"Good morning, it is 3am. The weather in Manhattan, New York is 68 degrees Fahrenheit with scattered clouds," Antares' British drawl wakes me from my slumber. I groan and attempt to pull myself up, before finding too much comfort in my duvet and dropping my head back onto my pillow and burying deep.

The three hours of broken sleep I managed to get last night may as well have been zero- I feel as exhausted as ever.

"Up and at 'em, come on. You've got thirty minutes to get ready or else Happy is leaving without you. Waffles in the kitchen if you can get dressed in five,"Dad's eager voice fills my room with a sense of anticipation which finds its way into my brain. I'm excited. What am I excited for?

Germany.

Germany.

"Wow, congratulations, you made it here in four minutes and forty-two seconds," Dad pushes a plate towards me on the marble counter as I drag myself into the kitchen. I don't ask him why he's awake so early in the morning, he practically never sleeps, so it doesn't come as a surprise that I'd find him at three o'clock, gulping down mug after mug of black coffee.

I always feel nauseous in the mornings, it's an excruciating part of my daily routine that has been plaguing me since my first day attending Middle School. I suppose the anxiety linking to 7am breakdowns over the day ahead, surrounded by bitchy girls from the suburbs and dim footballers didn't disappear when Tony pulled me from school to have someone tutor me at home, occasionally a fusion of him and Bruce.

"Are you all packed?" Dad calls down the corridor as he trails into his workshop, swearing under his breath as he sifts through files in search of something appearing to be of significance importance.

I grunt in confirmation as I pull a slightly faded sweater over my head and struggle to push my arms through the sleeve holes in a hurry; Happy is waiting outside. Once I lug my suitcase to the front door, Dad rushes after me and makes a big fuss of putting my suitcase in the trunk and making sure I promise to be nice and to talk to Peter during the journey, considering 'it's either hearing Happy snoring the whole time, or making friends.'

It's still dark; only street lamps reflecting a warm glow on the pavements and lighting the high points on Dad's face. "You've been by yourself for over three and a half years. I know it's daunting and different, but sometimes you have to face up to your fears to see that they aren't really real; just something you've constructed in your mind over time." Dad pulls me into a tight embrace as I feel tears collect in the bottom lids of my eyes, a short intake of breath following my lips.

"Dad, he's Peter Parker, he's practically harmless. Why would I be afraid of him?" I bite down harshly on my tongue to restrain any whimpers. I'm not sure why I'm almost crying. But, I suppose the stress from the past few months has grown to the point of hacking away at my rotting brain, until all I want to do is cry. And sleep. But it's been a while since I either.

'Unhealthy coping mechanisms' and all that bullshit.

"I don't mean him in particular. I just mean putting yourself out there in general. You're a teenager. You're allowed to let yourself live, Bonnie," he mumbles to me, though I can feel Happy's sharp glares pushing daggers into the back of my head, most likely stressed about the amount of time ticking by.

"Well, this is a mission, isn't it? It's not supposed to be fun. It's work. We have to be professional. I will befriend Peter on a work-basis only." I straighten my back and drop the small smile playing on my face as a breathy chuckle escapes Dad's lips.

"Yeah, you definitely need to experience what it's like to be a teenager," he opens the door to the backseat for me while emphasising that Peter must sit beside me, and I must attempt small talk, no matter how excruciating it is.

My phone vibrates in my pocket which signals a new text message in my inbox, from the one and only Peter Parker.

bug-boy
how long is the flight?

bonnie
im not sure. nine and a half hours i think

bug-boy
are you kidding me? what if I need to pee?

bonnie
there's a bathroom on the jet, parker.
we're almost at your apartment. make sure you bring enough to keep yourself occupied.
im not babysitting you

bug-boy
bitch please, I'm spider-man.
if anyone is the babysitter, it's me.

As we pull up to Peter's apartment building, he sits in anticipation on the steps, his suitcase beside him, his phone clutched in his hand as he grins down at the screen. Upon hearing the car pull up, he jumps up from the cold concrete and effortlessly drags his luggage over to the trunk of the car.

