Laurel was burning up. The aircon died again the night before, and she hadn’t had the time to fix it. August heat made the air thicker, and she was choking on the stench of mildew. At least the thin orange curtains she chose cast a pleasant glow over the room. But the building itself was poorly maintained, this room especially, and mould loves a basement.
An odd smell lingered outside, wafting in through cracks in the windows. She swallowed down bile and pushed the hair that fell out of her tight ponytail. Her palms were sweating. Her face was sweating. Beads of moisture dripped from the ceiling onto the desk in front of her.
A repeated ping sounded off from her open laptop. Her last post on Twitter was gaining some traction. Fellow supporters of her page liked the tweet and started arguments with those who didn’t in the replies.
She finished cutting out the headline of the New York Times newspaper. The sound of blades slicing through paper filled the room. She wasn’t normally one to read the paper. The bodega at the end of the street always put the stand out on the sidewalk. Laurel didn’t read the headline until she laid the paper down on the desk with a smack. She didn’t need to. She recognized the familiar red and blue that was photographed, snatched up a copy and left a hundred in the tip jar as she bustled past the stand.
Inspiring Greatness: Spider-Man receives a Bronze Medallion, surrounded by hundreds of masked fans
Rolling her eyes wasn’t nearly enough to expel her frustration. Laurel’s fists balled up on the desktop, fingernails finding the permanent divots in the flesh of her palm. Her eyes squeezed shut to keep them spilling over. She blamed the weird bleach smell that made her eyes water, even though there was no one else in the room to convince. She slammed a fist against the desk hard enough to rattle a cup filled with pens and a loose wrench. It wobbled, tipping onto its side and nearly fell over.
There was no clatter. The cup hovered at an angle, all of its contents frozen in midair. Laurel wrapped a fist around it and set the cup right. Wisps of violet extinguished under her touch.
To her dismay, all the commotion had been taken out on the newspaper clipping, which was now laying in two pieces on the desk. Laurel sighed, reaching behind old computer monitors to grab a roll of tape. She broke two pieces off with her teeth and stitched the clipping back together. She held it out in front of her, jaw clenched.
It wasn’t fair. Laurel’s brows knitted together. Nobody understood like she did. They didn’t understand what The Spider-Man actually stood for.
She pinched a red pushpin from a dish that sat on a shelf among toolboxes and her odd collection of stolen objects. Knives mostly, a few switchboards, and a billy club with red accents. Laurel hissed and drew her hand back quickly. A rogue pushpin stabbed her middle finger.
She wiped the blood onto her jeans absentmindedly and started looking for an empty spot on the murder board. It wasn’t actually a murder board - she wasn’t connecting clues in search for a killer - but she couldn’t think of another name for it.
Laurel moved around a few older clippings and photographs to make space. At first she focused on raw evidence; reports of sightings from credible news stations only. Videos could be faked easily enough (once she was tempted to create some deepfakes herself just to spite him). Eventually, she realized it was much easier to track his whereabouts from all the social media sightings. News stations had more important stories to cover, and it was the people who were obsessed with The Spider-Man. Laurel was simply the hungriest of the pack.
Now, there had to be over two dozen photos and headlines in her possession. Every time a new piece of evidence was posted, the frustration grew deeper. It burned in the hollow of her throat. She was supposed to be smart, she should have figured him out by now.
She pinned the newest edition beneath a screenshot of a YouTube video that showcased The Spider-Man stopping another bank robbery. He was waving to the crowd of cameras. What a fucking poser.
The pin shoved into the corkboard with too much force. The ‘a’ in ‘Man’ crumpled around the red edges of the pin. Laurel’s jaw clenched.
It wasn’t fair. All this praise, all this glory for a teenager in pajama pants. They didn’t know who he really was.
That ugly voice in the back of Laurel’s mind ebbed at her.
Neither did she.
That’s what all this work was for. The board, the constant stream of online tracking, the programs she designed with A.P.R.I.L. to track his every waking moment. Laurel was determined to catch him. To put an end to his endless mockery of real heroism.
But mostly, she wanted to finally tear that mask off. To look The Spider-Man in the eye and make him understand exactly what he had taken from her. And see fear in his eyes when she finally bested him.
A vibration in her back pocket sent a jolt through her heart. It was her phone. She pulled it out, the screen illuminating her face in the dark. A missed call and four unread messages.
“Fuck,” Laurel muttered under her breath. She promised to babysit and had meant to leave for Upstate forty minutes ago. Laurel pinched the space between her brows. What she really wanted to do was stay home and finish working to procrastinate starting her coding assignment. She only agreed to babysit because she felt like she owed it t0-
The phone rang again.
“Laurie.” The voice on the other end was muffled. Laurel could picture the face that matched this disappointed tone. She heard high pitched laughter that resembled her own. “Come on, sweetheart, she’s been so eager to see you.”
“I know, I know.”She scrambled to pack up her things, throwing her laptop into her backpack and slinging it over her shoulder. “Tell her I’m on the way, okay? I’ll be there soon, I just need to get to Grand Central.”
“We were counting on you, honey.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” Laurel said through gritted teeth. It seemed like everyone was counting on her for something these days.
She hung up the call and dashed towards the door, allowing herself one look back at the paper-covered wall. It was primal, the way her face curled into a scowl. He distracted her with his flashy gold medallion and now she was paying for it. Another tally to add to the score.
A/n: holy cow. there was a time when i said i didnt think i would ever finish cherry bomb. i started writing this fic in my childhood bedroom after third year, feeling like myself for the first time in ages. and i finished writing it on a random tuesday in my first big-girl apartment just before leaving for work at my dream job. what a joy it has been to grow alongside laurie. and say what you want about the ao3 curse, it has yet to strike me down lol.
i want to extend my most heartfelt thanks to you all, the ones who encouraged and inspired me to continue to share laurie's story. laurel maria hansen (stark) has and always will be an extention of my heart and soul. there arent enough words in the world to describe how it feels to watch her character be embraced so lovingly. so thank you for loving her as much as i do.
and the biggest most exuberant thank you to one of my best friends. @w1steriaawp has been my biggest supporter since day one. she knows every single fact about this story and let me rant for hours and hours and hours (which i can assure you was tedious and boring at times). this story could not have become what it is today without you amber and i am so grateful to have the best beta reader ever.
and this is not the end. laurie's story has eons to go (and will i write it? i guess we'll find that out together).
yours,
cxrdelia.s
June settled over New York with a gentle hand. The citizens had acclimatised to the early summer heat. All around the city, trees blossomed with green leaves, and the liveliness on the streets was coming back. Parks bustled with tourists seeing the sights for the first time, and families with strollers and laughter. Couples sat on benches in Central Park eating ice cream.
In the short weeks that followed the musical showcase, I hunkered down in my studies. The first round of exams had been a breeze. Algebra and Biology were child’s play, and I could have written them in my sleep. I almost had, in all honestly, with the amount of late night study-sessions I was pulling with Meredith and Brianna.
Well, with Meredith more so than with Brianna.
I did well enough on my French written exam, and absolutely aced the oral presentation. When I told Emery about this, he scoffed and muttered something about stupid Americans and their easy examinations. I laughed at his disapproval.
Life was finally beginning to settle into a normal pace again.
So normal in fact, that I found myself sitting with my hands in my head, on the brink of tears as I stared at the mess of history textbooks and notes on my desk. My teacher was kind enough to give us a study guide, and cruel enough to name thirty-three chapters he might pull questions from. The textbook was thirty-five chapters long. I hated history so much, I would relive fighting at that German airport ten times over to avoid having to read another stupid fact about Roman rule.
On second thought…maybe history wasn’t all that bad.
The exam was set to take place the following morning at eight on the dot and I was about ready to give up. Whatever factoids I could drum up during the exam would have to be enough. I dragged my face over my hands and let out a very long, very satisfying groan.
Or rather, it would have been satisfying if I hadn’t been rudely interrupted by an alert over the intercom.
“Who is it, A.P.R.I.L.?” I asked, huffing.
“Mr. Stark is summoning you to his lab, Boss.”
“Summoning me?”
That was new. Usually when Dad wanted me anywhere he would talk over the intercom himself.
Very loudly.
Sometimes with accents.
I pushed out of my purple desk chair and made my way to the elevator. I rolled back onto the balls of my feet as I descended down to the basement level.
Dad’s lab in this house was the smallest one he’d ever had, which was partially why he had been so hesitant to move in the first place. He once ruled over multiple floors of state-of-the-art equipment at the Tower, and even more space in our Miami house or the compound. But he downsized all that for me.
As a kid, it wasn’t unheard of for me to spend almost as much time in Dad’s lab as he did. For a very long time, we would be inseparable during the day. Dad was always tinkering with something, a new car, a new gadget, or taking the light-up part of my sneakers apart to program them to have a disco-mode if I stepped in a specific pattern. I would sit by idly observing, sometimes having half a mind to finish the homeschool work sitting beside Dad’s blueprints. But mostly I just wanted to watch him work.
I remember being nervous when Pepper would steal me away for bedtime when night fell, worried that Dad would be sad while I slept. He always told me he was sad when I wasn’t around, and I believed him. But he’d agree with Pepper when I threw tantrums about leaving, said that big kids ought to rest their brains.
The first time I fell asleep while he worked, I was eleven. It was New Years of 2012 into 2013, or just after. Something shifted in my Dad, he was more permissive of me and looked at me differently. He saw something in me. I assumed his change in demeanour was because of the Battle of New York. Looking back though, it was probably more to do with my mom, the one who made me. He watched her die that Christmas and took it real hard.
I was sitting at Dad’s desk while he was programming beside me. He let me take the comfier desk chair, his designated throne in the lab. As the night stretched on, I slumped closer and closer to the desktop. Without pausing his workflow, Dad slid a hand over my little back, rubbing soothing circles until I passed right out with my head on my arms. I don’t remember what I dreamed about. I do remember that when I woke up, I was right where Dad left me.
He had moved on, of course, tinkering with the car he bought himself for Christmas. A new routine came to life that night, him pretending he didn’t see me slipping into dreams and me knowing that I would wake up in the same room when I came to.
The elevator doors slid open, revealing Dad’s lab in all its glory. I don’t sleep down here anymore.
His desk, which was at least six feet long and surrounded by one million (eight) monitors, looking over the whole space on a platform. I stepped out of the elevator and made my way past it, down the couple of steps onto the main floor. Dad had his face shield on, welding a shoulder plate onto a new suit. I had lost track of what mark this one was.
He hadn’t heard me come in, so I waited for him to finish before I cleared my throat. Dad lifted the mask at the sound.
“What are you doing down here? I thought you were studying.”
I frowned. “You summoned?”
Dad reeled around to face the wall behind him. A comically large red button had been installed between pillars since I was last down here. “So that’s what that does!” He said. As if he didn’t program the button himself.
“Since when do you buzz me down?” I chided. “Use the intercom, you freak.”
Dad turned back to face me, using his welding stick to point at me. A couple sparks fell from the tip. “I may be a freak, but I am still paying the bills. I can use whatever mode of communication I want.”
I rolled my eyes, arms folding over my chest and I stalked closer to him. But Dad caught the smirk that I was trying so hard to suppress, and a few giggles slipped out.
“What mark is that?” I asked, nodding at the headless suit positioned on Dad’s workstand.
“Still forty-six,” he replied. “She’ll be whipped back into shape in no time.”
I smiled, lips tight, as an uncomfortably long silence settled over us.
“What did you want to show me?”
“Right!” Dad snapped his fingers and sprung into action. He peeled the face shield off of his head, setting it down carelessly next to Mark XLVI along with the welding stick. I tilted my head, the stick was definitely still on, but shrugged and let Dad lead me back around the room to his main desk.
He pulled the desk chair out, gesturing for me to sit with a flamboyant wave of his hand. I obliged, squealing a bit when he swung the chair to face him. He reached out before I could tumble out, and I caught myself on his forearms. We fell into a laughing fit for a while, only stopping to catch our breaths with aching sides and tears pinching in the corners of our eyes.
When I finally calmed down again, Dad was smiling at me, a firm hand patting the side of my head. It felt like years since we’d had a good laugh.
“Okay,” Dad began, shaking his head to reroute his focus, “back to business.”
I leaned back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other, and took my father in. He was standing, weight shifting from one hip to the other while his hands fidgeted in a ball in front of his abdomen. I almost gawked out loud. Tony Stark was actually nervous to tell me something.
Dad took a short breath and levelled his shoulders. He was hesitant to begin whatever speech he prepared for me, so I gave him a curt nod and remained quiet.
“So, I spent quite a large chunk of my adult life trying to dismantle the legacy my old man left behind. And I spent all of my young adult life running from it. I know what it feels like to constantly be measuring up. And when you came to me, I remember thinking how the hell did my parents think I was anything less than extraordinary? ‘Cause you were just a baby and all I could do was sit, and hold you, and think about how special you are.”
I swallowed thickly. The one thing we hadn’t spoken about since coming home was my grandparents. I wasn’t sure how to bring it up. I mean, how do you casually slip “We both watched your parents get brutally assassinated by a friend and I think that you might need professional help, but I also kind of need to talk about it” into dinnertime conversation?
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that, all things considered, I go really easy on you. I would say I am the most lenient parent out there, probably. And it helps that you’re a well behaved kid, although I still chalk most of that up to my amazing parenting skills.”
I tried to cover up a chuckle with a cough.
“Okay, we can attribute a small percentage of that to Pepper’s parenting expertise, fine. But it was mostly me.”
“If all you wanted to tell me was that you’re the world’s greatest dad, I knew that already, and I have an exam that will wait for no man.”
