I dig my paper straw around the thick pink sludge collecting in the bottom of my glass, the end turning soggy and wet and making it impossible to drink any of my strawberry shake. The cherry has sunken to the bottom of the glass and looks sad and dejected; I stab it forcefully. Dad doesn't react.

He takes a bite from his cheeseburger, before reaching for the fries on my plate.

"Hey!" I slap his hand away, "You've got your own. In fact, you've hardly even touched yours."

He manages to slip a fry into his mouth regardless, raising his eyebrows in that typically arrogant Stark manner. "I could say the same for you. What's up? Is it cold? You used to love coming here. Too old to be seen in public with your old man?"

I roll my eyes, "It's fine, Dad."

He carries on eating without saying anything, and I think I am quite honestly the only person on earth who could cause Tony Stark to fall into silence. It feels wrong.

Everything feels wrong. The vibrant vermillion tiles of the 50s style diner decor swirls together in a disgusting chaos of colour. The pictures of Marilyn Monroe and Audrey Hepburn seem to be staring down at me with an intense glare. The familiar tune of an old Elvis song playing from the jukebox suddenly sounds menacing and sinister.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to snap. It's great, Dad. Thank you for bringing me here, it's just like when I first moved in with you and Pepper." I instantly cringe as her name parts my lips, and I almost reach out into the air in attempt to grasp hold of it again and shove it back into my mouth, as if I hadn't said anything at all. 

I feel his energy falter slightly, though he quickly recovers and acts as if nothing has happened- that I hadn't just brought up the woman who he has been pining over for the past few months.

"Seems like you could do with a little familiarity with all of the changes that are coming up," he says as he places his burger down onto his plate and gulps down his glass bottle of Diet Coke through a swirly straw. He grimaces as a Billie Holiday song echoes throughout the empty diner; it seems as though going for burgers at 11:45pm on a Monday night is an exclusive event for Starks only. "Here," he tosses me a quarter, "change the song."

I slide from the booth and over to the jukebox, flicking through the classic selection of Motown tunes and rock n' roll hits.

"Rescue me- Fontella Bass. 1965," Dad says to me as I walk back over to our table beside the window and the opening of the song begins to fill up the empty seats, as well as the sound of several waitresses and waiters on roller skates sighing to themselves as they scrub the floors and scrape gum from underneath the tables. Though the man at the cash register, who I expect is only a few years older than myself, glances over at us several times anxiously and tries to smooth his hair down.

"Correct," I reply, before sinking my teeth into my grilled cheese sandwich. My eyes scan across the walls lined with photographs of several celebrities from the 50s and 60s, reminiscing in the memories of Dad pointing out the framed photo of Howard Stark mounted on the back wall- "Your grandfather."

I always thought that it was a little strange for there to be a photograph of a Stark amongst Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald, considering they were most definitely not working within the same industry. I suspect the owner just added the picture to the collection because they had noticed how frequently Dad and I had visited in the early days of me living with him. Maybe Tony thought that if it were a public setting then it would be easier to get to know each other. Maybe he had hoped the comforting background music of The Chordettes would have given us something to talk about or break up the awkward silences. He'd talk and talk, attempting to spark up some sort of conversation, though I didn't cooperate. I couldn't open my mouth; too terrified that if I did, then the horrors would never stop and I'd be back screaming in Killian's lab.

Talking had seemed far too much of a vulnerability; assuming everyone had been plotting some sort of plan or arrangement to take advantage of me. I thought that if I had disconnected myself from everyone enough, then there would be no one else left who could possibly hurt me. But I had just ended up hurting myself, in reality.

"What did you do last night?" he asks me, his tone slightly skeptical, "You were locked away in your bedroom all night like some sort of Edward Cullen carbon copy. Were you watching over Bella?" he chuckles at himself and so do I, though on the inside I'm frantically trying to fabricate some sort of excuse.