"Good morning!" Peter slides into the seat next to me and slips his backpack off his shoulders and onto the floor by his feet.

"Shut up. You're too loud. It's not even five in the morning," I snap monotonously, fixing my eyes on my phone screen and scrolling through my camera roll to distract myself.

Peter quickly quietens down, rummaging through his bag as Happy takes off for the airport. He pulls out a pretty old looking video camera with a triumphant look on his face. He twists in his seat so the lens can perfectly capture the scenery flashing by in a meticulous Monet.

"New York... Queens," his voice escapes his lips in a husky mumble; causing my mouth to curl into a grin despite attempting to keep my neutral demeanour.

The divider between the back seat and and the front driver and passenger seat slides down, revealing Happy with a tense expression twisted into his complexion. "What did you say? Were you talking to me?" he groans in annoyance.

"No, I'm just making a little video of the trip," Peter explains as he points the lens towards Happy.

"You know, you can't show it to anyone?"

"Yeah, I know."

"Then why are you narrating in that voice?"

Peter deliberates on the justification, "'Cause it's fun.
So, why do they call you Happy?" Peter questions as the divider between them slowly reappears and he's left in a deafening silence. I allow a silent giggle to part my lips, though it catches in the space around us as Peter turns to me, lens pointed and all.

"You're crazy if you think I'm letting you record me." I block the camera with my hand and turn away from him, the lack of sleep and accentuated dark circles definitely aren't 'camera ready.'

The sharp wind hits me in the face and wakes me from my dazed state of longing to be wrapped up again inside of my duvet at home- believing that perhaps if I squeeze my eyes shut tight enough then I'll reappear in my bedroom- as we exit security and board the plane.

I heave my trunk and my hand luggage along the hard concrete, frequently tripping on the laces of my worn-out boots and wincing when I feel as if I'm steps away from being sent flying down the runway.

"Come on, I'm not carrying your bags. Go." Happy motions for Peter to board the plane as I follow close behind. Flying has always been a huge trigger for my vicious waves of anxiety, and so this time, just like all of my past experiences, my heart pounds rapidly in my chest, like an aggravated bird encapsulated inside of a cage, thrashing to escape.

I think it's pretty vital that I don't let my abilities get the better of me, I cannot cause any damage to the plane at all- otherwise I'll end up killing Peter, Happy and myself.

"Should I go to the bathroom before?" Peter asks, though his voice catches in the harsh humming of the engines and hardly reaches my ears.

I grasp onto the railing of the steps and steady myself, the anxiety has turned my body limp and delicate. I suppose that when I had been so determined to go to Berlin, I hadn't exactly acknowledged the fact that the only way to get there would be by flying, and I suppose that the stress and anticipation from the past two days has kept me busy enough to worry more about the destination and the circumstances of the visit, rather than the chosen transportation.

My palms turn slippery with sweat and I struggle to haul my trunk up the staircase. When we escape the cold and get inside of the plane, I begin to think I'd have preferred to be left in the car. I scold myself for letting my fears get the better of me, and dive into the seat closest, disquieted by the prospect of my shaking legs causing me to collapse.

I keep my eyes fixed upon my frayed shoelaces and follow each tiny thread to calm myself down and distract my thoughts from convincing me that the plane is going to crash.

Germany.

Germany.

I repeat over and over again like an incantation which will trick me into freeing myself from the anxiety.

"Is that where you're gonna sit?" Happy.

"Yeah," a voice so familiar, yet for the life of me, I can't put my finger on who it is.

Panic. Panic. Panic.

I'm going to die. I'm going to die.

"Is it your first time on a private plane?" Happy.

"It's my first time on any plane," that voice again. "Hey, should it be... should it be making that noise?" It wavers.

Is that me? Am I causing the engine to make that noise?

It's okay. It's okay. It's okay.

Germany. Germany.

If I could just find a way to get into the fight then this would seem all the more worthwhile.

