But there's a struggle. The sounds of bones crunching and heavy bodies hitting against the ground, groans escaping the mouth of the injured.

I take off, sprinting through the pitch black. Rapid and rugged breaths slipping from between my lips in panicked gasps echoing around me. I can feel my heartbeat in my head, my throat and joining the harsh pins and needles poking my legs which is almost immobilising. The intense burning remains in my body and prepares me for the number of engines installed in the cars lining the streets later exploding, as I hurtle down the sidewalk.

No matter how quickly I run, there are still footsteps behind me.

And I have no idea who it is.

Is it the man from before? Could he have gotten some of his pals in on the job?

I turn onto the next street, where the street lamps are dull, yet thankfully still working unlike the others. No thanks to me.

"Hey- wait up-"

My immediate fight or flight response disregards the familiar tone of the voice behind me, as a hand curls around my wrist. My fingers immediately twist into a fist, thudding across the jaw of the person behind me, the sound of bones crunching at the sheer impact of the connection between us.

And it's then that I realise I have just punched Peter Parker across the face.

Somehow in my panicked and furious state, the adrenaline running through my veins caused me to disregard anything around me. My surroundings collecting into several vivid blotches of colour. I hadn't even been able to acknowledge the familiar shades of rich red and electric blue. Though I suppose the familiar softness of his voice should have been enough for me to realise it was him.

He stands startled for a second, clearly having not expected me to clock him across the face in return for what I'm guessing was his assistance in getting me away from the violent and rather drunk man who had been calling me. His hand drops from my wrist, as if he is cautious that I'd hit him again, perhaps send the tall buildings beside us crumbling to the ground with nothing more than a glance, though he remains only a few inches in front of me. He knows I wouldn't hurt him.

I can't hardly even process it. My body washes over in various emotions; embarrassment, relief, guilt, anxiety, anger. "Peter? I... fuck, I'm so sorry. I was just really scared and I thought you were-"

"It's fine," he cuts me off, "I heard you shouting at that guy to leave you alone, and then the lights went out, which I'm assuming was your doing. Sorry, I thought that being in the pitch black could have been really dangerous for you. But don't worry, he's passed out, he won't be waking up for a while," Peter explains, his hand twitching to his jaw slightly as he talks. I wouldn't be surprised if I had loosened some molars and a trip to the emergency dentist was in dire need.

"Thank y-"

"Are you okay?" he begins, "Sorry, that was probably a really stupid question, of course you're not. I'm really sorry for whatever happened to you, I can't even imagine how you're feeling right now."

"It's happened more than once, Peter. I suppose I'm not surprised," I explain to him.

"Yeah, but it shouldn't have," he snaps in disgust, before groaning slightly and clasping his hand to the portion of his face which was brutally battered by myself. I cringe. "Will you come to May's with me? Please, I need to make sure you're okay- and that my jaw isn't broken." His tone is notably much softer and parts his lips in some sort of whisper. I'm not sure if that's due to the pain or just his gentle nature. I couldn't possibly say no even if I tried. And I had myself for it.

Arriving at May's, the apartment is just as the way I remember it from my last and only visit, which was somewhat gatecrashed by Tony. We climb in through the window, Peter securing me in his webs so that I don't fall, and I stumble through into his bedroom. Every wall is plastered with posters from several old sci-fi movies, alongside the album artwork from a few 80s bands and multiple certificates and banners and badges hung up in pride from winning various science fair competitions. There are also pictures of him and Ned pinned to a cork board as well as him and May, also a young child, who I am assuming is Peter, with people who I am assuming are his parents. I don't feel comfortable enough to ask, but it's extremely evident that the lady grinning affectionately behind him is his mother; they have exactly the same smile. It's heart-wrenching yet heart-warming.

The bunk beds pushed in the left corner add a sense of innocence and purity, as if he hadn't already enough of it in his soul, he needed to reflect it in his surroundings too. He pulls the mask from his face and sighs heavily before flicking on the light switch. His jaw is sporting a painful crimson patch where my fist connected with his face, though he doesn't make a fuss. And I think that makes me feel even more guilty. I'd have much preferred he'd screamed at me for being so careless and rough in my panic. But he just... knows. He knows it was unintentional. He knows how terrified I was.