"Studying. I was reading this book for the English Literature classes you scheduled in with Mr Cleeves. The Picture of Dorian Grey." It's not a complete lie, I truly have been studying that particular Oscar Wilde novel for my home-school classes. I just hadn't been studying last night. I take another bite of my grilled cheese in order to distract myself and to seem ever so slightly more natural and casual, as if I'm not hiding the fact that I had spent the previous evening trailing through the streets of Queens and almost being attacked, later recovering at Peter Parker's apartment.

He frowns in disapproval. "That's odd. Vision told me he went to your bedroom multiple times last night to check up on you, before finding out that you had a particular protocol set in motion through your old pal Antares. What was it called... The False Sleeping Protocol?"

"Shit!" I mumble under my breath while knowing that I've been completely caught.

"Yes. 'Shit,' absolutely. So, wanna tell me where you were?"

I stay silent. I don't lift my eyes to meet his, despite his discomforting and interrogatory glare.

"What is this? What, are you not talking to me now? Is this how it's going to be from now on? Do we not tell each other stuff anymore? Look, I know you sneak out of the Compound every night and I just can't... I can't do it, Bonnie. I know you're struggling, and I want nothing more than to help you, but it's not safe to be running through the city by yourself at night," his voice breaks, on the brink of worry yet seething anger. "Have you been taking your meds? Should I schedule another appointment with the shrink?"

I audibly groan in distaste, "Dr Greene hates me."

"Because whenever she tries to get you to talk about what happened to you, you bring up the fact that she's been divorced three times."

"Her second husband was a man who worked as a circus clown and had been sleeping with the contortionist- no wonder they were only married for three months! Surely after that you wouldn't even think about walking down the aisle a third time."

Usually my witty comments would earn even a tiny smirk from Dad, as he claims he 'sees so much of himself in me', but this time his glare doesn't falter in the slightest.

"Could you be serious for a minute? I swear, you're going to give me a heart attack."

"I am-"

"No," he cuts me off, "get in the car. We're leaving."

Sliding from the booth, he struts over to the frantic man at the cash register, who seems flustered and quite honestly a nervous wreck over the fact that a pissed-off Tony Stark is standing only inches in from him. I roll my eyes, unable to understand the greatness that so many people claim to see within my father, and trail off outside to wait by the car. But then I feel slightly guilty, because Tony is a great man and he is the most incredible and consider parent that so could ask for, but the typical Stark Stubbornness that I had inherited is the complete hamartia of my personality; it's slightly annoying to admit that I am not quite on the same level as someone else.

I watch through the window and peer into the diner to distract myself from the cold breeze which has picked up around me, and find the guy at the cash register with fully-flushed cheeks- a vivid shade of crimson- while he stretches over the desk to snap a quick photograph with the one and only Tony Stark. Though I suppose I cannot complain too much, at least we got through almost the entirety of dinner without people scuttling over to our table every five seconds in hopes of an autograph or picture or a quick video shoutout to a friend, usually a message of congratulations on getting into M.I.T or a 'get well soon.' And I suppose that if I hadn't any association with the Avengers and was just a random resident of New York City, I might get excited over seeing one of Earth's Greatest Heroes up close in the flesh. Maybe not Clint.

Steve has told me countless times that I'm petty and too 'gosh darn' stubborn, but Clint and I are always at each others' throats. Half of the time it's just all fun and jokes, the other half we truly mean what we say. That's just the way it is. Telling us not to argue is like telling my Dad to start taking care of himself or telling him and Steve to stop eye-fucking during meetings; it's never going to happen.

Nat and I would always tease Steve and Tony over their deep-rooted and underlaying love for each other. We'd joke about the hours they'd spend gazing into one another's eyes. They hated it. Sometimes, when things would be running smoothly and supposedly well, Dad would join in with the jokes just for the fact that he knew how much Steve hated it. Then shit would hit the fan once again, and we'd be back to square one. And they'd be back at each others' throats, and not quite in the way Nat and I had previously accused them of.

He swaggers over to the car and immediately jumps into the drivers seat, while I take to the back seat. I'd usually jump at the chance to sit in the passenger side and control the aux, though Dad's pissed-off demeanour is definitely too overbearing at the moment. I can feel the anger radiating from him as if he is part of the electromagnetic spectrum. But I'll most likely keep sneaking out every night until he eventually puts bars on my windows or rigs a security alarm that couldn't be hacked or overridden by Antares.