Dad shut his eyes tight and nodded. “Okay, I’m sorry. Public speaking in private is harder than it looks.” He pulled a second chair up and took a seat, feeling more natural at my level. He leaned his elbows on his knees, hands pressed together against his chin.
“Laurie you are…” He paused to find the word. I saw a few options spurring about behind his eyes, but he shook them off and settled on whatever his gut told him. “Smart. You’re a smart girl. And you’re old enough now that I think you can decide who you want to trust.”
“You want to be a regular kid. I get that, I really do. There are some protective measures that have to be taken because this is the reality of the family you were born into. But I think that I can ease up on some things.”
“Like what?” I asked slowly. I squinted at him with furrowed brows.
Dad pointed with his chin at the desk in front of us. I followed his gaze, eyes landing on two identical packets. They were thick, both at least five-dozen or so pages long. I ran my pointer finger along the edge of the packet closest to me, an abrupt sense of deja-vu hitting like a freight train. The Accords felt like a far and distant memory now.
I picked it up, solid and heavy in my hands. The urge to loosen gravity’s pull on the packet was instinctual. I blinked and swallowed the feeling down, resting the document on the edge of the desk instead. The cover was a translucent plastic, but the large title font printed in black ink was clear as day.
Non-Disclosure Agreement
Thunder boomed in my ears as all the blood rushed to my head. Short, staggered gasps slipped from my mouth. I flipped the cover over to reveal more text on the front page. My eyes went wide and I froze in my seat.
I traced a finger over the name on the NDA: Meredith Lisa Camden. I didn’t know Meredith’s middle name was Lisa. My bottom lip jutted out.
Slamming the NDA back onto the desk with a bang, I scrambled to rip the cover off of the second packet to its right. Brianna Elizabeth Sinclair.
I shot up, a little too fast, and struggled to keep myself from swaying as specks of white danced in the background of my vision. I stared my father down as he stood a few meager feet away with a smug look on his face.
“What is this?” My words came out with spit. I was certain Dad was pulling an elaborate prank on me.
“You can read,” Dad replied, shrugging. I moved back an inch when he reached forward to flip the NDA with Brianna’s name on it to the last page. I turned my nose down at the words.
It was mostly legal jargon I didn’t understand, but the sentiment was apparent. At the bottom of the page were three empty dotted lines underneath our names. Our names. Brianna’s, my father’s…and mine.
“What is this?” I asked again, voice catching on the last syllable along with the tears that burned behind my eyes. I blinked furiously at my father. My arms felt like useless objects dangling at my side.
Dad rolled his eyes and started digging around in a mug of pens that sat off to the back of the desk. He pulled out a blue one and tugged the cap off with his teeth, spitting it onto the desktop.
“Baby, I know you know what this is,” he said as he leaned over, holding himself up with a flat palm beside Brianna’s NDA and holding the pen in his left hand. He dragged pen over paper, his signature large and extravagant on the dotted line below his name. The “y” at the end of his first name dove and cut through the printed letters of mine.
“Spell it out for me.” I slotted my hands in the curves above my hips. Dad rose to his full height and looked me up and down. He bit down on his bottom lip to keep from laughing. My frown deepened.
“Oh, honey,” Dad chuckled and brought a hand to my shoulder, squeezing gently. “I’m not messing with you,” he tilted his head, considering, “this time. You trust these two girls?”
I nodded meekly.
“Then invite them over tomorrow night. I’ll walk you guys through the NDAs and get them signed, and then you can have them over as often as you’d like. I’ll even make dinner.”
I must have pulled a face, because Dad mocked offence and said, “Just stab me next time, my cooking is not that bad. Fine, we can order in, whatever. Just go and call them up.”
“Are you being serious right now?”
Dad’s face softened, and I could see the genuineness in his eyes when he smiled, just before he pulled me towards him. I wrapped my arms around his torso.
“So serious.”
I closed my eyes and hugged my father tighter. He smelled like metal shavings and sweat, and a little bit woodsy from the musky cologne he’d been wearing every day since before I was born. I might have been dampening his shirt with the few traitorous tears that slipped out, but I didn’t care. I don’t think he did either.
“Thank you.”
…
“I cannot believe we have been friends all year and you’re only just bringing us to your house!”
Strands of hair stuck to the back of my sweaty neck. It was getting longer, loose curls pulled into a ponytail that swayed back and forth with my every step. Brianna squeezed my shoulders and leapt in front of me, flashing a bright smile as she did. With the history exam over and behind me, I was practically bouncing home.
Mostly, I was excited to bring my friends with me.
Brianna was skipping in circles a few paces ahead of Meredith and I. Both of our palms were clammy from the heat, but we strolled hand in hand down Park Ave. The afternoon sun was beating down, but the west side of the street had the luxury of being somewhat treelined and the skyscraping buildings cast shadows over the sidewalk.
“Park street is so boring!” Brianna sighed. She almost kept walking as Meredith and I turned off of Park street onto East 74th. She turned on her heels when we called her name, laughing at herself as she skipped over to catch up. “Wait, we’re like right by Aquazzura! Can we go? I saw photos of this season’s collection and it is actually to die for.”
“They sell two-thousand dollar sandals…”
“Yeah, so? It’s Italian!”
Meredith and I both rolled our eyes at that. We each grabbed one of Brianna’s arms and kept her close by so she didn’t go running down the road to Madison Avenue. The three of us strolled with linked arms down the narrow sidewalk. We took turns stepping over the others legs, imitating The Radio City Rockettes.
“Which one is yours?” Meredith asked, head turned up at the towering townhouses that lined the street. Most were built with a brick exterior, red or beige, with a few true brownstones sprinkled in here or there. It made our house stand out the most.
I pulled us to a stop outside the bright white house with Greek-inspired pillars. I bit back a smile as Meredith and Brianna gaped with open mouths.
“Do you really need that many windows?” Brianna turned her face to mine.
A smile forced its way through. “Come on.”
I led the girls up the steps towards the heavy yellow birch door. Running my thumb along the right side of the doorframe, I felt for an invisible divot in the white brick and listened for the faint hum of a scanner passing over my thumbprint. A blue light shone down from a tiny black camera above the door, spraying rays over all three of us. The girls covered their eyes.
I flinched when the security system beeped, and a robotic voice spoke aloud, “SCAN INCONCLUSIVE. PLEASE TRY AGAIN.”
“Sorry! Sorry!” With one ear pressed to my shoulder and the other covered by my hand, I scrambled to flip open the hidden control panel beside the doorframe and punched in my security code. A collective sigh of relief echoed between us when the noise finally subsided.
I tinkered around on the touchpad for a moment longer. “I forgot that the system needs your biometrics the first time. Here, come stand where I am.”
I side-stepped out of the way, pointing at the doormat while Brianna and Meredith looked at one another wearily. The blue scanning light poured down over them again.
“Surely your family doesn’t need to be this extra,” Brianna quipped. The security system completed its scan, and the light turned green. The front door pushed open on its own with a hiss.
As soon as we passed through the threshold, a sickening wave washed over me. It was quiet inside. I could hear my heart thumping inside my chest, and I worried that the girls could hear it too. Mer slipped her shoes off and left them on the entryway mat. Brianna made a show of doing the same. I swallowed hard, not entirely sure if this was real or just a dream.
I thought about giving them a tour, fingers anxiously tapping on the banister. I peered up the stairwell. I left the NDA packets neatly placed on the island counter in the kitchen.
“So, I thought I’d start with a tour, but there’s actually something I need you guys to sign before we can really do anything.” I whirled around to face my friends, hands clasped in front of me.
Meredith’s eyebrow quirked. “Seriously? Like an NDA?”
“What’s an NDA?” Brianna asked.
“A non-disclosure agreement. It means whatever we talk about we can’t repeat to anyone or else Laurie’s family can sue us.”
“What? Why would you sue us? How important can The Hansen’s possibly be-”
Brianna’s face fell, her jaw hung open as the last of her words trailed off. She stood frozen, unblinking, with Meredith equally still beside her with wide eyes.
“What?” I spun around to follow their gaze and my stomach dropped. With one hand on the banister and the other dramatically pulling the sunglasses from his face, my father had parked himself halfway down the staircase. An award-winning smile was plastered on his face, the same kind he wore when he gave speeches at the Stark Expo.
“Well don’t just stand there, Laurie. Introduce me to your friends before Marty Feldman over here pops an eyeball out.” There was a devilish twinkle in Dad’s eyes and I just knew he planned this from the moment I told him I wanted to introduce the girls to him on my own terms. I got halfway sidetracked running payback ideas in my head, only coming back to reality at the sound of Dad clearing his throat.
I stuck my tongue out at him and turned around. The girls hadn’t moved. I took a step back and lifted an arm, like a butler introducing party-goers.
“Dad, this is Brianna and Meredith.” My voice sounded stronger than it felt. I pinched my lips together. “Guys, this is…this is my dad.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Dad said, gloating.
For a moment everything was still. It was agony waiting for my friends to react. Meredith and Brianna remained statues with gaping mouths and terror in their eyes. I resisted digging my nails into my palms. The room felt like it was getting brighter by the second and I could taste bile in my throat. I was about to wave a hand in front of their faces when Brianna let out an ear-piercing shriek.
“WHAT THE FU-”
And if this was a movie, I’d roll the credits now.
Heat cascaded down from the spotlights above, blinding white reflecting off the steady stream of tears that coated so many of the cheeks on stage. My voice had been strained raw and I was utterly exhausted, arms aching as I joined hands with the rest of the ensemble, lifting them high above our heads and bowing to the crowd. With every heaving breath, my lungs burned, but I was smiling cheek-to-cheek despite it all.
The audience was roaring, a thunderous standing ovation that echoed throughout the theatre. I felt their applause vibrating under the soles of my feet. The rush, the adrenaline pumping through my body and lifting my body ever so slightly, it was such a high. No drug could ever beat this, I always thought to myself. My heart was beating so hard I thought my pulse would surely push right out the side of my neck. As we straightened out of our bows, blood rushed back to my head, bringing black specks that flickered along the edges of my vision. This was cloud-nine.
The final performance of our show had come to a close, and with it, the end of the school year. The last several weeks had been tense at best, a whirlwind of tech rehearsals, catching up on lost time, all while cramming for the exam days ahead of us. I hardly had a moment to breathe since I got back to school, but I was grateful for the distraction.
After what felt like an eternity of basking in praise and admiration, we shuffled off the stage one-by-one. Students filtered off into the dimly lit areas behind the curtains. I still managed to get astonished at the sheer size of the theatre. I had done some form of community theatre for as long as I could remember, but the performance settings had never been quite as grand as this was, with its large, gold-trimmed dressing rooms, dozens of curtain-lined corridors for the stagehands to circulate through, and professional-grade equipment.
Broadway had never been my dream, but I understood how Brianna had come to be so passionate about this life. As we walked alongside each other deeper into the left wing, I caught her eye. Her face was powdered to the nines in pasty-white foundation that made her skin look like porcelain - fitting, as she was playing the role of a teapot - but I could see the cherry-red flush shining through anyways. Sweat collected in perfect beads around her temples, loosening the glue that kept her perfect red curls in place. She was as spent as I was.
I offered a tight lipped smile and watched her glow diminish in response. I turned my gaze downwards.
In addition to the intense hours of preparation, rehearsal, and studying, tensions had been stretched between my co-star and I. She was my first friend ever, and that being the case, I wasn’t entirely sure if we were still fighting or not. I didn’t even know how to fight, not with words or pointed expressions. If she wanted to have it out in a boxing ring, I’d know my way around. But the endless spouts of silent treatment? The off-again-on-again friendliness that always felt a little bit forced? I was lost in a female friendship maze.
It was one bad comment on a particularly bad day that did it for us. For the first few weeks back at school following all that had happened with the Avengers, I had been a little withdrawn. I wasn’t above admitting that, but I hadn’t been all that awful either. But Brianna and Meredith caught on quickly and soon enough they peppered in endless “Are you okay?”’s into every conversation.
I shrugged them off, making excuses like it was my time of the month, that spring allergies were just awful this year, or not replying at all. I noticed the looks Brianna and Meredith would give one another. I felt how they began to tread lightly around me. It only aggravated me even more.
I tried to self-soothe, tried to tell myself that it wasn’t their fault they couldn’t be more supportive if they didn’t know what had happened to me. News about Captain America flooded every news channel, sparking Meredith’s interest especially. She gawked over how he "abandoned his country and his duty to the people” quite loudly at lunch one afternoon, and I simply got up and left. Not my best secret-keeping moment. I was in a constant state of frustration, and irritable didn’t begin to describe what I was like.
I could hardly blame Brianna for the timing of our epic fight, but it had only been a few days after I found Steve’s letter. The three of us had gotten lunch at my favourite spot. Looking back, it should have been more obvious to me how tightly wound I was that day. Emery had rolled his eyes at us when we walked in, a typical greeting that usually sparked my laughter. But on that day, it only aggravated me. I think I barked something particularly nasty at him in French. And then he mocked my pronunciation.
We’d taken to the corner table, Brianna and Meredith opting to sit across from me, beside one another. A small thing that felt isolating. I had been staring off into space, trying to remember the bits and pieces of Steve’s letter while pushing down the flashbacks. I was distantly aware that Brianna was going on and on about something, not sure what it was, only that she was being very loud about it.
Eventually, Meredith had to kick me under the table to get my attention. My head snapped up and I blinked once. Twice.
“What?” I had asked, not bothering to pretend that I had been listening at all.
Brianna looked exacerbated. “I just don’t understand why you of all people don’t care!” I think I visibly grimaced at her whining tone.
“Care about what?” My shoulders bunched up.
