"Come on, you'll be fine. I promise."
It's that first panic attack. If you're lucky, it's a 'one-off.' Unlucky; plagued by them for the rest of your life. It's the shaking. The pressure of harsh fingers coiling around your neck and and squeezing so tight that the dizziness progresses to nausea and then unconsciousness. It's not being able to leave your house for weeks on end. It's visiting the doctor and hoping that the therapy works. It's the medication that turns you into the lifeless shell of a once vibrant person. It's everything being stolen from you; yourself included.
One of the worst parts of anxiety is the lack of feeling grounded. Which is why I despise flying. The sheer idea of it is enough to make my palms slick with sweat and turn me into a jittering and shaking bundle of nerves. I want to stay as firm to the ground as possible. If I could use Peter's webs to secure myself to the floor- I most definitely would.
"No. Absolutely not."
He looks up at me with a longing gaze, his eyes as sweet and as sickly as honeycomb. I cross my arms firmly against my chest as he hangs dejectedly out of the window; one leg in the room and one leg dangling in the light breeze. His mask is clutched in his hands, staying firmly stable as mine tremble in fear. Even reluctantly bringing myself to look through the window and down at the ground below us is more than I'm comfortable with.
"Why not?"
"Because we're on the sixth floor! Why can't we just take the elevator like normal people?" I sigh in frustration, fiddling with the hem of my dress.
"But I'm strong, and... sticky," he attempts to convince me, though I can't help but chuckle, "Come on, we might never get to come back to Berlin. "
"You're going to drop me."
"I'm not going to drop you. Can you please just trust me?"
"Trust you?" I scoff in disbelief, "Peter, I hardly know you."
His cheeks flush slightly as he stammers out a reply, "You know me enough to know that I wouldn't intentionally hurt you, right?"
He cocks his head out of the window, gesturing to the unfamiliar town below us which is begging to be explored. Sights aching to be found; pretzels desperate to be eaten.
His eyes glaze over in that soft and longing anticipation; I cave.
Rolling my eyes in dread, as well as reluctancy, I sigh defeatedly, "If you drop me, I will make pottery out of your bones."
His lips twitch up into an animated and excited grin, as I shove his camera into my bag and tightly coil my fingers around his, taking a shaky step towards the window ledge.
His arm firmly clasps around my waist. I brace myself.
And we drop.
My body feels as weightless as a single feather. It's almost as if we're dramatically descending in an elevator, though there is certainly no floor beneath our feet. Just what seems to be an endless void of freezing wind, buildings and monuments swirling into a messy yet breathtaking Monet as the sights begin to bleed together, the cold air causing my eyes to water profusely.
I hardly think twice at the tears collecting in my eyelashes as the oxygen is stolen from my lungs and we plunge to the ground again, barely skimming the cobbled pavement before Peter effortlessly launches us from building to building.
My curls ripple in the aggressive wind.
All sense of security fleeting.
Though... I feel...
Safe...
He chuckles as I bury my head further into his neck, slotting myself into the space between his shoulder and his jaw, gripping onto him so firmly that I wouldn't be surprised if my fingertips had embedded within his skin by the time we arrive onto solid ground.
A sharp shriek escapes my lips as our bodies unlock from one another, his grasp slipping from its secure hold around my waist and guarding my firmly wrapped and bandaged wound. I feel myself beginning to plummet down to the cobbles, my heart pushing itself into my mouth. My fingernails pierce the skin of my palms as the realisation that his arm isn't reassuringly clasped around me hits. He's not there.
It's a split second, perhaps not even that, but I swear, the amount of panic and fear suddenly flooding my body would suffice an entire lifetime.
But he hasn't even let go.
His hand is still firmly intertwined in mine. In fact, it's not even my palms being penetrated by my fingernails- it's his. He snatches me through the air and into my previous position of my legs being firmly coiled around his waist, my arms subconsciously gripping around his neck.
We slow to a stop, and it takes me a moment to gather myself enough to pry apart my eyelids and drop my feet onto the security and familiarity of a firm surface, even if it is just the roof of an apartment building.
My ears throb with the viciousness of the freezing air clawing at them, before the dull thud of a party, complimented by slightly intoxicated chatter, echos its way around me.
"D'you wanna go?" Peter asks me, his tone calm. Neither gasping for breath or heaving in fear. Before he quickly slides his arm away from me, almost jumping back in refrain.
"Whatever, I don't care. I just want to stay vertical, on the ground," I wail, before he takes grasp of me again and skips between towering rooftops and locates the source of the chatter and pounding music.
Submerging myself into the bustling and bouncing gathering of what I assume to be college students, my fluttering heart seems to subconsciously match the pounding bass of the deafening music. I furiously rub my eyes and press my fingertips into my eyelids; anything in attempt to wake myself from the permanent disconnected state.
Dad likes to throw parties. Well, liked.
