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Life in Kamar-Taj was constantly a surprise, and America was here for it. Yes, she was fully immersed in Gen-Z humour; as she told Stephen, the first rule of traversing the multiverse: immerse oneself in the dominate culture; integrate into the status quo.
(Okay, yeah, she didn't realise she had to pay for food. Her bad.)
Stephen visited. A lot, in fact. Apparently, he felt ‘responsible’ for her, and he had the ‘power’ to care for her. Whatever, America wasn't complaining. He was her favourite Strange variant, after all, and the first person out of the multiverse to stand up for her.
Wong supervised her. America wanted to, but she couldn't quite forgive the way he so desperately agreed to sacrifice her. Now, she knew, deep down inside, that her power was a loose canon at the best of times, but it was the fact that—she was so readily near death, even more than with her fellow Defender Strange, and only by Stephen's intervention had she been able to escape with her life.
And also make a milestone achievement in self-control, as he would undoubtedly phrase it, but one thing at a time.
Point was: America enjoyed her time at Kamar-Taj. Especially when Stephen came to teach her, one-on-one. He understood her, more than she ever thought possible. There was something to be said about traumatic experiences forging meaningful relationships. Especially when said traumatic experience involved the multiverse.
All in all, it was as she said: Stephen understood her.
Except—
Maybe Spider-Man understood her even more.
Spidey helped train her, too. He taught her how to punch without breaking a finger, how to chew an insult and spit out a compliment. And he was fun to banter with.
Where Stephen taught her the intricacies of the Mystic Arts, Spidey taught her how to dance dirty on the playground. He was good at it, too; interjected a lot of one-liners that had sorcerers of various stages of infancy blush.
Wong allowed him there. Stephen encouraged it; revelled in it. For whatever reason, Stephen enjoyed Spidey's company in spite of their complete lack of commonality. But, hey, they defeated their reality's version of Thanos together—some degree of companionship was to be expected.
Unlike Peter Parker.
Now, now, now. Before you got her started, America was fond of Peter Parker. Okay? Ask anyone; she was. Stephen's lover—young though he was, barely eighteen—occupied the New York Sanctum with him. Whenever America visited, Peter was sure to greet her with a warm smile and a kind word.
It was just that:
Peter Parker was young, and Spider-Man was quippy, and Stephen treated them both the same. His lover and his fellow superhero. America followed his example, but she couldn't help but resent Peter's incessant need to try and control her.
It drove her mad.
In spite of the power she exuded, the power she was just a hairsbreadth away from controlling, Peter was there throwing a spanner in the works, reminding her of her own stupid fallibility.
“You're fourteen years old,” he would say: brows downcast, expression grim; fatherly and suffocating in equal measure, a face that had no business decorating an eighteen-year-old's features. “You shouldn't have to bear the weight of the universe on your shoulders.”
The weight of the multiverse, actually, the childish part of her wanted to retort, barely managed to swallow it down instead.
“I manage,” she responded doing her best to remain even, the edges sharp. If he reached out and touched her words, he would bleed.
His face changed: melancholy, guilt, stupid understanding all spoken in his name. America wanted to scream.
Look, she never asked for his help. Never wanted it. As far as she knew, she was perfectly fine on her own. She had been all this time.
She killed her mothers.
Sure, they may be alive out there. Somewhere. In a random universe, a random reality—it was America's fault she couldn't control her powers; she had a power so great... wasn't it her fault they were lost to the void? The guilt consumed her. Day in. Day out.
How the hell could Peter Parker understand that? Scratch that: who the hell could?
But Public Enemy #1... yeah, she got the impression he did.
See, the thing was, Spider-Man granted her agency: the breadth of power and responsibility; he trusted her with it. Peter Parker sought only to minimise her achievements, point out her youth, try and tell her to live her life while she still could. Damn her mothers, the people she could help if she could only hurry up and get control of herself. No, all Peter seemed to care about was her well-being, which was...
