As soon as my eyes open during the onset of dawn on Wednesday morning, I can't wait until I am back buried away within my bedsheets. Sleeping.
Quite honestly, going to Midtown Tech seems as terrifying and as nauseating as my nightmares.
"Good morning, it is 6am. The weather in Manhattan, New York is 68 degrees Fahrenheit with scattered clouds."
Even the quotes scribbled down onto the post-it notes hanging from the wall behind my bed and only inches from my face don't help me. Carpe diem, and all that bullshit.
As I turn the shower on and the freezing water hits against the my shoulders, I think about the day ahead. Don't speak, don't be noticed— only by him.
And I'll most likely give him shit for the bank robbery. Standard Stark.
It's only for a few days— I repeat over and over again in my head in a rather feeble attempt in convincing myself that it's all going to be okay. I'm smart, I know I'm smart. Correction- was. Equations still swirl together in some sort of unfamiliar language as the trauma has wrecked my brain from working the way it once did. Stick to writing; it's manageable now. I feel like a slight imposter with being the daughter of Tony and the assumed prodigy and next-in-line of Stark Industries while not being as intelligent as him. Though I doubt anyone ever could be.
I am smart, extremely smart, just not necessarily mathematically— not the way I used to be. Perhaps some day I will be able to solve equations as quickly as I used to, though I suppose that that would probably be the day when I finally manage to get over everything that happened to me. That seems pretty far off.
I run the shampoo through my drenched curls and scrub my skin, trying to wash away the fatigue, before stepping out of the shower. I feel just as exhausted as I did when I first woke up. Sleep deprivation, not something I'd ever recommend. Not something I'm glad I suffer from.
I almost manage to braid my hair— very nearly—before shuddering and deciding to leave it hanging down past my shoulders. How pathetic; I can't even style my hair a certain way without remembering the unforgettable absence of Natasha Romanoff. Instead, I stray for something as far away as possible from braids.
Happy doesn't say a word in the car; hardly looks at me. I suppose that he is most likely preoccupied within himself, compiling colossal lists in his mind of all of the things that need to be done before moving day is inevitably brought about. I stare out of the window— which has no raindrops to be seen— and watch as all of the people rush by on their daily commutes, all while Led Zeppelin plays quietly as an ambient soundtrack to my thoughts.
I remember the exact route to the school, and can feel the dread become more overwhelming as every second ticks by. Spending practically every hour in the Compound feels like crawling into an empty casket and laying down, but I could imagine nothing worse than attending Midtown Tech again. It sucks out the tiny amount of life left inside of me. And, it's not even Friday. I can't get $1 pizza. It just seems pointless.
As we pull up to the familiar side street a few blocks away from the school, Happy turns to me, "Have a good day, that's what your Dad told me to say to you. You got lunch money?"
"Yeah, Happy. Don't stress. I'll see you at 2:45, pick me up from here?" I reply back as I climb out of the car. He nods and grunts almost inaudibly, though I take it as a grunt of confirmation and begin my short stroll to the school.
I busy myself with searching through the similar faces of teenage girls with too much lipgloss and teenage boys with braces, all simultaneously looking the same as they walk around in their opposite cliques, clearly on opposite ends of the social ladder. Peter Parker.
Sweet and velvety, almost like chocolate, with intense darker rays swirling towards his bottomless irises, complimented with delicate caramel crescent moons, framed by an obsidian ring.
His eyes are unlike any I've seen before.
I return to the front desk, just like my first visit, and am greeted with the same unhappy-looking woman with her thick-lensed glasses and what seems to be a permanent frown. She almost flaunts the fact that her left ring-finger is ringless, as she hands me my class timetable. Clearly, she remembers me. Clearly, she doesn't remember that I didn't care back then that she was unmarried, and she has failed to realise that nor do I now.
I find myself in Biology class, anticipating for Peter Parker's messy curls to poke through the door, his chest sporting a bright blue sweater to show some disgustingly cliche yet slightly adorable and admirable school pride. I graze my black-polished fingernails against the outside of my cardboard coffee cup, hoping that no one has realised that I am here. The faces from my last visit to the school are somewhat familiar— that guy with greasy hair who almost ran me over, the pretty girl with curly hair and big eyes. But no Peter Parker.
He rushes in through the door just before the lesson begins, earning a pissed glare from the teacher, as he scurries to the empty seat in front of me with his eyes glued to the ground in order to ignore the watchful eyes of the class staring at him due to his late arrival. He doesn't even notice me.
The first class flies by, and I am thankful that no one at all had seemed to notice me; everything is going according to plan. Aside from the fact that person who I need to notice me still hasn't.
As we wait behind our desks for the bell to signal our departure from first period and to make our way to second— Chemistry— I tap him on the shoulder. Gluing the most sickly smile onto my lips that I can muster; he turns around.
His eyes widen as he struggles to piece together the image of me standing before him, as if he cannot grasp that I am actually here. "What— Wha... Bonnie?"
"How you doing, Parker?" I drop the smile from my lips.
"You— yo..." he struggles before letting out a small chuckle, "Hey! I didn't— Mr Stark... I— wait, your hair is different. It's straight. What happened to your curls?" He goes to run his fingers through my hair, before deciding against it and bringing his hand down to fiddle with the straps on his backpack.
"It's not permanent, dumbass. The curls will be back, don't you worry." I roll my eyes.
"Good!"
"Good?" I question.
The smile on his face drops and he stutters out a desperate explanation and apology. "No! Not good as in good good. I just mean... Good... Y'know? Like, it's nice and I like it, but I think I like your natural hair more. Y'know, the way it looked a little like cotton candy sometimes?"
"And you think your opinion should have control over what I decide to do with my body?" I tease him.
"No! I didn't mean that at all—" he turns into a flustering mess.
I cut him off, "I'm messing. I know you didn't mean it like that. Thank you, Peter."
I curl my lips into a smile as we walk together to our next class.
"So, what are you doing here?" he asks me through the relentless chatter and clamour of the hallway; lockers slamming shut, students arguing and announcements being yelled over the crackled P.A system.
