AUGUST 2016

B O N N I E

I'm not sure how old I was when the nightmares became more prominent in my life than going shopping with friends or eating ice cream at the beach on vacation while the salty air would sting my nostrils and singe the back of my throat whenever I inhaled too deeply.

Dad said that it could have been when Mom died.

But I know that it was before that.

Maybe it was the car accident.

It was probably the months that followed.

I suppose in the past three-and-a-half years, my brain has subconsiously bordered off into sections of life before Mom died and after. Of course, I still remember her. But I think I'm slowly forgetting how awful things had gotten.

I loved my Mom, and I was proud to be her daughter.

I suppose it's all changed now.

A fresh start. A fresh start.

That's what she would always say to me when things went wrong at work. That's what she would always say to me after Killian had tried to use me as an ultimatum.

"I swear to God, Maya. If you don't let me use her— I'll kill you. Both. The way it was supposed to happen."

She would pack up our limited amount of belongings, and we'd be on our way to our next home.

At the time, I always thought it sounded so classy yet rather eccentric to be a scientist. Though the run-down apartments and damp patches on the walls with peeling paint, while hearing the upstairs neighbors going at it until two in the morning, was definitely the furthest thing imaginable from 'classy' and maybe a little more 'eccentric'. It was lonely and relentless. I know she wanted a better life for me— for us— but we got far from it.

I'd envy the girls in my gym class who would talk about their fancy trips to the Maldives and hundreds of dollars spent on ballet slippers and costumes for dance. Mom would tell me that materialistic items were bullshit.

We didn't need them to be happy.

Then she would push her sunglasses up her forehead and nestle them within her coffee coloured locks, blasting an old Madonna song on the radio with the windows rolled down, before pulling up to the next underwhelming apartment we'd be living in.

Though I had to remember, 'It's lovely.'

Pick out one positive thing in my bedroom, mention the overall positives in the house, and the nearby landscapes, specifically the places to go skating or painting in the park during Summer.

Mom loved that. Mom loved watching me paint, a glass of cheap white wine clutched in her hand as we would listen to old mixed tapes of The Beatles and The Rolling Stones.

And absolutely, one thing I had to remember; never mention Dad.

Don't ask about him.

Just settle with knowing that him and Mom don't speak anymore.

"You definitely wouldn't like him, Bonnie. He is the definition of 'superiority complex.'"

I suppose it is quite ironic; Tony 'genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist' Stark is my father, when I spent my whole life in dingy apartments with the hot water running out, the winter nights being so cold that I could see my warm breath colliding with the freezing air, despite the windows and doors being firmly shut.

I remember crying when she didn't come home on Christmas Eve.

Everything happened quite quickly after she died.

When Tony Stark came to my door, I almost threw up with nerves at the sight of him. Yes, I knew Mom was a scientist, but she definitely didn't work for Stark Industries, she despised the man.

And I knew she worked at A.I.M with Killian.

God, I knew.

Perhaps the fact that Mom despised Tony so much should have been the first clue that he was my father, but she hated practically everyone. 'We came into the world alone and will leave alone' and all of that bullshit. Which frankly, I think is an awful and twisted thing to say to your child. Though I can't doubt that I suppose I saw the truth in what she said.

When he had explained what happened, I really did throw up. Coating his blazer and shoes, which were most likely worth more than the sombre and run-down apartment I had been living in. According to my well-loved journal, the tenth apartment in twelve years.

He didn't yell. He didn't scold me. I think I might have preferred it, if he had chastised me. That way, at least one thing in the word would seem familiar and predictable- Tony Stark was a self-centred dick- just like my mother had taught me.

She couldn't have been more far from the truth.

It felt like the cruellest of nightmares. How could someone with so much good inside of them be ripped from the world in such a grim way?

The third week of living with Tony, I found out that Killian was the one who killed Mom. I heard Tony and Pepper discussing it when I was supposed to be asleep.

I've never liked sleeping in any bed except for my own. Maybe that's why I hated moving so much.

I could never settle in my surroundings.

I didn't have anything to call my own.

The lack of familiarity and security.

I suppose it's different now.

I've grown accustomed to the change.

And I like living with Tony.

I like that he has allowed me to make my own choices. I like that he doesn't have me in the public eye. I like that he understands the anxiety.

Grief and being shown off to the world certainly doesn't mix well.

So, I'm still not certain when the nightmares began to plague me. But I don't live in fear of them anymore. I've learned to accept that they are a part of me, just like the hair on my head and the skin stretched across my body. Though that defintely doesn't mean that I don't hate them. Because I do. I really fucking do.