Focus on the voice. Ignore the buzzing engines which seem to be getting more and more intense as every excruciating second ticks by.

It's only 9 and a half hours. Which is only 570 minutes. Which corresponds to 34,200 seconds.

Perhaps only 180. Apparently the first 3 minutes after take-off are the most dangerous.

Stop.

Focus on the voice again.

And don't fucking break anything.

The seat beside me dips, "Hey, are you alright?" the unidentifiable voice drawls in a soft Queens accent.

The person mumbles about bringing homework with them, though making sure to add at the end that they aren't too annoyed- they didn't know what else they could do on a nine hour flight- as their tall figure looms over my head to store away their hand luggage in one of the overhead cabinets.

"But it's English Literature, which isn't necessarily my favourite-"

"Shut up. Stop talking," I snap, though the words get lodged in my throat and my voice parts my lips in a pathetic and brittle gasp.

"Can I ask you a question? Why do- holy shit!" A bottle of Coke on the table in front of us explodes, spitting the sticky froth across the plane as well as the person beside me. I know that was me, I caused that. But I'm fucking thankful it wasn't the engine. The person runs to the bathroom and returns with a handful of tissues, dabbing at their shirt as they return to the seat next to me, "Are you okay? You're... kind of... hyperventilating."

I twist my head to take in my surroundings.

Peter.

The voice- the person is Peter.

"I'm fine, Parker," I spit out through sharp inhales. I latch my frantic gaze onto his concerned eyes. The blood begins to pound aggressively in my ears, my head feeling seconds away from exploding. I am certain that I am about to cause so, so much worse. My vision becomes distorted and causes me to feel off-balance, almost as if fish-eye lenses have been installed onto my eyeballs. 

The air can't reach my lungs. My windpipe locks. The palpitations in my chest shift from sporadic to constant. My legs tingle. My hands are shaking.

The engine becomes even louder.

"Bonnie, you're not fine," his voice is hardly audible; everything sounds above land while I'm swimming in the deepest depths of the ocean.

Bile singes the back of my throat.

"I just... just... don't like flying. I need to get off this plane," I manage to force out as the buzzing of the engine increases while it fires up to hurtle down the runway.

Breathe.

Breathe.

I grip tightly onto his hand as we jolt back and forth in our seats; the jet begins its shaky ascent to Berlin, staggering violently down the runway.

Something else explodes, the sound reverberating around the right casing of the plane, though I'm unsure of what it was,it earns an annoyed sigh from Happy.

Peter stiffens in shock before hesitantly intertwining his fingers in mine. "What do you want to do when we get to Germany?" he rushes out, in what I suspect is his attempt at shifting my mind away from the macabre anxiety. "God, the air pressure in here is crazy," he mumbles under his breath.

I grip harder as the engines begin whistling in my ears. "Fight."

"Apart from that."

I'm sure the harsh pressure of my fingertips pushing into his knuckles would cause anyone else to yelp in pain. He doesn't flinch. "I'm not sure. We don't have much time there."

"We'll have the rest of the night. Come on, you've got to think of something you wanna do," he brushes his thumb softly against the back of my hand for a second, before refocusing to the issue at hand; calming me down.

The ground begins sliding away from beneath us as the plane tilts in the air. "Pretzels."

"You wanna get a pretzel?" he chuckles.

"Yes. If we don't die, will you get a pretzel with me, Parker?" I squeeze my eyes shut and grit my teeth as the jet hits a spot of turbulence.

"I'll eat as many pretzels as I can until I hurl if it'll get you to stop hyperventilating."

How is he so calm and laidback? We're strapped into a metal tube and climbing further and further into the air, the ground fading away amongst terrifyingly weightless clouds, with my mind going haywire, and he's fine.

"If you were a character in a book or a movie or a tv show, who would you be?" He begins firing questions at me as the plane begins to steady in the air, though the seatbelt signal remains on.

"I'm not sure. Maybe... Monica Geller. Who would you be?"

