I contemplate if it is possible to drown in your tears.

If you can, then I most definitely want it to happen to me. I most definitely wouldn't be surprised if it does in fact happen. There's about a thirty-second window for me to clean myself up and wipe away the smudged eye makeup and teardrop concoction from underneath my eyes and running down my cheeks so that I look presentable enough to go back to the car without dad asking any questions.

Part of me doesn't want to face him, or Peter, or anyone else, even Ned, for the rest of my life. The desire to crawl back into that deep dark place yet again and reside within it for a while until it eventually consumes me is almost deafening, screaming in my head. What was that thing about loss?

He was the one thing that made you feel, Bonnie. That made you feel like you were with something more than test experiments. He made you feel like you were put on this earth for more than just scientific discoveries and hurting people.

I am aware that people cannot be answer; cannot be some medication or drug to ease the suffering; it's just not fair. It's like sticking a band-aid on a bullet wound. It will stem the bleeding for a little while and everything will seem alright and fixed on the surface, but when I am alone and I take the band-aid off, the problem is still there, the bullet wound is still there.

He cannot be the answer, but he tastes so much like happiness that I can't stand this detox any longer.

"I just saw Mr. Parker, he looked confused, sorta sad, is everything alright?"

I curse my dad for being unable to keep his mouth closed and mind his own business, but then again, I'm not sure why I would even be surprised at this point; it is almost impossible to keep secrets from Tony Stark.

Almost.

"Yeah, of course," I clear my throat, my voice sounding a little strained and scratched from the crying, "he just told me that he was going to get Liz to take her to Homecoming so he's probably just nervous or something." My unintentional cold tone is apparently enough to keep my dad quiet for once, so the car ride to Midtown High is dedicated to a mix of Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd. Honestly, as I re-read the text message notification on my phone, and realise that if I go to the dance I will have to be in the same room as Peter all night, I contemplate on not even going. I'd rather climb into my comforter and never ever emerge ever again just out of sheer embarrassment.

But I can't leave Ned. I couldn't just stand him up after everything that he has done for me and how much of a great friend and a great comfort he has been to me recently. It seems that Ned had realised my feelings for Peter before even I had.

I wonder if things would be different if I didn't cut Peter off so suddenly; if I hadn't been so awful and caught up with my own feelings to take into account his. If I hadn't been so selfish, would he be taking me to Homecoming tonight? Would we be walking in together? Would my dress match his tie?

"Right, Sparky. We're here. Text me when you're ready to be picked up. Have fun."

I prepare myself and exhale deeply as we pull up outside of Midtown High. My eyes catch onto Ned talking with MJ and Betty in the gymnasium, where the party is taking place, and I find that his hat does in fact match my dress. A deep blood-red. The faint hint of a smile plays on my lips as I lean over into the front seat and press a light peck onto my father's cheek.

"Oh, and one thing, kiddo," Dad begins as I open the car door, "the Vodka in my office that you've been helping yourself to— don't spike the punch. That shit's expensive, I don't want you wasting it on any asshats who can't tell the difference between paint stripper and a seventy dollar spirit."

He offers me a sneaky wink, before gesturing to the mini Dior shoulder bag clutched in my hand that 'he' had gotten me for a fifteenth birthday gift. Of course, I know that Pepper would have chosen it out, under the strict instruction that she goes down to fifth avenue and finds the perfect, most expensive gift they had to offer. Despite our differences, she did a pretty great job, because this bag is one of the only designer items that I didn't pawn off onto Wanda and Nat.

Dad knows about the flask of Vodka hidden away in my bag. He just knows. Maybe I'm predictable. Maybe it's just because I'm a Stark. And I suppose it's just what Starks do.

I chuckle a little, before affectionately rolling my eyes at him and climbing out of the car. I take another deep breath to ready myself before entering the building, and Dad drives back to the Compound to finalise some last minute things before we move upstate later on tonight. I tried to use that as my excuse not to come, but Dad and Pepper practically forced me into accepting Ned's invitation, telling me that I'll feel much better when I'm actually out and socialising and making friends— they thought it was the anxiety holding me back, and while it is, it's not the usual general panic, it's the sort of draining anxiety over knowing that your feelings are unrequited. Knowing that I'd have to spend hours watching Peter dancing and flirting with Liz, and I just wasn't sure if I'd be able to handle it. I'm still not. But I'm here now.