"My dad wanted me to get out his hair while we're moving. Then he mentioned something about me needing new friends and you being a good influence, then I sort of spaced out," I reply, unsure whether or not I was supposed to tell him about moving, though lying all the same about the real reasoning behind my arrival.
"No way! That's awesome!" he says before whispering under his breath, "Tony Stark thought about me!" I suppose that he probably didn't think I'd be able to make out his almost inaudible murmur over the chaos and conversation flooding the hall, but I did. And somehow, I don't tease him for it. I don't know why that is.
As we walk into the class, Ned sits at his desk and fiddles with a compass. When he sees me, he almost jumps in shock and his elbow slips slightly, stabbing himself in the finger with the pointy end of the compass. I cringe.
"Hey!" he jumps up from his seat and trials over to Peter and I, "Bonnie! Great to see you. What are you doing here?"
I never usually feel guilty for lying, but Ned is so sweet and wholesome that it's almost physically painful. "Oh, y'know... I decided this school was better than the one in The Bronx. Came here instead."
Ned's eyes are practically glued to Peter, and I swear I can see him jittering with excitement or anticipation, almost like water boiling in a pan and overflowing when the heat becomes too high. He's ready to spill; and by the glare on Peter's face, he isn't too pleased.
Chemistry class finishes as soon as it begins as I manage to find interest and familiarity with the particular experiment. I remember Dad teaching me this one. I remember practicing it in his office at the Tower. I remember how mad Pepper was. But she wasn't really mad. It was just sort of her thing; being the 'protective mother' figure— always watching out for everyone else and often forgetting to look after herself. I hope she's doing that now, looking after herself.
Sitting with Peter during History class and having to stay completely silent and natural while the teacher discussed the Sokovia Accords was absolutely excruciating and twisted me into a foul mood. Yet another reminder on how everything is now unfamiliar and new and changed and wrong. Because a world without the Avengers feels wrong. A world without Steve's cracked vinyls playing at 4am, Nat's expensive perfume catching my nose and floating through the air wherever she walked, Wanda's amazing cooking and the evenings she'd make Paprikash and we'd all have a big family dinner, Bruce's long-winded lectures on self-care and Thor's obsession with old Lindsay Lohan flicks and camomile tea and Clint's hilarious dad jokes and the constant entertaining bickering between us— quite frankly, it's not a world I'd ever like to find myself living in.
It's just another reminder of how quickly things changed—practically overnight— and how there is nothing I will be able to do now because it's too late. Days turned into weeks which have stretched into months; the cut-off date for rekindling what was once there had passed a while ago and I have just seemed to miss my opportunity. The moment my dad decided to sell the tower was the moment when I had realised that this was permanent. No going back. No do-overs. This is it.
Peter had tensed up beside me, while Ned loudly whispered questions in his ear. I couldn't decipher what he had been saying— I was far too consumed within myself own thought-spiral. In a strange and contradictory way, the pain has become so intense that I am immune to it now. I think it's making me turn numb and it's making everything within me turn off. I don't want it to happen again because I had just been getting used to leaving my bedroom and actually looking forward to evening walks and trips across town to the bagel store and coffee shop. I'd tried to lighten the weight on my chest with iced lattes and cappuccinos— but it didn't do much other than make me jitter relentlessly. Perhaps caffeine and sleep deprivation isn't the best mix. You'd have assumed I'd learned that by now.
"So, that car that almost crashed into the bus a few months back that was like all over the news— that was you?" Ned excitedly gasps and the three of us push through the corridor on our way to lunch.
"Yes, Ned," Peter sighs, clearly finding the conversation topic to be quite tedious.
When we finally manage to squeeze through into the lunch hall, Ned whispers into Peter's ear.
"Yes, of course Bonnie knows. And Ned, if she hadn't already, she definitely would have by now. Seriously, could you talk any louder?" Peter complains as the lunch lady scoops a messy heap of Mac n' Cheese onto his plate. He grimaces.
"I'm sorry, Peter. I'm just so excited. I can't believe you're really the Spider-Man. So how are you going to tell everyone? I mean, you could change your status on Facebook or whatever, but I guess that's just for old people and my mom. There's always Twitter, do you think that you could announce it in 140 characters?" I'm surprised that Ned's jaw isn't stiff from grinning like a six-year-old on Christmas morning. I wonder if it would be easier to use push-pins to give him a permanent smile. Though, I suppose it isn't a problem for him; it's near impossible to ever find Ned Leeds without a grin plastered onto his lips.
As we stalk around the hall in search of an empty table, Ned perks up once again. "Bonnie, if you met Peter through the Stark internship, and Peter being Spider-Man is his job, are you an Avenger too?"
I dodge his question, honestly unsure on how to approach it. I'm honestly just unsure on the answer myself, and besides, the less people who know about my true background and my true identity— the better. "Hey, look. There's a table over there by the window."
Peter prods his fork unsatisfyingly around the thick pile of mushy pasta, clearly uninterested by the meal in front of him. His eyes glance past my shoulder and he becomes in a trance-like state; eyes glossing over, lips parted slightly. He's looking at Liz.
Ned begins a long winded story about how he's missing a piece from his Lego Death Star, and how he thought that he had put it together correctly when he tried to rebuild it again, but it turns out that he realised half way through that he left one of the pieces at Peter's apartment. I smile and nod along, acting as if I'm present in the moment, when in reality I'm watching all of the minuscule bubbles in my soda bottle rise and pop.
I resist the urge to check my phone for perhaps the one hundredth time today, reading and rereading the last text conversation between Wanda and I before she had left.
witch bitch
Sam asked me to make cookies. Help me?
bonnie
girl, i burn water
witch bitch
Please?
bonnie
what's in it for me?
witch bitch
Cookies...?
Obviously
bonnie
god, you're right. i'm coming now.
you better save me some chocolate chips i stg
It's strange to think of a time when home was filled with the chaos and messiness of the rest of the team— the rest of the family. It was bad enough when Pepper left, and now with no one there aside from myself, Dad and Vision, it's getting harder to ignore the empty space and pretend it doesn't exist.
