—

"Dude, she's just not into me. She constantly says she hates me and that I'll never get a girlfriend because I'm too awkward."

"Dude... she's totally into you! That's how girls work, and that's definitely how a Stark works."

—

Somehow, the news of my relation to Tony Stark had spread throughout the school like wildfire during the weekend and when I arrive on Monday morning, everyone is watching me.

Alongside this, the buzz of Spider-Man saving the decathlon team in Washington has created some sort of confused yet excited pandemonium in the atmosphere, and conspiracies of who the masked hero could be are thrown around the corridor. I'm sure I've heard all of the theories just on my way from home room to first period.

I try my best to slip through the crowds and act as though the constant whispering and watching isn't infuriating me, though it doesn't work.

Flash Thompson, how I hate you.

I try to recite the formulas for frequency as I push through the bustling halls on my way to morning break from physics class, though the Spider-Man posters plastered across the walls and lockers begin to distract me. I resist the urge to tear them down and crumple them up into tight balls or stomp all over them until they're worn-down and dirt-covered. I'm not sure why, perhaps I'm just pissed that Peter still has his identity masked while mine has been leaked. Eager eyes and furious whispers have never been something I'm fond of.

"How are you feeling? This is crazy, right? I mean, everyone knows about you now. Are you gonna do anything about it?" Ned rushes up to me as I stride down the hall and past Flash Thompson, who is currently checking himself out in the camera of his phone.

"What can I do, Ned? Absolutely nothing." I sigh helplessly and tug at the straps on my tote bag to expel some of the frustration. Exploding the lightbulbs in the hall or sending the lockers crashing to the floor is definitely something that I could do without.

"You could just tell everyone that Flash is making it all up for attention." Ned suggests cheerfully.

"What? It's my word against his. Who is everyone more likely to believe?" I say in annoyance as I turn the combination lock and pull my locker door open.

"Huh..." Ned trails off as he ponders over the thought for a few seconds and I sift through a variety of science textbooks, before he gasps excitedly. "By the way, Peter told me, and honestly, if I'm not best man at your wedding then I will personally sue your dad and Stark Industries." 

"What are you talking about? Peter told you what?"

"He told me about how you guys almost kissed a bunch of times in Washington. You're still meeting him tonight for your study session, right?" Ned lowers his voice, though the excitement floods through short and vivid bursts.

"What?" I choke on the air as I slam my locker door shut, sending the thud reverberating throughout the hallway, causing a few curious heads to turn in my direction. "That's not true, Ned."

He giggles mischievously, "You're a terrible liar, Bonnie. Look, your cheeks are turning pink." I slap his hand away as he lifts his finger to point at my flushed complexion.

"Ned, I swear to fuck, shut up! Okay, fine," I give in, "maybe there was a moment of slight tension between us and... Look, whatever." I sigh in frustration, "It doesn't mean anything, okay, Ned? Peter is completely smitten over Liz and I am fine with that, in fact, I encourage it. I don't like Peter and he doesn't like me, got it?"

"Do you practise that often?" He pipes up through a chuckle after taking a step away from me, possibly afraid that I'd start swinging punches at him.

"Ned, you are such an asshole! I swear, I am going to make sure that you're never going to be able to smile ever again when I'm done with you—"

"Miss Hansen, my office."

"For fucks sake." I utter under my breath as I reluctantly turn around to find Mr Morita, the principle, only a few steps away. He looks at me with that condescending and authoritarian glare; he's witnessed my threats, albeit very empty and not very intimidating nor set in stone, but he's witnessed them all the same and is carting me off to detention. I just know from the glint in his eye.

"I heard that."

Well, shit.

I glare at Ned while he continues chuckling away as the principle escorts me down the hall and to his office. It's bland and bare, boring and basic, just exactly how I had initially expected it to be. The wooden desk in the centre of the room looks slightly scratched and discoloured from its age, and the back wall is empty aside from a calendar and a cork-board covered with push-pins and scribbled notes.

It smells like bitter ink and the air is cold and harsh. I shiver.

"Here," he says after scribbling onto a hall-pass and handing it to me, "give it to the teacher when you get to detention. They'll let you know when it's time to leave."