"Easy. James Bond."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I splutter as the jet reaches stability in the air. "Parker, you're nothing like him. If Cedric Diggory got Duckie from Pretty in Pink pregnant, you'd be the result."

He scoffs sarcastically in fake appall, "How could you? You were doing so well. I actually thought you were warming up to me!"

"It's not a bad thing. Cedric diggory was hot. And besides, you're a Hufflepuff." The corners of my mouth twitch into a grin as I pry my eyelids apart and glance over at him.

"If I'm a Hufflepuff, then you're a Slytherin."

"Fine by me. I mean, I could never condone his actions because he was an awful person, but Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets was hot as fuck."

Peter's mouth drops open in disgust, "Seriously?"

"Of course."

His expression deepens, and his eyes fill with concern. "Are you okay?"

I glance down to our fingers tangled together on the arm rest and quickly pull my hand away. "Fine."

If he's hurt, he certainly doesn't show any signs, as a sharp ping rattles around in my ears, signalling that we can unfasten our seatbelts, Peter jumps up from his chair and effortlessly heaves his backpack from the overhead cabinet. It hits the table with an unsatisfying thud, and the light outline of several hardback books poke through the thin material.

He talked me down from very nearly unintentionally causing the plane to crash and killing us all. And people say chivalry is dead.

He rummages through his bag and pulls out several notebooks, before tossing me a packet of peanut butter cups and aiming perfectly at my outstretched hands. "You actually brought homework?"

"Yeah," he replies, not understanding the appall in my voice, "I didn't know how long we'd be in Germany."

He sifts through the pages in his notebook before settling on a fresh sheet. I pick up his text of Romeo and Juliet and run my finger down the creased spine. I flip open the front cover and see his initials -P.P- written in bold.

"No one is gonna steal your book, Parker. It's Romeo and Juliet, everyone and their dad has read it."

"No, I know. I'm just always losing my stuff," he defends himself as he taps his pen against the lines running on the page. His focus increases and our conversation slowly falls to pause.

I try my best to curl up in my seat and fall asleep, though despite my heavy eyelids, any sign of unconsciousness and rest seems scarce.

"Hey, you never told me why you came to Midtown." He closes his notebook and pushes it away from him after an hour and a half of furious scribbling.

"Dad wanted me to recruit you."

"But he showed up at my apartment."

I sigh in helplessness, "He thought that if you had gotten to know me before, then you wouldn't have been so reluctant to come."

I roll my eyes as a deafening wheeze parts Happy's lips and echos down the plane. I envy him for finding sleep to be such a nonchalant element of life. Peter flashes me a mischievous grin as he pulls his camera from his bag and takes the book from my hands, gesturing me to follow him. We sneak up the aisle, not caring too much about the sound of our footsteps shuffling against the carpet, due to the relentless and ear splitting snoring in the space around us. 

He places his fingers over his lips, telling me to refrain from speaking, as he holds the camera over Happy's face and chuckles quietly. We jump in fright as Happy suddenly snaps his eyelids open and jerks forward. Laughing hysterically while we jog back to our seats, Peter chokes out an apology though Happy glares at us furiously.

Soon enough, the snoring resumes and it takes everything in me to resist the temptation of hitting my head against the wall.

For the majority of the journey, Peter initiates the conversations; ranging from our favourite ice cream flavours- his being strawberry and mine being mint chocolate chip- to the inevitable topic of Liz.

"Here," he hands me the matching earbud to the one shoved in his ear. I take his phone from the table in front of us and flick through the songs on his playlist, noting that the ones I added yesterday are still there, amongst Radiohead and various Joy Divison songs.

"I listened to the stuff you recommended. I like this one." He presses onto the screen and the first few notes of 'I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend' by the Ramones echo familiarly into my ears. Peter begins drumming his fingers against the arm rest that we're sharing, accidentally catching my wrist a few times.

I glare at him as his fingertips connect with my skin for perhaps the eighth time, and he mumbles out an apology before closing his eyes and seemingly drifting into a light slumber.

But I can't sleep.

I tear a page out of Peter's notebook and begin scrawling down.