"Peter, I really am sorry," I mumble while lingering by the window, watching him examine the faint purple tinge wash over the patch of scarlet skin in the mirror. His chest rises and falls slightly under the vivid spandex material of his suit, keeping at a steady pace despite the pain he must be in.

"It's okay. I know you didn't mean it. Or well, it wasn't meant for me," he stretches his lips into a half-hearted yet sincere smile, before grimacing slightly. "I think you've loosened one of my molars."

I groan and collapse into the desk chair, running through the events of this evening in my mind. The alarm clock on his nightstand reads 12:20am. Somehow, in an hour since leaving the Compound, I have managed to destroy maybe twenty street lamps only a few blocks away, punched Spider-Man in the jaw, and been followed by a disgustingly intoxicated and unnerving man who smelled of stale whiskey and B.O. As much as I hate it, perhaps staying at home is my best bet. Yes, it is mind-numbing and draining and carried a melancholic energy; haunted by the ghosts of the previous inhabitants- whom now would probably much rather forget and cut all ties with the Starks and 'The Avengers' label. But at least it's only destroying my mental state- nothing physical.

He giggles softly, "S'alright. Who needs teeth anyway, right?" I frown fondly at his sudden sarcasm, though remaining friendly. He notices that the slight grin on my lips doesn't quite reach my eyes. "So... how are things? I mean, back at home or whatever- with everyone."

And at this point I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry. I recall the atmosphere and affection flowing through the Compound as well as the team prior to the departure of half of them. Though I can't think of them much, because I begin to notice the slight quivering of my lip and creases forming on my forehead. I can't think of them much because my chest is aching and I'm absolutely certain that I could explode at any minute. I clear my throat before collecting my words, "Different. But nothing that I won't be able to handle."

"Yeah, I mean you are a Stark. You're basically made of iron or whatever," he adds.

"Yeah, I'm a badass motherfucker and we should all acknowledge this. As is Tony." He chuckles at this, nodding in agreement as he trails over to the bunk bed beside me, taking a seat on the lower mattress so that we are at the same level. My eyes scan over the crumpled light blue comforter, before glancing up to the top bunk. Peter blushes slightly, his thoughts extremely evident without opening his mouth.

"This is old... really old. Ned used to come over every Friday and we'd swap comic books and stuff. I must seem really childish now, bunk beds and comics." He shifts his focus to fiddle with the web shooters on his wrists, while I search for something to say.

"I always wanted bunk beds, but I don't have any siblings," I chuckle fondly as a memory flashes through my mind, "I asked if Wanda and I could have bunk beds, and Dad ended up building us them, but I think we slept in them once and decided that it was kinda underwhelming, so we never used them again. Anyway, in my new room, sometimes I'll lay on the floor under my bed and cry, which is certainly not ergonomic but I guess it kinda reminds me of a bunk bed." Peter laughs at this, praising me for my use of 'ergonomic' in causal conversation.

His face lights up before he climbs up the ladders to the top bunk and tells me to follow behind him. Reaching the top, I realise that this is about as high as I can get without feeling viciously nauseous and anxious. "Was it like this? Your bunk bed, I mean," he asks as I shuffle to a comfortable spot on the surprisingly small mattress.

"My Dad added a built-in cup holder which kept mugs of hot chocolate warm, so no."

"See, that's the thing. You can't over complicate it, you've gotta appreciate how little space you've got and how you kinda have to bend your head in a weird position to see the TV. The discomfort is the best part! That's the true bunk bed experience," he explains.

"Ah, I see. I'll keep that in mind, Parker."

A moment passes by, I'm unsure of how long it is, while I study the posters on the back wall. Empire Strikes Back and Pulp Fiction taped onto the cracking white paint. I assumed he had been watching the door from over my shoulder in case May came waltzing into his bedroom, though a tiny voice in the back of my head is whispering that he was looking at me. 