It's getting bad again and I'm not sure how to stop it this time.
"So, yeah, Peter... could you bring it for me tomorrow? I mean, it's kinda important y'know?"
I shake the thoughts from my head and familiarise myself with the sound of Ned's kind voice standing out against the chaotic chatter of the cafeteria. Peter is still staring.
"Peter?" Ned waves his hand in front of Peter's face to wake him from his daze, to which he jumps slightly startled.
"Yeah, totally," he replies to Ned before turning to me, "did your dad freak when you got home the other night? Did you tell him you were with me?"
"No. I don't know how he found out, but he did. Probably Vis—" I glance at Ned and cut myself off. "Never mind, don't stress, Parker. He has no idea that we were together."
"What's going on, guys?" Ned asks curiously, clearly feeling left out. We fill him in on what happened with the drunk man and the street lamps (leaving out the part about me being the one to break them) and having to make a mad escape to Peter's apartment. When I mention the fact that Peter has bunk beds, Ned's eyebrows shoot up.
"So, you've been in Peter's bedroom?"
"Yeah? And? I've been in his living room, too, if that sparks your interest."
"Nothing, just... Nothing," he gives me a toothy grin and attempts to wink at Peter. I roll my eyes and busy myself with picking the tomatoes off my pizza slice.
I notice the pretty girl with curly hair sitting a few seats away from us on our bench, her head stuck in a hardback edition of The Bell Jar— my favourite book.
Mom always used to a keep a copy on top of her nightstand, and she'd read it before bed, so now I always keep a copy on my nightstand and I always read it before bed. I tried to get Dad to read it, but I suppose he's one of those people who have little time for reading. He's too busy calculating the events within his own life, he doesn't need anymore—fictional or not.
She catches me looking and lifts her eyes to meet mine but doesn't smile. Her eyes.
"The Bell Jar, it's my favourite book," I say casually, even if on the inside I'm a nervous wreck.
She smiles, "I annotated the inside." She passes me the book, the edges filled with notes and doodles and sketches— the most powerful quotations underlined or circled. I make a mental note to flick back through my copy at home to scribble the best lines down on a sticky note so that I can stick it on the wall behind my bed along with my collection of photographs and brightly coloured sticky sheets of paper.
"It looks incredible," I reply.
Peter's voice politely interrupts, "Bonnie, this is—"
The girl cuts him off, "I'm Michelle, but my friends call me MJ. And I take it you're Bonnie?"
"Yes, that's me."
The rest of the short lunch break we have, MJ and I spend discussing other classic novels; The Picture of Dorian Gray, A Room of One's Own and Pride and Prejudice.
While we jostle through the halls to Gym, Peter and Ned hurry behind us, whispering furiously to each other. I think I hear my name mentioned a couple times by Ned, but it's far too loud and MJ's vanilla shampoo is far too sweet to ignore.
"Have you read Lady Susan?"
"My Mom gave me her copy when I was eight. Obviously, I couldn't understand what half of the words meant, but I've read it at least a hundred times since. It's underrated and complex and so beautifully written," I reply eagerly, though I doubt she notices due to the shrieking coming from the girls locker room.
"Hey, Bonnie?" Ned calls quickly before MJ and I walk through the doors.
She turns around and glances between us, silently asking whether she should wait or just go. "It's fine," I confirm, "I'll be through in a second."
She pushes through the doors and the familiar shrieking and giggles slice through the air around us and reverberate painfully through my body. I grimace. "What's up, Ned?"
Peter sighs, seeming somewhat annoyed, before he trails off into the boys locker room. I frown in curiosity and surprise— I have never seen Peter Parker with anything other than a friendly grin and kind eyes. He's soft. Too soft for his own good.
"Spit it out, I haven't got all day," and now it's my turn to sigh in annoyance.
Ned takes a deep inhale, opening his mouth as if to say something important, before stopping himself just as the words are about to part his lips. "Peter is failing English Lit and was wondering if you'd be his tutor because you're crazy good with words but he's too scared to ask you."
I know Ned is lying; requesting me to be Peter Parker's private tutor is most definitely not what he was initially planning on asking me. I nod my head all the same and give in— saying I'll do it so that Ned will leave me alone and so that I'll maybe be able to get to the bottom of this whole discussion and Ned's odd behaviour.
And he leaves, leaving me confused and alone in the hall.
—
"Hi, I'm Captain America."
Steve's voice fills the gym and the emptiness in my chest which has been weighing me down since his departure.
"Whether you're in the classroom or on the battlefield..."
"Do you know him too?" Ned whispers excitedly in Peter's ear.
"Yeah, we met. I stole his shield," Peter replies proudly.
I can't keep my mouth shut any longer, and accidentally killing someone or smashing up the TV due to my powers is most definitely something I want to avoid at all costs.
"Don't you think it's weird seeing him? I mean, it's Steve— and we're in gym class," I lean over to Peter and mention quietly.
Seeing his face again after everything that happened with the Accords is almost too painful to handle. It feels as if I've been stabbed all over again, just like in Berlin. Though instead of me doing the stabbing, it's non other than Steve Rogers this time. What I would give just to hear his crackled vinyls echoing through the hall at four in the morning just one more time. What I would give to watch just one more black and white 1930s movie with him one more time, while Dad complains in the background over how cliche and cheesy they all are. Fuck, I'd even listen to him talk about Bucky for days on end if it would mean he'd come back to us. All of us. I suppose it just doesn't work that way. They say you don't realise what you have until it's gone; I just hadn't expected Steve to be included in amongst it all.
"Not really," Peter whispers, "I only met him once. I guess it is a little strange."
"Thank you, Captain," Coach says from the front. "Pretty sure he's a war criminal, but I have to show these videos. It's required by state. Anyway, let's do it." He blows his whistle, which signals the beginning of class, and everyone gets up from the benches while I'm still trying to gather myself from the burning within my chest.
Please, not again.