I visit various ideas in my busy brain, plans devised and discarded as almost every possible way of sneaking into the fight seems unmanageable. I sigh in defeat and crumple the scribbled paper up into my hands and lob it at the chair opposite me. It hits the leather in a pathetic scrape.

Before Mom died, and before Him, I was quite good at problem solving and finding my way around certain issues, excelling in maths and physics. After she was killed and after what happened to me had happened, everything seemed so uncertain and unpredictable. I was terrified and constantly alert. Dad would attempt some extra tutoring outside of my usual home-school curriculum, to no result. My brain had simply stopped functioning. Rearranging equations and working out half-life in radioactivity had seemed, and appeared, to be unfathomable in my rotting brain. I would spend hours sobbing over my scattered thoughts and missing knowledge; the grief and trauma had truly broken me. Bruce had come to the conclusion that despite having everything removed that Killian had once put inside of me, it had scarred and altered my original brain to the damaged state it is in now.

And I have come to the realisation that I have been stuck in the past up until very recently, no matter how hard I tried to resist it. No matter how intensely I refrained from occupying my days with reminiscing and desperately attempting to claw myself back to life before everything got so fucked up, my mind subconsciously shifted back to a simpler time before.

To a time before superheroes and a teenage boy in red and blue spandex.

Though recently I have found it incredibly difficult to reminisce. The idea of life without Dad and Nat and the rest of the team seems foreign and causes that familiar gripping sensation around my neck to halt the breath from flooding my lungs. It seems unfamiliar and undesirable.

In all honesty, the slight thought of it sends shudders across my body. Because I'd still be stuck with Him. And all of that would just be waiting to happen.

Perhaps this is me accepting the trauma. Perhaps I'll start spiralling again soon.

It can be so unpredictable.

Peter shifts in his seat beside me, and lifts his head from resting against the back of his chair, gently rubbing his eyes and pulling himself back into reality. He gazes in a dazed state around the plane, as if he had expected to wake up back in May's apartment, wrapped up inside of his duvet with a full day of school ahead.

He stretches his arms out after shivering and pulling the zipper on his jacket further up towards his chin,  evidently feeling quite cramped despite the jet being quite spacious. Plucking the earbud from his ear, he paces the length of the aisle several times to stretch his legs, before packing away his books into his backpack and storing it in the overhead cabinet; we're landing soon.

"What's this?" his brow furrows in curiosity as he picks up the ball of crumpled paper and traces his eyes across my writing. "Are you sure you should really be fighting, Bonnie? I mean, didn't Mr Stark specifically tell you not to?"

He drops down into the seat beside me again, and I whip my head around to face him. "Please, Peter. You have to help me come up with a plan. I have to fight." I beg as he clicks his seatbelt back on.

The anxiety rises in my chest once again, and I close my eyes to block out my surroundings. I let the pitch black envelop my senses, until the sound of Peter's voice pulls be back to reality.

He shakes his head in disagreement, "Nope. No way."

"Why not?" I moan.

Germany.

We'll be landing in Berlin any minute.

"Because Mr Stark will kill me!" he rushes out in defence. He opens his mouth to resume speaking, though quickly snaps his lips together as I grip his hand once again; the turbulence is relentless.

This time he doesn't hesitate to tangle our fingers together, though his awkward demeanour still remains.

My body freezes as the plane drops down and begins its descent to Berlin, though my mind spirals to the sickening imagery of the jet plummeting to the ground.

"You'll be okay." Peter mumbles, once again snapping me away from the nauseating thoughts.

A burning heat floods through my body like a forest fire. The familiar and dreaded gripping clasps around my neck once again. I can't breathe. I can't swallow. I thought I had grown accustomed to panic attacks and had come to terms with the idea that there is no quick fix, they will most likely torment me for the rest of my life, and still, every attack stings more than the last.

My water bottle begins bubbling.

"Just... talk to me, Peter. Take my mind off it." I trip over my words as I attempt to refrain from hyperventilating by focusing on several breathing techniques and ways to gain back the control over my mind that Dad told me would help to ease the panic.