“About the show!” Brianna spoke with her hands, flapping them around like they might increase her point, when really they just increased her volume. My eyes felt so heavy as I squeezed them shut, trying to blink the weight away. “Ten hours! They took away ten hours of our rehearsal time. That’s nearly an entire week’s worth. And we are literally, like, milliseconds away from show weekend.”
“Okay?” I shrugged. Meredith was picking at a straw wrapper, making a pile of tiny white pieces. Her drink was entirely untouched. I swatted a hand through the air dismissively. “We’ll be fine.”
“Will we?” Brianna shot back. Her mouth pinched together and she was gawking at me with a bitter expression. There was something she wasn’t saying.
“I feel completely confident.”
“We’re supposed to be off-book by now, and I did see you using your script last night,” she said, matter-of-factly.
I saw the mental dam break behind her blue eyes. She had laid her hands flat on the table, and I saw her fingers twitch. Meredith did as well, and laid her hand on top of Brianna’s, a silent motion to stop while she was ahead. Brianna did not listen.
“You have been out of it for weeks, Laur. And you’re our lead. A show can only be as strong the leads, and right now you’re making us look pretty fucking weak.”
“That’s a very narrow-minded way to think about theatre, B,” Meredith chimed in. Brianna shot her a look. Back me up here! her face said without words. Meredith let out a huff and took her hands back into her own lap.
My head tilted, taken aback by her off-hand comment. Brianna was not my understudy, she sang a completely different vocal part, but she had been the lead in almost every show she had ever done. I knew deep down there was a bit of resentment built up against me, but now she’d said it out loud.
Maybe I had been too harsh. Maybe I should have agreed with my father and stayed home sick for a week or two. But I couldn’t stand the thought of being alone in a house with him more than I already did. I was beat down, exhausted, and at my limit.
Still, there wasn’t much that could excuse what I said.
“Well, I’m sorry I’m not meeting your standards, but I think our actual director knew what he was doing when he cast me. Worry about your own shit.”
I should have bit my tongue when I saw the hurt flicker across Brianna’s face. But the band had snapped and my projection fell out of my mouth like a waterfall.
“Have you ever once considered that maybe some of us have more important things going on to worry about? Or is your perfect life really so small that this is the biggest problem you’re dealing with? Cause if that’s the case, that’s really fucking pathetic.”
I spent the next several weeks regretting my words. Even now, as Brianna and I approached Meredith, who was dressed in all black as the backstage assistant manager, there was an invisible wall between us.
But that wall was not physical, and Meredith scooped us both into a three-way hug. I felt Brianna’s arm stiffen against my own, but then she relaxed. She threw an arm around me and I followed in suit, relief knocking the air from my lungs. The show had gone on, and gone on well. I had all the time in the world to make it up to Brianna later. For now, I relished in being surrounded by my two, very real, friends.
“You were incredible!” Meredith exclaimed. “Both of you! I really felt it this time, you gave it your all!”
Brianna curtsied, the hoopskirt of her glamorous teacup costume rippling with her movements. “Thank you, thank you.”
“But I am never doing backstage anything ever again. I’m so glad this was for credit, otherwise I think I would have died.”
We all laughed at that, and kept walking towards the dressing room. We replaced hoop skirts for leggings and sauntered out into the incredibly crowded auditorium foyer. There had to be at least a hundred people; the family and friends of the cast and crew who stayed around to congratulate us. Towards the left side of the room, a particularly large and noisy huddle of people had formed, their backs all turned towards the theatre doors. I didn’t need to guess who might be at the centre of the group.
Brianna broke off from us to find her family. It wasn’t hard to follow her bright red head bobbing through the crowd towards another equally bright and equally red-haired woman. Brianna’s mother, stepfather, nine-year old stepbrother Harry, gave her encouraging pats on the back. From where Meredith and I stood, they seemed slightly uncomfortable. Meredith nudged me and pointed. I followed her finger and saw Mr. Sinclair beaming ear-to-ear, his round face raised high.
“I don’t think her parents have been this close since they got divorced,” Meredith whispered in my ear.
A smaller entourage stood in a huddle adjacent to Brianna's family: a man with a round face whose smile was identical to Brianna’s, and two women stood beside him. Brianna’s older brother. His name evaded me, but I knew that Brianna had only recently reconnected with him. I was happy for her that he had come. Brianna hugged the two women who were on her brother’s right, one blonde with rosy cheeks and the other with dark, silk-pressed hair and soft features.
Meredith hung back with me. Her parents couldn’t be bothered to watch the show, especially since Meredith hadn’t been a part of the cast. They thought it a waste of time to attend if they wouldn’t see their daughter perform. I scowled inwardly. Meredith’s parents didn’t know half of all the hard work and dedication Meredith had poured into our show. I slung and arm across her shoulders and she gave me a weary half-smile. For all she knew, my parents weren’t here either. We held onto each other in orphaned solidarity.
A gaggle of girls who were in Meredith’s Latin study group waved her over. She gave me a warm pat on the shoulder as she walked away and embraced her other friends. I folded my arms over my chest, suddenly feeling the chill of self consciousness. I teetered awkwardly, shifting my weight from foot to foot. My nails scraped gently at the inside of my hand, like a cat scratching the foot of the bed.
A gentle hand pressed firmly against my upper back. I jumped, startled by the intrusion, and whirled around. To my relief, it was Pepper who stood before me, dressed in a pristine white blazer and matching pencil skirt. I reacted without thinking, and wrapped my arms around her middle, squeezing tight. I jerked back when I realized that I had smudged a bit of foundation onto her blazer. She hugged me fiercely, a comforting hand on the back of my head over my curled hair, and muttered something about knowing the best dry cleaners and not to worry.
She pulled back and cupped my face in her hands. I noticed the dried tearmarks on her face and the bits of smudged mascara under her eyes. Astonished was the only way I could think to describe the way she was looking at me.
“You were brilliant, my girl.” Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. Where my father had rarely seen any of my performances beyond the shaky recordings we watched together at home, Pepper never missed a show. I had been worried that the break she and Dad were on would change that this time around. How wrong I was.
My bottom lip jutted out. “I’m glad you came home.”
Pepper smiled and brushed a rogue tear that slipped out. “I’m glad you’re safe.”
It was a loaded statement. She and I hadn’t really discussed what I’d gone through. I had been dodging her sentimental sit-down talks for weeks now. I nodded, agreeing with her, then turned back to look out into the crowds. Her hand stayed planted on my back, a reminder that she wasn’t going anywhere.
Meredith circled back to me a few moments later. I was about to introduce her to Pepper, but Brianna came barrelling towards us in such a state that we all almost lost our balance. Probably for the better too, because I have no idea what I would have said to Mer anyways.
“OHMYGOD, OHMYGOD, OHMYGOD!” Brianna was huffing and puffing, doubled over trying to catch her breath. Meredith steadied her with a firm shake to her shoulders, trying to stifle a laugh. “GUYSYOUWONTBELEIEVEITGUESSWHO-”
“Slow, Bri.” Meredith guided Brianna through a few deep breaths while I gave my mother an embarrassed look. I knew exactly what Brianna was riled up about.
“My brother just told me that Tony Mother-Effing Stark is here!” Brianna got out between gasps. She straightened her back and inhaled to try and speak more coherently. “He said he saw him in the audience and that’s why there’s that big group over there! We are literally breathing the same air as Tony Stark, oh my God, I think I might pass out.”
Brianna put both hands on her hips, swaying slightly. Her gaze jumped from me, to Meredith, then back to me and the woman perched behind me. Her eyes went wide and her mouth fell open.
Pepper had heard all about my school friends, and endured me complaining (at length) about Brianna’s monster crush on Iron Man. She chuckled at Brianna’s shock and offered a hand in greeting.
Meredith elbowed Brianna when she didn’t move, frozen to the core and bewildered. Brianna’s mouth snapped shut and she shook Pepper’s hand with sweating palms.
“I have been trying to encourage Tony to appreciate the arts more,” Pepper began to explain. “And he thought what better way to do so than offer a generous donation to your school’s theatre department.”
A pang went off in my heart. It sucked knowing that the only way Dad could see me perform had to be disguised by enormous amounts of money.
“You did a marvelous job today, Mrs Potts.” Pepper added, winking as she joked about sharing a name with Brianna’s character. I watched the humour settle over Brianna’s face, a fierce blush rising up her neck. She let out a chuckle, but it was more of a manic yelp.
“You should go thank him,” I suggested, adding fuel to the fire. “Personally.”
Brianna nodded slowly, and Meredith was killing herself laughing as she guided our star-struck friend towards the group where Dad stood. I couldn’t actually see him over all the heads, but I felt the weight of presence, comforting and secure.
Pepper leaned down beside me. “He’s so proud of you.”
I touched my fingers lightly over my chest, where the rose pendant lay. I wore it to every performance that weekend. The costume designer had actually had a heart attack when she saw it, something about being such a huge rare collector’s item nerd. When I first put it on again after the big fight, the cold metal against my skin felt like it was burning me.
Now, I could feel that it was doing its job, even without A.P.R.I.L. there to confirm, directing me to my dad.
Directing me to home.
The crowd around my father parted slightly, and I had a clear line of vision. He was deep in conversation with Brianna. As short as she was, I could pick her out in any crowd. He had sunglasses on indoors, as if that would distract from the fact that he was one of the most famous people ever.
As though he could sense my gaze, Dad looked up and around the room. I couldn’t see his eyes settled on myself and Pepper, but I knew he spotted us when his face softened. He always looked most content when he was watching his two favourite girls.
Pepper’s words echoed in my head. He’s so proud of you. They repeated again and again until I heard them in his voice.
Dad lifted a hand and removed his glasses, and I finally saw his expression in its entirety. I thought maybe I was making it up, but the way he was looking at me made me feel like he was seeing past me. Or rather, through me.
And years later, I would realize that in these moments, my father was seeing me in a way I couldn’t understand. In a way only a parent could; seeing the face of your child at every age, every version that they’ve ever been. A special kind of pride that is irreplaceable.
Pepper was rubbing soothing circles on my back with her hand. Brianna and Meredith were squeezing each other’s hands, both of their faces plastered with the cheesiest smiles after their encounter with Dad. Over their heads, he nodded at me, slowly.
The weeks that followed what happened in Germany were bleak, and I would soon tuck them away to the far corners of my mind and forget that they ever happened.
I felt eerily similar to the way I did in the aftermath of Sokovia. That day felt like it was lifetime ago but I’d only aged a year. All of the progress that I had made, the mental parameters I had set up, gone in an instant. Replaced, it seemed, with something much worse.
I started having nightmares again. They were frightening visions, a melting pot of past and present combined. I would see a giant floating city, then I dreamt of fighting in the airport terminal. Flashes of Ultron’s machines became images of watching the people I loved most tear one another apart.
The Winter Soldier’s eyes found their way back into my dreams too. But this time, when he’d look down the barrel of his gun at the security footage camera, he and I would blink together. And then I would become him, watching me surrounded in flurries of violet power, crushing everything to bits.
The difference this time around was that Steve did not come running at the sounds of my piercing cries. He was gone, and even if he was still around, he could not undo the damage I had done with stories alone.
Although I knew he would never admit it, my dad installed a communications system in my bedroom at our house on 74th St. The comms were a way to let him be Steve in his own way. Dad could be there when the night terrors took over.
Not that I let him help me.
For the first few weeks after we came home, I woke up shaking and sweating, my throat raw. Sometimes I would yell before consciousness came over me, so I would stir to find myself sitting upright with Dad at my side.
Too close, I would think.
I wouldn’t let him touch me. I wouldn’t let anyone touch me, really, but especially not him. Dad would try to calm me down in other ways, but he had never been the best with words. He told me over and over again that I could not hurt him.
“There is nothing you could do,” he would say as he’d sit on the edge of my mattress. This was usually when I’d pull my knees up to my chest and reel away from him, “that would ever make me afraid of you.”
Tears ran down my cheeks, hot and sticky. “You nearly died,” I’d whisper.
Dad would shake his head and his eyes would soften. “I am right here.”
Then, he would reach out to cover my hands with his, but I would always push them away, along with the surge of nausea that churned in my stomach. This became our dance: him convincing me I wasn’t a monster, and me promising him I am. Until one night, about five weeks after that fateful day, I finally cracked.
Dad came to me after hearing my screams, but this time he knocked. I could hear hushed voices outside my door. Pepper had moved back in. One of the first things Dad did after we came home was reconcile with her. Nothing like nearly losing your life at your daughter’s hands to make you realize how precious love was.
I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but Dad entered my room alone.
There was nothing special about this nightmare. It was the same as all the ones before. The fights, the punches, the violet. Seeing myself through someone else’s eyes and being stricken to the bone with fear. And more so, disgust.
Dad stepped gingerly to my bedside and sunk onto the mattress. This time, he said nothing to me first. He reached a hand towards my cheek slowly. The caution one might take with a frightened dog who might bite. I flinched when I felt his knuckle brush a tear from my cheek, but I did not retract.
That was enough for him.
In one swift motion, he scooped me into his arms. He cradled my head and I let it fall against his chest while I sobbed like a baby. I felt whole again for a moment and my body shook and released all the pent up emotions I was harbouring. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been held like this. It must have been years ago, lifetimes ago. Back when I was still my father’s little girl.
I let him continue to soothe me. Eventually, I felt another pair of arms wrap around me, with softer hands that smelled like linen. Pepper held both of us, just as she always had. I was grateful to have her back, grateful that she’d taken Dad back. I managed to fall asleep like that, tucked away in the arms of my parents. Safe and secure, shielded from the things that would haunt me when I woke up.