The journey home is an awkward one at that, and I spend the majority of the time wishing that I had taken to the passenger seat just so that I could play some music and break apart the excruciating tension in the air surrounding us. This is yet again one of the times where I find myself longing for Wanda. Previously, in times like these, I'd count on her to save the situation and ease the strain between my father and I. I think he secretly feels the same.

I contemplate on blowing the engine or popping the lid from the trunk- anything to make the silent journey feel any less like a punishment for my 'rebellious behaviour'- though I decide against it. Dad would immediately know that it was me, and I'd land myself in even more trouble. I suppose it is slightly my own fault, he simply wants to keep watch on me and make sure that I'm safe and not in harm's way- but my own contumacy defies this. Much to his annoyance.

The clock on my phone reads 12:20am. And any trace of sleep is undetectable.

I pull my eyes away from the glaring tail-lights and traffic lights that contrast significantly against the deep night sky, and flicker my focus down to my left arm. I graze my fingertips against my forearm and down to my wrist, remembering the feeling of the glass slicing through and hitting the bone- and then... nothing.

Pitch black nothing.

A hospital bed and a bandage.

Then the 'meetings.'

I shudder.

He's dead, Bonnie. Get it into your fucking head.

Arriving back at the Compound, it's just as empty as it was previously, perhaps even more so. I avoid the usual conversing with Tony before 'bed', and head straight down the hallway and into my bedroom, restraining myself from glancing over and the ones once belonging to Wanda and Nat.

I'm not sure when I manage to fall asleep, but I wake up with the back of my shirt stuck to the small of my back with sweat, though I am freezing. My toes mimic miniature ice cubes and it feels as though I have constant brain freeze.

I immediate rummage through the draw of my nightstand and click on the light switch of my lamp.

'Diary,'

It's getting worse and worse. With the Compound being as empty as ever, and with everyone being so stressed and consumed with moving day from the Tower and the Compound to the new facility, I have nothing to distract myself with anymore. I suppose I could pack my things, but fuck that. Too many memories. It would bring back suppressed emotions to the surface- and they're suppressed for a reason.

I'm tired. Always so tired. I crave sleep the way my Dad craves coffee in the mornings or an addict craves drugs. But I cannot allow myself the luxury of sleeping whenever, more accurately, my brain will not allow it.

I keep making things happen. And I keep remembering it. All of it. It's fucking terrifying. And I can't stop thinking if it. Of what happened and then what later happened and everything that is happening now. I quite enjoy my own company, but it's never been quite so brutal as this.

This is fucking embarrassing. I'm fucking embarrassing. Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck YOU, Diary.

I swear, I'll never write in you again. And I'll learn how to control whatever is going on with me, then I'll meander quietly through life, not spending a single second thinking of Him and What Happened. Never again. Never, ever again.

B.

—

The sun begins to subtlety poke through the curtains drawn closed as the early onset of dawn is brought about.

"Good morning, it is 6am. The weather in Manhattan, New York is 66 degrees Fahrenheit with clear skies," Antares' British drawl shakes me from my dazed state. I groan and attempt to pull myself up, before finding too much comfort within the walls of my bedroom. Perhaps if I spend every spare second I have tucked away in here, I'll be able to stare at my surroundings long enough to be able to remember everything. Perhaps if I stare long enough, then Moving Day will take longer to roll around, and rather than a week-and-a-half, it might feel like a lifetime-and-a-half. Even so, I don't think any amount of time will be able to prepare me to say goodbye to this.

It's not just a building or a room with a bed; it's saying goodbye to the old Avengers as we know it. Saying goodbye to the way that everything used to be.

But I'm accustomed to change, right?

"Up. I need to speak to you, Sparky." Dad's voice sounds into my room through Antares.

His bags are packed. He's leaving again.

He notices my disappointment as soon as I slide into the hallway. I contemplate on guilt-tripping him into staying- the thought of the Compound being so empty is nauseating. In fact, I suspect I'm about five seconds away from throwing up.