Fuck it.

I take a swig from my flask, grimacing at the harsh burning scorching both my throat and my taste buds, before burying it away the the bottom of my bag and hesitantly pushing through the doors into the gymnasium.

The hall is bustling with students dancing along to the music blearing out of the speakers and almost making the thoughts in my head inaudible, which is quite unsettling as it's severity contrasts harshly against the lightness of the pop song. The banners strung across the walls have clearly been handmade by the crafts society in Midtown High, and each and every decoration has its own little twist, whether it be a varied amount of glitter or sharpie scrawled across the paper. Overall, it makes the venue look all the more informal and casual, which is much more comfortable than if it had been dressed professionally, like a Stark party that my father would throw in the Tower every few months. However, the anxiety never rids. I still feel the imposter syndrome.

Ned compliments me and tells me that I look pretty as I locate him on the floor, before pulling me into a gentle hug. He offers a sympathetic smile as he must just suspect my anxiety about attending the dance this evening, but he truthfully doesn't even know the half of it. I doubt Peter would have had time to tell him about my confession of feelings, leaving it down to me to inform him over the awkward event that I wish I could take back.

MJ and Betty both tell me that they like my dress, but keep their hands firmly interlocked together, their nail polish complimenting each others' clothing: MJ's navy and white pin-stripe suit, and Betty's plum chiffon dress.

I'm thankful that no one has noticed me, considering I left without any word or warning after my identity was leaked to the school about my relationship with Tony Stark and the fact that I am his daughter. I had been dreading Homecoming all night incase Flash caused a scene. He isn't anywhere to be found; I scanned the floor as I entered just to be sure.

"Wanna drink?" Ned gestures to the table of party snacks and punch, before handing me an empty red plastic cup to fill. I'm rather embarrassed to admit to myself that the cups manage to remind me of Peter Parker— they remind of the frat party in Berlin that we sort of crashed. They remind me of pretzels and promise rings and parties. And Parker.

"Watered-down cranberry juice and cheap lemonade? How could I say no?" I scoff sarcastically, before helping myself to a cup of the concoction.

"So," Ned begins awkwardly, "I know you probably don't wanna talk about it but uh... Peter told me that you turned up at his apartment tonight."

I choke on my drink so much, I swear the cranberry shoots out of my nose. It takes me a while to gather myself. "How do you— When did—"

"Peter called me about five minutes before you got here. Honestly, Bonnie, I think he's crazy for leaving you there. I mean, has been pretty much obsessed with you ever since you showed up— you're all he talks about. I was actually kind of afraid that he'd drop me as a friend and trade me in for you."

"Ned! No one could ever replace you—"

He chuckles to himself, "Thank you, Bonnie. But you're literally an Avenger," the words stick into my heart and almost cause it to stop beating in my chest, "I wouldn't blame him if he did. Anyway, he was really torn apart after everything that happened, but I think he was mostly just embarrassed because of how much he liked you and how clear you made it that you didn't feel the same, I guess. I mean, it's different now."

I pour the rest of the alcohol from my flask into my cup until there's only about a quarter of the Vodka left. Ned's jaw drops down as he watches what I'm doing, but remains silent and doesn't alert any teachers, which I know he would definitely do if I had have been Flash Thompson or practically anyone else.

"He can do as he likes, Ned. I don't care," I say ironically; the aching pain throughout my body clearly telling me different. I care a lot. I care. I care. I care. I care about it more than I have ever cared for anything ever, at all.

And I don't think that I have felt pain so intensely in my entire life.

It takes everything inside of me to not keep watching him as he walks over to Liz. His expression is pained and concentrated, though he looks as if his heart has dropped down to his stomach. Something has happened— it's evident.

I keep my eyes focused down onto the flimsy cup in my hand, watching as the disco light swirls around the cranberry concoction into a pool of pink-toned watercolours. I roll the beverage absently in my hand before taking a drink. The alcohol most definitely stands out from the synthetic cranberry, and the tepid temperature makes it all the more unappealing. Despite it, the sight of Liz and Peter together makes me want to inebriate myself into oblivion, so I gulp the drink down quickly without a second thought.

Then his eye catches mine.

Desperation.

How much can a single look connote?

I'm sorry.

Please forgive me.

I need your help.