Five things I can see: Peter's phone and earbuds strewn across the light oak surface of the table in front of me, the illuminated seatbelt sign, the sight of tiny buildings and trees beginning to enlarge through the window as the jet nears the ground.

Four things I can hear: Peter telling me to stop looking out of the window and to focus on him instead, the deafening racket of the engines, my heavy breathing, several items spilling out of my bag and clattering around in the overhead compartment.

Three things I can feel: Peter's fingers interlaced with mine, the cold leather of the chair seeping though my tights and hitting my skin, the plane hitting a vicious spot of turbulence and sending vibrations throughout my body.

Two things I can smell: Peter's fresh cologne wrapping around my nose and colliding with my lavender perfume.

One thing I can taste: strawberry coating my tongue as I flip a piece of bubblegum around in my mouth.

He pauses as he searches his brain for something to distract me, "After we get pretzels, what do you want to do?"

I swallow hard. "I want to explore Berlin. I've never been before."

"Me too. How much of it do you think we'll get to see?"

I twist my head to peer out of the window. My heart drops at the sight of towering buildings mimicking ants on the ground below and slowly growing in size as the plane nears landing. "I'm seeing a whole lot of it now."

I swallow hard as bile burns the back of my throat.

The water bottle is practically letting off steam.

"Hey? Stop looking. You'll freak yourself out."

As the plane touches down on the runway, we jolt forwards aggressively. The sound of the engines being turned to idle and coming to a stop floods my body with a sense of relief and untangles the tight knot which has been in my stomach for the past ten hours.

"Fuck me. We're here. We're really here- in Berlin." I mumble as I stare in disbelief out of the window, rubbing my eyes harshly to prove to myself that this isn't just one big delusion I've created in my head to distract myself from the chaos of the crumbling world around me. I'm honestly just relieved that I didn't end up accidentally wreaking the plane and unintentionally killing everyone in the process.

"Twenty-four hours ago, Tony Stark was waiting in my apartment to recruit me for the Avengers." Peter gulps harshly as he peers out of the window in bewilderment- as though just comprehending the severity of the situation.

"I mean... I was there too, Peter-" I roll my eyes as I tune to face him, despite the corners of my lips curling into a faint grin.

He chuckles as he unfastens his seatbelt and collects his bag from the overhead compartment, before tossing me my own.

—

By the end of the car journey from the airport to the inner city, Happy is practically shaking with annoyance. His name seems very contradictory to his current state.

Peter and I coo over the old buildings and the true beautiful authenticity of Berlin, that New York most definitely lacks. Tall women strut down the streets in elegant outfits complimented by short sleek hair. I etch it into the back of my mind and promise myself to never forget. I wish I could take a picture of this feeling. The feeling of weightlessness; the feeling of anticipation over a city ready to be explored.

That is, until I refocus on the issue at hand; fighting.

More specifically; how I'll be able to sneak into the fight.

When we climb out of the car and begin trailing through the bustling city, Peter keeps his camera glued in his hand, making sure he's absolutely certain he hasn't missed anything interesting. He relishes in the unfamiliarity and excitement of a new adventure, and his eyes stay as illuminated as Christmas lights for the entirety of our wandering through the city, no matter how many times Happy scolds us for drifting off into the crowds and becoming distracted.

"Look, pretzels," Peter gestures to a stand to my left, where a larger bald man is serving warm pretzels smothered in melted chocolate. His pearly teeth peak through his lips as he grins at all of the people passing by, regardless if they return the kind gesture or not. "We'll have to remember how to get here from the hotel so we can get our pretzels after the fight, you know, 'cause we didn't die on the plane," he chuckles as I scoff.

"Peter, we're in Germany. Look around, I don't care if we don't get pretzels, I'm just happy to be here." And I think I'm happy to be alive. For the first time in a while.

As we reach the hotel, Peter has to take a double take, his mouth gaping open at the extravagancy of it all.

Of course my father couldn't have settled for an average four-star B&B.