With the two of them there, I dreamt of nothing at all.
…
I woke gently, the rise of the sun illuminating my bedroom with an orange glow. When Dad first bought this townhouse, he told me I could pick whichever room I liked. I think he would have let me choose the master if I really begged, but I didn’t want it. My room was on the fifth floor and shared the level with a small library, which we converted into my personal workshop. I usually kept the oak double doors open to connect the spaces. This morning, the door was shut.
We painted the walls a pale purple. I liked the shade because of how flexible it was; darkening to a rich indigo in the late hours of night, then transforming to a bright pink in the early sun, as it was this morning. I curled onto my right side, letting my face bask in the warmth of sunlight through the windows.
Floating in and out of consciousness, I drifted off into a sleepless dream. My mind led me through a hallway of visions, or maybe they were memories. I turned the gold doorknob of an emerald green door and felt a blurry rush of euphoria pass over me. Clint was nearby, I could sense him in the abstract more than I could see him. His children were there too, in their farmhouse. The sun was setting. I closed the door.
Another door, pale yellow this time. A memory from years ago. Steve and I together, each at an easel sketching the New York City skyline. His work surpassed mine, of course, but he peered over my shoulder and complimented my drawing regardless. I must have been ten or eleven. It could have been the Christmas after the Battle. My vision flashed red and green. But it also could have been the summer after. I relived this moment a few times in my life.
I wafted through visions, through reminiscence, waking every so often to snuggle deeper under the covers. Three distinct raps of knuckles on wood interrupted these fleeting moments of solace. I bit down the irritation and groaned as I sat up. I was surrounded by a mountain of plush pillows and duvets. Ever since I was a child, it was the only way I could fall asleep; buried among stuffing-filled friends who would protect me.
The door creaked as it opened, scraping against the floor and drawing another scratch into the already permanent semi-circle where the frames met. Dad tiptoed on bare feet towards me, taking a seat on the edge of my bed. We did not speak, not of the night before or of the day we were about to have. He offered me a smile.
I rubbed sleep from my eyes, and he pushed my hair from my face with a flat palm. A sigh hiked my shoulders to my ears, then sunk them down alongside my heart, all the way until it settled in the pit of my stomach. I knew that I needed to get up. I needed to get dressed, Dad definitely wanted to avoid heavy traffic. But I couldn’t bear to. I wanted nothing more than to dive headfirst back into bed, and hide away, prolonging our visit to the compound today.
I wanted to protest, and procrastinate, and prevent, because I knew that this visit would be the last.
I ate very little before we got into the car, which turned out to be a bad idea. The feeling of an empty stomach only created more room for the butterflies to flutter.
We took Pepper’s Mercades, and I was grateful that she was joining us. She sat in the passenger seat, Dad drove, and they bickered about his safe driving habits. Or rather, the lack thereof. I tuned them out, leaning my forehead against the window. I could feel the vibration of the engine in my teeth, and didn’t care about the dull throb that was starting to develop because my head kept bouncing off the glass. It wouldn’t leave a bruise. Or maybe it would. None of it mattered.
Eventually we got off the freeway and drove through wood-lined roads. Dad made a sharp right onto the sideroad that turned into the compound’s long and winding driveway. The building crept into view and I felt an uncanny sense of deja vu.
The main building grew larger in my periphery. How many months had passed since the day everything started to go sour? Since the Sunday in May when Ross and his assistant with messy hair dropped the Accords on us like a tomb? We pulled into the roundabout outside the compound's front door. Dad put the car into park. It felt like a lifetime ago since that day. Since I last felt like a kid.
It was June now and unnaturally cold for the beginning of the season. I shivered as the three of us sauntered through the main foyer. As always, the compound was bustling with S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and Stark Enterprises employees going between logistics meetings.
I gazed absentmindedly at the magnificent staircase in the middle of the foyer. I remembered how easily I leapt down the steps, manipulating gravity’s tether on me and becoming weightless for a few fractions of a second. I remembered laughter. I folded my arms over my chest. I hadn’t dared to call on gravity at all since…
I shuddered again.
Dad stepped in front of me, breaking me out of my self-pity daze. He muttered instructions quietly, ones that I did not absorb at all. I was still too focused on the stairs.
But my body heard him, nodding in agreement and moving me towards the elevator. My feet felt heavy and light at the same time. I shuffled as though my ankles were shackled to a ball and chain.
My bedroom was exactly the way I had left it. The gift bag once held my rose necklace still on the floor, pink tissue paper scattered beside it. My bed was still perfectly made. I hadn’t slept in it that night. I crossed the room to my desk and pulled a hard drive from my sweater pocket. With robotic movements, I clicked the USB into the back of my computer and let A.P.R.I.L. run her course, downloading every last file. I would leave it behind, along with the monitors. I had no need for them anymore, not with an identical setup at home. In a room with identical pale purple walls.
The three suitcases I had packed, along with my pink overnight bag, were lined up against the wall next to the door. That I hadn’t done. Someone else came in and moved my things, I assumed Happy. Somewhere in the back of my foggy mind, I heard Dad telling me to get what I could carry, and that his staff would bring my bags to the car. My eyes landed on my overnight bag. I could carry that just fine on my own.
The bag felt light as I hauled it up and slung the strap over my shoulder. Or I’m heavier, I thought. Still, it would be a pain to forget things here and have to return for another solemn goodbye. I thunked the bag onto the footboard bench at the edge of the bed and slid the zipper of the main compartment open.
At first glance, nothing seemed to be missing. Poorly folded workout clothes, a makeup bag, and a few other necessities lay amuck inside the bag. I shoved a hand in anyways, feeling around for anything out of sorts. I frowned when my fingers caught the edge of something paper.
I pulled a wrinkled and bent envelope out from the bottom of my bag. It had been badly sealed, and the edge of the opening was lifting. I turned it over, holding it at arms length just in case. Of what? I didn't know.
I recognized his signature immediately. Just his first initial and the first few letters of his last name, drawn in incredibly fancy cursive in the top left corner of the envelope. S.Roggy. It was the signature he used to sign his drawings.
My heart had moved to my throat, beating steadier than it should have in that moment. I knew that we were operating on a tight schedule. In and out, get our things and go home. My body sank onto the floor before I could stop it. Gravity at it once again.
With shaking fingers, I broke the seal. I did a terrible job of preserving the envelope and it ripped down the middle, splitting my name into two halves. I tossed the torn paper aside, slowly sinking down until my backside was flush against the edge of the bed.
The letter was one paged, single-sided. My eyes darted from one word to the next, only somewhat digesting Steve’s final goodbye. He managed to fit a lot onto that one side of paper, his handwriting was small and cramped. He offered apologies for things that weren’t his fault, and explanations for the things that were. I stared blanky at one sentence in particular.
You barely left a scratch. And it’s nothing a little training and drills can’t fix.
Guilt clawed at the base of my throat and gravity was laughing at me from deeper within. The more time passed, the more my nightmares had become focused on Steve, on his face contorting with pain as gravity - as I - tore him apart. I struggled to keep my tears at bay, bubbling hot behind my eyes.
One managed to escape, trailing down my cheek and landing onto the letter with a splat. Right onto where Steve asked me to forgive myself, the ink now smudged. A choked sob escaped and I covered my mouth to stifle the sound. No one was around to hear me, but I couldn’t stand hearing myself fall apart again.
I read on, convinced I could feel his ghost placing the weight of responsibility on my shoulders. Steve’s final words were a request, a desperate plea to extend my time and energy to keep an eye on a pair of strangers. I had some recollection that Steve had a life outside of our team, but he mostly kept it to himself. I remembered him on the phone with someone the day he picked me up from the train station. Yes, you are, Theo, you are so smart. Theo and her father, I plucked at straws of memories, trying to recall any detail about them. Steve met them in Brooklyn, or maybe when he was stationed in D.C. for a time.
I had distant memories of Steve bringing the kid to the compound, but always when I wasn’t there to introduce myself. I didn’t even know what they looked like. I pictured Theo to be a tiny kid, scrawny and narrow. The type of kid that got shoved into lockers in movies. Her dad was a clearer picture in my mind, brown hair and a detailless face. The kind of man who always had a briefcase on him. I tried to shake the feeling that I knew him as my brain went on autopilot sorting through the mass collection of faces and bodies in attempts to match. I never got the chance to meet them. I never realized how important they were until now.
A low fury sparked in the hollow of my chest. His scrawl had been messy and difficult to read, clearly written by a man with little time on his hands. Someone who was moments away from running. But his request to me was perfectly clear, each letter dotted and marked with acute precision. He had taken his time to ask me a favour. Saying goodbye to me was a throwaway.
I rose to my feet, crumpling the letter in one fist and lifting the other, sniffling a bit. I inhaled deeply as I wiped the back of my hand. It came away red.
Shit.
Scurrying around my bed, I fled to the ensuite bathroom. I stared myself down, white knuckles gripping the edge of the counter. For a fleeting moment, I didn’t recognize myself. I looked like myself, sure, with the same pointed cheekbones and furrowed brows. I thought perhaps that I looked older, weathered. My skin was pasty, pale and sweating, likely from the lack of eating over the last few weeks. My eyes were heavy, a blank look behind them that almost appeared intoxicated.
A small drop of red pooled at the base of my right nostril. I let it linger there, watching with a tilted head as it dribbled down over my lips and chin until it plummeted into the sink. It’ll stain the marble, I thought. My mind felt clouded in fog, the kind of heaviness that comes after crying for hours. I only shed a single tear.
My body set to work without me, turning the faucet on and washing the now dried blood from my face and scrubbing it from the sink. Water splashed onto Steve’s letter, which had been discarded onto the countertop. I stared at it, blinking slowly. My jaw flexed, teeth grinding down. Resentment was building up like plaque in my veins.
The sound of paper tearing echoed off the bathroom tile. Once was not enough. I tore the letter until it was nothing but a pile of shards in the sink. Being angry at Steve for leaving us all behind was one thing. It was easier to focus on the abandonment, the betrayal, to blame him for taking the coward’s way out. Teardrops and blood fell onto the messy pile of papers. I hated Steve for forcing me to be angry at him. He was the best of us after all, or at least he used to be. And now he’d left me with no other choice. I knew that I would hate him despite myself, despite all the love that I still carried for him.
I hated him for leaving me with nowhere else to put it down.
I left the bedroom in a hurry with my pink duffle slung over my shoulder. I didn’t bother to close the door behind me, nor did I care to take one final look around. I was done with prolonged goodbyes. If this was the last time I would ever step foot in this place, let it be quick. Ripping a bandaid, or whatever the saying was.
I took the elevator down this time, not able to stomach the thought of walking down the main stairs. The first time I visited the compound, when I was definitely past the age of playing pretend, I sauntered down the extravagant staircase imagining that I was a princess making her grand entrance at the royal ball. The make-believe crowd watched in awe, and I curtsied in my non-existent ballgown.
The elevator dinged, doors sliding open to reveal a side corridor on the main floor. Playing games is over now. I was too old for that shit.
I made my way through the maze of halls and side offices that lined the main foyer of the compound. There was one hallway in particular that ran along the outer wall and spit you out just beside where the large front doors stood. I decided the less S.H.I.E.L.D. agents I had to say goodbye to, the better. And for all I knew, my nose was still bleeding and I wasn’t in the mood to be questioned.
Hanging a fast left, I swung around the corner with my hand on the wall for leverage. The end of this corridor was in sight, just a few feet away. My steps were quick and light; I was eager to be home. I shocked myself a little, at how fast I developed so much disdain for a place that was once my safe haven. It really was the people, I supposed.
Voices sounded off at the end of the hall, and I skidded to a halt. I could see the front doors, tall and marvelous, perpendicular to the end of the hall. I hugged the opposing wall, sticking my ear out to listen to a stranger’s conversation. Footsteps thumped against dark tile, getting louder and louder as the speakers approached the door. I recognized my father’s antalgic gait before I recognized his voice. Years of taking hits as Iron Man had also resulted in chronic hip pain. He covered it up well, but I had learned to tell when it was worse based on his footsteps.
There was one other person walking alongside him. Happy was my first guess. I set my duffle bag on the floor and leaned in closer to catch the tail end of their conversation.
“I know that you’re excited, and you did a great job for a newbie-” Dad said. My eyes narrowed.
His conversation partner interrupted him, and I could imagine the look on Dad’s face. Everyone knows better than to interrupt Tony Stark. “Mr. Stark, I think that I could really be a great addition to the team! And I don’t need to go on big missions, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m happy doing patrol on the streets, you know? Looking out for the little guy. Unless you do need me on missions, cause I can do that too! I mean, I would prefer not to miss that much school but-”
My heart skipped a beat. I recognized that voice, the annoying non-stop chatter of someone who clearly did not know how to negotiate. I desperately wanted to crane my neck around the corner to get a look at him, knowing he probably wasn’t dressed to the nines in red and blue. But I was close enough to the edge of their periphery as it was, any further and I’d get caught.
“Kid, you’ve got passion and drive, I’ll give you that. And I respect it, you’ve got the kind of gumption that I did at your age. It’s a good thing. But the Avengers are dealing with some…bureaucratic stuff right now. We don’t have anybody who could train you and-”
“Oh, I don’t need training Mr. Stark!”
“Eah!” I could picture the finger Dad was holding up, a signal to stop talking.
“I promise I’d be useful to you-”
“Alright, that’s enough kid. You don’t need to sell yourself to me, I’m not here to catch a case. If we need you, we’ll call you.”
The other guy, the kid, mumbled something I couldn’t hear. Happy appeared outside the front doors, tugging them open and holding an arm out towards a stalled car in the roundabout. Dad walked this kid out with a hand across his back, rested firmly on his shoulder. I cursed and slid back against the wall, hoping they wouldn’t turn around.