He makes a quick dash over to me, curving quickly around Liz and grasping my wrist before dragging me off out of the gymnasium and into the hallway. Everything happens quite fast, and with my slightly tipsy state, I hardly have enough time to even register what is happening before I am pulled away and carted off with Peter.

"What are you doing? I thought you didn't want to speak to me anymore. And besides, you can't just leave Liz like that, imagine how bad this will make you look Parker: running off with a hot piece of ass at Homecoming and leaving your date—"

"Can you please just shut up for a second? I know who the guy with the wings is; it's Liz's dad. We need to go, we need to stop him now."

Peter's voice is brought right down to a gentle whisper, making him all the more endearing. His breath fans gently across my lips; the taste of mint colliding with the cranberry lingering in my mouth is almost too much for me to handle in my tipsy state. Though the new revelation sobers me up almost instantly; wherever Liz's dad is supposedly going and supposedly doing, we cannot let him get away with those weapons.

"Fuck! Oh god, okay. What do we do? Where is he going?"

"He told us that he's leaving for business for a few days, and it's obvious that he's taking the weapons, I mean, Bonnie. He knows."

His eyes are desperate and pleading, and his gaze follows around my face, almost as if he is searching for some sort of answer or solution in my expression for what to do or how to fix the situation and keep everyone safe while doing so. Though Peter towers above me, I have never seen him look so small in his life.

I contemplate momentarily on calling dad for help, but after we were both scolded last time for involving ourselves with the mess with the weapons dealers and also the memory of the incident in Washington, I think asking Tony for help might make matters worse. For us, at least.

"What do you mean 'he knows'?"

"He knows that I'm Spider-Man."

A lump forms in my throat and the vodka almost repeats on me. "Shit. Okay, what do we do? What do we do?" My voice is shaky and slightly slurred through both the panic and the alcohol as I desperately rush out my words as best I can.

"Come on, I kinda gotta plan."

—

"Ready, Bon?"

Definitely the alcohol talking. "Of course."

We push through the doors and speed down the hallway until we reach the car park behind the school.

If only I were Steve, and alcohol held no effect over me at all, especially within the immediacy of reflexes. Especially now, as I am sent tumbling to the ground and into a state between consciousness and awareness, as a bright blue light clouds over my vision and pounds into the side of my head.

An unfamiliar voice chimes in with a droning tone, though my brain is far too scrambled to make out who it could be. My body feels much too heavy to  heave up from the ground, and the metallic flavour of blood slips in between my lips and coats my mouth completely, making it difficult to breathe. I'm not sure where I'm bleeding from, but I feel far too disoriented to check.

Then it all turns blank.

I'm not sure for how long, though I wake up with Peter Parker desperately slapping the side of my face to wake me up back to full consciousness. "Bonnie! Wake up, for fucks sake. I swear—"

"Easy Bug-boy." I croak as adrenaline floods into my body and snaps me back into reality. I remember our mission. I remember what we have to do and what our plan is and also the fact that I am slightly tipsy and Peter is completely oblivious to my intoxicated state.

"Come on," he pulls me up slowly, "are you okay? Do you need to go rest? I can get Ned to take you back—"

"Parker, I'm fine," I say as I wipe the blood from my lip with the back of my hand, "It was only a bump on my head, I'm not bleeding from there so I'll be okay."

He doesn't look convinced, but I muster the biggest smile possible until he eventually gives in. He spits out a few orders to Ned, whose involvement in the mission I am completely unsure on and even when he arrived at the scene, before grabbing my wrist and swinging us away to find Liz's dad.

Surprisingly enough, perhaps I might be getting used to having Peter sling us across the city from up so high, that it hardly phases me much anymore. Even so, our hands remain tightly wrapped around each other just incase, just to be all the more safe. I have no idea where Peter is planning on taking us, and I have idea how he knows where Liz's dad will be, but I place all of my trust in him. For the first time, I wholeheartedly trust someone. And I'm not sure whether or not to resent myself for it.

I'm an emotional over thinker at the best of times, and mixing with alcohol only worsens these predominant elements of my personality.

"You see that car, over by the lights?" Peter asks me, breathless.

"Uh-huh."

"We're gonna take it."

"Stealing?" I raise my eyebrows in surprise, practically feeling the heat burning from Parker's cheeks through the thick material of his sweat-suit. I suppose this must be his compromise until he hopefully makes up with my father. "Definitely my forte."