I've heard some hilarious stories from before my impromptu and rather surprising arrival and my father and Pepper's inevitable relationship, a ridiculous number of parties lasting for days at a time with all of the hot A-list celebrities attending; a lot of models. Mostly models. The sheer thought makes me shudder.
I know his reputation, and it's quite sickening, having your Dad labelled as a bit of a... philanderer.
I couldn't possibly bring myself to use a more informal word, truthfully, it would just make it seem worse.
I suppose that's one of the very few things that my father and I don't have in common; he thrives off the the attention from others, while frankly, the thought of burning eyes criticising my every move and accentuating every tiny mistake or error I make, kind of makes me want to throw up. Shut down. Shut off.
The sidelines can be comforting. The disconnected state is familiar and well-endured.
Crowds, aching eyes and burning questions aren't exactly something I'd ever wish to experience.
I pinch sharply at the skin between my index and middle finger, my eyelids suddenly clasping at the slight tug of my nails pulling away. Though I still don't feel awake.
I have the sneaking suspicion that I've been dragging myself through the past three and a half years in a dazed state- the draining cusp of consciousness and sleep. At four AM, confined in the comforting walls of my suffocating bedroom, the promise of permanent sleep had never tasted so sweet. My rotting brain had allowed the bittersweet flavour of the to progress and begin playing on my lips and coating my tongue, rolling around in my mouth and brushing against my teeth. I had let the fixation envelop me; longing for absolute nothingness. Plain, black, deep... nothing. How sweet a thought could have seemed.
But at the time, I had something to pin it to, that I let myself talk about; Mom dying.
Revisiting the root of the trauma- Killian- it was too terrifying.
And now... it seems as though society has fabricated a time limit on the grieving period, simultaneously without specifying the acceptable amount of time one can spend locked away from others without everyone becoming bored.
A tragic story which is meant to be forgotten after a few days, only revisited on an annual basis.
Daily.
The heartbreak and nauseating loss was daily.
Every second of every day.
It never left.
It still hasn't.
What was it my shrink told me about 'unhealthy coping mechanisms'?
The atmosphere of the party practically knocks all of the air out of my body. Perhaps I have just forgotten what it feels to be close to this many people, and I'm not going to deny that it is slightly overwhelming. The back of my neck turns sticky with sweat, as the humidity in the air from the amount of people completely intoxicated and dancing as if the world is on fire and this is their last night they'll be alive, penetrates my skin and sends a sickly rush of heat throughout my body.
No.
I have to stay cold.
I grip gently onto Peter's hand, pulling him back slowly towards me. I fucking hate myself.
I can't help but cringe at my clinginess; sure he's growing annoyed. I slide my hand from his, which he has begun to squeeze ever so slightly in reassurance.
"You okay?" he leans in close and whisper-shouts in my ear.
"Fine. I was about to say I don't want to lose you, but I think that's pretty impossible with the red and blue spandex," I stretch my lips into a natural and carefree smile. I assume he returns, I can't see under his mask, but a chuckle peeks through the fabric and the loud music.
I busy myself with rummaging through my bag, turning away from him to take deep breaths.
The cold air finally manages to find its way down the back of my dress and run down my spine, causing me to shiver suddenly. I curse myself for not bringing a jacket and can't help but long for the warm duvet covers crumped on my bed back in my hotel room.
No.
Stop.
It's our last night in Berlin and I am not ruining it.
Didn't Dad tell me to experience what it's like to be a teenager?
Well, here you go, Dad. Fucking happy now?
I drag Peter over to a table, which I think might have been organised at some point during the rowdy night, though I can't be too sure as now there's sticky crimson patches staining the tablecloth alongside numerous plastic cups, and I think I even see one poking out a bowl of chips.
"Do you want a drink?" I yell into Peter's ear in order to distract myself from the booming music causing my head to throb as well as swallowing any faint sound parting my lips from joining the space around us. I pick up two plastic beakers from a what I hope to be a clean stack towering on the almost collapsed table, deliberating on whether to fill them both with the sticky red liquid, which seems to be splattered across the floor and glueing my sneakers to the concrete.
"What?" he shouts as he leans further into me, his cheek quickly brushing against mine.
"Do you want a drink?" I repeat.
"I'm not twenty-one. Neither are you," his voice flooding with confusion yet amusement.
I roll my eyes at his absolute predictability- of course, even miles away from home- Peter Parker can't fully let loose.
Deciding against drinking the ominous punch having not known its contents, I dig around in the ice cooler until I manage to find two of the very few non-alcoholic drinks. The cans of Diet Coke slip around in my hands due to the condensation and water dripping across my fingers, though as I toss it to Peter, he catches it firmly in his hands. His grip tight and secure, while my drink slips around in my clasp as I attempt to push down the tab.
"Here," he pushes his opened can into my hands while effortlessly opening the other and taking a long gulp.
While my manners are usually impeccable, I just cannot bring myself to mutter a 'thank you,' and instead decide upon a gentle nod of my head. He pulls his mask back over his mouth as he finishes sipping the soda, meaning I don't see a frown or a slight crinkle in his expression due to picking up on my impoliteness.