I couldn’t see his face, just the mop of mousy brown curls that fell neatly on the back of his head. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, and a ratty backpack with a miniature Lego Star Wars figurine hanging from a keychain on the top zipper. He was shorter than I remembered him being in Germany, but then again he was towering over me on top of vans and trucks for most of our encounter.
But mostly, I was noticing how little he was. In regular clothes, the guy looked like he couldn’t be much older than 20. Dad called him a kid, it was possible he was closer to my age. My hands balled into fists, crescent moons marking my palms.
I waited for Happy to shut the door behind them before I pounced.
“Was that The Spider-Man?” I stomped so closely to my dad that we were almost standing nose to nose. The colour drained from Dad’s cheeks.
“You’re ready to go!” Dad exclaimed. He did a double back, whipping his head around to peer through the glass doors. He ignored my question purposefully. “Let’s get a move on then.”
I craned my neck around him, hoping to still catch a glimpse myself. But whoever he was, he was long gone. I straightened my posture and frowned up at Dad. “I heard you.”
Dad shrugged nonchalantly. “He wanted a tour of the place, and I figured with all his help I could offer him a little reward-”
“Don’t do that, you hypocrite!” I spat. Heat crawled up my neck and clawed at the base of my throat.
“Hypocrite?” His voice lowered. He watched me quizzically, studying my reactions for his own counter-strike.
“How old is that guy?”
“I can’t release that information to you.”
Embarrassingly, I stamped my left foot when I yelled, “Bullshit!”
“Hey!” Dad’s shout echoed off the high ceilings. The sound rang in my ears.
“How old is he?” I repeated.
“That’s classified information, Sunshine. He’s got a mask for a reason.”
I sucked in a shaking breath and shoved my hands into my pockets to hide that they were shaking. Jealousy that was masked by rage bloomed in the hollow of my chest.
I pressed him anyway. “Is he a college freshman? Younger? Is he in high school?”
He said nothing, just stared at me intensely. I blinked rapidly. I came to a conclusion faster than my words could process. Eventually, I spluttered it out.
“He’s my age, isn’t he?”
Dad’s lips pressed together, his brows raised and furrowed slightly. I’d caught him.
“You’re unbelievable,” I scoffed. “You raised so much hell about me being too young to get involved with what happened in Germany but you go and recruit a highschooler to do your bidding? That’s fucking sick.”
“Watch how you’re talking to me, young lady.” Dad crossed his arms over his chest, trying to appear taller than he is.
“No! It’s not fair.” I hated how whiny I sounded. “What makes him the better option? You saw what I’m capable of, I beat his ass at the airport.”
“That is hardly the point,” Dad said, raising a finger matter-of-factly. “I told you very clearly that you had no right to stick your nose in Avengers business.”
“It is my business, because my name was in the fucking Accords!”
“What you did was reckless and unsafe. You disobeyed the one thing I asked of you. Pe-” Dad cut himself off before giving away The Spider-Man’s identity.
“Nice save.” I rolled my eyes, mirroring his crossed posture.
“Spider-Man was prepared for this. I saw what he could do and knew he was ready to help.”
“And I still beat him.”
“Laurie, you’re not listening to me.” Dad pinched the space between his brows. He cupped his hands in front of his lips, then pointed them towards me. “Hear my words, baby. This is why I chose him over you: I knew that he would follow orders and not do something stupid. But you did anyway and now look at what happened. I recruited Spider-Man because I knew he’d have my back.”
“And I wouldn’t?”
Dad gave me a disapproving look, holding his hands out palms up as if to say Well, you didn’t.
“Your mission was to stay here at the compound. You chose not to listen.”
“Well, I guess I’m just a Stark. Isn’t the whole point that we don’t respect our fathers?”
Dad dragged a hand over his mouth, physically holding back from whatever awful thing he probably wanted to call me. I didn’t falter, glaring at him pointedly. It wasn’t until he shut his eyes for a moment, that I noticed how his brows were pinched upwards.
I bit the inside of my cheek, a wave of regret washing over me. In my hastiness, I had forgotten that a few weeks ago, my father had lost his parents all over again. I wished that I could take back what I said.
My lips parted, but nothing came out. Dad was avoiding eye contact, also trying to think of something to say. Something to turn this whole mess around.
Eventually, Dad just pulled his car keys from his jacket pocket, jingling them in the air. “Let’s just get going,” he said. His shoulders sagged, he was exhausted. “You have a show to put on.”
I blinked. That was right. The rest of the world didn’t care about never coming to the compound again. The rest of the world was busy carrying on. The Dalton’s musical production was premiering that night. Avengers business aside, I still had responsibilities.
The juxtaposition of our conversation left me stammering. Dad turned to go and I had half the mind to follow suit. That was showbusiness, after all. The show must go on.
The earth was shaking, peeling up around the edges of the city and lifting into the air. The young girl, hardly thirteen years old, was a spec within the carnage. She felt powerless amidst the chaos, and drawn to it all the same.
That was what she'd hold onto most. The bodies. The way their limbs were cracked and jagged in unnatural ways, faces distorted, caved in, or completely buried underneath tons of rubble.
That, and the smell of iron.
The girl's forehead bled fiercely, the result of an enemy's strike that sent her into a crumbling building. A stream of dark red trickling down her neck. Her favourite shirt, the one with Black Sabbath’s logo printed on the front, was stained and ruined.
She didn't feel any of it. Only the pounding pressure inside her skull and the strongest surge of energy that was extending from her palms. Both arms raised above her head shook violently with the weight of the city. She tightened her hands into fists, nails tearing into the soft flesh of her palms.
Like an ox and its wagon, she pulled the floating city back towards earth. Flashes of yellow and red spun around it. The man in tin flew securely within the confines of his suit. The girl felt entirely naked, her arms bare and exposed as she stood on the ledge of the crater where the city once stood.
Large pieces of concrete fell like crumbs off of the floating city as it continued to lift higher and higher into the sky. The girl was slowing down its ascent, but only just. Soon, the man caged by tin would disappear completely, taking to defend the civilians on the surface; those who were simply in the wrong place at the worst time.
Their homes, now a battlefield.
Without the man in tin destroying the bits of machinery that lifted the city, the girl was alone in her pursuit. Her shoulders ached, a searing pain that seized the muscles up her neck. A strangled choking noise slipped from the back of her throat.
Enemies surrounded her, soulless beings of mangled metal and wires.
Though the machinery was not alive, the girl still felt the evil that radiated off them. Soon she was overrun, and forced to give up her pursuits of bringing the floating city back to Earth. Her focus shifted from the core of the city, to the core of these machines.
It was easy to take a deep breath, and let tethers of violet extend from her chest, through her arms and out of her fingertips. The tethers were her scouts, an army of gravity searching for something to cling onto, something to shift or to change.
The girl felt through space and time, shivers running down her spine when the ropes of gravity touched cold metal cores. She commanded gravity. She alone was entirely in control. And like anything else on Earth, the machines were tethered to the centre of the earth.
The girl flicked her wrist and squeezed. In one motion, the machines were now trapped in midair, their gravitational source tethered to the centre of their metal bodies. The girl sent a stronger surge of energy down the invisible ropes between herself and the machines. The vibration of their solid forms cracking reverberated through the girl.
In an instant, they crumpled like a tin can.
…
Laurie!
My name echoed, a sharp resounding noise that pierced my focus. Colours and objects blurred in my periphery, my mind trapped between past and present. Swirls of gravity surrounded me in ropes of violet around my arms and fingers. A puppet and her master. My shoulders burned and ached.
Laurel!
My mother had given me that name. She had tended to a small laurel tree sapling in her studies, before her work expanded and required more personable subjects. My mother gave me my name and she gave me these abilities. And what good were either of them? She was dead and I never even knew her.
“Laurie, stop!” Bucky’s voice was raw and strained.
He was hunched over on his side, down one arm, body bruised and bloodied. I craned my neck, taking in the sight of him. His hair was damp with sweat, sticking to the pale skin of his cheekbones. I had never seen a grown man with eyes that pleaded so heavily. His remaining arm was raised, pointer finger shaking. I followed his line of direction and my chest seized. I wanted to scream.
The sound was lost in my throat.
Steve and my father hovered several feet in the air, as if suspended by a million strings that tugged in every direction. Their bodies twitched and curled in unnatural ways. The armour of Dad’s suit was cracked, splinters of metal cutting into his flesh. Steve was in slightly better shape without a metal cage to pierce him.
I was almost mesmerized by the sight of them, tucked into themselves like caterpillars about to cocoon. But then I felt it.
That pulsing throb, the one that mimicked the sound of my heartbeat in my ears. Two distinct sources of energy - gravity - becoming bigger and bigger. I sent a surge through my fingertips to find the source. As my power flooded the streams of gravity that surrounded us, I realized in horror, that it was a cyclical pool of energy.
Gravity was a snake that slithered into the centre of their bodies. And gravity was mine, my saviour and my witness. But it was by my hand that Steve and Dad were slowly crushed from the inside out.
I pleaded with my arms to drop, and begged my fingertips to stop tethering Steve and Dad’s gravitational pull inwards. They only shook in response. I had lost control of my abilities before, I had destroyed things and left damage in my wake, but I had never been conscious before. Never experienced this kind of powerlessness.
The ropes of gravity circled my arms tighter, forcing my fingers to splay open and act as channels for it to move through. My palms were painted with shallow cuts, and gravity only pushed them open further. A guttural cry escaped from my mouth. I felt nothing, I could see nothing, besides the faint purple glow amidst white-hot agony. Through the tethers that connected us, I could feel my father’s body, the familiarity of his presence, caving in on itself.
I cried out again.
I could not let go. I was completely overtaken by gravity’s strength. My breathing came in ragged bouts, and I thought that maybe I was beginning to lose my footing, beginning to draw nearer to the pulses inside my victims. I wished I never came here. I wished I had just listened to my father, that I trusted he knew what was best. I was only a kid.
I was his only kid.
My father, who would split seas and stop wars to protect me. He let the world think he was selfish and power-hungry, he didn’t boast about fatherhood so that I could live normally. My father would invent space and time if it meant doing right by me. He always called me his sunshine, his light. And I had done a terrible job of telling him that he was my whole world.
Something tickled the skin on my arm. I managed to tear my gaze off of Steve and Dad’s floating bodies to see that the shards of metal from my iron suit had been lodged even deeper into my flesh. The tensing of my muscles had retracted them, and a steady stream of blood was leaking onto the floor below.
A similar pool of red gathered below where my father hovered, from the points in which his own suit cracked and poked his body. I could not ignore the irony; Dad built these suits for protection and safety. And now both of us were bleeding onto the same cut of iron.
Gravity became stronger the more time I let pass. I forced my eyes to open fully, my gaze landing on the pained expression on Dad’s face. I didn’t need a mirror to know that the zig-zag shaped crinkle between his furrowed brows matched the one between mine.
One of us was surely going to die today.
I would not let it be him.
I planted my feet back on the ground. I hadn’t even noticed that I was floating myself. The relief of having something solid under the soles of my shoes was enough to give me breath again. Though my hands shook all the way through, I rotated my wrists and grabbed hold of the violet tethers in the air. Closing my fists around the energy, I squeezed with all my might. If gravity was a living being, I would choke the life out of her today.
I felt the strings begin to break under my grip. My chest felt like it was going to explode, pressure building inside me that was nearly unbearable. A thought floated around in the back of my mind: there was a different feel to the energy beneath my ribs. It felt warmer, more familiar. It felt like sunshine.
In the corners of my spotty vision, pale yellow hues flickered throughout the violet. I watched as the danced and weaved along the lines gravity had drawn out. With a gentle squeeze, I sent a pulse down the ropes and watched the yellow pulse in return. That was me, I thought. I tugged harder on the ropes of gravity, satisfied with the feeling of tension snapping.
All my strength, all that I was and all that I ever could be, was thrown into one final pull. Although my body felt like it was burning alive, I raised my arms to gain momentum. I heard myself scream, but it was a flicker in the distance. I snapped my arms straight down, severing the last of the violet strings. The break created a wave that crashed over us, knocking me off my feet. My back hit the wall behind me and I, in time with Steve and my father, crumpled to the ground.
…
The panging sound of metal hitting concrete stirred me from another dreamless state of unconsciousness. With great force I pushed myself upright, leaning against the cool concrete wall behind me. My head was throbbing, vision blurring with every pulse of my heartbeat.
Captain America’s shield lay at my father’s feet. Bucky was upright now, supported by an arm slung across Steve’s shoulders. They both had their backs turned to Dad. I could see my father’s mouths uttering loud words that I could not hear over the ringing in my ears. But from the tight-lipped frown Steve wore, and the pained grimace on Dad’s face, I knew they were not apologies.
Steve offered me a glance before he and Bucky limped out of the lookout, back into the crumbling hidden base to escape for good. I opened my mouth, but there were no words that could repair what I had done. I could see bruises blooming beneath the skin around his neck, and I was sure matching ones covered his abdomen. Tears welled up in my eyes.
Steve’s stone expression softened, his lips pressed together into a thin, almost-smile. A single teardrop escaped, slipping off my cheek and landing on the back of my hand. We both looked at my hands, then back at one another. My bottom lip quivered, but Steve just gave me a courteous nod.
I had no idea what he meant by it.
Across from where I sat, my father was propped up on one elbow. He pushed upwards, attempting to stand, maybe trying to run after Steve again. But he was shaking, and the cracks in his suit were dripping with blood.
I did that.
He faltered and his arm gave out, causing him to collapse on his back with a groan.