Fuck, please, not a-fucking-gain.
I take steady breaths and focus on my breathing solely, trying my best to ignore the throbbing in my head and the burning within myself. The TV sends off a high-pitched wheeze, though no one notices aside from myself, as they're so busy chatting over who to be partners with.
"Hey, are you okay? D'you need to leave?" Peter says sitting beside me, as to not draw any unwanted and unhelpful attention to me with being the only person still sitting. His voice is soft and gentle, and he just knows. He just knows what is happening without me even having to tell him.
"No, no. I'm alright, honestly, just when did the air get so fucking thick and hard to inhale?" I reply breathlessly.
He chuckles, "I don't think it's the air, I'm pretty sure it's just you. And anyway, just breathe, seriously. You don't wanna go sparking the lights out again."
"Wow, thanks Parker, that makes me feel so much better!" I say sarcastically.
"Really?"
"No."
After a few deep breaths, I gather myself enough to be able to look at him properly. He catches my eye instantly and we sit with the knowledge of what is happening and how we even got here. He may not understand or even have the slightest touch on how drastically different and difficult everything has been recently, but he knows enough not to pry. He knows me well enough not to pry.
Even the smallest of moments can become distinguishable and a crucial turning point in life when you look back from the future.
1999, New Year's Eve— turning point.
London— turning point.
December, 2012– turning point.
August, 2016, Berlin— turning point.
You'd never be able to register the significance of a moment at the time, but you can realise that it will become a memory. Fond or not-so-fond; either way— a memory nonetheless.
The trip to Berlin flashes through my mind as Peter's eyes linger on mine.
I shook him gently as the sun began to peak through the curtains in the hotel room the morning after, earning myself a groan and a, 'May, five more minutes, please.'
"Peter? Do I look like your fucking Aunt? Get up," I snapped at him. He quickly tossed the covers off him, staring at me in horror over waking up in the same bed as me, until he remembered the circumstances of our sleepover and instantly relaxed.
Honestly, fucking ruined my ego.
But his eyes are unable to unlock from mine. My own the same. "Peter?" I say.
"Yeah?" he mumbles, before realising that we had just been in an unknown staring contest for the past three minutes, "Come on, we should probably... Y'know." He stands from the bench and offers a sweet smile before trialing off towards Ned.
I stand by myself and scan across the gymnasium floor, until I find MJ— without a partner. She doesn't do the push-ups as instructed; hardly even moves at all. She just lays on the blue mat and stares up at the ceiling, Almost as if she isn't even here.
Her eyes are closed.
"Hey, there's no one cool left. Wanna partner up? W— wait, what are you doing?" I ask her.
"Tryna manifest that I'll break a bone or that my skull will implode so that I don't have to do this. Shush— I'm concentrating."
I leave her in her meditative state, while I heave my own mat to the empty space beside her and get started on the push-ups and sit-ups. In fact, I completed disregard the provided work-out routine and follow the one that Nat and I used to do during training. I'm not completely sure how long Michelle has been attempting to make her head cave in, but by the time she opens her eyes, my overworked body is aching and burning.
We had always been taught to know our limits, and to push past them until we were absolutely certain we could do no more. It was to reflect the conditions of being on mission and during a fight; you can't stop whenever your body tells you to or whenever you're in too much pain to keep hitting or running. My competitive streak only worsened this, and I had ended up in the emergency room several times with broken bones. But Steve would always say, 'Broken bones and bruises are nothing more than collateral damage when there are lives at stake.' And then I'd try to continue with combat training even though my wrist was broken in two places. I just didn't know when to stop. Maybe that's my hamartia.
Matching perfectly to that of Tony Stark. It must be genetic.
"Didn't work. I'm still here. My head hasn't caved in," MJ sighs. She heaves herself up and holds my feet down while I continue with the sit-ups; insides screaming and all.
"Well, it feels like my stomach has," I groan.
"How many have you done?"
"72...73...74..." I count out loud. She grimaces.
"Peter knows Spider-Man!"
I hear Ned blurt out from the centre of the gymnasium. Immediately jumping to my feet and watching over the events about to unfold incase I need to help with any sudden excuses or cover-ups, my insides ache and stiffen with every leaden movement.
His face is the picture of panic; could portray a hundred panic attacks with just the stress in his wide eyes. The tension enveloping the gym is sharp enough to be cut with a knife, as the whole class falls silent and directs their curious and interrogatory gaze over to Peter Parker, who is scrambling to his feet and stumbling out some sort of horrendously-put-together explanation. I cringe with every bone in my body.
"N— no... I...I." He cannot get his words out.
"They're friends," Ned leaps to Peter's defence.
"Yeah, like Coach Wilson and Captain America are friends," Flash sneers mockingly from across the floor as he swaggers over to Peter in that up-his-own-ass and privileged manner that makes me want to rip out the greasy hair from the top of his head.
I fiddle with the hair tie on my wrist and watch on at the anxiety bubbling under the surface of Peter's skin; he's about to crack.
"I— I've met him, yeah... Couple times, but it's, um... Through the Stark Internship."
I have to hand it to him— it's not the worst possible excuse he could come up with. Clearly, he could do with some training on how to handle interrogations, but it's not as if Nat is exactly here right now and willing to help out fresh and new recruits.
"Yeah, well, I'm not really supposed to talk about it," Peter says through gritted teeth and glares over his shoulder to Ned— a guilty expression embedded within his excruciated face.
"Well, that's awesome. Look, maybe you should invite him to Liz's party, right?" Flash drawls in that disgustingly familiar patronising tone.
"Yeah, I'm having people over tonight. You're more than welcome to come." Liz explains.
"It's gonna be dope. You should totally invite your personal friend, Spider-Man." I am practically seething with anger over that oily, entitled prick. Someone ought to take him down a peg or two, and I'll be dammed if it's not me who ends up doing it. Flash Thompson; how I despise him.
"Well, I know Peter is way too busy for parties anyway."
"Oh, come on, he'll be there. Right, Parker?" Flash brutally brushes past Peter as he heads for the doors, knocking him off his spot aggressively.