—

"Wanda?" her eyes glaze over as she watches the same news report for the fifth time today.

"11 Wakandans were among those killed during a confrontation between the Avengers and a group of mercenaries in Lagos, Nigeria, last month. The traditionally reclusive Wakandans were on an outreach mission in Lagos when the attack occurred." the mechanically pronounced news anchor's voice fills the silence in the room, echoing in the body of the acoustic Fender guitar propped by the television set. The synthetic sounding voice of the blonde woman resonates through the instrument; reverberates across the vast yet cosy room.

I suspect the impeccable tidiness is down to somewhat being on 'house-arrest' and needing to find away to feel in control- there is only so much time she can spend in the gym in order to distract herself and expel some of the anger and upset.

I fiddle with the bracelet on my wrist, sliding it on and off my hand, running my fingertips around the slight indentation it has left on my skin, before examining the black polish adorning my fingernails, inspecting for any slight crack or patch poking through the opaque varnish. Wanda's own black-coated nails have begun to chip from relentlessly biting them out of guilt.

"Wanda?" She doesn't reply.

I try again, "Do you want to watch a movie or something? You haven't seen Pulp Fiction yet, have you?"

"You're lucky you weren't there, Bonnie. You can't even imagine the destruction I caused. The people I hurt," her voice cracks as she buries her head in her hands. I gently run my fingers through her soft brunette waves, offering some sort of comfort. "You want to get out and fight with them, I've heard you and Stark arguing. I hadn't even completed my training and look at what I've caused-" She breaks off into tears again, though she stops almost as soon as she begins to break, wiping away at the tracks running down her cheeks and staring off into an almost oblivious state.

The slight sound of shuffling behind us causes me to whip my head around in fright, though she remains with her eyes locked onto the television, until the screen turns black and the synthetic voice abruptly comes to a stop.

"It's my fault," she whispers, still without looking at Steve, who is leaning on the doorway with a pained and defeated expression.

"No, it's not."

"Turn the TV back on. They're being very specific."

Steve slowly begins to trail towards the bed, which Wanda and I are perched dejectedly on. "I should have clocked that bomb vest long before you had to deal with it. Rumlow said 'Bucky'..."

My mind spirals back to the stories I've managed to squeeze out of Steve over the course of time we've known each other; he finds it difficult to talk about his old pal from Brooklyn.

I stumbled upon James Buchanan Barnes during a rummage through Dad's old files in his workshop in the search of anything that would relate to Mom. I'm not sure what I had expected to find, considering I already knew the circumstances of her death, but it most definitely wasn't information on 'The Winter Solider.'

"-And all of a sudden I was a sixteen-year-old kid again, in Brooklyn."

I shift along the bed to free some space for Steve next to Wanda, and he takes a seat as though his limbs are made of lead and are weighing him down. The guilt is too overwhelming he cannot stand.

"And people died. It's on me," he continues.

Wanda finally manages to lift her head to take a glance at his excruciated expression, though she doesn't quite manage to meet his eyes. "It's on both of us."

"Are you finished?" I interrupt, earning a disapproving glare from Steve and a gaped open mouth from Wanda. "I just mean, passing around blame and deciding who is at fault isn't going to take it away. What happened is awful, okay? But we can't change the fact that it did happen. The only thing we can change is how we try to make up for it, how we reform and take responsibility. You're always trying to save as many people as possible, and sometimes that doesn't mean everyone. But-"

"'We,'" Wanda mimics sardonically. "You weren't even there, Bonnie. You'd feel just as awful if the thing you were trying to use for good hurt so many people."

I gulp harshly. I know exactly what she's talking about. "I know you're upset so I'll let it go. But don't ever bring that up again." I shudder as the excruciating memories replay in my head. All of those 'meetings' with Him.

"She's right, Wanda. If we can't find a way to live with that, then next time... maybe nobody gets saved." Steve jumps to my defence.

A figure catches my eye as I glance over to the broken girl beside me. She notices my annoyance and turns to locate the culprit. "Vis! We talked about this."

Vision's pronounced and robotic voice clouds over the dismal silence in the room, reminding me sickeningly of the synthetic news lady. "Yes, but the door was open so I assumed that..." he gathers himself and finally manages to announce his reasoning behind being here, "Captain Rogers wished to know when Mr Stark was arriving."

"Dad's back? Where has he been? I was looking for him. Is Pepper here, too?" I rapidly fire questions at Vision, much to his discomfort.