I fish around in my bag, before pulling out Peter's camera, which he takes in his hands enthusiastically. The slight brush of our fingers colliding is enough to send electricity through my veins.
Soon enough, Peter is pulled further into the crowd. Tipsy blondes and a very pretty girl with tight coiled curls sweeping past her prominent cheekbones, her face like an acorn both in shape and shade, begin to crowd around him. She isn't quite as full-on as the rest of the girls in her group, though her natural aura is enchanting. I suppose I couldn't blame Peter for wanting to be around her. I want to be around her.
They pose in front of his camera before sucking him back into their group, clasping their arms around him as they jump up and down to the heavy beats of some sort of German hip-hop song, something I have never heard in my life. Definitely not my distinctive taste- yet enjoyable given the circumstances.
He jostles through the crowd after a few unrecognisable songs blare into my ears. "Aren't you coming to dance?" he asks slightly breathlessly as he pulls the goggles from his suit and rubs his eyes gently. He hands me them and I tuck them away into the bottom of my bag.
"There are two kinds of people in the world, Peter. People who dance, and people who do not." I say before taking another sip of my soda.
"And which one are you?"
"Peter, do I look like I'm dancing?"
"You're a wallflower," he chuckles fondly.
"And that's supposed to be an insult?" I snap, despite my lips twitching into a smile.
"No-" he stutters in attempt to save himself.
I pull my phone from my bag and bring up the dictionary on Google. "Wallflower- a person who, because of shyness, unpopularity, or lack of partner, remains at the side at a party or dance."
"That's you," he chuckles hesitantly.
I finish off the rest of my Coke and throw it down my throat like mouthwash, before crushing the aluminium can in my palm and tossing it to Peter. "You know what, Parker. Just to prove to you that I am not a wallflower, and my 'lack of popularity' and 'shyness' isn't holding me back- which, by the way, don't forget we're at a German college party surrounded by drunk strangers- you can be my partner."
I curl my fingers around his, feeling him hesitate and pull away slightly before intertwining his hand in mine, and lead him into the centre of the crowd. The music is so loud, I can feel the pounding of the bass vibrating inside of my brain, making my insides turn over. The air seems so scarce despite being outdoors. It feels impossible to breathe, as my lungs burn for fresh oxygen in my chest.
Perhaps this is what it's like to feel alive. And maybe I've just forgotten how to do it.
I think he's so compelling.
Especially now, especially when he's just in the moment you can tell that he's grateful to be alive.
He leans in close and asks me something, which is what I'm indicating from the curious tone of his indecipherable voice, though I'm not too sure, because Joy Divison is playing so forcefully, I think my ear drums may be on the brink of bursting. Part of me is screaming at myself to run back to the hotel, seek comfort under the thick duvet covers on my bed.
But the louder part of my brain is yelling at me to stay, stick it out, pretend to have fun just so that I can prove Peter wrong.
That typical stubbornness of Tony Stark which I just so happened to inherit.
And I suppose I am honestly enjoying myself.
And I suppose I am slightly remembering what it feels like to be alive.
I feel more connected to the world.
I feel like I'm part of the moment.
"Sorry?" I yell, though he seems too submerged in the music and the moment to register my cracking voice.
I clamp my eyes shut and desperately relish in the faint hint of being alive, rather than the bleak ordeal of plainly 'living.' I allow myself to be excited and content, contrasting dramatically from the usual discomfort of the condition of my brain and my mental state.
—
I watch as he swings back and forth between towering offices and rustic yet quaint and picturesque buildings, a few tipsy blondes, and the pretty girl with the enchanting aura, clutched at his side tightly as he alternates between them all.
I don't even feel slightly sympathetic or sorry for the loudest girl in the group, when Peter returns her to the rooftop and she throws up all over the second obnoxiously loud girl.
I'm not sure why.
Though I feel very sorry for myself due to the intense burning on my hip from my wound. As it turns out, dancing only a few hours after accidentally stabbing yourself during a fight with- and simultaneously against- the Avengers, isn't exactly the best for healing.
I busy myself with checking my inbox on my phone for perhaps the twentieth time in the past fifteen minutes, attempting to look less lonely as I stand alone and watch all of the action from a distance.
The anxiety has returned. I knew the peace would be fleeting. I just didn't expect to feel so delicate and exhausted.
Nothing.
No messages.
Not a word from Nat.
Not a word from Dad.
I debate on whether or not to call Wanda.
I tap my fingertips against the smooth plastic of my cup, which is full of the sickly crimson concoction. I have finally managed to bring myself to drink it despite the burning sensation it leaves in my mouth and throat. I sit with it balancing carefully on my lap while staring at the tiny bubbles, straining my eyes which causes my head to pound as I look deeper into the various shades of red. Its about seventy percent cheap Vodka and thirty percent cherry soda.