"Not stealing..." he stutters, "borrowing."

Stealing— I conclude.

As Peter slings us nearer the car, the mess of the scenery surrounding us blurs together until I manage to make out the face of their person parked in the drivers seat by the red light. We land on the hood of the car with a loud thud, and if my legs weren't wrapped tightly around Parker's waist, I'm sure I'd feel the pipes and the interior machinery break beneath my feet.

"Flash," Peter's voice is significantly lower than usual, evident that he is altering his usual tone to disguise his identity, "I need your car and your phone."

My head thumps.

"Uh, Sir, technically this is my dad's car, so I can't..." Flash Thompson hardly even casts me a glance; too caught up gazing at the masked man on the hood of his car.

"Give him the car, asshat!" I interrupt. His face screws up into a ball of fury and irritation, though also surprise. I suppose he hadn't expected to find a Stark with her legs wrapped around Spider-Man on the hood of his car. "Or would you prefer me to tell Black Widow about the time you pissed your pants in fifth-grade on the bus on the way to the Composting school trip and how your mom sent the chauffeur to pick you up in the middle of—"

"Okay! Okay! Fine. You're probably just bluffing."

"All it takes is one phone call, Flash."

Lies. Absolute lies. You haven't spoken to Natasha in months. You don't even know if she is still alive.

Flash reluctantly climbs out of his car, not convinced that I'm telling the truth, though not willing to take the risk of embarrassing himself in front of the woman he is constantly droning on about. Honestly, it makes me feel so satisfied and content knowing that if Nat had met Flash while she had the chance, she without-a-doubt would have hated him.

He lingers on the pavement a few feet away from us with his Homecoming date as Peter starts over for the passenger seat. "You can drive, right? Your dad taught you?" He whispers to me as I stand a few paces behind him into the centre of the road.

"Actually, Nat taught me how to hot-wire a stolen car and then my dad taught me how to drive, so yes. But, Spider-Man, we have a slight problem. I can't drive because... well, uh, I may have had a couple—"

"Please don't tell me that you've been drinking." He wines agonisingly, clearly knowing the answer because even needing me to confirm it.

The silence is deafening.

"You got me!" I cheer, much to Peter's irritation. He throws his head back in anguish, almost accepting defeat as he realises that he must be the one to drive, without a license.

"Bonnie! For fucks sake—"

I groan as Peter jumps into the drivers seat and I hop over into the passenger. "Yeah, yeah. 'Alcohol is bad!' and all that crap. Come on, we need to go save the world, Bug-Boy, and try not to cause a car crash while we're at it."

And with that, Pete twists the key in the ignition, and we speed off down the street. Initially, my hair flew around my face and covered my eyes from the velocity of the wind so that I had no indication on how bad Parker's driving was, other than the bruises I sustained from being thrown about in my chair, having forgotten to click on my seatbelt with all of the excitement and adrenaline.

I press on the power button on the radio and click through the stations until I settle on a song that fits the situation impeccably.

"Bonnie, we are on our way to stop a weapons dealer from fleeing New York; this isn't the time for you to have a game of Carpool Karaoke." Peter groans, his voice strained with tension as he mutters under his breath again and again so that he remembers which foot pedal does what in the car.

"Yeah, I guess you don't look anything like James Cordon."

After adjusting my hair in the car mirror, which is pointless due to the wind whipping through each curl, I initiate the next step of our plan and call Ned on Flash's phone.

"I still don't get why we're doing this, Peter." I say to the stressed boy next to me while I dial the numbers, "I have my phone—"

"You have your phone? Bonnie, are you kidding me? You could have said earlier!" Peter complains beside me, but all I can do is chuckle to myself. The alcohol still manipulating my brain.

After a few dials, Ned picks up the line.

"Ned!" Peter yells over the deafening screaming of the wind ravaging his ears as he speeds up the car— somehow, I think it might have been safer if I had taken the role of driving. "I need you to track my phone."

"Hey, Ned! You'll never believe it— we stole Flash's car!"