"I am afraid not, Miss Stark." he offers a half-hearted smile, a sense of comfort supposedly to be derived.

"Thank you, we'll be right down." Steve replies, as we watch Vision gesture across the room.

"I'll use the door." he turns to us before disappearing into the hallway, "Oh, and apparently, he's brought a guest."

"We know who it is?" Steve questions.

"The Secretary of State."

My mind begins to fog over with an overwhelming number of questions; Is Dad okay? Is this about Lagos? Is Wanda going to jail? Oh my god, are the team getting arrested?

The anxiety never seems to rid.

Every painful step we take to the meeting room, the nerves worsen.

All I can focus on is how rapidly my heart is pounding in my chest, as if an enraged bird is being held captive inside of my body, attempting, thrashing against my ribcage and struggling to escape. I force a deep breath down my throat to let some of the currently limited air into my lungs, hoping that the oxygen will somehow chase away the anxiety and scare away the nerves. But it's no use. It's not enough. My insides begin to seethe. A rush of heat rises from my feet and through my jittering body. Pins and needles begin to poke into my feet and legs. My fingers won't stop twitching. My hands become sticky with sweat. My vision begins to blur.

Breathe.

Breathe.

I cannot let this happen again. Not in front of everyone. Especially not the Secretary.

The lightbulb in the ceiling bursts, the sound of smashing glass and a popped fuse causes my heart to sink in my chest.

Wanda told me that the more I try to fight it, the more I let the fear control me, the worse it will become.

Steve jumps, "Are you alright, Bonnie? Did you-" he trails off.

"I'm fine." I rush out, unable to open my mouth for any longer in fear of popping another light bulb. Steve and Wanda are not convinced, though we progress down the hall in silence.

"Hey, kid." Dad.

"Where have you been?" I think it's Nat.

"What's up?" Dad. Definitely Dad. I can tell it's him from the strong grip of his hands resting on my shoulders, steadying me.

I manage to slip past, concealing the anxiety and sliding into a chair at the table— hoping that my burning skin didn't seep through my sweater and into his palms— even if Tony doesn't believe that I should be involved— and focus on my breathing while the rest of the team politely introduce themselves and welcome the Secretary.

My black polished fingertips dance across the table and onto the various sheets of paper, scrawled with my father's messy and hectic writing. I trace my index finger over the letters, before pulling away and inspecting the skin of my fingertip, which is now slightly stained blue from the ink.

The paper is quickly taken from my grasp, "That's not for you, kiddo," leaving me alone once again to cope with the anxiety, without the assistance of any distractions to keep me occupied and unfocused on the nerves bubbling away in my stomach and rising in my chest.

Why am I so nervous?

Stop.

Stop.

I wish I could breathe.

In all honesty, I'm struggling to remember a time when I last felt properly relaxed and safe. As if all of the happy and comforting memories from my childhood have been torn away from me. Almost as if my brain has been stuck in a blender and is now disoriented and broken down.

Though it's been that way for almost as long as I can remember.

The rest of the team take seats at the table, Nat and Rhodey by my side. My eyes frequently drift to the pained expression on Wanda's face, as if every second spent discussing Lagos is physically hurting her, and then my father. He can be either extremely easy to read or extremely difficult. Now, it's the latter.

He sits slouched in his chair at the back of the room and away from the table, not once do his eyes lift to meet the Secretary. Not once to do his eyes lift to meet me.

While we're forced to watch a video, displaying and holding us accountable for the destruction we've caused around the world, I fiddle with my bracelet around my wrist, knowing that had I been there, things could have been even worse. Resuming the routine of sliding it on and off my hand, wrapping it around my fingers until they turn a freakish purple colour, before sliding it back onto my wrist.

Steve orders for the video to be turned off. "Okay. That's enough."

"For the past four years you've operated with unlimited power and no supervision," the Secretary begins, "that's an arrangement the governments of the world can no longer tolerate. But I think we have a solution." his is tone is that of a parent punishing their young child for breaking the rules or getting in to trouble; authoritative and condescending. It reminds me of Killian. The things he used to do. The way he was.

I shudder aggressively.

No more.

He's dead.

He's dead.

Just get it through your skull; he's dead, Bonnie.

The Secretary takes a stacked pile of thick paper, the good stuff that they have in the doctors office and that Dad has in his workshop, not the shitty flimsy stuff that we were given at my old school, before I found out that Tony Stark was in fact my father, and I was swept away into a chaotic world of superheroes, spies and disorganisation.