I carefully climb down the ladders and let out a breath I didn't realise I had been holding until the familiar feeling of solid ground beneath my feet returned, while Peter simply jumps from the top mattress with ease. My eyes search around his bedroom for my bag, noticing the creased clothes laying discarded on his bedroom floor. "Do you only ever wear cuffed jeans, Peter?"

"What? What's wrong with cuffed jeans? Am I not supposed to wear them?"

"No, no. Nothing wrong. I like them, is all. I think they suit your personality very well," I offer him a nod of inclination, which he accepts with a grin and a 'thanks!'

I collect my things and head for Peter's bedroom door, though he perks up and asks me a question as my fingertips graze against the brass door handle. "Why do we only hang out when bad things happen?"

"Who knows, Spiderboy? You call me when something good happens, and we'll go get a coffee or a milkshake or whatever."

"Really?" he asks in genuine curiosity, unsure whether my usual and familiar sarcasm has made another delightful return.

"No." I quietly start over to the front door, him following close behind. "Thanks for helping me, Bug-Boy. And I'm sorry for punching you. But hey, at least you'll have a sweet bruise tomorrow. Girls really dig that. Who knows, maybe Liz might ask you about what happened?"

"Yeah, maybe," his eyes glaze over slightly at the mention of Liz, clearly slipping into one of his daydreams where he asks her to Homecoming or whatever and she accepts the invitation gratefully.

As I open the front door, he immediately snaps back to reality, "Wait! Please let me take you back to the Compound, I really don't want to leave you walking home in the dark after what just happened."

"Peter, I'm a big girl, I can look after myself."

"No, I know that. It's just..."

"...Just...?"

"I don't want anything to happen to you, y'know? Come on, Bonnie." I reluctantly give in and let him pull me over to his bedroom window, as he claims 'it's much more fun this way.' Somehow, this is the complete opposite to my idea of 'fun.' This is quite honestly my worst nightmare.

"Promise you won't drop me?" I rush out as he begins to climb onto the fire escape, while I linger in his bedroom by the window.

"What? Bonnie-"

"Just say it. Promise me you won't drop me, Parker."

"Didn't I just save your life earlier? Why would I have gone through all of that if I were planning on murdering you?" he chuckles fondly at my panicked expression.

"Just say it," my voice is strained and helpless. I hate it.

"I promise."

And with that, I'm seeing Queens from angles and heights that I had never imagined before. Well, for the first half a second when Peter lugs me out of the window after him, before he swipes me up around his waist and I bury my head into his neck. And even then, everything was just a vivid and metallic looking kaleidoscope of swirling tones. I conclude that I'll have my whole life to revisit Queens, and can do so whenever I please- perhaps I'll never get the opportunity to explore Berlin again, which is why I had initially gone along with Peter, swinging through the city.

The wind whips through my curls, matting and knotting the thick strands together and puffing up like cotton candy surrounding my face. My eyes sting from the velocity of the air surrounding me, tears spilling over and dripping down my cheeks. But at least I am cold. And if I fall to my death, I'll die without the burning sensation controlling my body. I have to stay cold.

Having experienced slinging through Berlin on Peter's arm, I picked up on a few things: never ever under any circumstances look down, try my best not to move or look around, don't think about anything.

Enough to keep my mind busy from the knowledge that I could be hundreds of feet, dangling in the air and grazing the bottom of the clouds; simultaneously sufficient enough so that I do not fall into a thought spiral.

I'll keep my eyes latched shut, securing the locks and tangling my eyelashes together until we are on solid ground, and I'll feel stable enough to look at the world around me again. I shriek slightly as I slip from his grasp, though his fingertips press firmly into my skin and keep me close. He stumbles out an apology possibly twenty times in a row, until his voice becomes lost in he velocity of the wind.