I scrambled to my feet and scampered to him, dropping to my knees at his side. I held my hands over Dad’s torso, not sure where I could even begin to help him. His head was tilted back, an arm draped over his eyes. I chewed on my bottom lip and remained frozen above him.
Just as I moved to try and get my father to stand, he lifted his arm from his eyes. At the sight of me suddenly beside him, with my hands outstretched over his already broken body, he flinched.
More than that, the hand that was over his face shot out defensively. The repulsor in the palm of his suit glowed bright as he sat up quickly and put some distance between us. I reeled back in turn.
Dad was looking at the ground when he finally spoke, his voice breathless. The repulsor light dimmed. “Just…just give me a minute. I’m okay. You’re okay, just give me…I need a minute.”
His words struck me more than any blow from his suit would have. I scrambled backwards, rubble digging into my already bleeding palms, and tucked myself into a corner. Dissociation clouded my father’s face, his eyes becoming nearly lifeless as he lay on the ground. I hugged my knees close to my chest and cried like a child.
Beneath the skin of my palms, I felt a faint buzzing sensation. I opened my fists and saw swirls and shocks of violet power, the remnants of my outburst.
The girl became gravity and gravity made her into a monster. They were forever tethered, one in the same.
A ring of white-hot pain circled the crown of my head, a pressure that fit and squeezed until I couldn’t hear anything but a distant ringing. Frost that had been disrupted in the collapse hung in the air and nipped at my fingertips, stinging my skin with its kiss. I was immobilised under the weight of tons of concrete.
The fragments of pillar and wall that surrounded me began to shift. My muscles tensed in preparation for another downpour of stone that never came. I dared to open my eyes, peeking through the cracks between my fingers. I felt his breath before I saw his face.
Bucky was hovering over me, one hand braced against the floor just beside my head. The other arm, the reflective one, was raised high, fist clenched. His eyes met mine, blue irises that were cold and piercing.
Images of him staring down the security camera before shooting it flashed through my mind.
“Don’t hurt me!” I cried out, covering my head and face with my forearms. Not that they would have done a thing to protect against the strength of The Winter Soldier.
Bucky shuffled off of me and crouched in the rubble. He offered me his human hand, a silent plea of innocence.
Slowly, I lifted myself up, cursing as a chunk of concrete sliced through the middle of my palm. A near-perfect circle of rock and metal rebar surrounded me. For all intents and purposes, I was unscathed from a collapse that should have killed me.
Bucky’s metal arm hung limp at his side, slightly tucked behind his back. His throat bobbed and he dared to stretch his other arm closer.
“Are you okay?” Behind him, my father was firing shots at Steve. The collapse caused by the rocket should have given Bucky ample time to flee, ample time for Steve to distract my dad.
My eyes darted from the ruckus behind Bucky, to a partially concealed staircase across the room, then back to Bucky.
“Go,” I whispered. Bucky blinked.
I meant for it to come out as a “You saved me” or “Thank you”. I hoped that much was obvious on my face.
The thunderous sound of another rocket exploding across the room made me flinch. Bucky shifted his stance to shield more of my body with his own. This time, I gripped his wrist and he, instinctively, mirrored my action.
“Go!” I urged him. My fingernails gently dug into the thick leather of his jacket. His hand wrapped around the majority of my forearm, warm and secure.
This was the man from Steve’s bedtime stories. Selfless, heroic, and honourable. The man who lived to defend those less able to defend themselves.
Bucky could have been halfway to wherever the Quinjet was waiting. He should have fled the moment the rubble started to fall. But that’s not the kind of man Bucky is.
He remained crouched in front of me, nothing but regret and repentance in his eyes. I squeezed his arm once more, harder this time, and nodded firmly.
“I’m okay. Go.”
Bucky returned my nod and I felt the cold replace where his hand was. I blinked and he was gone. He leapt up with superhuman speed, and began hopping from rafter to rafter up the cylindrical dome. My breathing was shaking, but relief washed over me regardless. He could get out, he had to.
It did not take long for my father to realize his target had been mobilised. Unlike when we were at the airport in Germany, I had no faulty comms device in my ear. I couldn’t read my father’s lips through his helmet, I had no way of hearing the things these men were saying to each other.
I remained sat on the hard floor, watching nearly in awe as the sight before me unfolded. Dad’s movements were sharp and precise. His laser focus on Steve snapped upwards when Bucky entered his periphery.
Bucky slammed his body against a wall - no, a button - and the room started to shake. Above our heads, the roof of the rotunda began to open. Steve followed Dad’s line of sight, and for a moment they both stood still as Bucky started his escape.
Dad snapped. He dealt a nasty blow to Steve’s face, which knocked Steve off of his feet into one of the giant tanks. Dad’s suit powered up and he bent his knees to prepare for takeoff. He didn’t see that Steve was on his feet again and racing towards him.
I mimicked a sports fan in an arena with the way I shouted to my dad. My warning wasn’t loud enough to meet his ears. And it caught me off guard, because I wanted Bucky to get away. Instinct revealed my strongest loyalties, I supposed.
Steve dashed towards my father and nearly missed grabbing hold of one of his feet as the suit blasted off. Dad tugged and thrashed, trying to get up and away. Steve brought his shield down upon the thrusters at the bottom of Dad’s suit.
Bang, bang, bang!
The final swing sent Dad tumbling into one of the stairwells that lined the walls. Steve dove towards him, but Dad was quick to use the laser beam in his suit to put space between them. The concrete doorframe collapsed around Steve.
Dad took off again, shaky and unstable. His flight systems were compromised. Bucky was a super soldier, but even still his speed was no match for Iron Man. Steve pushed through the rock and jumped up the rafters after them. The higher they climbed, the worse my visual of the fight got. Eventually they became completely obscured, disappearing into the abyss above me.
I forced my body to stand. My knees were shaking and I felt seconds away from throwing up. But I pushed through the pain, the way Natasha might have trained me to if we ever got that far. My steps were sluggish and weary, but I managed to climb over the now-destroyed room to the base of the stairwell.
I had to crane my neck and bend over backwards, and I still couldn’t quite see the top. Echoes of metal clanging against metal told me that everyone was still making their way up. I realized I had no idea what was waiting for them up there, and I suspected neither did they.
The longer I stared at the winding staircase that spanned what I calculated had to be at least a hundred feet tall, the firmer my feet planted to the ground. Hours, it would take me hours to climb to the top. And by then, I wasn’t sure I’d be eager to discover the remains of the three men who were up there fighting.
The hollow sinkhole in my abdomen told me to stay put, but I wrapped my fingers around the metal banister anyways. The frigidity from the iron bar shot through my palm and up my arm, sending shocks and shivers down my spine. The same, I thought, as when I hung off of Dad’s suit.
I tripped up a step, catching myself with a flat hand against the next stair up. Wincing, I picked myself up, examining the indents left in my skin from the ragged edges of the stair.
The black-and-purple suit I had arrived in lay in pieces on the floor of the base’s entrance. A dozen feet of winding hallways and passages were between me and this very flimsy plan. I wondered how similarly Dad had designed the suit to the ones he wore. I snuck another glance upwards and the room wobbled.
I dusted my hands off and jumped backwards off the stairs, landing gracefully with a delayed descent. I really needed this to work, I mumbled to myself.
With my head thrown back over my shoulder, I waited. In theory, I knew how this would work. I used to watch Dad perform test runs on suit prototypes. He would stand on the far side of his lab with his back turned and arms outstretched. His suit, perfectly programmed and fit, flew in pieces across the room, locking in place around his body until he was fully encapsulated.
I mirrored this image of him in my mind. I drew in a long breath and turned my head away from the entrance. I could hear the faint whizzing sound of my suit getting louder. My eyes were shut tightly, I couldn’t help being tense.
The first piece of the suit to find me was the back plate. It attached across my shoulderblades and around my waist with so much force I tumbled a step forward. The impact knocked most of the air from my lungs.
And without any time to recover, the rest of the suit came flying towards me. With each hit, I had to fight harder and harder to keep my balance. The suit was broken and arrived disorderly. I was a punching bag hanging from the wall, swaying and rocking with hit after hit.
A mangled cry escaped my lips, followed by a series of hisses as pieces of metal pierced through my skin. Parts of the suit were missing, the parts that offered leverage for the back pieces to latch onto, so it settled for sinking into my flesh instead.
The face mask was only halfway on when the rockets under my feet erupted. I was launched at an awkward angle, bent in half like a limp ragdoll. For all the wall sits and crunches Natasha made me do over the years, none of that training was comparable for the strength I used to force my upper body to straighten.
Just like before, I could not see, I could not hear, I could not do anything but relax as best I could and let the metal bring me to my father. The wind resistance was so much worse, though, because it pushed against the pieces of metal sticking into my arms, prying them out or moving them around while they were still inside of me.
My vision was obstructed by a thin pane of tempered glass and my own tears. It was terrifying to be this blinded while moving faster than the speed of light. I kept my mouth shut, if only to keep the antagonising threat of throwing up at bay. The last thing I needed was to choke on my own vomit. What a way that would be to go.
The impact was brutal.
The suit’s calibration system was so damaged in the first crash that it didn’t sense how close the ceiling was getting. Without slowing at all, the suit slammed into the ceiling. My neck was the first part to make contact, curling at an awkward angle before the rest of my back and legs followed. It knocked the wind out of me and I couldn’t get a good breath in.
I felt the suit begin to drag along the ceiling, moving forward towards a hanging lip.
“Disengage,” I choked out. My voice was hoarse, my attempt to control too feeble. The suit dragged onwards.
“Disengage,” I said, louder this time. The suit sped up.
“DISENGAGE!”
I dropped to the floor, landing flat on my stomach. My chin hit the concrete and I felt the left side of my jaw crack. In a quieter corner of my mind, I thought that it was silly how little pain I felt. Adrenaline was a drug I could get used to one day.
I groaned as I pushed up on my elbows and knees. The suit was done for, the already small pieces shattered around me into useless fragments.
I managed to pull myself to my feet, momentarily taking notice of the several black and purple shards that stuck out of my bicep on one side, and forearm on the other. A few dark red blotches had appeared on my jeans as well.
My ribs were aching from the force of the crash and still recovering from being winded. My breath came out in shaking spouts and gasps. It sounded like I was dying. I shook my head vigorously, willing my mind to focus. What would Natasha do?
She would become the master of her surroundings. A spy for many sides, Natasha wouldn’t let any surprise get the better of her. I glanced around the platform where I stood, taking in this new location.
I realized I was standing at the edge of a lookout that dipped into some sort of secondary lookout. I lowered myself to the floor and shimmied to the edge of the platform. The floor below me dipped, curving into a wall for the secondary platform, which I soon discovered was more of a defensive zone.
It was open to the outside, thick rectangular pillars lining the outer wall, perfect for whoever ran this base to shoot attackers from the sky. But the base had been abandoned for years, and today the attackers had already gotten inside, fighting each other on the platform below me.
I tucked my feet under me and slid down the curved wall. A childish voice in my head enjoyed the ride down. But that voice was silenced the moment I raised my head.
I was tucked into the shadows of the room, and the pelting of punches was too loud for anyone to have heard my descent.
Bucky was to my right, recovering from a blow I was not a witness to, and missing his metal arm. I glanced around and I located it, three feet from where I was curled into a ball. The edges along the shoulder were still glowing red, evidence that it had been blasted off with a heat laser.
Opposite to where Bucky lay unconscious, Steve and my dad were taking turns throwing punches. But this was not a sparring class. These were not friendly blows.
It was jarring to watch Steve go up against my father with bare fists. It was easy to forget about all that super-soldier serum coursing through his veins. The skin around his knuckles were bruised, but not broken, and he was leaving dents in the places he made contact with Dad’s suit.
Steve fought with the form of a trained soldier. His hits were calculated, but non-lethal. He targeted shoulders and abdomens, sometimes taking to swipe his leg underneath my Dad’s for more leverage.
And he was winning.
My father’s suit was damaged beyond repair. And I knew how much he relied on the programming inside it to defend against attackers. Dad’s punches were erratic and predictable. He kept swinging at Steve’s face, often blocked by Steve, but when his iron fist did collide with Steve’s cheek, the crunching noise was unmistakable. Dad’s armour gave him an advantage, but his lack of restraint was ultimately running him dry. He was fighting like an alley cat being put in a cage.
Dad managed to get Steve to back off a step when he caught Steve’s shield in one hand and tossed it to the ground. He followed through with a blast to Steve’s abdomen, which sent Steve to his knees.
They looked at each other for a long pause. Steve muttered words I could not hear, nor could I know if Dad responded before decking Steve across the face. Steve recovered quickly, but Dad struck again on the other side of Steve’s cheek. This time, the blow tossed him onto his hands and knees. He coughed out some blood on the floor.
I held my breath, tucking my knees closer to my chest. And then, as if by some interconnected sense, Steve lifted his head slightly. He turned his face to me, and when our eyes met, his expression crumpled. His brows curled downwards in defeat, lips pressed together like a silent apology. Like regret for whatever he was going to make me witness next.
Dad reached down and grabbed Steve by the scruff of his neck. He still hadn’t noticed that I was there. He threw Steve behind him, the same way you would throw an old sock across your bedroom while on the hunt for a more important item.
Steve’s body slammed against the edge of one of the pillars and he landed in a heap on the ground. Still determined, he did not stay down. Using the bottom of the pillar as leverage, Steve pushed his shaking form up until he was standing straight, fists balled in front of his face. He even gave a slight bounce to his stance, a boxer in the ring.
This time, I could hear the words that he spoke.
“I can do this all day.”