I practically snatch it from his grasp and drag my feet along the floor as I turn to reach for the door handle. Lingering in the doorway, I cannot stay quiet any longer, "I hope you know that this is totally unfair considering that I didn't even do anything wrong. Ned is one of my best friends, he knew that I was kidding."

"Yeah, well," he sucks his teeth and rests his hands on his hips, "I didn't. And it's not just about your behaviour— the skirt you're wearing doesn't conform to the dress code."

"Surely this is some sort of abuse of power. How the f— how is the length of my skirt going to stop me from passing Trig?" I rush out in anger, my blood beginning to boil inside of me.

"Keep it up, Hansen, and you'll be spending the rest of the week in detention, and there'll be no Homecoming for you."

It takes everything within me to bite my tongue and to leave his office without cursing him out or ripping my hair from my head, as I roll my eyes and slip through the door.

I storm down the hall until I find the classroom running detention, and throw my bag onto a desk. The classroom is empty aside from the teacher at the front of the room, resting his head in his palm and clearly wishing he was any place other than here, and a guy I recognise from my Spanish class. He sits at the back of the room, slouched in his chair and loudly chewing gum, wearing that stupid varsity jacket that he sports proudly like a medal or some kind of trophy every day. The thing is, I've had half a conversation with him, yet I know all of the remaining topics he'd want to discuss would be football, himself, and whichever victim he's deciding to pick on that day. Maybe he'd mention Homecoming or whatever. I don't think I'd ever want to stick around long enough to stretch that half-conversation to a full one.

I hand the teacher at the front my detention check-in slip, to which he grunts, showing he has acknowledged my presence, before I slump down into my chair. Every tick of the clock somehow makes the time seem to pass by even slower, and it's only six minutes until Peter Parker comes into the classroom and slides into a desk a few seats away from me, despite it feeling like hours.

His lips are pressed firmly into a line, and his eyes are completely elsewhere; he's pissed.

The teacher sighs and heaves himself up from his desk, before he wheels one of those ancient box televisions into the class. Something that I'm sure would have been worth a lot of money in the 1980s, is outdated and on its way out. The screen is fuzzy and makes everything look slightly animated and blurred, and the audio is crackled and slightly muted. I remember Mom and I having a television not far off from that one; picked it up at some charity store— Goodwill perhaps.

"So, you got detention."

Steve Rogers pops up on the television screen, sporting the stars and stripes on one of his original Captain America suits from the 40s. I roll my eyes and avoid looking at him, pretending that he no longer exists to me and that his presence in my life was actually just some sort of vivid dream or an idea I had conjured up when I was half asleep or a system for escapism. But I suppose it's funny, because all I can think about is the fact that I practically kicked his ass in Berlin. I kicked America's ass and it felt fucking great.

"You screwed up. You know what you did was wrong. The question is, how are you gonna make things right? Maybe you were trying to be cool. Take it from a guy who's been frozen for 65 years—"

I feel a scrape against my cheek as a ball of screwed up paper hits my desk. Unfolding it, I read the words scribbled across it in familiar and rushed handwriting.

I need to talk to you. It's important. PP.

As I turn my head to face Peter, he offers a quick glance of reassurance before gesturing to the door with a slight nod of his head in the direction of the hallway. I ponder over it for a second, until he suddenly bolts up from his seat and rushes out of the classroom. I hear the sound of his feet tapping against the floor until it comes to an abrupt pause as my phone in my pocket chimes, signalling a new text message.

bug-boy
please?

I sigh heavily and follow suit, quickly grasping onto the straps of my bag and practically running out of the classroom. He waits around the corner and beckons me over.

"Peter, what the hell—"

"Sorry, I really don't want to interrupt you, but I figured it out. The guy with the wings— he's stealing from damage control— that's what he's making the weapons from. All I gotta do is catch him and bring him in, and I need you to help me. Please?" He whispers despite the hallway being silent and empty.

"I mean, I'm down to ditch detention, but I—"

"Hey! Get back in your seats! Now!" The teacher calls to us as he storms out of the classroom, though I think he's more annoyed that he's been dragged up from his desk rather than the fact that Peter and I ran out.

"Shit! Come on," I gasp, sprinting from our corner and down the hall, as Peter follows by my side. We push through the doors and into the cold air. The breeze brushes against my face and whips through my knotted hair and I curse myself for not bringing a sweater or a jacket with me. I follow Peter down the path towards the sports pitches and bleachers before we slip through the gates, making sure that no one has seen us.

