goodbye

Claire's been hemming and hawing like this for weeks now. It's never shaky hands and uncertain words with her - it's furrowed brow and loud huffs, a tumultuous battle within herself that leaves you in her wake. Dinners alone, late nights spent peering around the corner of her office, asking her if she's coming to bed. She returns your texts late, disjointed thoughts spilling into midday messages. You piece her meaning together from the shrapnel. Collateral damage.

As much as you'd love to light the spark in her eyes again, to smooth the worried creases from her forehead and ply what bothers her from pursed lips, you know it's futile. She needs the time and the space to tell you on her own, when she's ready. Push too hard and you'll get burned.

It's not work that's troubling her - you had checked. She presents at a conference next month, but in typical Claire fashion, she’ll do all her worrying about that the week before.

Chris is fine, too. That's the other big one that sets her teeth on edge. You'd checked in with him the other night. (Though you always suspected he alerted Claire of your calls. He wasn't good at keeping secrets where Claire was concerned. You're similar that way, you suppose.)

The cup stops squeaking. You lift your head up, dare to peer out of your foxhole. Claire's back is still turned to you. You duck back down, scroll on your phone to paint the illusion of casualty. Casualness, you correct yourself.

“I'm thinking about going back to school.”

You don't even pick your head up. “Oh, like for your master’s?”

Claire’s silence raises your eyes. Her shoulders are still drawn up high in her cream button-up.

“No,” she manages. Jesus, you've never heard her sound so small. “For my bachelor’s.”

You set your phone to the side and nod to the seat across from you. Your cheek squishes against your fist and you carefully curate your expression. A vulnerable Claire is a volatile Claire.

“So, like, a different major, or..?"

“I don't know.” Frustration sets her brow in a harsh crag. She huffs, swatting the question away with a hand.

Just gotta let her work this out, you remind yourself, biting your tongue. Something about this has her flayed open in her own home. She folds her arms across her chest, hands slotting against her ribs to stem the bleeding.

Claire's eyes flit to your phone. When you don't pick it back up, refuse to scroll aimlessly until the conversation is forgotten, she scowls.

“You know I never graduated, right?”

“Really?” You blink, shrug, anything to stay nonchalant. “I guess I just figured you had.”

“I finished my freshman year. Then Raccoon City happened.”

Your heart dips. It always comes back to Raccoon City eventually. You wonder if she spends more time in that burned out shell of a city than anywhere else, if her far-off looks always lead her back to the decimation and the rot.

You reach across to squeeze her hand. “You wanna go back?”

Claire nods. Her eyes filter past you, over your shoulder.

“I don't like leaving unfinished business.”

“I know.”

“God, it would be expensive. Like, a total waste of money.”

“Weren't you just bragging about TerraSave's tuition reimbursement plan like, a couple weeks ago?”

“Yeah, but…” The argument dies on her tongue, her words splattering on the table between you. You trace idle shapes against the back of her hand, waiting for her to disarm herself.

You can think of any number of reasons to tell her not to. You're sure they're the same ones that spin in her head now. Realistically, she doesn't need the degree. Not having it isn't preventing her from progressing in her career. She's been more than successful without it. But this isn't about her future. It's about her past.

Finally, she takes her finger off the trigger. Her shoulders round. Whether it's in defeat or acceptance, it doesn't make much of a difference.

“I don't know, I just – I'm almost 40.” She rolls her eyes, trying to cover up the way her voice had softened. “It's kind of weird to go back and sit in Comp 101 with a bunch of eighteen year olds.”

“Fuck ‘em.” Claire snorts, but the set of her shoulders doesn't round like you'd hoped. You reach across the table, fingers loosely encircling her wrist. “I'm serious, baby. Who cares? You'd tell me the same thing.”

“You don't think it's a waste of time?”

I don't think anything that helps you bury Raccoon City is a waste of time, you want to say. You weave around the landmine instead.

“No way. What major are you going to pick?”

“I was a psych major before everything…” She gestures nebulously in the air between you. A soft tap-tap-tap stirs from beneath the table, her heel clicking against the floor anxiously. “You know.”