Dad raised his left arm. I could hear the ringing buzz of his laser getting ready to fire.
That’s when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Bucky had regained consciousness. He rolled onto his side towards Dad, reaching with the arm he had left to grab the boot of Dad’s suit.
Before I had time to catch myself, shouts of warning left my mouth. My brain had gone fuzzy, and I wasn’t sure if I called out Dad’s name or Steve’s. Either way, I had gotten my father’s attention.
It all happened so fast. His head turned to where I was now standing, his eye slits narrowing, always analyzing. He saw me for a moment, must have thought that I was a dream.
Steve used my distraction to his advantage, grabbing my father from behind and lifting him above his head. I was frozen to the spot where I stood. It felt like ice had grown over my feet, and if I lunged forward I would surely fall.
Steve turned and slammed my father onto his back. Dad’s head landed with a deafening crack, his neck perfectly in line with the edge of the pillar’s base. The taste of bile crept into my mouth this time, and I spit it out onto the frozen floor. If Dad hadn’t been wearing his helmet, that throw would have been fatal. That glance towards me would have been his last.
The world went silent as I became a motionless observer once again. Steve positioned himself on top of my Dad, pummeling his fists against Dad’s face shield over and over and over. I felt the shock of each blow in my chest.
Steve gave up on his bare fists, which were cracked and bleeding now. He leaned to the side and retrieved his shield. He held it on either side, which was something I had never seen him do before. Steve always carried his shield with pride on one arm, throwing it across rooms to knock enemies off their feet or using the face of it to slam them down.
Steve utilised the edge of the shield like an axe, bringing it down with intense force. He hit Dad’s face shield once, twice, three times before the face plate came bounding off. It landed a few feet away from Dad.
I felt a wild and warm sense of urgency flood my chest. It was a pull that almost knocked me to my knees.
Steve’s momentum did not stop, but time did. The scene before me was happening in slow motion, but also faster than I could manage to process.
Steve raised his shield again, gearing up to land a blow that would end this fight and all their fights forever. Dad flung his arms in front of his now exposed face, but I knew that would not protect him.
The surge in my chest tightened to the point where it stole my breath. The edges of my vision began to go white until all I could see was the red, blue, and silver shield. It moved through invisible space, intending to land the killing blow.
I felt a scream rip through my throat with daggers and claws, but heard no sound.
A/N: heyyyyy its me again! thanks for your patience gang. we are almost to the end of this fic!
Word count: 5.0k
Cherry Bomb Masterlist
What the fuck.
What the fuck?
Wind and water splattered across my face, through the hatch that was left open in my father's wake.
The helicopter jolted, pushing through a particularly nasty stormcloud, and I lost my balance. I stumbled, reaching out to try and grab onto anything, but the walls slipped underneath my fingertips. I landed in a heap on my ass.
What the fuck.
Once the motions of the aircraft had levelled out, I peeled myself off the floor with a groan. The hatch my father escaped through slid shut and I was thankful for the way it dulled the roaring winds.
"A.P.R.I.L.?" I called out. When I first began installing my program throughout the Avengers Compound, I played around with installing her into various transports as well. The Quinn jet was easy and first on my list. Happy's car was second. Eventually, I coded a new segment in A.P.R.I.L.'s program that would automatically self-install. It was clever, but I am not my father, so it was never entirely reliable.
I was met with silence and let my head drop. The further this helicopter flew me home, the more agitated I became.
"A.P.R.I.L.?" I shouted again. "Do you read me?"
A faint purple light caught my eye and I spun around. A small screen in the upper-right corner of the control panel lit up, audio waveforms appearing in rapid succession.
"I'm here, little boss. Don't you fret."
My jaw clenched as I hauled myself upright. When did Dad possibly have time to mess with her settings again? I shook my head. It didn't matter, I was going to kill him regardless.
I avoided another jolt of movement as the helicopter hit a second wave of turbulence. I gripped tight to the back of the pilot’s chair and slid in, staring aimlessly at the dozens of blinking lights and buttons.
“Can you override the autopilot?” I asked, reaching above my head to flick the autopilot switch off. It moved with a click, but nothing changed. The helicopter continued straight on its drag path. I flipped the switch over and over, my frustration bubbling into the urge to rip the damn thing out of the ceiling. “Fuck!”
I dragged my hands through my hair, pulling at the ends. A sinking feeling was beginning to bloom in my stomach, the kind of erratic helplessness a pig might feel looking through the holes of its transport truck. Pig and I alike, the people driving wanted us to think that we’re going somewhere safe.
“Is there anything else we can do? There has to be another escape protocol.”
"I'm sorry, Laurie. I did a full scan of this aircraft, and the hatch only opens when the suit isn't deployed. Without a suit, you'd be falling to your death."
I shook my head, refusing to believe that my dad wouldn't have a backup plan. If the suit deployment system malfunctioned, he would have made something else, some other way to leave the aircraft.
…Right?
My fingers found the chain around my neck, twisting and tugging on the necklace sporadically. I pinched the rose between the pads of my thumb and middle fingers. I didn't draw blood, but I still smelled iron.
"A.P.R.I.L., did you only scan the aircraft?"
"Yes, boss. The helicopter, the autopilot code, everything inside it."
"Are you sure?"
"Are you second-guessing me?"
I raised my right eyebrow. "Are you giving me sass?"
"I am what you made me to be."
I chuckled at that. "Fair enough. I want you to do an isolated scan of the necklace Dad gave me. He had me use it to block the security footage at the prison. It might have something we can use."
A faint buzz could be heard underneath the whirring of the helicopter’s engine and rain. A.P.R.I.L.’s system took a little under ninety seconds to complete the scan, and I made a mental note to upgrade that process later.
“I’ve detected a small computer and storage compartment built into the base of the metal flower.”
“Storage for what?”
“Nanotechnology.”
For a moment, my mind stilled. I felt a dangerously giddy grin crawl across my cheeks. Nanotechnology inside this necklace only meant one thing.
“Pull up the necklace’s controls on this screen,” I said, gliding my finger across the large monitor in front of me to clear its contents. A.P.R.I.L. replaced the useless flight logs with my necklace’s secret systems. I tapped through the controls, and made quick work of disengaging the features my dad locked. My code overrode his a little too easily, which meant that he designed this before he knew about Germany.
I nearly gave up, having searched every nook and cranny of what this necklace had to offer and still seeing nothing about nanotech controls. After a few more minutes of mindless clicking and digging, I found a control named “SOS”. I asked A.P.R.I.L. to examine it for me.
“The necklace is designed to deploy a one-time use suit for emergencies only.”
“Hence the ‘Save our souls’,” I thought out loud.
“Actually,” A.P.R.I.L. quipped, “it stands for ‘Save Our Sun’. The suit is programmed to locate and follow Mr Stark’s arc reactor.”
Interesting. If the suit was for emergencies only, chances were that deploying it would also immediately start flying it. I wondered if it had controls, or if Dad had smacked autopilot onto the suit as well. It seemed to be his new favourite trick.
“Where does it say Dad is now?”
“Hmm,” A.P.R.I.L. took a moment to sleuth through the information. “Siberia. An old Hydra base.”
I felt like Lin Manuel Miranda in Non-Stop. “Let’s go.”
My intuition told me to press the pad of my thumb into the back of the necklace. I felt something give, the push of a button inwards, and I took a breath before letting it go. The moment I released the necklace, millions of titanium nanoparticles burst from the hidden compartment. I tried to ignore how they resembled small bugs. The titanium spread like butter over my chest and arms first, crawling up my neck and making the hairs on my skin stand upright.
I stopped breathing when they approached my face, suddenly stricken with the fear that the nanoparticles might be faulty and end up going up my nose. That would be such an awful way to die.
After a moment, I peeked through one eye and was relieved that all of my body parts were still intact. My face was shielded beneath a metal mask, with two slits that allowed me to see. The suit was far less advanced than any of my Dad’s, but it would do.
I wasn’t sure how I was meant to fly the thing towards Dad. It was dark in here, except for the light that crept in through the eye slits. Another wave of panic washed over me at the thought of being trapped inside a dead metal suit forever and ever.
And then the entire suit began to buzz.
The small hatch my father flew out of opened again. I let out a gasp as my body began to move without me telling it to. The suit forced my limbs to crawl towards the hatch and then, to my absolute horror, the suit and I leapt from the flying helicopter.
I plummeted towards an endless expanse of ocean waves. Once again, I was certain this would be how I met my end. And once again, the suit came prepared. It was almost as though Dad was pranking me, knowing how quickly I’d devolve into panic and timing the suit’s mechanisms perfectly to prove me an idiot.
The suit’s flight controls took over, and I was positioned horizontally in the air. I couldn’t see a thing, I couldn’t hear over the thunderous sounds of wind and my own heavy breathing. I flew for hours, or maybe it was mere minutes. I had no way of telling. I was completely subject to the suit, allowing my body to go limp inside it. In another context, this could have been a very enjoyable nap.
The suit began to slow and descend. Through the eye slits, I could make out snowy mountaintops in the distance. One in particular was oddly shaped, very square and unnatural. It grew bigger and bigger until I realized this must be where I was headed. Only, the suit was not slowing down enough to land without crashing.
Frantically, I felt around inside the suit, though there wasn’t much surface area to cover. The interior was smooth metal, no place for manual controls. The mountainside got closer and closer and I closed my eyes, bracing myself for a terrible impact.
But at the last moment, the suit tipped upwards, and instead of crashing into pure rock, I blew through solid metal doors near the top of the mountain.
I landed on my side, the suit shattering into dozens of metal fractals. I groaned, gripping my left elbow. It took the brunt of the impact and while I hoped it wasn’t broken, it sure hurt like hell. I wiggled my fingers just to check. Phew.
I pushed from my knees onto my feet and examined the base’s entryway. It was dark, and freezing cold. The ceilings were at least fifteen, maybe twenty feet high. Snow blew through the me-shaped hole in the door so hard, little piles had already begun to develop. I shivered, clutching my arms close to my body.
I squinted, and noticed that there was only one door to my right. With one look back at the remains of my suit, I set off into the base. The only way home was forward.
The hallways of this place were dimly lit and narrow. I clung tightly to the side wall, keeping my arms outstretched to avoid running into any invisible barriers. Or soldiers. Or ghosts. The facility was definitely old; likely built in the 60s or 70s, but it stood frozen in time. I was shocked that the faint lights that lined the floor still turned on.
The suit inside my necklace had taken me to this secret base, but I had no way to determine where exactly Dad had gone. After managing to climb a few floors down, I figured out that the base stretched far into the base of the mountain it was built into. There was no way around it, the place was huge. It would take days, weeks probably, to find my Dad.
I continued sneaking my way through the hall. I crept lower to the ground, although I supposed if the place was armed, soldiers would have already taken me prisoner. Through the darkness, I could make out a set of double doors at the end of the hall. There was nothing else of note, the walls were bare and made from carved stone, not concrete. The base had been embedded into the bedrock here.
I yawned, letting my ears pop from the pressure that had built up from going down so many levels. I approached the double doors and gingerly placed a hand on the push bar. I almost missed the sound of voices on the other side. I froze and listened carefully, trying to identify the speakers.
“Manchurian candidate, you’re killing me. There’s a truce here, you can drop it.”
A grin spread across my face. There was no mistaking my father’s voice. I pushed one of the double doors open and peaked my head through. It took an awful lot of strength. Sure enough, my father was standing in front of Steve and Bucky. The room we were in wasn’t exactly a room. It was more like a larger corridor, barren except for the large staircase Bucky stood at the top of.
Bucky was armed, as was my father, but his mask was off and they both kept their weapons lowered. I peered out a little further, and my grip on the push bar slipped. One of my fingers got jammed between the bar and the door.
“Ouch!” I cried out, jumping out of the way before my whole frame was caught by the heavy metal door.
In a flash, my father’s mask flipped down over his face. All three men turned towards the sound, weapons hot and pointed in my direction. I kept my hands by my ears as I stepped into the light.
The slits of dad’s mask didn’t move, but I could feel his eyes narrowing at the sight of me anyways. I wore a sheepish smile and shrugged.
“Hi,” I said. I offered a small wave. Steve lowered his shield and Bucky dropped his gun to his side. He was the only one who waved back, albeit half-assed.
“Laurel Maria Hansen,” was all my father said as he clicked a button on the side of his helmet to disengage his mask.
“I’m gonna have to start taking a shot every time you hit me with the government name,” I chuckled.
“And I'm going to sign you up for one of those teenage wilderness programs for disobedient kids,” Dad shot back. If I thought he was furious at the airport in Germany, this was next level. I wanted to point out that steam coming out of his ears was bad for his health, but I was only forty percent certain he wouldn't use his repulsor and shoot me.
“You told me Sam said come alone and as a friend.” I folded my arms over my chest. “You came alone, I’m a friend.”
“How did you bypass my autopilot?”
I pinched the metal rose between my thumb and pointer finger. “I didn’t. I hope the helicopter landed safely.”
I stifled a laugh when I saw Dad’s jaw twitch, the realization settling over his face that he was in fact the reason I hijacked another couple's quarrel between him and Steve. Well, Steve and his mistress, Bucky.
Dad spluttered for a second, grasping at straws for someplace to store me securely. He lowered his repulsor in defeat.
“Alright, come on then. We’ve got shit to do.” Dad waved a hand dismissively in the air and gestured that I followed him. He turned to walk up the stairs, but stumbled to a halt when he noticed Bucky’s lack of defensiveness. “What the fuck? Why doesn’t she get the ‘threatened soldier’ treatment?”
Bucky shrugged, looking entirely bored with the both of us. “She’s not a threat.”
“Whatever. Move your caboose, Terminator.”