"Vision is still here. And Happy. There's gonna be loads of people around with moving day so close." He opens his arms for me to hug him tightly, which I do. I relish in the comfort and the feeling of absolute safety-  something that has been scarce for as long as I can remember. His expensive cologne is peppery and makes my nose tingle as well as causing my eyes begin to well up due to its harshness.

"Crying over your old Dad, Sparky? I'll only be gone for a few days," he says sarcastically. I pull away and shove him gently.

"Shut up."

"Actually, there is something I need you to do for me," his tone turns serious and the smile on his lips has suddenly disappeared, "something important. You're familiar with Peter Parker, I know you are. And I also know that you both went on a little adventure in Berlin together, which I definitely didn't permit."

"Seriously-"

"Besides the point; irrelevant," he cuts me off. "While I'm away on my trip, and Happy is freaking out over moving day, I swear I just saw him rocking back and forth in the corner of Steve's old office back at the Tower from the stress, I could do with your help. Think of it as a mission-"

"A mission?" I raise my eyebrows in disbelief and skepticism.

"I was hoping you'd be interested in-"

I cut him off, "And by that you mean forcing me to-"

We both chuckle before he continues, "—doing some undercover work for me. Nothing huge or super intense, I just need some inside information regarding Mr Parker. All you've gotta do is keep an eye out for the kid, make sure he's keeping up with his responsibilities and adjusting to life as a semi-hero. He's still a kid, still in school... And I just don't want him thinking that this is a full-time thing. It's just for a little while, until the move."

"You want me— your beloved daughter— to watch over, no, babysit Peter Parker." No. Absolutely not. No way. He's delusional if he thinks I'd be willing to cooperate.

"He's the same age as you. It's not 'babysitting.' You'll just be going back to that school and making sure he's not, you know, still involved with all of that bank robbery crap."

"No."

Yes, in the end.

As it turns out, he ended up being the one doing the guilt-tripping, and I hadn't realised it until the doors had slammed shut behind him and he was shooting off to the jet. Apparently, he'd managed to get everything arranged under my nose and had seemingly been planning this for a while, though actually leaving the telling-me-part until the last minute so that I'd have no option other than to go along with it and accept the so-called 'mission.' Since when did running around after a teenage boy become so far up on the Avengers' agenda? Well, I suppose that's if 'The Avengers' is still a term one could use. Consisting only of Tony and Vision, Dad must be severely desperate if he's having to call me in for help.

The words 'Midtown Tech' make my skin crawl. The bustling hallways and snotty teachers and rich kids who live off Daddy's Money. I suspect there are several spoilt girls from the suburbs who complain about their parents getting them the wrong coloured Jeep. I'm thankful I'm not one of them.

Tony Stark may be a billionaire, but I sure as hell will never let any of it go to my head.

I'll do exactly what I had planned on my first time attending: find a spot at the back of the class, sink down in my seat and avoid eye contact at all times, complete my mission and wait until the clock hits 2:45pm and I can be free. As I walk through the doors to Midtown Tech, I will envision walking out and having my task be complete. I will remind myself that this is all part and parcel of being a Stark and a trainee Avenger- the missions are almost never 'enjoyable.' Though I don't see how anyone could ever define the horrific things the team have previously endured as 'enjoyable.'

'You'll just be going back to that school and making sure he's not, you know, still getting involved with all of that bank robbery crap.'

What 'bank robbery crap?'

"Antares, pull up any news reports on bank robberies in Queens in the past twenty-four hours," I announce as I shut my bedroom door behind me, and feel the loneliness as strong as ever.

I slide into the seat in front of my computer and watch as the screen begins to sift through various articles and websites before settling on one from the Queens Times. As suspected- 'Local Superhero, The Spiderman, Saves Bodega Worker and Stops Bank Robbery.' The 'bank robbery crap.'

That familiar collision of red and blue flashes rapidly across the screen as I click on the video. I'm not sure whether to feel a little proud or relived that he's still alive and not injured, before settling on neither. Because of this, I now have to watch over Peter Parker indefinitely and attend the torture chamber that is Midtown School of Science and Technology.