The class is dismissed from the gymnasium and back into the locker rooms. MJ disappears into the crowd of students almost immediately, while I hurry over the Peter and Ned.
The annoyance radiating from Peter is practically paralysing, though I doubt any normal person would be able to sense it the way I do. His forehead is slightly crinkled and his eyes are agonised— he has no idea what to do.
"What the fuck was all that about? I thought you weren't telling people about your little superhero persona," I whisper over the chatter.
"I wasn't," Peter sighs.
Ned jumps in, too excited to stay silent, "Look, Peter. Did you not hear her? Liz has a crush on you! If any one of us has a chance with a senior girl, it's you."
"I don't know, man," I say casually, "I'd say I'd have a pretty good shot, too."
"Bonnie, are you gonna come? To Liz's, I mean. We have a Decathelon meeting after school first, if you wanna come to that, too. We need another alternate." Peter asks me as we trail through the doors towards the locker rooms.
"Fuck it. Why not?"
—
I stand back and peer at myself in the mirror.
I can see myself. But I don't see me. I see a foggy version of someone who slightly resembles myself, but no matter how aggressively I rub my eyes, I just can't identify the person staring back at me with her empty eyes blinking heavily, to be me.
Yes, her red satin dress and black lace tights impeccably mirror the ones hanging on my body. But she just seems to be rather dead behind the eyes, lacking life, whereas the pretty girl in the pink dress in the photograph hanging on the wall opposite her is practically bursting with it.
I want to place a reassuring hand on my shoulder and tell the girl staring back at me with missing pieces that I'm allowed to feel everything and feel fucking nothing at all simultaneously.
I plaster a grin onto my lips, jumping in surprise at its inauthenticity. More accurately, an unnerving product of the collision between trauma and grief.
Gentle knocking on the door brings me back into my body as I jump at the feeling of returning to reality.
"May I enter, Miss Stark?" My ears struggle to make out the sound of Vision's articulate voice penetrating the thick wooden door. When I don't reply, he asks again. I pretend to be distracted with pulling a mascara wand through my eyelashes while giving a grunt of confirmation that he can enter, just to give the illusion that I am in control of my body. I didn't space out. I didn't disconnect from the world around me.
"Are you leaving, Miss?" He lingers uncomfortably by the door.
"Vis, we talked about this. Call me Bonnie, please. It sounds more formal and fabricated if you call me by my last name. Totally not chill." I say in between brushing a dark red lipstick on my lips, struggling on whether or not it's too much and I look like I've tried too hard to mimic a living girl and not just the crumbled pieces of a life once lived.
"Excuse me... Bonnie... But are you going somewhere?" he asks again.
"I'm going to a party." My phone chimes on the floor beside me and signals a new message— Peter Parker telling me he has just arrived outside of the Compound and is waiting to pick me up so that we can go to Liz's together, with Ned. "If Happy asks, could you please let him know that I'm out with Peter Parker and that I'll be back before midnight? Don't want to turn into a pumpkin or whatever."
"I understand that that was a reference to the classic story of 'Cinderella.' Though, she does not transform into a pumpkin— that is the role of the carriage."
"Yes, Vision, I know. It was a joke." I pull on my shoes, fumbling with the laces in a hurry with the knowledge of Peter waiting. "I'll see you later, hopefully not as a pumpkin."
He stays silent for a moment, before laughing heartily at his new found humour.
I haven't been to many parties. The heat of sweaty bodies bumping together while the thudding base of some 1990s hip hop song reverberates through my body and knocks me sick. At least— that's how I'd imagine it. Aside from Dad's usual parties at Stark Tower and the party I had found myself thrown into in Berlin, I'm not experienced at all.
I suppose I'll just put my memorable observations of Dad at his parties to good use. Hopefully without so much booze and the lingering overwhelming scent of stale whisky that lives in my nose for the next week. But I know it's inevitable— I'll most likely be the consumer of the whisky this time— but probably not whisky. I expect cheap watered-down beer or vodka that tastes like paint stripper and chemically artificial cherry-flavoured soda will be what I'll drink tonight— and I'll like it because I'm supposed to. And I'll get drunk because I'm supposed to. And I'll dance until my feet get sore or maybe make out with some random person, because that's what I'm supposed to do, right?
"Don't you just look gorgeous, Bonnie? That lipstick is the perfect shade for you!" May compliments me as I climb into the back seat. Peter twists around from the front seat to look at me.
"Thank you, May. You're so sweet."
"Ready?" he asks.
"Of course."
As we travel through the city to Ned's house, Peter's eyes flicker up to meet mine in the rear-view mirror. By the fifth time, I'm beginning to grow annoyed and absolutely cannot spend the remainder of the journey making awkward eye-contact. I raise my eyebrows and press my lips into a firm line, to which he immediately breaks his focus from me and busies himself with scrolling through his phone, his cheeks flushing a light shade of peach.
May hums along to the old love ballads playing on the radio after Ned takes the seat beside me and cheerfully greets her. The office buildings and tower blocks begin to disperse and lessen as we reach the outskirts of the city, and edge closer to the cushy four-story family houses in the cul-de-sacs.
After our pep talk from May, we walk up the path in our trio to the house while several recognisable faces from school turn into the bushes, throwing up whatever cheap alcoholic beverage they've picked as their poison tonight.
There are two girls making out by the stairs. Flash is blasting some heavy bass electro-pop through the expensive looking speakers. Drinks are flowing. People are dancing.
Who will I be tonight?
"We're gonna have Spider-Man swing in, say you guys are tight, and then I get a fist-bump or one of those half-bro-hugs." I hear Ned's voice breaking through the deafening beat.
"I can't believe you guys are at this lame party."
MJ stands in the kitchen, buttering slice after slice of toast. The alcohol beside her remains untouched, as she instead sips from a bottle of aloe vera water. Fucking disgusting— Nat used to make me drink it on training days. 'Good for your immune system' or whatever.
