Clara raised a closed fist, her jaw clenched and her eyes fixed in front of her. Her breathing was steady, calm, and she was ready for everything that was about to happen. She was prepared entirely for the inevitability of-

The door swung open before she had a chance to rap her knuckles against the hard wooden door. She yelped as she was pulled into Peter's apartment, arms wrapping tight around her, and squeezing the air from her lungs. 'Too... Tight...' She wheezed.

'Sorry!' Aunt May let go, holding her hands up in apology. Stepping back from Clara, she revealed Peter standing not too far away, wearing blue jeans and a t-shirt, an unzipped hoodie over the top. 

'I still don't know how she does that,' he shrugged, thinking he really should be able to hear Clara arrive before May could. Clara shrugged, too. Some things will always remain a mystery to them. 

'Have you eaten?' May asked, already heading to the fridge. 'We have some leftover pasta salad. Or there's some of Peter's leftover Thai-'

'May! Don't give away my food!' He exclaimed, snatching it from her grasp as she pulled it from the shelf. 'Clara wouldn't want it anyway,' he said, glancing in her direction with a warning look. 

'Actually...' Clara teased. 'Thai does sound pretty good right now.'

'No!' Peter then moved to body-block the appliance, closing the door as he did. 

May put her hands on her hips, about to chastised her nephew before Clara stepped in. 'I've eaten, don't worry.'

'Well, what about something to drink? Have you drank enough? Peter, get Clara something to drink,' she ordered, squeezing round Peter so she could leave the small kitchen space. 'I'll be back in a few hours, don't get into any trouble while I'm gone!'

'Love you!' Peter called through, May saying the same in return, before the front door pulled closed. He turned to Clara, who had promptly began rummaging through his kitchen cupboards. 'You didn't eat, did you?'

'Nope,' she told him, reaching for a box of cereal. 'I just don't want Aunt May to think she has to fuss me.'

'She just worries, is all.'

'I know, I know. I love that she cares, I do,' Clara reassured him, Peter already worrying that there might be some friction between Clara and his aunt. 'I don't know how to tell her that no matter what happens, I will never lose my endless love for food. At least I hope not.'

She looked down at the box of cereal, opening the box to see it was almost empty. 'Really?' She asked Peter, knowing he would have been the one to put it back in the cupboard rather than just finish the box and throw it away. He smiled sheepishly.

'Well, if there isn't cereal...' Peter trailed off, his eyes flickering to and from the tubs of flour in the cupboard next to the one holding the cereal. 

'I've just gotten off a ten hour flight,' Clara raised her eyebrows at him.

'Is that a no?' He almost pouted, Clara rolling her eyes at his expression. 

'Fine. Pancakes it is,' she laughed. 'American, English, or French?' 

'English!' Peter grinned. When Clara shook her head slightly, he tilted his to the side. 'American?' He asked, seeing her shake her head subtly again. 'French, definitely French.'

'Crepes? Perfect! I wanted them too,' Clara beamed, turning to rummage for the crepe pan Peter had bought for the apartment. She pulled it out from between two pans, smiling at the fact Peter had only bought the pan in a successful attempt to get her to make any form of pancakes more often. 'Eggs, milk and butter, please!'

Clara reached up to a high shelf, balancing on her tiptoes to take the tub of flour from the cupboard. Peter opened the fridge, picking out the milk, a stick of butter, and a couple of eggs. He placed the items beside Clara as she pulled a metal whisk from the cutlery drawer, then watched in anticipation as she whisked the ingredients. 

'So,' Clara started, turning to face him and leaving the batter to rest. 'About "us"...'

'Oh, this conversation. Okay, sure. We can talk about it now,' Peter nodded. 

'We can,' she agreed. 'We never really got a chance to go on that date.'

'No, we didn't,' Peter said. 'But that's not your fault, or anyone's really.' 

'Debatable.'

'I meant-'

'I know what you meant,' Clara assured him, smiling lightly at his tendency to rush to correct any potential upset he may have caused. 'It's not our fault. Bad timing, is all.'