You hum and squeeze her hand a little tighter, try to drag her off the streets of Raccoon City. You bounce ideas off of each other, both serious and silly.

This is nothing that will be decided over The course of one night, but she ends up leaning away from psychology. It's more practical to study business, she says. More useful for her work.

You've long devolved into talking nonsense. Claire had asked about your college experience, and you'd picked the stupidest stories possible, trying to see her smile, to see her throw her head back with laughter.

You pause mid-sentence, gasp, eyes sparking bright. “Oh my god, you're gonna be a non-trad. Let's get you one of those backpacks with wheels.”

“Stop,” she laughs, swatting your arm.

“I'm serious. You gotta have the full experience.”

“You're ridiculous.”

“You have to walk down the middle of the sidewalk no matter what.”

“I'm probably just going to do online classes.”

“And you only have two speeds - really fast, or the slowest walker on campus.”

“I'm definitely doing online classes.”

You shake your head. You're definitely ordering her that bag, even if she won't use it. As much as she travels, she might actually get some use out of it, even if she isn't physically attending classes.

You rise from the table and fill her sparkling clean mug with a layer of honey (local, the farmer's market last Saturday, her hand in your back pocket and fresh banana bread dangling from from the bag in the crook of her arm) and switch the kettle on. While you rifle through the cabinet for her favorite tea, you drum up your courage to ask something that could sour the peace.

“How come you never went back to school before now?”

For a moment, you worry you've ruined things. You peer over your shoulder at her, evaluating the thoughtful look on her face carefully.

“I had a lot going on. There was this whole thing with Chris, and–” Claire looks over at you, mischief burning in her eyes. “Hey. Did I ever tell you I'm not allowed back into France?”

“What.”

“Yeah. Not kidding. Hope you didn't want to honeymoon in Paris.”

The kettle clicks off. You nearly spill the water on yourself trying to pour her tea. Bustling back over, you carefully place it in front of her and then careen into your seat. Your chin drops into your hand.

“Tell me everything.”

Claire laughs. Her limbs loosen, both hands curled around her favorite mug. She leans in close and starts her tale. Paris, Antarctica - you wouldn't believe her if she were anyone else.

Faintly in the distance, you can hear the loud crashing of Lizard tearing through the office building. There’s the crumbling of cement walls, the bangs of furniture slamming to the floor and the horrified screams of civilians caught in the crossfire. You’re already anticipating the headlines calling this a “tragedy” or a “disaster” and it makes your heart hurt at the thought. You should stop this.

Yet, you’re pinned to the floor under a plethora of injuries and there’s a throbbing that powers through all of your senses. Perhaps it's the result of the multitude of slashes that came from your battle against Lizard or maybe you hit your head too hard at one point and it’s a concussion. You couldn’t care less about what it is, only how much of it you can take to get up.

Get up.

You suck in a deep, shaky breath, repeating those two words in your mind like a mantra as you push yourself up on your elbows. Even with how much your muscles scream and your arms shake under the effort, you keep going until you’re sat up.

“That’s progress.” You whisper to yourself under your breath, finally taking a moment to take note of your surroundings.

You’re in a deserted meeting room on the top floor of a colossal building. A long table is pressed up against the wall while its chairs are thrown across the grey carpet, coupled with a conveniently chair-shaped hole through the window that overlooks the city.

You hear a deafening roar before his unmistakably scaly form rampages past the door. It’s only a glimpse, enough to make a normal person run and hide, but to you, it’s an opportunity.

If you know where he is now, then you can more easily track him and stop him.

The motivation pulls at you and, before you've even thought about what you’re doing, you’re pushing yourself to your feet. You can feel tension within every inch of your body, your blood sticking your suit to your skin, it almost feels as if you’re trying to move a mountain. But then you remind yourself, you’re Spiderwoman; if anyone should do this, it’s you. You have to help those people.

Firmly setting your jaw, you set forward, out of the room and down the hallway, after Lizard. You’re grit your teeth as the edges of your vision blacken with the effort but you keep pushing yourself, stumbling down the space until it opens out into a larger atrium.

