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The hideout wasn’t hard to find when she’d seen a map to it in his brain. She knew the way around the booby traps. A step over a tripwire, a jump over a concealed pit, a sidestep of a rigged object, and—
Another tripwire triggered, a gasp, an axe coming right for her skull—
A hard yank sent her careening to the right. She crashed into the hard shell of his body armor.
“Ow,” she said.
“Yeah,” said Frank, gripping her wrist just on the edge of too tight before letting go. “I upped the security since the last time someone was in my head. What’re you doing here?”
“I think you dislocated my shoulder,” said Jean, wincing.
“Nah, you can move it, you’re fine,” said Frank. Solid medical advice from the guy she knew had two bullet wounds in various stages of healing under his kevlar. He started moving towards the entrance. “I’ve got some leftover chili,” he called over his shoulder. “You coming?”
***
The chili was a poorly disguised bowl of slop. She watched with mild disgust as he shoveled it into his mouth. They sat across from each other at the table in his tiny kitchen.
“You sure you don’t want any?” Frank checked.
Jean shook her head.
“When’s the last time you ate, kid?” Frank asked, frowning.
“An hour ago,” she said. “When I made someone pay for my food.”
Rich guy, single, wouldn’t miss the money. She knew how to pick her targets.
Frank worked his jaw for a moment. “Right.”
These people needed to understand that she wasn’t helpless.
“Why, then?” Frank asked. “Why come here? Last time I saw you, I shot at you.”
She snorted. “Funny way to say you’re sorry.”
“I am,” he said, surprising her. He walked over to the counter to ladle more of the slop into his bowl. “I am, and not just ‘cause the other guy got in the way. I didn’t trust that you’d make the right decision, and I’m sorry for that.”
With his back to her, she couldn’t make out his expression. “How is Peter, anyway?” she asked, needing the subject to change. “Still breathing on his own?”
“What, you haven’t checked on him?” Frank asked, sitting back down at the table. “Couldn’t you use your freaky voodoo shit?”
“I could,” said Jean. “But I’m asking you.”
“He’s fine,” said Frank. “Still breathing. He’ll be back to swinging soon, I bet.”
“Good, that’s good,” she said. She thought of that moment more than she’d like to admit, the sound of the bullet hitting flesh, the blood on her fingers, the way Peter urged her to run.
He was lucky he didn’t have Sara’s ability. Jean was sick of being told to leave people behind.
“You’re avoiding the question,” Frank said between bites. “Why come here? Why not go to Peter? Or anywhere else?”
“Did you feel better?” Jean asked. “When you killed the people that murdered your family.”
Frank jolted a bit, at the suddenness of the question or the mention of his family, she didn’t know. “You were in my head,” he said, watching her carefully. “Shouldn’t you know?”
She shook her head. “I couldn’t—it wasn’t clear. I couldn’t tell.”
Frank barked out a laugh at that, startling her. “Well. That makes two of us, I guess.”
“My sister is dead,” she said, “because those men tortured her until her mind gave out. She died in agony, Frank. I felt it.”
“And you want those people to feel the same pain she felt,” Frank said.
“Didn’t you?” she asked.
“Yeah,” said Frank. “So I put a bullet in every one of ‘em. And guess what, kid, I’m in the same boat I was ten years ago.” He gestured to the room around them. “Alone and surrounded by ghosts. You sure you wanna be like me?”
All Jean really wanted was to be with her sister again. Maybe Frank could see that somewhere on her face, because he softened a bit.
“You wanna fight the good fight, I say go for it,” he said. “But you and I both know I’m not the one you need to talk to about that.”
The first time Jean jumped after Sara was taken, it was into a little girl maybe half her age, laughing with her mother as they ate ice cream cones. She’d jumped out after a few seconds, unaccustomed to the vertigo, sure, but also overwhelmed by the love and care she’d felt for those moments, the utter safety of a mother’s arms. She’d dry-heaved into a bush for half an hour afterwards.
“He’s too good,” said Jean. “I’ll fuck it up. I’m not—right in the head. You know what I’ve done. What I can do.”
Frank sighed. “I know that you don’t want to be alone,” he said. “And I know that as soon as Spider-Man is back out there, he’s gonna be searching for you.”
Jean was silent for a moment.
“Look, kid,” said Frank. “It’s late. Stay the night, and in the morning we can go talk to Peter, if you’re still here. If you’re not, I’ll tell him you don’t wanna be found. Capiche?”
Jean studied him. She'd been inside his head. As fucked up as it was in there, she knew when he was lying.
“Okay,” she said.
***
“Huh,” Frank said the next morning, standing by the stove when she emerged from the other room.
“What?” Jean said. “You didn’t expect me to stick around?”
He raised his hands—still holding a spatula—in surrender. “Nobody ever actually listens to me,” he said. “Color me surprised.”
“Please tell me you know how to make something edible,” she said in response.
He scowled and pointed at her. “Lemme tell you something—“
“Oh, please do—“
“That chili is my grandmother’s recipe, and I won’t have you—“
“Did your grandmother make it during the Great Depression, because that would explain—“
“—slandering it’s name—“
“The eggs are burning,” she said, coming closer to peek into the pan.
Frank cursed and stopped arguing in favor of salvaging their breakfast.
She took a seat at the table, same spot as yesterday. The eggs were decent, she’d give him that. Reminded her of how her mother used to make them, before.
“You’re coming with me to Peter’s?” she asked.
“If you want me to,” said Frank.
She shrugged. “I don’t care what you do.”
“Alright, kid,” Frank said with a hint of a smile. “Yeah, I’ll come.”