'Wasn't great,' he shook his head. 

'Understatement of the century,' Clara said dryly, walking round him to the living room and dropping onto the couch. Peter followed, falling backwards over the arm of the chair onto the couch, his head now resting on Clara's lap. She looked down at him looking up at her, and she ran her fingers through his brown curls. 

Peter watched as the moment stretched on, and the small smile slowly falling from her lips.

It was the silence that pulled her back; the lack of sounds to distract her, and the lack of any thought other than...

Clara's gaze grew distant, almost as it had in the days after finding out about her mother's death. 'Clara?' He sat up, adjusting his position to face her fully.

'I was so relieved to be home,' she said quietly. 'To still be alive after Tower Bridge.'

'Clara...' Peter started, seeing she had been pulled back by the grief, just like how she had been in the days after finding out about her mother's death. 

'When I got home, when Dad,' she paused, pressing her lips together as she took a breath. 'When John told me she was in the building when it came down, when we went to help her, I didn't even think of the possibility that she...'

Peter didn't speak, staying quiet as she spoke to him about it for the first time. 'Sorry, you- you don't want to hear about it.' She shook her head, looking down at her lap with the best smile she could muster, before realising Peter wasn't there anymore. 

When she found him sitting next to her, he gave her a sad look. Not sympathy, something else; an expression full of understanding and attentiveness. 'Right,' she said, falling quiet for a long moment. 'I thought she was like me. I thought they both were. I guess I kind of thought they were invincible - that they had their powers all figured out.'

'God, Peter, what am I supposed to do?' She pulled her legs onto the sofa, wrapping her arms around her knees. 'I knew my life wasn't exactly normal, but this? What the fuck,' she groaned, dropping her legs back down, and tipping her head back. 'I don't even know what I'm supposed to feel anymore.'

Peter frowned. 'What do you mean?' 

Clara looked at him as though he was insane for not knowing exactly what she meant. 'I mean, my mum dies, then I find out she wasn't actually my mum, and that my actual mum died before I was even born, and I somehow survived her turning to ash while she was pregnant with me, and that I got my powers from an Infinity Stone, and somehow saved my fake parents when I was a millisecond old.' 

'Oh, that,' Peter winced. 

'I went out of my mind trying to find Karli, because she killed who I thought was my mum. Then, we lose her, and I hardly feel anything about it because I'm so caught up on whether or not I should hold the fact they lied to me against John and Laura,' she went on to explain. 'I know how I felt before I found out, and a part of me- a big part of me, still feels that. But there's also a part of me that can't stop thinking about all the lies they told and I hate them for that.' 

A single tear fell from Clara's eyes, and she quickly wiped it away. 'And I hate myself for never figuring out that it was all a lie. All of it.' 

'Not all of it, Clara,' Peter reminded her. 'They still love you.'

'Yeah,' she sighed. 'Just not enough to tell me the truth, apparently.'

'Clara, I don't think that's fair,' Peter said gently. 'They thought the best thing they could do for you was to stop the secret ever getting out.'

Clara bit her lip, refusing to cry. After a few seconds, she spoke again. 'I know, but... Did they not trust me enough not to tell anyone? I mean, I kept the secret of having any powers at all for sixteen years.'

'Didn't you tell me, Bucky, and Sam about the Aether thing, like, as soon as you found out?' 

'Err, first of all, you were listening in on the conversation, second of all, that's different,' she pointed a finger at him, but a small smile threatened to break free even through it all. 

'Seriously though, Clara,' Peter told her. 'It's okay to not know how to feel. It's messy and complicated, and everything sucks, so it's gonna take a second to figure it all out. Just do what you always do; take it one step at a time.' 

'But where do I even start?' 

Peter looked from her to the kitchen countertop, seeing the bowl of pancake batter still sitting on the side. 'Well, you could start with the- Ow!' He yelped as a pillow whacked him on the side of the head, the cushion tossed by Clara bouncing off of his head and onto the floor. 

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