First you see the smudged tile, then the shattered glass railing and past it to the lobby it overlooks. As you approach its edge, you see the splayed out form of Lizard at the bottom, already being circled by the Police and the more decorated FBI. Even though this should mean everything’s resolved, the sight makes your breath catch in anticipation for him to explode into action.

He could rip all of them apart in seconds, ruin so many lives with one claw, their families too, you would’ve failed and–

“Well if that isn’t a sight.” Your thoughts are cut off by a velvety voice.

Your head snaps to look over your shoulder, instantly catching on the sight of Black Cat. From where she’s crouched on the edge of a smashed skylight, she peers down at you through her lashes. Her white hair flows in a breeze behind her like a picturesque cloud, her sleek, latex suit a stark silhouette against the evening sky while her signature, sly smirk plays on her lips.

Though the crazed look in your eyes must’ve conveyed through your mask, as her seductive gaze almost instantly dissolves into a concerned stare.

“What happened to you?” She asks, her voice now sharper with concern.

Your eyes flicker back over the edge to Lizard’s form being restrained, your panic breathing gradually evening out as you back away, muttering. “N-Nothing.” You wave a hand dismissively to her. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“You are not ‘fine’, darling.” She responds, effortlessly sliding from the window to your side as her eyes scan over your form. “I’m sure you can’t even get out of this building alone.”

True to your nature, you flash her an unserious look. “You really think so low of me?”

“Right.” She huffs. “Clearly not injured enough to not act like yourself.”

You have to place a hand on the wall to keep your balance as you side-step her to get to the skylight.

“You can’t seriously be trying to get out of here by yourself.”

“You worried?” You murmur, smirking playfully under your mask as you begin to pull yourself up and through its frame. Groans involuntarily fall from your lips as stabs of pain shoot through your body, pulling all of your playful quips from your mind as you basically crawl up onto the gravelled roof.

You hear Black Cat–or Felicia, as she’d confessed to you one, quiet night–leap up behind you, undoubtedly watching as you shakily push yourself to your feet once again.

“I’ll be fine.” You mumble, though you're unsure if you’re reassuring her or yourself.

Still, when you peer over your shoulder again, you see the anxiety continuously present in her eyes where she stares at you.

It’s almost disconcerting to see. While it’s difficult to label your relationship–with you sometimes at odds, sometimes saving each other’s lives–you’ve never seen her scared. She navigates dangerous situations with ease, flirts with a nonchalant smirk plastered on her face and can even take down some of your villains with such pure strategy and skill that she almost makes it look easy. But you’ve never had her watch you as if you’re another injured civilian, a vulnerable person she wants to help.

You’re not vulnerable, you’re Spiderwoman. That’s… that’s your whole thing. You’re strong, protective and funny. Not… this.

She doesn’t even know your true identity, she shouldn’t be seeing you so weak. Right?

“Please don’t look at me like that.” You whisper, shaking your head.

“I want to help you.” She responds, stepping closer to you. “You’re hurt.”

You can feel yourself swaying slightly on the spot as you glance down your body. Your suit is marred with an uncountable number of tears, some bruises visible through them yet its the dark patches spreading over the fabric that really stings. It’s undoubtedly your own blood, though the numbness spreading through your form makes it impossible to tell where it’s from.

For a split second, your throat catches at the sight and you disorientingly stagger backwards.

Felicia instantly steps forward, tossing your arm over her shoulders until she can snake a hand around your waist. “Right, we’re not doing that.”

A shaky breath falls from your lips as you look meet her gaze, the genuine emotion staring back at you making giving in far too easy. “How would you help me?”

She sighs, some of the tension in her expression instantly dropping in relief. “I’ll try to patch you up myself. I assume you don’t want hospitals.”

“Where?” Your eyebrows furrow.

You notice her hesitate, though only for a moment before she responds. “A safehouse of mine. No one will find us, you’ll be safe.”

“You have the right supplies there?”

“Should do.” A weak smirk pulls at her lips. “Don’t you trust me, darling?”

Perhaps you should be more cautious with your trust, perhaps you should be scared that she might find out your identity through this. But the way she quietly coaxes you with a quiet: “Spider?” and looks at you like that, makes it impossible to refuse.