When we arrive at the Compound, I direct him to my bedroom window. I don't ask how he knew the route on how to get here, especially from Queens, he just knows. I suppose Happy must have informed him on where to go if something truly awful happens, and I mean actually awful, not just Peter's definition of the word; algebra tests graded with a C- or a missed subway during a rainstorm.

Speaking of-

"I think it's raining," and that's all Peter manages to breathlessly spit out before the clouds have seemed to part, a never-ending heavy downpour of raindrops  following. I fumble around with pushing my window open as the water drenches me, soaking through my jacket as well as my sweater and leaving my once baggy jeans sticking to my legs like they've been surgically sewn into my skin. It takes a few attempts, but with a final heave I manage to muster up enough strength to pull the window up enough so that I can fit through and stumble into my bedroom.

"Will you be okay getting back home?" I shout over the repetitive slapping of the raindrops hitting harshly against the concrete path.

"Totally," he replies back, though he jumps in fright as a light flicks on from one of the rooms beside mine. Taking this as his cue to leave, he rushes out a quick goodbye before slinging away back home with his webs. I throw myself through the gap in the window and haul it shut, flinging myself underneath my comforter on my bed and pretending to be asleep. I hear a gentle knock hit against my bedroom door, followed by a hoarse, "Bonnie?" Concluding that it is Dad, I decide against getting out of bed to speak to him because I know he'll use it as his excuse to stay up all night. That gold-dust sleep has never been more desperate.

A few moments later, I hear the gentle pat of his footsteps leading away from my bedroom and down the hallway. I let out a breath that I hadn't even realised I had been holding. My clothes are damp- practically dripping- causing huge wet patches soaking through to my mattress. My pillow is cold and feels like a brick under my busy head. I shiver.

I didn't realise until now that I'm still wearing my shoes. I groan, knowing that my fresh linen sheets definitely now have dirt stains swiped across. After changing my covers and slipping into dry clothes, I steal a glance at the window.

I watch as the raindrops race down the glass pane, secretly rooting for the left droplet, sighing when the one to the right manages to beat it. I swear, I could watch raindrops forever. Another shiver, provoking me to crawl under my sheets again. The ambient noises of the rain pelting against my window is comforting, soothing any anxiety a lot easier than mediation and breathing exercises. Perhaps the reason why I love rain so much is because it is a rather ambient noise, and that is exactly the definition of myself; just a background noise that no one really listens to. But I suppose I don't mind sometimes. I'd rather be the one observing than being observed. I have had plenty experience in being observed. Him.

I shake the thoughts of Aldrich Killian from my scattered and damp brain, and instead run through the events of this evening. I cannot help but bombard myself with questions: if Peter hadn't realised I was in trouble, would I have been able to muster up enough control and put my abilities to good use? What would have happened if I had spoken to the man and politely declined him rather than ignoring him? Get a fucking grip, Bonnie- I tell myself- you don't owe that man shit. Why should you have been polite if he had been harassing you? Remember who you are, and remember that no one deserves to be treated like that and called after as if their only place in this world is just to be a body for someone to have sex with.

Then the most important question runs through my head; what if I had died?

What would Dad have done? Would I have been found? Fuck, would Peter have found me?

Shut up, Bonnie. We get it, you're dramatic.

My eyes almost pierce through the ceiling as I lay on my back. Knowing that there are several floors above me; people living their everyday lives. Perhaps sleeping, working, eating...

And all of those people have their own experiences and feelings. Perhaps happy, sad, confused...

It's when you realise your own inferiority in the universe;; you're simply a whisper amongst a chorus. 

And I think that feeling so incredibly lost and alone and empty is much worse when you don't have anything to pin it to. Because that way, you'd have an excuse and a reason to let yourself feel this way. But when you're willing to be dragged into oblivion and you can slowly feel yourself slipping away without any cause behind it; the pain is much more harsh. You don't have anything to blame.

But I do, I do!

Time limits, Bonnie. Time limits. Remember: isn't it universal knowledge that trauma and grief has an unspecified expiration date, and you're supposed to know exactly when?