Peter explains the plan he has pieced together and his idea of what is going on behind the scenes with the flying vulture guy while we walk to the subway and wait for the train. The pace of his voice is fast and eager, almost as if he's excited to finally catch this man and all of his cronies. I don't blame him, I suppose it's a little strange to see such a sweet boy being so intent on bringing someone down.

"So, when did you become so rebellious, Peter Parker? I mean, sneaking out of a hotel in Washington is very different to ditching detention and hunting down a dangerous weapons dealer," I ask him as we sit in the subway while it begins to start up.

The seats beside us are empty, and for once it's not too busy, aside from a few college students sitting with headphones on as varsity jackets, wearing an exhausted and slightly excruciated expression. I swear, one of them sports a faint green complexion; most likely hungover.

Peter chuckles a little, "After I met you, actually."

He grimaces and skips the song playing on his phone, softly humming through his shared headphones as a rather ambient backing track to our conversation and journey to his apartment.

I gasp in appall. "Are you saying that I'm a bad influence, Parker?" I take the phone from his hands and skip back to the previous song.

"I just mean that... it's nice having someone that I don't have to keep all of this stuff from, y'know? Of course, I've got Ned, but he doesn't really know what it's like to really be out there. I don't know, sorry," he stammers out.

His demeanour around me has seemed slightly more awkward than usual and a little more flustered ever since we arrived home from Washington. I resisted the urge to poke fun at him or make a joke out of it as a way to ease the tension, coming to the conclusion that it would probably just end up making things a whole lot worse and that somethings are most likely just better left alone.

The worst thing is that I have absolutely no one to talk about these things with. When Wanda and Nat were still around, we spent a lot of time teasing Wanda over her strange yet sweet friendship with Vision, as with Nat and Bruce. I'd give anything to be able to talk to them about Peter and to ask for their advice, which would probably make them choke on their breath. Taking after my father, I am extremely independent and hate relying on others to help me solve any problems, which more often than not can make me come across as arrogant and too self-assured. Now, I'm not sure of anything. At all.

"No. I know what you mean. I guess you'll do, Parker. You're the only one I've got left,"
I say before he offers me a half-hearted smile, before he goes to open his mouth. He hesitates before his voice makes its way out of his throat, and he snaps his mouth shut.

"Come on, we better get off."

The short walk from the subway station to Peter's apartment is spent in silence, that's if I were to
disregard the the harsh racket of the streets of Queens. Honesty, I've never been more thankful to be stuck in the middle of such a bustling city, as the clamorous traffic and obstreperous chatter serves as a way to tease the tension. Somehow, I think it would have been better off if I had just stayed in detention and continued internally cursing at Steven Grant Rogers on the screen.

As we walk into Peter's apartment, he calls out to May to check to see if she has left for work, which she has, before he fully opens the door and breathes a sigh of relief. I can't help but relive the moment of visiting this apartment for the first time, finding Dad sat a-little-too-comfortably on the sofa beside May, and realising that this was marking a moment for the rest of my life. This was symbolising our small Avengers family branching out for new recruits and people to pave the way and eventually carry on the Avengers title. This was trying to replace what could never be replaced, in a way. This was finding someone to fit the empty space that had been left after the majority of the people I love left, though that space was big enough to fit the whole universe inside of it.

I suppose that could have been why I was initially so cold towards Peter and why I was so unwilling to get to know him and to form some sort of relationship. I was afraid that once he stepped in and became involved, then it truly meant that everything would change forever. I didn't want more people, I just wanted the old ones that I had known and loved to come back.

They didn't.

I'm still waiting. Pathetically.

"Do you want a drink or anything?" Peter asks me as he takes his jacket off and hangs it on the coat rack beside the door and tosses his keys onto the coffee table.

"Nah, I'm good. Thank you, though." Truthfully, my mouth has turned dry upon looking around the apartment, and my tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth slightly. I swallow harshly.

Peter walks through into his bedroom and drops his backpack by his desk, before dropping himself into the chair. I take a seat on his bed and fiddle with the cotton comforter while we sit in silence. I really wish I had just stayed in detention.