She looks me up and down while spreading the knife across the toasted bread— letting her gaze linger for slightly longer than I had anticipated— before she sinks her teeth into the slice.
"You're here, too," Ned replies.
"Am I?" MJ says ambiguously, before brushing past me gently and wandering off up the staircase. I doubt I'll end up seeing her again anytime tonight.
"She's coming. Liz is coming over here, Peter!" Ned whispers loudly, startling me and snapping my attention away from the empty staircase where MJ once was.
"Shit! What do I do? What do I say?" Peter rushes out, panicked. "Bonnie, you're a girl—"
"Good observation. What do you want? A fucking gold star?" I scoff sarcastically, folding my arms across my chest.
"Well, what do I do?"
His eyes are pleading with me. On the one hand- I feel bitter, and I'm not sure why— but on the other, I couldn't bare to see him embarrass himself yet again in front of her. I don't think I could take anymore cringing— I'm sure a blood vessel in my forehead would pop. Or the lightbulbs.
I sigh in irritation, "Look, I'll give you some advice, you're pretty awkward. Flatter her, compliment her."
"Tell her she looks nice." Ned adds eagerly.
"But not too much, otherwise you'll come off creepy. Tell her that she has pretty eyes, girls love that."
I love that.
"And a perfect smile! Holy shit—" Ned cuts himself off as Liz stands inches in front of us.
I'd be lying if I told her that I liked her blouse— it makes her look like a soccer mom or a middle-aged woman that shops at T.J. Maxx and eats kale for every meal. But on her it just works. Paired with her doll-like eyes and feathered lashes, thick cherry-stained lips and silky hair— it just works. It works more than anything. More than well-oiled machinery and half of the Stark Industries workers put together.
"Hey guys! Cool hat, Ned!" she says sweetly. Toothache inducing.
"Hey, Liz." Peter stumbles over his words as he stares in awe over the girl before him; as precise and as perfect as an oil painting. I wouldn't be surprised if I had seen her in the Louvre Museum amongst the high-security displays.
She offers me that typically cliche familiar sunshine smile; I accept, though hardly return. She doesn't notice my coldness, continuing, "I'm so happy you guys came. There's pizza and drinks, help yourself. A few of us are playing a game of Spin the Bottle in the next room."
She and Peter share a moment. The caramel crescent moons of his velvety eyes locking with the deep coffee-coloured threads of her's.
I roll my eyes. I fish around in my bag and bring out a small flask of one of the most expensive types of vodka that my father had in his liquor cabinet on display— the rest of his alcoholic spirits in the basement or stashed somewhere away out of my reach, filling a red plastic solo cup with the expected chemically artificial cherry-flavoured soda before splashing in a large amount of the vodka.
"What are you... What are you doing?" Ned asks me.
Peter is still gazing into Liz's eyes.
I'm sure that would make me sick enough, the vodka unneeded.
"What? The stuff they've got here is probably just cheap shit. Paint stripper or nail polish remover. And hey, what's a bit of rebellion? It's not as if my dad will notice anyway."
"You took it from your dad? And you're underage!"
Ned's pitch turns almost inaudible toward the end of his panicked sentence, the exception being only dogs able to decipher it.
I roll my eyes again, taking a swig of the bitter beverage despite his appal and shock. The clatter of broken shards hitting the hard floor are ear-piercing, and Liz throws out a quick explanation before scurrying off to find the culprit of whatever damage was caused.
Peter is still staring at the empty space where she was only seconds before.
"Dude! What are you doing? She's here, Spider-Man up."
My jaw drops to the floor in disbelief, and I have to quickly swallow down the vodka-cherry concoction in my mouth to avoid it spilling down my chin. "Seriously? I can't believe you're using Spider-Man as some sort of party trick or a way to get girls."
Peter frowns, "Your dad is literally Tony Stark."
Ned jumps, startled. "Your dad is Tony Stark?" His tone is flooded with disbelief, as though this is some comical joke Peter had put together in his genius brain.
"Look, no. No, I can't do this. Spider-Man is not a party trick, okay? I'm just gonna... Be myself." Peter suggests, though the uncertainty in his own words is evident.
"Peter. No one wants that."
"It's true. No one wants it." I smirk as Peter frowns in offence.
"Dude..." His eyebrows are furrowed, lips downturned as he turns away from Ned and I. I offer my cup to Ned, though he declines the drink and explains that he'd rather stick to the 7-Up instead.
"Bonnie, please. Spin the bottle so that I can kiss Liz. Come on, you're the only one that can do that typa' stuff," Peter begs.
"Fuck no, Parker. Who do you think I am? And besides, do you really want me to set this house on fire or some shit. And keep your voice down."
Ned goes it open his mouth to ask us what we're talking about when he's abruptly interrupted.
"PENIS PARKER!" Flash calls into the microphone, "Where's your pal Spider-Man? Let me guess, in Canada with your imaginary girlfriend? That's not Spider-Man, that's just Ned in a red shirt." He mocks Peter before directing his eyes over to me, glancing up and down my frame. Like MJ, I definitely didn't anticipate it, though unlike MJ, I am much more uncomfortable and unwelcoming. "Hey, sweet 'thang. You might not be Spider-Man, but you could me my-kinda-woman. You flexible, huh?"
Peter's fists clench at his sides, jaw tenses, and his expression immediately hardens. He starts forward, shoulders squared and veins poking through the skin of his arms, but I reach out for his wrist and pull him back. "Yeah, and Peter can tell you all about it," I call over to Flash before throwing the rest of my drink down my throat and tossing the cup onto the marble worktop behind me. I sneer at Flash, watching the dumbstruck expression fall across his face, before turning to Peter.
His cheeks are flushed red and he avoids all eye constant with me. "W... What?"
"I don't need to you fight my battles for me, Parker."
"B—but you said—"
"Is your dad really Tony Stark?" Ned interrupts Peter's stuttering. Soon enough, he disappears into the ocean of intoxicated teenagers and empty plastic cups, most likely changing into his suit somewhere. I scoff.
"Apparently so."