A young man greets us at the door, sported in a sophisticated red suit with gold threaded detailing along the seams, his thick German accent making me register that we truly are in Berlin.

Perhaps I'm just surprised I didn't die on the plane. Perhaps I'm excited to be here.

It's all so surreal.

You'd assume that being Tony Stark's daughter, I would have grown accustomed to jetting off around the world to various destinations on various vacations, though I most definitely haven't. The novelty hasn't worn off, and I'm not sure it ever will.

The floors are glittering white marble, I tread gently as opposed to scraping my heavy oxblood colored boots across the floor, as we trail up to the front desk. I clench my teeth with every step I take, glaring at the beautiful yet slippery floor, which has been buffed and shined beyond belief, as with a slight wrong move I could go tumbling straight out of the entrance.

Another indication that we are truly in Berlin is the engraved gold sign nailed above the door- ausgang instead of exit.

A blonde lady with deep red lipstick hands me my key for my room, a second just incase I lose the other. I know Peter's spare will come in handy, I' hardly know him and he's without a doubt the most unorganised person I've met, even more so than my father.

"Danke!" I thank the receptionist before we take the lift to our hotel rooms.

"Kid, this is you, and Bonnie, you're the room next to him," Happy gestures to the door numbers, which corresponds to the ones printed onto our keys, as he fiddles with the lock on his door. I suspect he's attempting to get away from us as quick as possible, as well as also being incredibly stressed regarding the events of today. He knows what's going to happen.

It's evident there's going to be a fight, even if Dad and Nat aren't necessarily looking for one.

"We're neighbours!" Peter exclaims.

"Yeah, we're not roommates." Happy evidently doesn't share his enthusiasm. "Suit up."

I get into my room and take everything in. The most luxurious, expensive and opulent place I could conjure up in my brain; that would be how I'd define the hotel. Fresh linen sheets tucked comfortably over a king-size mattress, cream fluffy carpets with ornately carved wooden dressers and chairs.

My phone vibrates in my hand and wakes me from my stunned state. Peter.

bug-boy
do you have an orange chair in your room?

bonnie
no? i have a chair,
but it's definitely not orange.
it's grey.

bug-boy
come see.

Peter's mood isn't damped by the nauseatingly vermillion chair.

"Wow... that certainly is... different." I never would have expected something so bright to be displayed in such a sophisticated room, though it's surprisingly quite complimentary and breaks apart from the nude and brown colour scheme.

"Oh my god. Look at the candy." Peter rummages through the packets and packets of unfamiliar and vivid confectionery, though a few items catch my eye.

"Wait, I recognise these. I know they're not British candies, but they sell them there, and when I lived in London, Mom ate these everyday." I pull out a mustard-coloured triangular-shaped chocolate bar, tracing my finger over the ruby lettering.

"Hold on, you lived in London?" He breaks a piece of the candy bar off and sinks his teeth into it.

"Only for a little while. My Grandparents'-they were New Yorkers' but moved to London when they got older and retired. My Mom never really got on well with them, but when my grandpa got sick, I guess she decided that being petty over bullshit arguments from years ago didn't matter anymore. So, we lived in London for about two years. I mean it was probably also so we could get away from..." I begin to trail off as the horrific memories threaten to replay in my mind before gathering myself, "anyway, I miss it, and one of the things I miss most is the candy. American chocolate tastes like ass compared to the good shit they've got over there." I take the chocolate from his hands and snap a piece off for myself as a distraction from remembering all of those traumatic 'meetings.' Peter cocks his head to the side slightly in suspicion, though feeling too awkward to ask me about it, as the chocolate melts into a velvety consistency on my tongue.

"I'm gonna get so many cavities," Peter sighs in contentment as he bites into another piece.

"Well, I suppose that's another good thing about London, you'd get all that stuff fixed for free. I got my braces on for free."

"You had braces? Wait, I can tell, your teeth are perfect," he says as he takes a step closer to inspect my smile.