"I wouldn't drink that if I were you, you never know what they're putting in there," a boy with striking black hair and ivy-colored eyes says through a thick German accent, gesturing to the cup clutched in my hands, "I don't recognise you. You're American, aren't you? Who invited you?"
"I'm from New York," I breezily reply back, still fiddling with the cup in my hands.
"You still haven't answered my question," he drawls, "who invited you?"
I wrack my brain for any sort of believable excuse. You'd assume that with being Tony Stark's daughter, lying would be second nature to me, and usually it is, aside from when I'm in really bad trouble with Dad- the time Thor and I accidentally set fire to the curtains in the living area of Stark Tower- or when a rather charming German boy is stood right next to me, "No one... we just sort of-"
"Decided to gatecrash?"
"Absolutely."
"And you are here with the spider?" he gestures towards Peter, who is still swinging back and forth between buildings, his loud chuckling every so often becoming audible through the music.
My lips curl into a smile, "Yeah, I'm with him."
"You're 'with him?' Or you have just come with him?"
"We're just friends, if that's what you're asking".
"A friend who leaves you by yourself at a party? He doesn't sound like a very good one."
"He doesn't have to babysit me, you know? I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself. He's allowed to have fun, too," I snap. I suppose I felt slightly dejected and lonely with Peter having left me, but having someone make a dig at him seems completely intolerable. I force the rest of the alcohol and soda concoction down my throat and grimace at the feeling.
He chuckles at my pained expression, "My apologies, I have clearly struck a nerve. Drink this, it's better," he tosses me an unopened can of beer, before cracking one open for himself and taking a long gulp.
"You don't look like a college student. Isn't this a college party?"
"It's my brother's party. My parents sent me to stay at his apartment while they're working. I'm Stefan Hoffman, by the way. And I'm not a university- college- student. I am still in High School," he chuckles as he gestures to an old brick building, which is extremely visible due to how high up we are. It is almost the complete opposite of Midtown Tech. Yet also surprisingly similar.
"What do your parents do for work?" I ask, without tearing my eyes away from the historical-looking school. It somehow seems even more charming with the stars as an enchanting backdrop.
"Their occupation? They work for the J.T.T.F."
"Joint Terrorism Task Force?"
He hums in confirmation before taking another mouthful of beer, which I find tastes watery and slightly bitter as I lift the can up to my lips and take a sip. I quickly swallow it down, grimacing at the foul taste lingering in my mouth. I wonder if Peter would be upset with me for drinking. Though I suppose there's a vast difference between drinking and being drunk. I think my dad still has yet to learn it.
"Now, can you at least tell me your name?" Stefan asks me.
I finish the rest of my drink, making sure my face doesn't screw up and my eyes don't twitch at the disgusting taste, before sinking my teeth into a strip of gum. "Bonnie Stark."
He turns to me with a bewildered expression plastered across his face, "Tell me you're kidding. The world is oblivious to the heir of Stark Industries, why is that, Miss Stark?"
"And why is it you feel entitled to that information, Mr Hoffman?"
"I am merely drawn to you, Bonnie. Only curiosity," he smirks as I roll my eyes.
"Hey, do you wanna get out of here?" Peter yells to me over the blaring music. I notice his chest rising and falling slightly faster than usual, probably breathless from effortlessly heaving the obnoxiously loud girls back and forth between the towering buildings.
I nod my head in confirmation before turning to Stefan, "It's been a real slice. See you, maybe." I wave goodbye to Stefan before making my way to Peter.
"Your father has made my parents' life exceptionally more difficult. Perhaps you have had that same effect on mine." Stefan calls after me, causing Peter to cock his head to the side slightly, in confusion and curiosity.
He curls his arm around my waist again, before slinging us across the city. My screaming making yet another appearance.
I land with a slight stumble as my feet hit the ground harshly. I swallow the chunks down harshly.
"Come on, I'm pretty sure this is where the guy with the pretzel stall was," Peter pulls me away from the secluded alleyway and into the main street. It's mostly empty aside from a middle-aged, wealthy-looking woman with who I assume is her husband, and also two older teenage boys holding hands and carrying skateboards.
We skip up to the stall as the larger man that I recognise from earlier begins to pack away, though his familiar smile curls back onto his lips as he catches sight of me. His eyebrows furrow slightly at the masked boy beside me, though I suppose it could slip by unnoticed if one wasn't paying attention.
"Bratwurst and pretzels? Have you ever had that?" Peter studies the menu hanging above the man's hairless head as he remains staring at us expectantly.
"Peter?"
"Yeah?" he replies without taking his focus from the board.
"I'm a vegetarian."
He chuckles slightly before gesturing to the bag strung across my shoulder, looking for permission that he's allowed to have a look through, "you probably won't want that then," he picks around the mess in my bag, empty gum packets and all, before finally finding his wallet. "Hey, could we get two salted pretzels please? Thanks."