Infuriating.
She wasn't a child; hadn't been a child since she sentenced her mothers to a fate worse than death.
The worst part was: America got it. Kind of. Peter was trying his best, living in Stephen's Sanctum as his lover, surrounded by magic and superheroics at every turn. He was just trying to insert his wisdom as best he could, an ill-fitting attempt to help. He was a human dressing up, playing at superhumanity.
But Peter was a citizen of New York; he should be used to this by now. Spider-Man understood her; knew the drive that powered her, the need to consolidate her power and find her parents. Spidey mentioned he was orphaned at four—he was the only one to know her. Truly know her.
Peter, from what she could understand, was kind and considerate, yes, but would never—not in a million years—feel this: grief and anger and anguish in equal measure. Mash it all together, create a mixture of ineligible wretchedness.
Not for the last time, America looked at Peter Parker and thought: why can't you be the favourite neighbourhood Spider-Man?
Alas, he was not. He was just another human on a planet consumed by them. Perfectly ordinary, an average person; the keeper of Stephen Strange's heart.
America was sleeping over at the New York Sanctum. Wong's idea: try and integrate her into the various sanctums, understand the reality they were sworn to protect.
There, she heard it.
Peter and Stephen.
Unbidden, she arose from the covers, traipsing guiltily to the source of the conflict. Yes, this was a grievous invasion of privacy, but she couldn't help herself.
“Peter,” she heard Stephen murmur: strong and dark and quiet. Somehow, that last fact made it worse.
“It's not that bad,” Peter responded with a cheer she was unused to hearing from his mouth. Normally, he was mature and sombre; not like this. Not light and cheerful.
Stephen's inhale was sharp and venomous. His bark spat venom: “Don't.”
America was half-afraid at what she was catching at glimpse at, and she hadn't even looked yet.
“Don't you dare.”
A pregnant pause. Standing there, she held her breath.
Then: a long exhale. Peter's.
“If I hadn't,” he said, slow and tired, bone-deep exhaustion claiming his words before they drew breath, “then who?”
“I don't care,” she heard Stephen hiss. His footsteps drew closer. “Do you think I care, Parker? You are the only person I care for, and you make it so difficult for me to do so.”
“Oh, well, excuse me, then,” Peter said, and it was the closest to anger she had ever heard him utter. “I was busy saving an entire building's worth of people.” It was said snippily, irritated, using the exact voice America reserved for such occasions.
The exact voice she was not accustomed to hearing Peter Parker exude so commonly.
“Yes,” Stephen said. “But at what cost?”
“What do you mean? I'm back in one piece.”
“I beg to differ.”
A pause in which America would have rolled her eyes. Hell, maybe Peter did the same. “Of course you do.”
“Peter,” Stephen said this time, and for some reason the use of his first name instilled a greater sense of fear. At least, it did for her. Perhaps Peter felt differently, she couldn't say.
“Stephen.”
Rough indignation laced his syllables as he exclaimed: “You do not hold the power of life and death in your hands. It is foolish for you to even try and emulate that.”
Hurt coloured Peter's tone as he simply said, “Oh, what, because I'm not as good as you?”
America's heart clenched; seized.
“I never said that.” Stephen's voice was as quiet as she had never heard it.
A beat. She waited on baited breath.
“I know you didn't,” Peter murmured, low and soft and gentle.
“Come here,” Stephen whispered. A shuffle in the ground alerted her to the fact Peter did as bid: held strong in Stephen's embrace.
Somehow, in the confusion, the door cracked open.
America caught a glimpse of Peter and Stephen embracing, only... only...
Red-and-blue. Peter was decked in red-and-blue, a spider emblem blazing his back, the same as... the same as...
Damn.
Spider-Man.
Now, America was the treasury of secrets. She was great them: sniffing them out, stifling them, changing their perception.
And Peter Parker's was a secret she would take to the grave.