My phone on my nightstand vibrates and signals a new message dropping into my inbox.

bug-boy
i hope you didn't get in trouble or anything for staying out late. it's okay if you wanna tell mr stark that it was my fault. i don't mind. just hoping you're feeling better

bonnie
thanks, p.
don't stress, dad doesn't know i left,
and im sure as fuck not telling him.

He sends back a thumbs-up emoticon and the conversation comes to an abrupt end. I toss my phone back onto my nightstand and resume my existential crisis; pondering on the meaning of life- which is something that occurs more often than I'd care to admit. It's not long before thoughts of Mom begin to flood into my rotting brain.

"Maya Hansen wasn't a war criminal and she didn't commit civil rights violations or make a surveillance robot that destroyed a country or bribe a stranger to be a child soldier. She made an incredibly prestigious technology that just so ended up being weaponized and got her dragged into a mad man's ill-conceived quest for vengeance that was actual terrorism. Pepper, you... you didn't see her die, okay? I did. I know. I know that it wasn't what she wanted; she didn't want to be working with Killian and A.I.M with the knowledge of what he was turning her groundbreaking discovery into. Her technology could have sent science forward years and years, it just got into the wrong hands.

Bonnie... Bonnie loved her, Pepper. She was her Mom, a shitty one at that, but still her Mom. I dislike her as much as you do, but please can we avoid talking about this with Bonnie, I mean, the kid's been through enough."

I remember sneaking behind the door to Pepper's office at the Tower and hearing one of the several disputes she had with Tony regarding my Mom- more specifically- the circumstances and events that followed. I'd intercepted and eavesdropped many conversations regarding the subject, and as much as I love and miss Pepper with all of my heart, I think she'd feel guilty if she knew that I had heard the things she said.

"No good..."

"Better off without that damn woman and her psycho boyfriend..."

"She got what was coming in the end, Tony..."

Those words fade back into my train of thought, and I shake my head aggressively to rid them. The mattress squeaks slightly underneath me due to the sudden movements. There is no way on earth that I will be able to sleep tonight.

I swing my legs over the side of my bed and use the dim light radiating from my phone screen to break through the complete pitch black of the hallway leading the the various bedrooms and guest rooms. Since everyone's departure, it feels as if there are more than ever.

When I reach the door to Nat's old bedroom I linger by the door, attempting to ready myself and gather enough courage to walk in. It's a lot of deep breaths and cursing myself harshly in hushed tones over the sheer ridiculousness and exaggeration of my response to the situation, and it takes at least ten minutes before I'm able to push my weight onto the door and swing it open. Upon entering the room, I'm hit in the face with the cruel reminder of her absence, as the familiar scent of her expensive and musky perfume remains barricaded within the walls. Possibly embedded into the wallpaper. It's slightly overpowering and knocks the air out of my lungs, but I wouldn't dare cough or let it choke me, I just clamp my mouth shut and feel the tears begin to prick at my eyes.

Stop being stupid. She's fine- not in danger or anything. She can look after herself- my brain screams at me, though it's doubtful.

The box room has been stripped of its personality and any slight remainder or memories of its previous inhabitant- Natasha Romanoff. The overbearing yet comforting perfume lingering in the air to be the only obvious clue. The black satin bed sheets have been replaced with a cream coloured linen duvet. The pictures of her and Clint from their mission in Budapest, alongside various snaps of the both of us and the rest of the team pulling the most immature yet hilarious expressions, that I had carefully placed and arranged into a canvas with some extra painted detailing, is no longer mounted on her wall. The faux fur rug has been rolled up and tossed into one of the many storage boxes piling high. It's merely another guest room.

I shine my phone flash light onto the cardboard boxes stacked across the floor and scan over the labels, "bathroom... files... clothes..." on the search for her signature bottle of perfume. Even if it's empty, the familiar and musky scent will remain and cling to the delicate glass casing, and it will be enough. I rummage through box after box to no result, shedding tears every now and then, until something causes floodgates to break open. I stumble across a photo of Nat, Wanda, Dad and I sitting on the sofa with vivid green face masks coating our skin and nightgowns hanging loosely from us, wine glasses clutched in the hands of those legal, Diet Coke with a swirly straw for me. That was one of the last night before the Accords came along and turned everything upside down.