He turns to me as the man begins to prepare our order, "Wait, you're okay with that, right? Because if you'd rather have something else then I can-"
"Do you ever stop talking, Parker? I'm fine. It's exactly what I wanted," I interrupt his panicked rambling. I can imagine his cheeks flushing scarlet in embarrassment.
We're presented with two giant pretzels only seconds later, causing Peter and I to bicker over who's paying for the next five minutes, our warm pretzels turning cold in our hands. The disagreement is cut short as Peter manages to slip the cost for both of our orders into the hands of the man behind the cash register before I can pull the coins out of my purse, which puts me in a slightly bitter mood.
"Are you happy now that you've finally got your pretzel?" he asks me as we trail away from the food stall and further down the street lined with old-fashioned street lights.
"I'd be happier if you had let me pay for it myself," I sigh in annoyance, though I can tell that beneath his mask he's smiling beside me.
I sink my teeth through the salty bread, which is still surprisingly quite warm, and grin in contentment and triumph over the events of today. Even if we did technically 'lose' the fight, even if we didn't necessarily stop Steve and Barnes from fleeing Germany, I still managed to fight in my first real mission, and I think deserves a celebration in itself. Peter certainly thinks so too.
The streets become clearer when we trail into an older part of the city- Nikolaiviertel. It's quaint and charming, there are small houses instead of the previous tall buildings, narrow streets instead of wide boulevards. There are a few bars which seem to be open, though the rest of the cafés and restaurants are closed, due to it being almost two in the morning. I could imagine the streets being packed with members of the town and several tourists throughout the day, though now it's practically deserted.
Peter pulls his mask off, his brown locks being left slightly disheveled, before he tucks into his pretzel. We follow the direction of the river, several boats laying in the water and desperate to be used tomorrow. It's so beautifully unlike New York, I think I could stay here forever.
"Don't you think it's beautiful?" I mumble while taking in my surroundings. It feels so unbearably cruel that we haven't had more time to explore the city.
"Yeah. I mean, it's definitely different to Queens," he says as he finishes off the rest of his pretzel.
My eyes drift to a vast window, the slight glow of the street lamps illuminating the space around us. The vermillion writing on the glass reads 'Schmuck & Kunsthandwerk Berlin,' and by the looks of the stands and shelves showcasing gorgeous rings and necklaces of various colours and various metals with various charms and styles- it's most definitely a jewellery store.
My feet carry me over in anticipation and curiosity without my brain even registering it, and I can hear the light tapping of Peter's footsteps following close behind me.
A delicate silver band holding a scarlet gemstone immediately catches my eye. According to the tag beside it, the stone is Red Spinel, which I would have mistaken for Ruby. It's so enthralling I barely noticed Peter, who is now stood beside me and following my gaze to the precious ring.
"Do you like it?" he asks me after a while.
"Do you like breathing?" I say sarcastically, before resuming my tranced state, "It's gorgeous. I can't believe the store is shut and we're leaving for New York in..." I pull Peter's cellphone from my bag and check the time, "five hours. There's no way I'll have time to come down here tomorrow morning."
I sigh in disappointment, feeling slightly deflated, before Peter pulls out his camera out of my purse, presses record and points the lens towards me, "Bonnie is upset because she found a really pretty ring, but the store is closed," he slides the camera from me, to the ring, zooming in on the rich tone of the stone.
"Come on," I tug at his wrist without thinking, causing him to jump slightly and stiffen in my grasp. I decide against making a comment on his natural awkward demeanour, "Let's go, this is just making me sad," and trail off further along the riverside.
He lingers by the window for a moment longer, before tearing the camera away and jogging slightly to catch up with me.
"I think the pink earrings next to it would look really pretty on Liz."
My mind scribbles a psychological sketch of the girl that Peter has been pining over for the past year or so, according to Ned. My memory is hazy despite having only seen her a day prior. I etch out the parts of her face that have stuck in my brain, and I can't bring myself to skip past her prominent cheekbones and doll-like eyes, which perfectly compliment her plump lips, which I think I can remember were stained a dark pink last time- the only time- I saw her.
As humans, it's only in our nature to judge people based on our initial interactions- even before our initial interactions. I had already pieced together my opinions and constructed my very own versions of her personality in my mind. A typical rich suburban girl with a perfect family, perfect grades...
I suppose if I were in the public eye, people might assume that about me.
She's the kind of girl that makes cookies every Monday in order to raise the burnt-out spirits of her best friends from the previous weeks. She's the kind of girl that manages to run the student council, while being captain of the debate team and one of the most talented cheerleaders on the squad. She's the kind of the girl that doesn't even have to try; she just is.
Without having even gotten to know her, I have already fabricated my very own interpretation.
Truth is, she could be the complete opposite.
Though, I'm not fucking stupid.
And I'm always right.
Liz is the type of girl that mirrors the sun. She is warm, and people bask in it. Every inch of her practically glows in a tender yet condescending manner. You can't suppress the immediate smile which curls onto your lips whenever she is around.