“Okay… okay, I’m trusting you.”

–

To say the trek to her safehouse was anything less than gruelling would be an understatement. It was an agonisingly drawn-out torture.

Traversing New York’s rooftops while teetering on the edge of passing out from blood loss isn’t a fun experience. Your usual balance has fallen out of whack and you keep tripping over yourself, the sun setting making you somehow even more prone to walking straight into vents and satellite dishes.

Of course, Felicia tried to help by leading you the entire way, even attempting to carry you at one point, though entirely to no avail.

By the time you reach the safehouse, you feel more than ready to just lay down and accept whatever fate the world decides for you… Except Felicia isn’t willing to accept that.

With her arm still cemented around your body, she briskly locks the door behind her before tugging you alongside her into the apartment.

Your eyes scan over the surroundings, taking note of the raggedy couch, the flickering light bulb, the falling-apart furniture. It’s dingy, dark, so unlike her that it’s almost startling. Though, admittedly, that should be the point of this safehouse; to be a safe haven that is so unsuspecting that no one would find her here.

Still, you’re not sure if she’s allowing you here as an act of vulnerability or a way to separate her true identity from you. You don’t ask.

“Sit here. I’ll get the medkit.” She mutters as she drops you down onto the sofa before walking into what you assume is a bathroom.

You instantly sink into the cushions, your eyes closing at the sheer relief of being able to finally rest.

It doesn’t last long as she speedily returns, snapping her fingers as she orders. “Don’t pass out. Wake up.”

“But I’m tired.” You find yourself practically whining under the effects of your injuries.

“Aren’t you always tired?” She teases even though her voice is weary and still heavy with concern.

“No.”

“We both know that’s not true, baby.” She murmurs as she crouches in front of you, digging through the medkit she’d retrieved from the bathroom.

You huff, watching her through half-lidded eyes and furrowed eyebrows. “You’re acting too serious.”

She pauses, flashing you a questioning look. “Well I can’t exactly flirt when you’re dying.”

“If it were the other way around, you’d be flirting with me.”

“You’re acting like you enjoy it, darling.” She responds, raising an eyebrow at you.

For a long moment, you stare back into her eyes before shaking your head and trying to dismiss it. “It’s just weird without it.”

“Well,” She starts, standing up in front of you. “If this all goes smoothly then you won’t have to miss it for too long.” Her gaze slides down your form. “There’s only one issue.”

Your suit. You feel your heart skip a beat. Anxiety or fluster? You dismiss it from your brain before you can figure it out. “Well, I– um,” You splutter out.

“It’s okay. It’s fine.” Felicia placates, holding up her hands reassuringly before you can work yourself too deep in panic. “I don’t need to know who you are. You don’t have to show me everything, just the worst injuries.”

You suck in a shaking breath, the brief alarm having brought enough clarity for you to understand. “Right… Okay.”

It takes another moment of mentally reassuring yourself before you begin to slip off your suit, leaving your mask on but revealing your skin and tank top underneath.

Even though it’s nothing scandalous, Felicia almost instantly turns away to gaze at a wall, shuffling awkwardly on her feet. Once again, it’s unlike her, almost as if the more barriers broken down between you–first the secrecy of the safehouse, now your suit–the more uncertain she becomes.

It’s not as if you haven’t thought of this: if she’d ever be so entertained by you if she knew your true identity. You know she lives for the thrill of a secret. You can sense the impulsive excitement of her actions when she flirts with you on patrol, you see how she grins when she strokes your arm, almost as if she’s staking her claim to something she knows isn’t hers. Sometimes it feels like she’s more into the mystery than anything.

But you can’t know for sure… and perhaps that’s why you’re here right now.

You slip the suit off of your shoulders until the top half pools around your waist, revealing a number of purpling bruises and seeping cuts that stain the fabric of your top.

“Those look pretty deep, spider.” Felicia murmurs as she finally looks back at you, her gaze sharpening as she scans over your form.

“Well, unluckily for me, Lizard doesn’t hold back.”

“Yeah… I can tell.”