"Wait , isn't that a picture of you and Black Widow as your lock screen?" Ned takes my phone from my hands early and stares in shock at photograph of Nat and I with our faces painted with bright green clay masks and giant bowls of popcorn in our laps.
I snatch it out of his gasp and bury it into the bottom of my bag, not caring if I seem childish or immature.
"Oh my— you are Tony Stark's daughter! I didn't even know he had a kid!"
"Thanks Ned, really," I say sarcastically.
He stumbles out a half-apology, before he realises that I'm not listening. I'm watching. I'm watching her with her effortless charcoal-coloured waves and deep skin and doll-like eyes with delicate lashes and plump lips.
She truly is a sunshine girl— and it makes me sick. It can't be possible for someone to radiate such positivity and to smile so much. My face is aching just watching. She doesn't drink or smoke, and she's a cheerleader and Captain of the Decathlon Team.
My mental sketch was correct. I'd known her before she'd even spoken a word.
She's kind and soft and pretty and smells like coconut shampoo and mangoes. If she had a soundtrack or a specific theme song to play whenever she'd enter a room it'd be 'Build Me Up Buttercup' by The Foundations. She is feminine and flowery and everything I am supposed to be; everything I am not. And I suppose that's okay.
"Hey, Ned. What do you think of Liz?" I ask as I pour my second cup of the bitter yet sweet concoction.
"Liz? She's beautiful and smart and pretty and... And she smells nice and... Peter likes her." His tone becomes defeated and my chest aches for him.
"You like her?"
"What don't I like about her?" He sighs helplessly, "But, it's okay. Because Peter is my best friend and brothers before lovers, right?"
"Okay, Ned, never say that again."
His cheeks wash over with a shade of pale pink as he chuckles away in embarrassment. I let a giggle slip past my lips as I lift my cup up to my mouth and take a swig— not reacting to the unbalanced proportion of vodka to cheap cherry soda. I suppose the alcohol is already beginning to take affect.
"Why do you want to know about Liz?" Ned asks me as he reaches for a slice of pepperoni pizza.
"I don't know. She's sweet and all—"
"But you don't see what Peter sees in her?"
"No—"
"Bonnie, you're awesome, okay? And you're a Stark. And you're also probably an Avenger. So, if you like Peter then you should just go for it!"
The look on his face of full certainty paired with the beaming smile plastered across his lips almost make me choke on my drink. I splutter and cough while I attempt to catch my breath as the alcohol burns the back of my throat.
"What? Peter? You think I like Peter?"
"Oh, I know you like Peter."
"Ned Leeds, I swear on the Stark name, you better shut up or I'll make you. I do not like Peter, okay? Even the thought makes my skin crawl."
"That's what they all say..." He winks at me as he trails off and directs his attention to the pizza slice in his hands, the conversation about my false and fabricated feelings for Peter Parker soon to be discarded and forgotten.
As my vision progresses into indistinguishable blotches of colour rather than actual people, Ned grows uneasy with Peter's absence and the length of time he's been gone. Either I'm more intoxicated than I originally realised or I just hadn't registered how long it had been since we last saw Peter, I hardly give it a second thought.
I do my usual checks to make sure I'm not too drunk— I can walk in a straight line and spit out a full sentence without slurring my words together too much— while Ned frantically calls Peter's cell phone near a million times. He doesn't answer.
Ned's own nerves begin to rub off on me and I start to feel a little overwhelmed; the blasting music worsening the 'little' to 'a lot.' I need air. Fresh freezing thin air. The thickness and humidity of the oxygen in the house paired with the smoke machines had been making it increasingly difficult to breathe; my body is overtaken with a seething and vicious heat.
"I just need... a— a second outside."
I push past the pairs of teenagers kissing and groups of people smoking pot, until I am submerged in nothing but complete freezing air. I inhale deeply and feel the oxygen sting and ravish my lungs; I bask in the cold.
I have to stay cold.
I look up at the stars and find myself a mix between deliriously happy and disgustingly sad. Empty. Lost. Lonely.
I brush against my arm with my fingertips and check that I'm not too hot— which I'm not— and skip over the horrendous circumstances of my hospital stay as everything begins to rush through my head all at once. And then what happened in order to get better.
Please, forget London.
Please, forget Killian.
But please, don't forget Mom.
It's aggressive. Destructive. Unfair. It's nearly impossible to remember Mom without having my mind flooded with traumatic memories that I'd much rather forget. It's difficult— why is it always the bad things that seem to stick? Why is it always the fond and happy moments that seem to be diluted and watered-down as time passes by?
I look back up at the sky and count the stars. I think that's why I like constellations so much— the reliability. No matter what, I know that when I look up at the pitch black or the light blue, the stars and constellations and planets will be there no matter what. Even when you can't seen them— when it's midday and the sun is at it's highest point during the day and sunset seems a far off idea— the stars are still there to welcome you home and initiate the onset of evening.
You can always count on the stars to have everything make sense again.
You can always count on the stars to... move?
A shooting star?
Maybe I should make a wish. I wish to forget. I wish to get better. I wish to be able to control this fear and this power— rather than having it control me like a ventriloquist and it's puppet.
That isn't a shooting star.
I'm almost certain of what it is.
I fumble with my phone in my purse and type in the passcode with my jittering fingers before dialling the phone number.
"Dad?"
"What's up, kiddo?"
"Are you— are you here? Like, in New York, flying your suit? Right now?"
"What are you talking about, Sparky?"
I hang up.
I know it's him.
I run as quickly as my feeble legs are able to carry me, while I regret drinking so much of the stolen contraband. I feel the bitter cherry taste begin to repeat itself and crawl back up my throat. I halt and swallow it back down, hard, before regaining my composure and continuing to follow the 'star' 'shooting' through the midnight sky.
I run until I no longer can, and the 'star' disappears. It shoots straight down toward the ground— my heart in my mouth as I convince myself there has been a terrible accident and Dad has lost control of his flight power and been sent plummeting down, down. I try my hardest to expel the intrusive thoughts while swaying slightly with the bubbling feeling of the alcohol I had previously consumed running through my bloodstream. Mixed with overworking myself from all of the running- my vision turns indecipherable and the colours leak into each other.