And maybe I'm the type of girl that mirrors the moon. And maybe I'm cold, and people run from it. Every inch of me practically devours everything with heavy black clouds. You can't force a smile onto your lips when I am around.
I am not a sunshine girl; just a mere black hole which terminates everything in its surroundings.
"She'd look lovely, Peter." Because she would. I know she would. She is lovely.
"She would," he drawls, his lips twitching into a bashful grin while his arms swing back and forth at his sides in a carefree fashion. You wouldn't assume that he had been fighting alongside and simultaneously against the Avengers only twelve hours prior.
"You know, I think 'lovely' is my favourite word."
"Yeah?"
"Well, that and 'fuck.'"
He breaks into a familiar soft chuckle, shaking his head. "Figures."
"Is that supposed to be an insult, Peter Parker?" My brow furrows, though my mouth remains curled in an affectionate and light-hearted grin.
"No, it's just a word that I think describes you well."
"Well then, Peter. How would you describe me?"
He fades to silence as he gathers his thoughts. He stops in his tracks, halting in the middle of the dim cobbled street and lightly grasping my upper forearm so that I don't continue on without him.
He brings his eyes up to meet mine, "Funny, self-deprecating, passionate, doesn't play well with others, head-strong, ambitious," he pauses before his eyes dart to the floor and his cheeks flush crimson, "pretty."
"Wow, look at that. You didn't have to add on that part at the end. So, you assume that because I'm a girl, I must stereotypically hold pride in my appearance? My value is determined by my beauty and how desirable and good-looking I'm deemed, right?"
He stutters as he attempts to save himself and explain his reasoning, "N-No. That's not what I meant-"
"I'm kidding, Peter," I say after watching him struggle momentarily. I giggle at his relieved expression, before resuming our stroll along the riverside. "You've literally just described me as if I'm my dad, but thanks."
"You're not your dad. That would be weird," he grimaces.
"What? How come? Peter, you're literally obsessed with him."
"I'm not!"
The space around us floods with a comfortable silence. Well, aside from the humming of music penetrating through the brick walls of several pubs, it's quiet.
Normally, silence would be an overwhelming trigger for my debilitating anxiety. Too much pressure. Too much pressure to initiate conversation, and to remain connected enough to the world around me in order to string a sentence together and keep the chat going.
But I love it.
I love silence.
I love it when it is just me. Just myself. I hate to admit that the idea of allowing my brain to collapse within itself seems so appealing to me.
But I don't feel any of that coercion into talking. I don't feel flustered and stressed. My hands aren't shaking. My throat doesn't feel so tight. I don't feel the need to flee, retreat to the comforting walls of my confining bedroom and bury myself within the duvet covers until I feel stable enough to face the world- to face everyone- again.
I'm just in a state of serenity.
I'm not sure why it's so different.
My fingertips brush gently against Peter's, causing us to both whip away from each other. He preoccupies himself by running his hand through his dishevelled waves, though I hiss at my sudden and rather aggressive movement which taints with my healing wound. I feel the skin split slightly and clutch at my hip, halting suddenly in the middle of the cobbles while Peter looks at me in concerned curiosity.
"Fuck!" I groan as I double over, gritting my teeth at the aggressive burning.
He rushes over to me and crouches down, attempting to make out the faint hint of fresh, sticky blood seeping through the thick bandage as well as the black satin material of my dress. Even with his fingers delicately and hardly brushing the provoked wound, it feels as through I have been stabbed all over again. Perhaps even worse than earlier.
"I told you-"
"Peter, I swear to fuck, if you say 'I told you we should have gone to hospital' or some shit, I'll make sure you'll never get to wear that stupid fucking blue and red onesie ever again- fuck!" I snap, causing him to jerk his hand away from me.
"Was that me? Did I hurt you?"
"Peter, I'll fucking hurt you, if you keep talking. Just, let me build myself back up and then we can carry on with our walk."
He scoffs in disbelief, "Bonnie, are you kidding? We're going back to the hotel."
"You're so boring-"
"And you're bleeding-"
I whimper as I attempt to straighten myself into a standing position.
"A lot."
I collapse back down into a heap on the cobbles as I attempt to regain my composure enough to carry on with the evening. I push a shaky breath out of my lungs and force a smile onto my pained expression. It wavers. He can tell.
I'm being dramatic.
I'm being dramatic.
I'm probably fine.
Honestly.
After taking a few more strained breaths, I pull myself to my feet, despite my legs feeling like unstable twigs supporting the weight of my body and ready to snap beneath me. Peter immediately wraps his arm around my waist in order to steady me, before ensuring I'm in a secure position and slinging us back across the city and to the hotel.
He opts for using the open window of my bedroom to get us into the hotel, most likely worrying about 'wasting too much time waiting for elevators' when we could be 'cleaning and bandaging the wound'.
He drops me onto my bed before rummaging through my bag to find the key o his room in order to get his trusty first-aid kit.
I clamp my eyes shut and clutch onto my hip, the whole right side of my body burning viciously.