"No way, Bonnie! I would do anything to see the look on his face, I bet he was just so—"

"Excuse me!" Peter bawls, "we have more important things to worry about! Look, I left my phone— I AM SO SORRY—" He screams to a pedestrian on the street, who would have been flattened down onto the road if she hadn't have looked up from her phone just in time before crossing at the traffic lights. "Ned, my phone is in Liz's dad's car, I left it there to track where he's going. I need you to locate it."

"Genius move." Ned replies. "Okay, okay, he just passed the GameStop on Jackson Avenue."

"PETER, THE LIGHTS—" I yell as we almost collide straight-on with an oncoming bus full of civilians, finding the button to turn on the headlights, managing to find some rationality and control despite my slightly intoxicated state clouding over my judgement. "Oh my god, we're going to die. We are actually going to die."

"Bonnie, you're not making me feel any better!"

"How on earth do you think I feel, Parker, with you driving us in this death trap—"

"Peter! I'm getting through to Mr. Happy now." Ned interrupts our untimely bickering.

I put my hands on Peter's on the wheel and guide him as he is frantically trying to drive without smashing into trash cans and other cars parked stationary at the sides of the road. My neck is struck with a heavy dose of whiplash from Peter's awful driving, and I'm sure I'll feel it much more severely in the morning when the little amount of alcohol has worn off my system. Usually, the slight brush of Peter's skin against mine is enough to send chills across every inch of my body, but with the extremity of the situation, I hardly cast a second thought at our slowly intertwining fingers.

"Peter, Mr. Liz's dad stopped off at an old industrial park in Brooklyn."

"What? That's so weird, he said he was going outta town for business." I swear I can almost see Peter's crumpled frown through the thick cotton of his sweatsuit mask; the confusion and doubt suddenly flooding into his body. Of course he wasn't leaving for business, or whatever the 'business' is, it isn't simple or casual or expected.

"Oh, and I got through to Mr. Happy," Ned mentions after a beat, "I don't think he likes you by the way— you sounded like he was catching a flight, said something about taking off in nine minutes. I don't know, he was surrounded by boxes."

Peter grows even more confused, "What—"

"It's moving day!" I blurt out, "We're moving upstate, tonight."

Then he shoots me a look. And through his mask, it is still evident that we are both thinking exactly the same thing: Mr. Toomes is going to rob the plane shipping upstate with all of our belongings and confidential high-tech SHIELD stock.

"Stop, stop, stop," I take my hands off the wheel as Peter slows the car, "look, that's Liz's dad, he's getting out of the car. This must be their evil lair."

"Evil lair? Really, Parker?"

"We had practically the same conversation in Washington, remember? It's totally a secret lair."

"Peter, stop the fucking car."

"I— I don't know how!"

Right as I lift my hands to the wheel to quickly turn right, Peter shoots a web past my face, less than an inch away from brushing against the skin of my cheek, and secures it around a tree in order to stop the car; clearly he is unable to use his common sense under pressure.

One moment the road is there, wide open and safe, the second I close my eyes to blink, we are flipped over and sent screeching and tumbling across the concrete road. The harsh collision of metal and paint against gravel ravages my ears and sends a shiver down my spine, followed by a complimentary dose of whiplash as my head is thrown back and forth. A car crash comes as a shock; something that movies and novels aren't good at displaying, they're almost always anticipated. It is the equivalent of looking without seeing, a form of emotional blindness.

Peter clutches onto my hand and intertwines his fingers in mine as we are thrown across the floor, his fingertips gripping tightly onto me as if he fears I will slip away from him.

The car flips back over so that the four wheels are stationed safely on the ground, and both of us are unscratched and safe. He is still holding my hand.

He turns to me after hanging up the phone and rushing a goodbye to Ned. "Wait outside incase Mr. Toomes gets out and tries to leave for the plane. He doesn't know that you know, Bonnie. It's only safe if we keep it that way—"

"You seriously want to talk to me about being safe—"

"He's after your dad's tech, Bon. If he finds out that you know what he's up to..." he trails off, stroking his thumb against the skin on the back of my hand, almost too afraid to carry on his sentence incase what he says becomes true. "Anyway," he gathers himself, "It's quicker if we just follow the original plan. We need it make sure he doesn't get that flight in eight minutes, and you sitting here arguing with me isn't helpful." He chuckles, before quickly readying himself and jumping out of the car to head into the industrial park, leaving me in the car to pray to all of the stars in the sky that nothing bad will happen to him: Peter Parker.

Bug-boy.