But it's back. He is back. Carrying a frail mess of blue and red in his arms. Well, I think it's Dad; all I can see is a red and gold blotch contrasting against the darkness of the sky. I slow down my sprint to a light jog and focus on not throwing up while I attempt to complete the final stretch to where Dad should be. Either it's him, or I've ditched Ned for no reason. Ned. The guilt doesn't miss, but I'm positive he'll understand the reasoning behind my departure when I explain it all to him. I hiss as my spinning head sends me off balance and I clutch at my mouth, keeping the chunks from spraying out of my face. Not something I'd want to happen.
I push through the trees and feel the spindling branches snatch at my ankles and scratch at my cheeks until I've made it through the forest leading up to what I expect is the dock.
Peter— at least I think it's him— sits with his back to me, shivering and slouched over on the wooden pier as the water trickles from his drenched hair.
"Dad?" I spit out expectantly.
"Kid? What are you doing here? Happy called and said that you left to go to some party."
"Wait? What? Where are you?" The suit hovers in the space in front of Peter while I linger by the trees. Dad isn't in his metal armour like usual.
"Oh, I'm not here—"
He begins trailing off to Peter about something that I am clearly too intoxicated and too disappointed to hear about, but I think he mentions the words 'Friendly Neighbourhood Spider-Man' and 'Cap,' which honestly feels horrific, and I would have much preferred if I had been the one dropped in the freezing water if it meant that Steve would come back. Fuck, I'd nap in a fucking freezer for 70 years if that is what it would take.
"Bonnie?"
"Bonnie, why aren't you at the party?"
I hear Peter and Dad mention my name multiple times, but I'm far too spaced out to make out what they're saying, never mind string a sentence together.
"Wait— wait a second. Are you drunk? Have you been drinking? " Dad practically shrieks.
I try to play it cool by letting out a casual chuckle, but I think it landed me in much more trouble, as it escapes in an over-dramatic and suspicious attack of giggles. I'm tipsy and he knows it. I clear my throat and spit out the first thing I can think of, "Just the same amount as that party in Berlin."
Peter grimaces.
Well-fucking-done. Bonnie Stark— you are officially the worst superhero the world has seen. Fuck, you can't even watch your mouth after three drinks. Nat would be mortified— I scream internally. I hate my inner-voice sometimes.
"You got drunk in Berlin?"
"No."
"No?"
"That's not what I said."
"Bonnie Delilah Stark, did you or did you not get drunk in Berlin with Peter Parker?"
The next few moments are agonising, as Peter sits in an awkward silence and I struggle to think of what to say next. "Not with Peter. Look, we went out and ended up at this party and I had a few beers or whatever but I was fine. Peter was completely sober and he was watching out for me, right, Parker?"
He stutters, "Y— yeah... I don't feel completely comfortable getting involved in this conversation, I mean, it sounds pretty personal."
"Peter Parker, I am trying to save your ass!" I hiss at him.
He quietens down instantly while I prepare myself for Dad's reaction. Though, what he says next surprises me.
"Good job, Pete. You're responsible; a good kid. Bonnie, go home. Now. I mean it. No parties. No sneaking off. Go back to the Compound, I'll deal with you when I get home."
"I'll make sure she gets home safe, Mr Stark, I promise," Peter adds.
"Mr Stark is no longer connected."
The suit takes off back in the direction of the Compound as F.R.I.D.A.Y announces that Dad has ended the call, leaving Peter and I alone.
"Come on, we better get going," he says softly as he jumps down from the wooden decking and pulls my arm over his shoulder and grips my waist gently to
stop me from stumbling as we walk back to the party. I'm not at the point of intoxication where I can no longer see and the floor feels like it's spinning like a top beneath my feet, but I definitely feel slightly out-of-touch with the world and my body.
He stops dead in his tracks and props me up against a tree incase my legs give way and I crumble to the floor in a messy heap, interested by the metal tube laying in the grass. The glowing purple rock is what I first mistake as some sort of huge amethyst crystal, but it's not. This hums gently and feels like two magnets repelling from each other whenever you get near it. The humming grows louder and more high-pitched, at least, that's what I think, until I realise that it was just Peter's phone ring tone.
"Hey man, what's up? I'm on my way back."
Peter flinches as the volume suddenly increases. He rips the phone away from his face as if it has burst into flames, "When I say 'penis' you say 'Parker.' Penis— Parker. Penis— Parker!" The chanting of the crowd at the party blasts through the speakers, and Peter sighs, clearly hurt.
Peter remains silent as he hangs up the phone and turns his attention back to the purple glowing rock. He takes the metal holding it in his hand, before securing his grasp around me once again and walking me back home. 'It might be dangerous if we swing back home with you being drunk. I don't know...' Peter explains.
"If it makes you feel any better, I don't think you're a penis, Parker." I earn myself a light chuckle from him as we get to the gates of the Compound, and what I think is a small smile.
"Thanks. At least someone cool doesn't think I'm a total loser."
"No. I think you're a loser, but a... cool loser. Like you're the type of loser where you're secretly cool and nerdy but no one has noticed it yet."
His grin widens and his eyes soften, "Well, maybe I'm kinda glad I'm a loser, then."
Then his eyes. They lock with mine once more. I wish I wasn't so fucking tipsy. But perhaps if I were more tipsy, as in completely hammered, I'd maybe do something stupid that I'd probably regret and—
"Goodnight, Bonnie. Thank you, for everything."
"Peter, you're welcome. You don't need to thank me for letting you be in my presence, it's charity work. Good for my conscious." I wink at him.
He chuckles again, "You're funny."
"I know."
"Modest too," he rolls his eyes. "See ya."
I turn through the gates and toward the doors. He watches me right up until I walk inside, making sure that I'm absolutely okay and have definitely gotten home safely.
I don't even fight falling asleep.
I wish I had.