It feels like a lifetime before Peter comes rushing back into my room, though I know it couldn't have been more than a few seconds.
He pulls his mask from his face and tosses it into the crumpled linen duvet, which I'm sure will be stained crimson with my blood by the end of the trip, before throwing the lid from his green case and fiddling quickly with taking cotton balls from packets and finding gauze strips and unscrewing vials of cleansing solution alongside bottles of antiseptic balm. He hesitates, lingering beside me awkwardly.
"What? What else do you need?" I hiss, my eyes darting between him and the fresh bandages laying beside me.
"You're... you're wearing a dress-" he begins.
"And I'm also a Scorpio. What's your point?"
"The wound is on your hip..."
"And I'm bleeding."
"I- I'd have to... pull your dress up to get to the cut. I can wait in the bathroom, if you wanna fix yourself up instead. I just don't want to come across as creepy, or-" He stumbles over his words.
"Are you fucking kidding me, Peter? I'm practically dying, I have bigger concerns than you- shit!" I groan in agony as my head begins to throb alongside the burning gash across my hip. "Fine, go in the bathroom and I'll get you when I'm finished."
He hurries away, leaving me sprawled across my bed and crumpled in the duvet.
"Okay, so, first thing you wanna do is take the bandage off and-" he explains, his panicked voice penetrating through the thick wooden door and echoing in and out of my ears.
"Oh my god," I grimace as I peel back the dressing, the sensation of the dry blood tugging against my skin makes me shudder.
"What?"
"It's green."
"What?"
"I'm kidding,"
"Is it okay if I come in? I'm sorry, I just need to make sure you're actually okay and, you know, not dying," he waits for my confirmation before he pushes open the bathroom door, his left hand pressed firmly across his eyes in order to block his vision from catching sight of me with my dress pulled up to my waist.
"Peter, stop being so dramatic and just open your eyes. I'm fine with you seeing me, but what I'm not fine with is this huge fucking gash on my hip spewing out blood."
He drops his hands from his face and rushes back to the bathroom to fetch a damp washcloth, before gently scrubbing away at the blood crusted to my newly-stained crimson skin. He avoids looking directly at me the whole time, his eyes dancing around the room and focusing anywhere aside from me. I yelp as he accidentally prods the deepest section of the cut.
"Fucking hell, Parker. What are you doing? Here, give," I snatch the damp cloth from his hands and scowl, the red tinge to his cheeks perfectly showcasing his embarrassment. He still can't bring himself to look at me.
I slather the wound with the antibiotic balm once again, before sealing everything in with a bandage. Peter awkwardly lingering the whole time, yet attempting to seem as disconnected from the situation as possible.
"So... do you-"
"You can skip the awkward chit-chat now, Peter. I'm covered," I slide off from the mattress and shove the green case into his arms, watching as his chest falls dramatically, evidently letting out a breath that I hadn't even known he had been holding.
He stays rooted to the floor for a moment, before trailing off back to his room, the case in his grasp.
I slip out of my dress, the satin brushing softly against my skin, causing goosebumps to rise across my body, before pulling on something slightly comfier and warmer.
Collapsing back into my bed, I begin to mentally run through the events of the past few days. How everything has changed.
My first real mission, granted, we lost. But I think just managing to tag along on a mission is a success within itself.
I gently trace my fingertips over the freshly covered wound, shudderingly slightly as the phantom remains of the blade slicing through my skin plays in my head for perhaps the eighth time this evening.
Evidently; I don't handle pressure very well.
There are a lot of things that I don't handle too well.
Eyes.
The interrogatory glares of thousands and thousands of eyes criticising my every move- enough to make me hurl. Enough to make me bury myself under my covers for yet more countless months. Sheets of my calendar flicking by without the pages being moved.
Time is fleeting while being at a stand-still.
Grief. That is another thing that I don't handle well. Though, I'm not sure it could be classed as something that anyone could handle 'well.'
In my case, it took a year-and-a-half alongside $10,000 in therapy to be able to say my truth, 'I'm angry... I'm very angry that Mom wasted her time with Killian and I got messed up so badly, when he was ultimately the reason she died and why I am the way I am.
The butterfly effect is something that has always fucked with my mind, the idea that a butterfly flapping its wings could trigger a tsunami thousands of miles away. It's the idea that something so innocent and angelic, could wreck havoc. It's the idea that everything is the cause of something without realising. Whether it's a miracle or the worst thing imaginable- there is always the root.
I suppose you could look at the explicit details- Killian was the root of my problems. Or maybe you'd say it was moving to London.
If you were truly vile, you'd say it was my father's fault.
I think it's the fault of the universe and time as a whole. Time is cruel. Time is a powerful yet manipulative master; temperamental and triggering. The be-all and end-all of any fragments of faint hints of happiness and contentment. He is able to stretch the most excruciating moments into lifetimes and the happiest into mere seconds. Time is never on our side- whether it's missed trains or seconds too late. Time is the enemy.