It's the good kind of paper, the type when you know it reads something important. And this is most certainly the case as he explains, "The Sokovia Accords-" He breaks off as his eyes catch on me, clearly my silence has made me blend in to the background. "Excuse me. Tony, I know she's your kid. What's she doing here? This is confidential."

"You mind changing your tone there, pal? She's with me. She stays." Dad flashes me a quick mischievous grin, evidently having changed his mind concerning my involvement, though I doubt it would have happened if this old guy wasn't such an ass.

"She can't be here-"

"Wow, look at that. Bonnie, wanna be an Avenger?" Dad asks me though I remain silent. "See, she nodded. She's an Avenger now, she's gotta be here."

"This isn't some joke, Stark-"

"Yeah, Tony," Steve adds, "she's fifteen. She doesn't need this."

"You don't think I know that? She's my kid, Rogers. I know what the hell I'm doing." Dad yells from his corner.

"Look, I don't know what kind of crazy mental breakdown you're going through, Stark. But she can't be in here. It's a legal matter-" the Secretary begins, though I cut him off in anger.

"Fine," raising from my chair, I brush past him, knocking him gently as I head for the door, "not like I wanted to be in your super-secret boy band anyway." I give him a derisive smile, before trailing through the doorway.

Though I don't leave, I stay. I take place by the wall without the tinted glass windows, and struggle to hear what they're saying.

"The Sokovia Accords. Approved by 117 countries. It states that the Avengers shall no longer be a private organisation. Instead, they'll operate under the supervision of a United Nations panel only when and if that panel deems it necessary."

A low voice. I assume Steve. "The Avengers were formed to make the world a safer place. I feel we've done that."

I struggle to hear the next person speaking, though manage to make out the names 'Thor and 'Banner.' My heart aches slightly with how much I miss them both.

The rest of the conversation is filled with inaudible whispers, and in my frustration, I edge closer to the door. Vision catches sight of me and his brow furrows slightly in disapproval, to which I push my fingers up to my lips to signal him to stay silent. It's not in my best interest for the Secretary to find out I'm eavesdropping.

"Three days from now, the UN meets in Vienna to ratify the Accords. Talk it over."

"And if we come to a decision you don't like?" Nat. Her voice is easily distinguishable.

"Then you retire."

With the sound of footsteps nearing the doorway, I throw myself into the seat at the nearest desk, resting my feet onto the table beside me. I earn an unimpressed sneer from the Secretary as he struts through the door and down the corridor, to which I reward him with a sardonic wave goodbye and a fake smile plastered on my lips. He shakes his head and mumbles something under his breath which I don't manage to make out, though I'm unbothered. I've most likely said worse to myself.

I re-enter the meeting room, to find the team already arguing on whether to sign the papers or not. Dad slumped on his chair with a pained expression, as if he doesn't already have enough bickering to deal with having me as his lovely daughter, Steve scanning over the terms and conditions for what I expect to be the fifth time, Sam and Rhodey arguing; so I think it's pretty safe to say that all of the members of the team are definitely not on the same page.

I tune out for the majority of the arguing; Steve and Dad at each others' throats mostly, which is hardly different from usual. Though I manage to pick up enough to know that Dad, Rhodey and Nat are pro-Accords, while Steve and Sam on the other hand, are very much against.

"Why don't we just toss a coin or something?" I sigh, my head pounding from the bickering.

"You did not just say that, Sparky." Sam shakes his head in disbelief, while Rhodey chuckles slightly.

"Can I suggest something?" I ask, without waiting for confirmation. "Will we still be the good-guys if we don't take responsibility for our wrongdoings? I know, 'fuck higher powers' and everything-" Steve's brow creases as the words part my lips, "but-"

He glances down at his phone, "I have to go," leaving in a rush. His eyes heavy and pained, slightly glossy and red. Almost mirroring tears about to spill.

I'm not sure how long the debate continues, as I give up somewhere in between the next hour or two and collapse into my bedroom.

I glance around at the dry walls and the lack of damp patches, not-so-fondly remembering the condition of some of the previous houses and apartments I've lived in. Nothing could quite compare to the Compound. 

I light a lavender candle in my bedroom, before turning the lights down and playing a vinyl on my record player, the satisfying crackle of old 1950's tunes help to ease the knot in my stomach and the tight grasp around my neck and chest, which has been there ever since.

Ever since...

My therapist told me that the best way to deal with 'difficulties and traumatic experiences,' as she prefers to label it, is writing. And I must confirm the truth in her statement; writing is the antidote to a poisoned mind. Though I suspect she didn't quite mean for there to be so much profanity.