I gently place the photograph onto the ground beside me, making a mental note to stick it on my wall above my bed as soon as I return back to my bedroom. Perhaps, just like the post-it note scribbled with Wanda's quote, it will fill me with some sense of determination every morning to survive the day. Carpe diem and all of that optimistic bullshit. If I hadn't already been in Peter Parker's bedroom, I'd have expected he had the exact same quote hanging somewhere from his walls. Carrying on with my search, I manage to find a pair of sunglasses that I had let Nat borrow last summer that she had not bothered returning, as well as several half-used lipsticks that had once belonged to me.

My fingers delve into the cardboard for perhaps the fifteenth time, grazing against some sort of small carton. Pulling it out, I realise it's a half-full packet of cigarettes. It's one of the most expensive brand that you can buy from the gas station or the grocery store without it being a cigar. I know she smokes those, though. Sometimes she'd sit with Dad on the roof after a particularly hard day with a glass of scotch, puffing away. She only started smoking after Ultron, and usually chain-smokes when she's stressed. Other times- she cannot stand the faintest hint of cigarette smoke in the air. No happy medium or in between- just one extreme or the other.

I flip open the lid and grimace slightly as the smell of tobacco immediately slips up my nostrils. Though, I cannot bring myself to discard the half-full carton back into the cardboard box, and instead tuck it into the pocket of my shorts. I wonder if I'd look as femme fatale as Nat, with deep red lipstick neatly coating my lips and a cigarette lit in my right hand. Most likely not- the smell of the smoke would knock me sick and I'd end up gagging from the fumes. I suppose I could just keep the box as a reminder of her- as if she is still here, in the Compound with me- as well as one of the lipsticks. I collect a few in my hands, as well as the picture of Dad, Wanda, Nat and I, before tiptoeing lightly back down the hall and to my bedroom.

I collapse in relief as the door closes gently behind me, making it back to the comforting confining walls of my bedroom without disturbing anyone or stirring them from their sleep. Saying that- this floor is most likely empty. I imagine Dad is cooped away in his workshop, submerging himself in his work; Vision to be guarding the door as a 'safety protocol.' The typical dysfunctionality of the Avengers. Safely storing the cigarette carton and the lipsticks in the draw of my nightstand, I deliberate on where to place the photo of Nat, Wanda, Dad and I. I slide the photograph out from its frame and stick it on the wall behind my bed, beside Wanda's quote- another thing for me to wake up to in the morning, hopefully provoking any faint hint of a grin to form on my lips. I've not done it in a while. Well, not until tonight.

But it didn't last long; never does. And the really frightening thing is- I knew subconciously that while the smile was creeping up on me and dousing me in a temporary fix of happiness, I'd knew it would disappear as quickly as it had been brought about. I'd known to take it with a pinch of salt- no, not a pinch, a fucking grain. I hadn't allowed myself to be too pleased or excited. I just took it for what it truly was, in the simplest of definitions- a curve of the lip, a reflex to certain situations. Nothing more, nothing less. It was a smile, that's all. Nothing important or groundbreaking. Millions- billions- of people smile each day. It doesn't mean anything.

The space around me is busy with emptiness. Practically heaving with absolute nothingness; pitch black nothing. It terrifies me. But I won't allow myself to pull my comforter up to my chin and let the relief wash over me with the knowledge that grabbing hands and bad men aren't around me anymore. He's in my head and He always will be. He is a scar. No matter how hard I scrub away at my skin in the shower, He stains like a tattoo.

I have to stay cold.

The slightest feeling of warmth is harrowing. It'd be much easier if I'd just stay frozen forever. Perhaps Steve and I should have swapped places.

My eyelids are leaden. Every movement seems to take up every ounce of energy left in my feeble body. And I know the nightmares are coming.