Peter shuffles into my room with his duvet draping from his shoulders, an oversized t-shirt and sweatpants making him look as boyish and as pure as ever. A stupid grin on his lips provokes annoyance deeply rooted within me. I'm not sure why.
He complains that we really should go to sleep considering the plane leaves for our journey back to New York in only a few hours. I try to convince him to watch a shitty low-budget horror movie with me- to no result. In all honesty, I'm attempting to direct myself as much as possible from thinking about returning home. Everything is going to be so strange and different. New and unfamiliar. Because everyone has left. Steve, Wanda, most likely Nat, too- gone.
It's just going to be Dad and I. And as much as I love him, I'm dreading it.
I like being by myself but I'm truly so terrified of being left alone- and more people are leaving me.
Peter and I meet in the middle and compromise- he agreed to stay in my room with me if only we try to get some sleep instead of watching Sharknado.
I sleep in the bed nearest the door; needing to keep watch incase of any intruders, which is a habit I picked up during the beginning of my 'meetings' with Killian, while Peter opts for the bed closest to the balcony. We don't talk before we sleep, we barely even look at each other. He just turns off the lamp and sinks down into the covers.
I send Wanda a text for the eighth time since the fight at the airport, not feeling hopeful for a response due to the lack of communication she has had with me all day.
—
"It's only a little while longer, sweetheart. You'll have your arm back in no time at all."
His condescending tone pokes through the searing burning throughout my body.
So intense.
I wish I would just die so it could be over with.
I can't bring myself to open my eyes. I know what He's done to me, I don't need to see it. Because I know my body will be glowing like flames. I know.
I fucking know, all too well.
—
I manage to wake myself up, unsure of how long I was sleeping. Well, I'd have preferred it if I had been awake.
4:12am- the clock reads.
My eyelashes are matted with tears and mascara, which I had forgotten to wash off earlier. I bury my face into my pillow, hoping it will swallow me whole and put an end to this shit-show. I feel as if I'm rotting from the inside. Wilting and withering like a rose beginning to die. The cracks slowly begin to grow and deepen until I fully break. It feels like nothing and everything at the same time.
"Bonnie? Are y-you... are you awake? Are you crying?" I completely forgot that Peter was here. Quite honestly, I'd forgotten that I was stuck in a hotel in the centre of Berlin, I'd forgotten that everything I had held close to me had crumbled only hours prior; the end of the Avengers as we know it. I thought I was in my bedroom back at the Compound, seconds away from dropping Wanda or Nat, possibly even Steve, a text to see if they were awake and stable enough for a chat. But now I'm stuck in Germany, knowing the only way to get back home is via flight- and everyone will be gone when I return.
And I'm angry at Peter, and I don't know why. Well, I suppose I do. I'm angry because he's here and Nat isn't. I'm angry because he's here and Wanda isn't. I'm angry because he gets to be a normal teenager and do normal teenage things like having crushes on pretty girls and getting excited over homecoming or prom or some shit.
There goes another lightbulb.
"Holy shit! What was that? Bonnie? Bonnie, are you okay?" he whispers loudly.
And I hate myself for being so angry at him, when he has done nothing at all except simply existing.
I hear the sound of his feet padding gently against the carpet and over to my bed, which he is far too awkward to sit on, so he crouches beside it to get down to my level of being curled up into the tightest ball imaginable.
I attempt to muffle my sobs, but there's honestly no point; the room is so silent I could hear a pin drop. He gently shakes me by the shoulder to check if I'm awake or not. He mutters something about how hot my skin is, in that usual Peter Parker concerned manner, which is all it takes for me to break into uncontrollable hyperventilating.
And I am so embarrassed. Because, for the second time in the space of a single day, I have had an anxiety attack in front of Peter Parker. I suppose he really wasn't joking when he said that I 'don't play well with others.'
I have to stay cold.
I cannot get hot.
I cannot go back there. To Him.
I jump up from under the covers and attempt to pry open the balcony doors to reach the cool air, but my hands are jittering so much, it's impossible to get a proper grasp on anything. I claw at my skin to check for burning. I know deep within me that it isn't the glowing type of heat that I endured in all of those 'meetings,' it's just heat from stress and getting myself all worked up over my nightmare only minutes earlier.
I think Peter must have pulled the doors open at some point when my head was stuck in the trash can beside my bed, throwing up the entire contents of my body, as a cool wind seeps into the room and immediately slows down my pulsating heart.
He hands me a bottle of chilled water, watching until my breathing slows down to a normal rate. I can hardly look at him, quite honestly I don't think I ever want to look at him again- the shame is so intense. I wish the ground would swallow me whole.
He's dead, Bonnie. Killian is dead, get over it.
Why can't I just get over it?
It feels like hours have passed, when in reality it's only been a matter of minutes, before Peter helps me shakily crawl back into bed. He doesn't press me for answers or an explanation, he just lays beside me until I eventually fall asleep again, and I assume he does too.