I sigh in annoyance and glance around my empty room. Posters hanging on walls that are ready to be packed away; photographs and fairy lights to be taken down and thrown into cardboard boxes. But I cannot bring myself to do it. That way, I'd be going along with the change, rather than fighting it. Though perhaps just because it'd be the path with the least resistance, it doesn't necessarily mean that it's bad.

I suppose my initial response to things that make me slightly uncomfortable is to flee; to get to safety. I had never been able to do so when He was still around. Now, when the opportunity rises to leave a situation that I'm not enjoying, my immediate response is to remove myself from the thing that is the cause. I suppose my abilities could also be included in this. It terrifies me; so I never intentionally use them, or at least try not to.

I remember the lights being blindingly bright, burning my eyes. My nose catching onto the strong scent of bleach and chemicals, so overpowering I swear I could taste it. It would clear my airways and make my body jolt slightly, but maybe that was just down to the I.V drip connected to my right arm. I'd cringe as I caught sight of the needle stuck into my vein, and feel my stomach turn within itself. I would shift my eyes across the room to take in my surroundings; a hospital room- laying in the bed. He would be there. And so would Mom.

"You're exactly what we've been looking for, Bonnie. You're going to change everything." I remember His sickly voice and how infantilising and patronising it was. I'd shudder as he came closer, "How do you feel?"

"Cold," I had managed to mumble.

"You'll heat up soon."

But the pain in my left arm had been far too excruciating and the drugs being pumped into my body were far too intoxicating and powerful. Then... nothing.

Everything turns sort of blank after that, and I can't seem to remember how the event had followed. I still can't tell if that is a good thing or not.

But, no matter how bad things get, I always write it off as character development. Toxic, I know. But in a sick and twisted way, it helps. Wanda would tell me that it would make my mental state even more deteriorated and rotted- that I'd not be living up to and registering the trauma and accepting the things that I had gone through. Too scary. Terrifying, in fact.

I sit on the window ledge and fiddle with the hair tie around my wrist, attempting to throw my hair up into a bun but ultimately taking it out and leaving it hanging past my shoulders.

It's impossible for me to sit still. I can't focus on anything in particular and not even my favourite episode of Friends is enough to settle me. Naturally, I fight off the exhaustion. Things might be horrendous and terrifying now, but I suppose I could clean my room.

Perhaps 'cleaning' was a subconscious meaning for packing, because by the time midday rolls around, the majority of my room has been packed up in cardboard boxes. It's terrifyingly similar to the old apartment that Mom and I used to live in before she had to go and get herself killed.

I glance down at the handmade rug on the dark oak floor, finding the lighter patch of wood where Wanda and I accidentally spilled nail polish remover and weren't quick enough to wipe it all up. It had bleached the ground and I'd just resorted to covering it up with my crochet rug, making a mental not to tell Dad later yet forgetting and leaving the colourless patch remaining.

I pull the post-it notes and picture from the wall behind my bed— If anything, you should fear fear itself, Bonnie. It is the root of all evil.'

I tuck them into one of the pages in my journal so that I'll remember to stick them back on my wall when we move into the new facility. I know it's time to say goodbye. And I mean a proper goodbye.

It's cold in Manhattan, as the early onset of Fall washes over me with crunchy copper-coloured leaves and and icy breeze. It's even colder at the late time of 11pm. I couldn't sleep, so naturally, I left.

The wind isn't aggressive in any way, but the air around me is almost paralysing due to its significantly low temperature, and when I arrive at Stark Tower for one last time to say goodbye, I'm enveloped in a sudden warmth which festers through my body.

It's not as bustling and chaotic as it usually is throughout the day, though the twenty-four hour security litter the floors and secretaries sit at front desks asking for I.D badges and proof of admission. I manage to sneak past quickly, though I'm sure I wouldn't be asked for identification anyway, as everyone knows me as Bonnie Stark- the daughter of Tony and next in line as the leader of Stark Industries. And I'm not completely sure if that's what I want. Pressure.