She wastes no time in perching on the edge of the couch beside you, pulling out an antiseptic wipe to begin wiping down the blood staining your skin.

Your breath audibly catches at the sharp sting and she instantly murmurs. “It’ll be okay. It’s fine.”

But you still wince, clutching tightly onto the sofa cushions until the intense, sudden pain bubbles into words spluttering from your mouth. “Do you actually own any black cats or is it just your name?”

She momentarily pauses, her eyes snapping up to you incredulously. “What?” When you glare at her, trying to get through this struggle as quickly as possible, she instantly returns back to healing you. “I- No. I don’t own any cats.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t have any time to care for them. I’m a burglar, darling. Remember?” She exclaims, then sighs and mutters under her breath. “I didn’t realise that you acted like this outside of the persona.”

“Hey,” You huff, immediately cut off by another groan as she presses the wipe to another slash.

“Don’t worry, I’d still love you, baby.”

You can’t help but simply stare at her in bewilderment. It’s flirting, you know it is, but you don’t just casually say that to someone! You know her first name and that’s it… or is it? She did just say she owns no cats after all so–

Oh. She finished with the antiseptic.

“That’s better.” She whispers, tossing the wipe effortlessly across the room and into the bin without looking before pulling out some gauze and bandages to finally patch you up.

“I don’t understand you.” You whisper.

She peers up at you through her lashes. It’s just as she’d done early, though now with a less romantic look, but rather a sincere gaze, packed with things unsaid. “Well doesn’t the mystery add to it all, hm?”

By the time she’s finished bandaging your wounds, your head feels clearer now that you’re not losing so much blood. There’s still undoubtedly cuts all over your legs and your face, though that remains an uncharted territory for her. Doing all of this was already more than enough.

“Thank you.” You murmur sincerely, giving her a small nod.

“Of course, baby.” She murmurs, already standing up and walking back over to the bathroom to put the medkit away. “Just don’t go around telling your vigilante friends about this. This kind of service doesn’t come for free.”

You watch her disappear behind the door and let your eyes fall shut for a moment once more. Even though the overwhelming weariness that has settled in your frame feels heavier without the adrenaline, the sinking feeling of digging too deep grasps at your mind once again.

It feels like a constant alarm in your mind that you don’t truly know her… yet your connection just feels so genuine that it’s hard to shake. Some part of you is saying that you should remain professional and just leave, but another part of you–louder and more insistent–screams to give in.

Both quieten as she enters the room again. “You okay now?”

“Yeah.” You give her a tired thumbs up. “I’m good, just exhausted.”

“That’s fine, you can stay here.” She says nonchalantly, shrugging her shoulders.

“You don’t need to do that.” That part bubbles up now. “I’m sure I can work something out.”

But the persistent stubbornness that you’ve come to associate with her is already present on her face. “You just said you’re exhausted. There’s no way I’m letting you walk around at night like this.”

You can only stare back at her through your mask, any argument dying on your tongue under her care.

“I can stay at my apartment for the night, if you’re worried about your identity, then I’ll come back in the morning…” She watches you carefully. “You’re safe here.”

“It’s a lot…” You trail off, though she knows what you mean. It’s not just giving her a lot of trust, but also the amount of favours you’d need to make up for it.

Luckily, she doesn’t fuss too much when it’s you.

“I’d only want one thing in return, spider.” The seductive tone that was lost in her voice throughout this whole ordeal seeps back into her tone.

“What’s that?”

She smirks, crosses the room and then presses a kiss to your masked cheek, just under your eye with as much ease as if this were natural for her. Even through the fabric, it feels like electricity on your skin and your eyes helplessly follow after her when she pulls away.

“There,” She murmurs. The wickedly satisfied look in her eyes immediately telling you that she’d left some sort of lipstick mark that she’s proud of. “I’ll see you tomorrow, spider. You’re gonna need some rest after all this.”

You only muster a small: “Okay.” as you watch her turn and saunter out of the small apartment, sending one last adoring glance over her shoulder before the door clicks shut behind her.

What she doesn’t see is that as soon as she’s gone, you’re already lifting your hand to brush over where she’d kissed.

Is there even a line between your personas and real identities anymore?