Diary (or whatever I'm supposed to call you),

I suppose I've always been a bit of a perfectionist. And I think that's putting it lightly. So, Diary, the idea of having you seems pointless to me. Why would I ruin perfectly good paper with messy scribbles of my innermost thoughts? But it's not just that, Diary, your overall existence seems pointless to me. Maybe it's because the paper isn't lined- I mean who the fuck uses blank paper for writing? If you're not focused enough, then the lettering usually goes all wonky and out-of-place and it stresses me out. I suppose that if my brain is messy, I don't really want anything else to mirror it. Maybe it's a control thing. I don't fucking know. But what I do know, is that these nightmares still aren't fucking leaving. Every night I see His face. I see His face and I feel the excruciating burning, singeing my body from the inside out. And no matter how many tears run down my cheeks, it's not enough to put out the fire festering inside of me.

I know, I fucking know.

Maybe I could take the fire and become a star.

I love stars.

Who am I kidding, Diary?

Why am I writing my feelings on this shitty paper? It won't change the fact that what happened happened. And it won't change the fact that this overwhelming anxiety won't leave, and it's making me do things, even worse than before.

Anyway,

Fuck you, Diary.

Sincerely,

B.

—

Friday nights at the Compound would usually be a dedicated movie night. Though tonight everyone has retired to their bedrooms, leaving only Wanda and I making our way through as many of the Harry Potter movies as possible, but it feels wrong. It feels so guilt-ridden to be distracting ourselves with wizards and magic wands when the rest of the team have turned frantic from the Accords.

As I press play and the opening scene of The Prisoner of Azkaban begins to roll on the TV, the harsh light reflects off Wanda's face, and I realise that sleep has managed to take her in its grasp. I gently take the bowl of popcorn from her hands, placing it delicately on the glass coffee table as to not wake her from her rest, and trail out of the lounge.

Upon making a fresh mug of hot coffee, I decide to visit Dad in his workshop, though my arrival informs me that he too has succumbed to sleep.

I know exactly who to go to.

The cold evening air hits my face and clears the nerves from my chest as soon as I open the balcony doors and submerge myself in the feeling of clarity.

"Is he still asleep?" Natasha asks me as I approach her, not bothering to hide the cigarette in her hand, and instead pulling it up to her lips and taking a long inhale. She's stressed. I know she is, because that's the only occasion on which she smokes.

"Yeah, he could do with it, though. I know he's  stressed over the Accords, and Steve, I just-"

"I know. I'd like to say that I've never seen him like this, but that would be a lie. He's a mess. And I know it's probably worse than it seems, he's got the arrogant facade on lock but I can see it's beginning to crumble." She puts out her cigarette in the ash tray and sits next to me on a lounger facing the pool, which shines bright with lights built into the floor.

"Yeah, he is a mess. I'm sure that's part of the job description of being an Avenger." I reply back.

There's a sharp pause between us, before the giggles begin to poke through the silence. It feels good to be laughing. It's been a really, really long time since even the faintest hint of a smile played on my lips.

"Do you think everything is changing now?" I mumble, bracing myself for her answer.

"Yes." She clears her throat as I hug my knees into my chest and shiver at the sudden breeze, goosebumps appearing across my skin. She pulls her hair back into an effortlessly stylish and tight french braid, before pushing me to turn around and beginning to plait my dark curls.

"And do you think it's a bad thing?"

"I'll let you know when I've decided," she says gently before breaking into a light chuckle and moving onto to braid the remaining curls cascading down my back.

"I miss Bruce. I miss Thor. And Pepper. It just seems like everyone is leaving and I don't want them to."

"Me too, Sparky." She finishes securing my final braid with a hair tie, before offering me a bittersweet and rather heartbroken faint smile. She clears her throat as I hug my knees into my chest and shiver at the sudden breeze, goosebumps appearing across my skin, "Come on, it's cold and it's getting late."

We trail back into our bedrooms, finding that Wanda is no longer sprawled on the couch and is now curled up in bed. I decide against on going down to Dad's workshop and waking him up, knowing that any second of rest he manages to secure should be treated as valuable as good dust. It's a blue-moon occurrence for Tony Stark to sleep, and I'm not planning on taking the limited amount away from him.

Though I cannot sleep.

And I'm not sure why I thought I'd be able to.

Unsurprisingly, staring at the ceiling while listening to the seconds on my alarm clock tick by doesn't persuade my brain to shut off for a little while. And I'm stuck spending hours puzzled over the future of the Avengers.