time, it was Fury’s turn to wink at her.

MJ ran her hands over her pencil skirt, recrossing her ankles as she finished going over her resignation letter with Tony. “As such, I have come to the conclusion that I am…” She searched for the most apt description. “Constitutionally incapable of being an attorney,” she decided, giving Tony a short nod.

Once MJ had returned from Texas for the second time—after she and Peter spent most of their day celebrating in the bedroom, that was—she had made the difficult decision to quit law school. For now. She wanted to return one day, hopefully after she had a better understanding of all her gift could mean and do for others, but until then…

MJ needed a break. She’d spent years of her life loathing her visions and dreams. It would take time before that resentment faded.

“Well, I’m sorry to see you go,” Tony said, his words pulling MJ back to reality. “You have a brilliant legal mind, Michelle.” He paused, pushing her letter to the side of his desk. “Do you mind if I ask what led to this change of heart?”

MJ fought back a grimace. Yep, she’d known this question was coming. “I can’t really talk about the details. Suffice to say, I’m either a little bit psychic or a little bit psycho.”

An amused grin tugged at Tony’s lips, an expression MJ wasn’t quite sure the cause of. “It’s funny you should mention psychic prowess.”

He leaned forward to rest his elbows atop his desk. “While you were gone, Owens confessed. He described the crime exactly the way you did, from shooting Milan in the leg first to the mother accidentally smothering her baby in the bathroom. So.” Tony raised an eyebrow at her, leaning back in his seat. “What will you do now, Michelle?”

MJ blinked. “I…”

Tony chuckled as she trailed off. “I have a proposition. You don’t have to accept it, but I ask that you hear me out.”

Well. What was the worst that could happen?

MJ nodded. “Deal.”

An hour later, MJ walked out of the district attorney’s office with a part-time consulting job that paid nearly twice as much as her initial internship.

Holy shit.

“He really hired you? Just like that?” Peter asked that night as they were serving dinner for their three kids. When MJ nodded, he whistled. “That’s amazing. Is he letting you start right away?”

“Well, technically I’ve already started,” MJ said as she sat Benjy in his high chair. “But Stark did say he wants me to come in for something tomorrow, too, so hopefully he’ll continue to have regular assignments for me. Either way, most of what I do for the DA’s office now will have to be kept on the down low.”

“So it’s like a secret job?” April asked, eyes wide.

MJ laughed, tapping her youngest daughter’s nose. “Yes, it’s top secret. I’ll get to pick juries, conduct interviews, help with line-ups—but no one can know it’s me!”

“That is so cool,” May said, and April nodded in fervent agreement.

“I think it’s pretty cool, too,” Peter murmured into MJ’s ear, startling her with his unexpected proximity.

She swatted him with the nearest cloth napkin from the table. “Go get the green beans off the stove, dork.”

Peter blew a raspberry on her cheek, earning a muttered curse from MJ as she swung at him with the napkin a second time. Peter laughed as he ducked beneath it, pulling out of range as he danced toward the stove and reminded her to watch her language in front of the kids.

Though MJ rolled her eyes as she shot him a covert middle finger, she didn’t bother to hide her smile.

“All I want is for you to get the guy to tell you his story,” Tony said as he walked MJ down the hall to one of the interrogation rooms in the Queens Department of Corrections. “Write down anything he says that doesn’t match what we have in the file.”

“The file?” MJ repeated. Her right hand absentmindedly fiddled with her new badge from the DA’s office that she’d clipped to the front pocket of her blouse. “I don’t have—”

“The guard will give it to you once you’re in the room. Oh, and go ahead and write down any ‘feelings’ you get about our suspect, too.”

MJ bit back a sigh as she and Tony slowed to a stop outside a steel door. “Mr. District Attorney, I don’t know anything about this man. I can’t promise I’ll have—”

“I don’t need promises. In fact, I’m sick of promises, because no one around here seems able to keep them. All I want is your best.” Tony winked at her as the guard joined them and handed MJ a brown folder. “Read the file. Once you’re in there, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, and definitely don’t do anything I would do. Meet me out front when you’re done.”

With that, he was gone, leaving MJ to be escorted inside the concrete-walled interrogation room all on her own.

“Arwin will be fetched in a moment,” the guard said gruffly, giving MJ a firm nod before he stepped back outside.

This time, MJ did allow herself to exhale a frustrated sigh as she sat down in the chair on the left side of the small table. She laid the folder down in front of her, careful not to spill any contents as she opened it to the first page of information. Hopefully she’d have enough time to learn a thing or two about this ‘Arwin’ character before he arrived.

‘James Ignatius Arwin’ was his full name, and also one hell of a mouthful. Pouring through the first few documents the folder contained revealed to MJ that his wife had been brutally murdered, her body sliced open down the middle. Arwin had found her body in their living room. MJ shuddered at some of the photos—no psychic visions were required to make those any more eerie.

The sound of chains dragging against concrete distracted MJ, and she looked up just in time to see James Arwin being brought into the room.

Her eyes widened as they settled on the pale-faced, thin-lipped man now standing before her.

Your skin is flawless.

Let me open you up.

Huh.

A smile twitched at the corners of MJ’s lips.

Looked like she knew a few things about James Arwin after all.