I take the elevator straight up to the eighth floor and trail into the office that had been reserved as mine, though I had never used it for anything productive aside from the venue of several private physics classes with my private tutor and a hangout spot for Wanda and I when we would find being cooped up in the Compound too tedious, and the ice cream or novelty of binge-watching Friends had ran out. God, that view. There is nothing more magical then the view of New York from so high up, and even though I have been a proud New Yorker for my whole life, the enchantment of the city still has never worn off. I know now why all of the great films and novels are set here— Breakfast at Tiffany's, American Psycho, Elf.

I coo over the watercolour skies and the cotton candy clouds, which seem so delicate and precious that they'd most definitely dissolve on my tongue, just like the authentic sugar candy. The peaceful manner of birds shooting across the sky and flying up, further and further away from the ground. Leaving everything behind. Perhaps that is exactly what I should be doing now. Cutting the chord. Moving on.

It seems as though my office was one of the last to be cleared and emptied, as the furniture all remains. I assume Dad and Happy had thought that I'd come a take the things I'd wanted to keep, leave the rest of the items I don't find too special so that they can take them and keep them in storage, though I know they'd definitely manage to make use of them somehow. Even if it's hiring one more person just to sit on this one extra chair; I don't want it.

I empty the draw in the desk, which is filled with pens and empty candy bar wrappers. I throw the wrappers in the trash can beside the door and toss the pens into my bag, before fondly catching sight of the notebook by the coffee table and loveseat in the corner. Our notebook. I ready myself before opening the cover and flicking to the first page, where I had previously instructed everyone to sign it with their name or an inspirational quote in their preferred colour of ink.

Tony Stark was here— Iron Man.

Never forget who you are and where you came from- Steven Grant Rogers.

Fuck the patriarchy X Natasha Romanoff (also Clint is a jackass)

Wanda + Bonnie 4ever and ever and ever. Ily!! xoxo

Stay in school! Reach your goals! Believe in yourself! - Dr. Bruce Banner.

You're the most annoying member of the Stark Family. And your Dad is Tony - Clint B. (also Nat is an asshat)

You'll be worthy some day, little Midgardian. WRITTEN BY THOR GOD OF THUNDER

War Machine rocks— James Rhodes. 

I don't realise that I'm crying until a tear falls harshly against the page. It's knowing that all of these people have left me, aside from Dad and Rhodey, and I have no idea when I'll see them again— if I'll see them again.

I skim through the rest of the pages after tracing my fingertips over the vivid mixture of black and scarlet ink, though they are empty and unused. After sitting for what feels like a lifetime yet not even a second, I bury the notebook safely away in the bottom of my bag and take in the office for one last time. I had never quite liked the whole of the back wall being glass, because it scared me too much. I had always been absolutely terrified incase one day I'd be pushed up against it and it would eventually just give away and I'd be left plunging to my death. But now, I just see the view and the sparkling lights illuminating the nighttime sky. I only see the positives and the things I admire the most, rather than the nerves and the distaste. Perhaps that is solely what I'll feel in the future when I look back on my life so far. Maybe I won't pick out the moments that scarred me and the points when things turned form back to worse; maybe I'll only see the best and most euphoric memories— the ones when you truly realise what it means to be alive. Karaoke nights with the team and watching Dad and Bruce sing along to the Grease soundtrack after a disgusting amount of alcoholic drinks, driving on the highway with Wanda and Nat and feeling the wind whip through my cotton-candy curls as Fleetwood Mac blasts through the radio, painting in the park with Mom despite the rain pelting down on us and causing the watercolours to drip from our canvases, that night in Berlin— those moments might finally stand out more that the 'meetings.'

I take one last glance around the office and choke out a rather pathetic sounding goodbye. When we relocate upstate, I'll still have the same office in the new facility, but it'll be completely different. It'll aid the same purpose and house the same furniture, but it will be unfamiliar and brand new. The jaw-dropping view will be replaced, and the previous memories once stored away in my brain will become exactly that; memories.

The air stings my face as I am submerged into the icy wind outside upon leaving the Tower. My tears almost burn my skin due to the freezing temperature, but hey, at least I'm not hot. At least I'm staying cold. That's exactly what I had wanted, right?

Right?