"All I have to say is that you should be thankful that you only know the version of me with straight white teeth," I mumble as he breaks into slight laughter.

Peter picks his camera up from the dresser and points it in the direction of the window where I'm standing, though this time I don't moan or complain about being in shot, and I don't even tell him to fuck off when he zooms in on my face. I just laugh. I laugh despite knowing how my hair is knotted, mirroring the texture of cotton candy.

Happy calls for Peter to hurry and to change into his suit, which is my cue to drift back into my room and climb into my own suit, a long black trench coat to disguise my outfit, begging that the thick white spandex poking out from the bottom and covering my legs will go unnoticed by Happy.

Rushing back into Peter's room, I lounge on the ridiculous orange chair and stare up at the ceiling while he gives himself a pep talk in the mirror, I jump in occasionally with a few words of encouragement, 'I mean, Steve is pretty against killing people, so you'll probably get absolutely ripped to shreds, but you most likely won't die,' and also, 'Don't get too hurt, I'm still going to make you get a pretzel with me.'

"What the hell are you wearing?" Happy storms into the room and stops dead in his tracks. My heart drops as I think I've managed to ruin my chances at fighting before even leaving the hotel, though upon setting my eyes on him and searching his gaze, I see his focus is firmly locked on Peter.

"It's my suit," he explains in defence.

Happy sighs in irritation, "Where's the case?" He turns to me and shakes his head as if to say Peter is the most hopeless person, though I just shrug my shoulders in response as I'm unsure what case he's referring to.

Happy opens a door- which Peter and I had mistaken for a closet- which leads to a living area. Rich leather sofas sat behind a delicate glass coffee table, much like the one we have back in the Compound. A grey plastic case sits on top of the pristine glass, with a note on top.

A minor upgrade.
-T.S

A new suit. Red and blue spandex, to stick to the colour scheme of Spider-Man's original look, though most definitely better quality than the previous sweatsuit, that isn't exactly what I'd wear to a fight against half of the Avengers. He admires his new upgrade after Happy storms out of the hotel room and gasps in awe over the ridiculousness of the situation.

I go back into the bedroom and leave Peter to change into his suit, gazing out of the window as I run through a few more ideas on how to sneak my way into the fight. I don't know how I'll be able to convince Happy to take me with Peter, but I suppose I'll have to put some of that signature Stark charm to use.

Being Tony Stark's daughter means despite the debilitating anxiety, I have a huge fucking ego.

Peter slowly saunters back into the room, holding his arms out and slowly rotating on the spot to showcase his new suit.

"Wow, you look part of the team now."

He rips the mask from his face, his brunet waves cascading and falling gently in effortless enticement. "You really think so? Wait, what are you wearing?"
he spits out in curiosity as I untie my coat to tighten the holsters around my thighs, securing daggers with meticulously engraved silver handles.

"Thanks, Peter, really," I hiss sardonically.

"No, I- I didn't mean it like that. You don't look bad, I just- Are you really coming to the fight?" He lingers by the doorway, as if a single step towards me will cause one of my daggers to press firmly into his throat.

"Of course. Once I devise a plan." I wrap my coat around my waist and secure it with the belt, before pulling my hair into two Dutch braids, grimacing at the painful tugging on my curls.

Peter manages to break free from his safety net of the door, and takes a step towards me. "Bonnie, you should stay here. Mr Stark will-"

"Stop it, Peter!" I snap at him and stun him into silence, his lips part and his mouth drops open, "This is my chance to prove myself and I'm not letting you interfere with it. Try and hold me back all you want, but you will not win."

We are so close, I could count every individual eyelash complimenting his coffee-colored irises. His shaky warm breath parts his pale lips and brushes against my skin as his chest rises and falls gently under his suit. I glare into his eyes before jostling past him and storming towards the door, where I expect Happy is pacing in the hallway due to the overwhelming stress.

"I think I have a plan to get you into the fight," Peter turns towards me and mumbles, though avoiding lifting his eyes up to my face, as my shaking fingers graze against the bronze door handle.

This is my chance.

My time.