My eyes scan across the posters on his walls as he plugs his phone into his stereo and the opening chords of 'Wonderwall' by Oasis begin to play quietly. "I like your Joy Division poster. Is it new?" I desperately search for something to talk about to ease some of the tension.

"Yeah, uh... I got it last week. Do you have any posters in your room—"

"Okay, cut the crap, Parker. Are we just not going to talk about Washington?" I curse myself for having no filter. It's impossible for me to bite my tongue.

He doesn't really say anything; hardly even looks at me, until he begins beaming. "You mean about your powers, right?"

Not exactly.

He continues, "It was crazy, Bonnie. You were great. I mean, I've never seen you do anything like that before."

"Yeah, well, don't get your hopes up. It's pretty unpredictable and honestly just damn lucky that they happened to work then. It usually just comes out when I'm mad or stressed or whatever."

"Look, I did some research when I got home from Washington, check it out." He jumps up from his chair and begins rummaging through his closet, until he pulls out a cardboard box filled with old comic books, same dating back as early as the 1940s.

"Research? Really?" I roll my eyes. "Peter, these are fictional characters— as in— they're not real. How are any of these going to help me?"

"Just, hear me out." He begins flicking through the pages, "These characters, they've gotta be based on something real, right? I mean, the writers can't just have made it all up out of thin air."

"Yes, they could have, Peter," I sigh in annoyance, "that's exactly what being a writer is."

"Not necessarily! So, in all of the comics, these characters have a sort of mentor figure to help train them and teach them how to be a superhero, have you got anyone that could fit?"

"Peter?"

"Yeah?" He turns to me, an old Batman comic clutched in his left hand.

"This is bullshit, okay? I'm not a superhero. I haven't been granted any abilities from Greek gods, I haven't absorbed some sort of solar energy and developed superhuman powers, and I definitely wasn't splashed by any chemicals during a lightening storm. I was tortured and experimented on like some sort of lab rat for years, and it was fucking traumatising. I don't... I don't want to talk about it. Peter, you don't know what it's like. Your superhero-alter-ego awakening is something straight of a comic book, I'm the urban legend that terrifies children."

His complexion flushes bright red, and he immediately starts over to me. His eyes soften and his mouth drops open as he reaches out his hand to grasp hold of my wrist. I brush him off and storm out of his bedroom. "Bonnie, I-"

I grab my jacket from the coat rack beside the front door and outstretch my hand to fumble for the brass door handle. My body shakes with tension and my fingers jitter relentlessly, making it almost impossible to grasp onto the handle properly.

"You don't understand, Peter. It was so difficult for me to talk to you about what happened to me, I don't want to confront it again, and now what? You're turning it into some sort of joke? Whatever, maybe I am just afraid and running away from it, but I don't care. I don't care anymore. Call me if you're about to get yourself killed and need saving, otherwise, I don't want to speak to you."

I heave the door open and hear it slam aggressively behind me. I turn and lift my hand, allowing it to linger momentarily over the door handle, before ripping myself away and storming down the hall to the elevator.

My eyes sting and threaten tears as I beg for the elevator to reach the floor, so that I can have a moment alone to gather myself and regain my composure.

As the doors creak open, I almost jump back in fright. It doesn't seem the most sturdiest structure, and with the unpredictability of my abilities, I definitely do not want another repeat of Washington with a broken elevator; I'm not certain if Spider-Man would save me this time. I sigh and instead head for the stairwell, which is damp and dark and empty.

As I push through the doors to the world outside, the bright light is almost blinding. I'm sure my irises have frazzled, now appearing to be one large pupil in the centre of my eye. I wait a few seconds, subconsciously hoping that Peter will come running after me, apologising and begging for my forgiveness. Or maybe he'll call me and explain that there was no malicious intent. Truth is, I know his heart is coming from a place of only sympathy and desire to help, but my fragmented mind and issues trusting others destroys any form of vulnerability. Even to myself.

I count to five, slowly, dragging out each syllable in my head to lengthen the amount of time I can spend standing discarded and crumpled outside of Peter's apartment, silently hoping for him to come to me. He doesn't. I'm alone.

I take my phone out of my jacket pocket and dial the phone number do the only person who I know would possibly be able to help me in this situation.