The four of us trekked up the stairs into a huge rotunda. Or at least, I thought it was a rotunda. I never did care much for architecture.
The layout of this base became more confusing the longer I stayed inside it. The walls of this room stretched so far up, I couldn't see the ceiling. Lab machinery that was certainly covered in dust was cluttered around a half-circle of ominous tanks.
The floor in the centre of the rotunda was sunken, a circle surrounded by an iron fence. Inside the circle was a large machine that looked like some sort of electric chair. It had wide metal cuffs where someone’s wrists and ankles might rest, and two lights that hung overhead. Two rectangular blocks the size of a man’s head were attached to arms on either side of the back of the seat. I wondered if they were magnets, or maybe conductors.
There were six or seven oversized tanks sitting on metal supports. The glass was cloudy from mould or other kinds of residue I did not want to think about. Yellow light glowed from within, creating shadows of what I really hoped weren’t bodies sitting lifeless. Frozen in time.
“If it’s any consolation, they died in their sleep.”
I jumped at the sound of a grainy, male voice echoing off the walls. I side-stepped closer to my dad, wrapping my fingers around the cold metal arm of his suit.
Behind a small pane of glass, a man sat patiently. He appeared in a blink, his face too far away to make out, but not so far that I couldn’t feel the ice-cold fury seeping off of him. I almost thought that he might not be real, that he was a recording on a screen. Dad raised his left arm, his repulsor glowing and ready to fire. He pushed me behind him with the arm I was handing off covering my chest and abdomen defensively.
“I'm grateful to them, though. They brought you here.”
Steve reacted impulsively, throwing his shield across the room at the stranger. I shut my eyes tightly, not eager to watch a man’s face get impaled by Vibranium. The shield bounced off the glass without leaving so much as a crack, before rebounding back to Steve. He caught the shield without hesitation.
“Please, Captain. The Soviets built this chamber to withstand the launch blast of UR-100 rockets.”
We continued to approach the small man, walking in slow steps around the sunken part of the rotunda. Steve, Dad and I took to the right, leaving Bucky to round the left side alone. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Bucky stagger. He side-stepped twice, keeping as much distance between him and the electric chair as possible.
Steve approached the man behind the glass. His back was to me, but I could see his reflection from where I stood a few paces back. When he spoke, his voice was steady and commanding. The same tone I had heard dozens of times over an intercom, but never before had I seen his face on a mission. I understood now why our enemies cowered before him.
“You killed innocent people in Vienna just to bring us here?”
“I thought about nothing else for over a year. I studied you. I followed you. But now that you're standing here, I just realized . . . there's a bit of green in the blue of your eyes. How nice to find a flaw.”
A shiver ran down my spine and shook my frame. The thin fabric of my shirt was doing nothing to keep out the chill in the air. I still didn’t know where on the globe we were, but roaring winds thundered outside the rotunda and I hugged my arms close to my chest, trying to create warmth through friction. Dad placed a metal hand on my shoulder, tugging me so that my back was against his side. The sentiment was comforting, but his suit only made the cold worse.
Steve raised his voice again, ignoring the man’s comment about his eye colour. “You're Sokovian. Is that what this is about?”
“Sokovia was a failed state long before you blew it to hell. No. I'm here because I made a promise.” The man’s tone became harsher at the mention of the broken city. I froze, not from the cold this time but rather the memories of that day, stuck in place by the weight of my actions.
“You lost someone?” Steve asked, his head tilting ever so slightly to the right.
A grave expression clouded the man's face. He had a family in Sokovia, one that I probably helped bury. I swallowed hard as the man clicked his tongue. “I lost everyone. And so will you.”
He leaned down to his right and I heard the distinct click of a switch being flipped. I hadn’t even noticed the small monitor beside Steve until the man turned it on. The screen flickered white and black for a beat, the old technology taking its time to come to life. When it did, a series of numbers and Russian letters appeared on the screen.
16 декабрь 1991
I didn’t know what that meant.
Dad removed his hand from my shoulder and approached the monitor. Hard lines painted his face and his lips were pressed tightly together. This meant something to him.
Another gust of cold air assaulted me, and I pushed myself between Steve and Dad to stare at the monitor, wanting to be between them for warmth more than anything.
The picture on the screen had shifted. Old surveillance footage from a camera underneath a streetlight showed a crossroads where concrete street met dirt. In the bottom left of the screen, the Russian letters suddenly made sense. December 16th, 1991 at seven in the morning. I wracked my brain trying to figure out the significance of the date.
Beside me, my father was eerily still. His eyes were locked on the screen, a thin sheen of sweat glossed over his forehead, crinkling where his brows furrowed.
“I know that road. What is this?” His voice was loud and dripping with concern. I craned my neck, looking between him and then at Steve, who was watching my father watch the screen. He looked a bit like he was pitying my father.
Motion on the screen drew my attention. A car drove into view and I inhaled a sharp breath as it abruptly crashed into something just outside the frame of view. A hillside, or maybe a building, I wasn’t sure. The engine was smoking, and then a fire erupted from the hood of the car. The driver heaved the door open and fell onto the dirt and grass beneath the car.
Someone on a motorbike arrived from the opposite direction. A shadowy figure dressed in all black slipped off the seat of the bike and walked with solid determination towards the man on the ground. Tension in my shoulders relieved, just slightly. Help had arrived for these victims.
The shadow man bent down to where the man from the crash was keeling over on all fours. He grabbed a fistful of the other man’s hair and forcefully hauled him upright, onto his knees, and made the man look up at him.
The man on his knees said something I could barely make out.
“Sergeant Barnes,” the man grumbled.
I couldn’t see him past my father, but my head turned towards Bucky. I leaned back a little, but Bucky wasn’t meeting anyone's eye. His gun was raised at the man behind the glass. His face was full of regret.
Another voice called out from inside the car. A woman, who could be heard much clearer. I felt my father flinch beside me at the sound of her crying out.
“Howard!” She sounded like she was in pain, but I couldn’t see her at all from the camera’s point of view.
I understood now, what this video was. Dad rarely spoke about my grandparents, but sometimes he would tell me stories about his mother. My middle name was hers after all. When he did allow me small glimpses of what she was like, it was always late in the night after he’d had a few drinks, and I knew that he was missing her terribly. I wished that I’d known her. Dad was only a few years older than me when they died.
It was getting harder to see the screen clearly. My vision blurred, but I blinked away the tears and forced myself to watch. I wouldn’t let my dad suffer this alone.
The shadowy man - Bucky - slammed his metal fist into Howard Stark’s face over and over and over. Bile rose in my throat with every punch. A steady stream of tears were flooding down my cheeks. The Winter Soldier released my grandfather, and he collapsed onto the ground, motionless. Dead.
Wrapping one hand around the back of Howard’s neck, The Winter Soldier hauled Howard back into the car. He positioned Howard’s head against the steering wheel, perfectly setting up his victims to appear as casualties in a devastating car accident.
My grandmother was still calling out for her husband, but her cries faded as The Winter Soldier rounded the car and approached her in the passenger seat. I could not see what he was doing to her, not with the quality of the video being so low, and the angle of the car obstructing my view. But it did not matter. I knew he killed her too.
I cupped a hand over my mouth and choked on a sob. The Winter Soldier faced the camera head on. He raised his shotgun and aimed true, ending the footage with one shot. The screen went black. But not before I caught a glimpse of his eyes burning holes into my own. The same eyes that haunted my nightmares for years.
The eyes that belonged to the man standing less than four feet away from us.
“Did you know?” The sound of my father’s voice, broken and small, brought me back to reality. He looked at Steve with utter defeat in his eyes. It was an expression I had only ever imagined on him before, when I would think about how he must have felt while hostage in those caves so many years ago.
I wanted to hug him. I felt helpless, jammed between him and Steve. A constant wave of nausea swayed inside my stomach. I wrapped my fingers, brittle and thin, around Dad’s forearm, even though I knew he couldn’t feel it.
Steve responded slowly, carefully choosing every word. “I didn’t know it was him.”
My father moved without thinking, taking a step forward to get in Steve’s face. He crushed me between, not being able to feel me through his armour. I winced and let out a hiss of pain as the skin of my arm was pinched between the creases of his suit.
“Don’t shit me Rogers! Did. You. Know?”
Steve hauled me behind him, shielding me from my father with his body. And my dad didn’t so much as blink. He was too angry, laser focused on Steve and what he hoped Steve would say next.
“Yes.”
Dad flinched away, as if physically wounded by the betrayal. He pushed away from Steve, who staggered and knocked into me in the process.
What happened next was a blur. In two perfectly fluid motions, Dad caught Steve off guard with an upper-cut so strong he was sent flying across the room. I ducked out of the way, narrowly missing Steve’s foot as it almost hit me across the jaw.
At the same time, Dad unlocked and tossed a piece of his suit in my direction. In midair, the piece transformed into an oversized cuff. It wrapped around my waist and I was hoisted upwards and flung back. I hit the wall hard and gasped as the air was knocked out of me. The cuff locked itself in place, keeping me trapped against the wall. I was dangling just high enough that my toes scraped the floor.
I struggled and thrashed against my restraint, but the cuff was tightly secured to the wall. I dug my fingers underneath and pushed with all my might, but all I managed to do was nearly break both my wrists.
Around me, lasers and rockets ricocheted off of the yellow tanks, the floor, the walls. Gunfire came raining down and my senses heightened. Adrenaline was coursing through my veins. All I could do was watch and hold my breath. And hope that a stray bullet wouldn’t take me to meet my end.
As I watched my father take swings at Steve and Bucky, I still could not wrap my head around how we got here. This domestic dispute started as words on a legal document with my blood on the pages. And it snowballed into a power struggle with all the people I cared about caught between two men with egos to stroke.
I squirmed behind the cuff. My ribs and abdomen muscles were screaming at me, the edges of the cuff pinching and pressing against me.
Steve yanked my dad off of Bucky, holding him still with both arms wrapped around his iron chest while Bucky raised his gun. Dad shot his hand out and launched a laser beam at Bucky, sending him tumbling through the air and hitting the glass pane the Sokovian man hid behind. His face was painted with a smug smile as he disappeared backwards into the dark.
I wanted to call out to warn my father. I shouted, but my voice was lost to all the noise of their fighting. Somehow, all of this mess whittled down to this one man. To his reckless quest towards revenge for whoever he lost in Sokovia. He wanted to destroy us for what we took from him.
What I took from him.
I was responsible for the destruction of an entire city. Responsible for the deaths of thousands of innocent lives who got caught in the crossfires of reparations for my father’s sins. And I had been there. I helped pull that floating city back down to earth. The Sokovian stranger may have been the common denominator throughout this terrible, terrible mess.
But I was the catalyst.
I finally managed to get a strong grip around the edges of my restraint. I breathed deeply and pulled at the gravitational core of the cuff, changing its pull towards the opposite wall. The concrete behind me creaked and groaned in protest, but I forced it to crack. With a ragged scream, I broke free and fell to my knees.
I was on all fours when I looked up again. Dad had been able to throw Steve off of him. Bucky was on the move, running towards the exit. Dad aimed true and fired another rocket in Bucky’s direction. It exploded at his feet and he was launched into the air.
A devastating crack sounded throughout the entire rotunda. Dad’s rocket had hit a sensitive point in the infrastructure. The concrete split in a jagged line up the wall to my right and over my head. An overhang covered in pipes that circled the circumference of the room came barreling down towards the ground. I had little time to react, let alone get out of the way.
I protected my head with my arms and curled inwards. The last thing I saw before the overhand collapsed was a silver flash above me and the smallest glimpse of a red star.
A/N: we are so very close to the end!!! only three more chapters left until laurie can finally go back to school lol
Word count: 3.8k
Cherry Bomb Masterlist
We spent the next two hours in a helicopter flying over what I could only assume was the Atlantic ocean. Just me and my dad. We hadn't spoken a word to one another aside from when we first boarded. I asked him where we were going and he just glared at me. Typical, childish, Stark response.
I spent most of what felt like this endless flight gripping the sides of my chair until my knuckles went white. Between the agonizing unspoken tension in the air, and the way dad was swooping the helicopter up and down and all around in the sky, I was trying to fight losing my lunch. Or rather, trying to keep my empty stomach on the inside of my body. Flight sickness was bad on a good day, but on an empty stomach the feeling only doubled.
It didn't help that we were flying through a damned hurricane. Rain pelted the windows and the winds kept knocking us sideways, lurching both my body and stomach to and fro. The noise was deafening, and even if I wanted to say something to my father, I would have been drowned out by the roar of the engine and crying sky.
I leaned my shoulder against the frigid window, pressing my forehead against the glass to look beyond the horizon. Through the rain and fog, I could see the choppy waters below. We drifted closer to the surface, and I saw the foam tops of the waves and they crashed into each other, dancing and battling against the currents. The helicopter leaned left, and my body pressed against the window more. I pushed back against gravity’s pull and repositioned myself, floating slightly in my seat.
We began to circle one point in the ocean. At first, I thought that perhaps Dad lost his way, or his mind. But the closer we got to crash landing in the water, our landing point became more visible.
Brianna was more of a Harry Potter fan than I was, but she had made me watch The Prisoner of Azkaban enough times that I could recognize a high-security fortress when I saw one. It erupted from below the water, sending waves crashing in every direction. A circular building twice the size of our compound, hidden in plain sight in the middle of God knows where. Dad continued to steer the helicopter towards the roof, where I could see a blurry H drawn in red paint onto two hatch doors. They opened as we approached, allowing us access to land without becoming victims to the storm.
The hatch doors closed behind us, and the engine lulled to a stop. The relief of quiet washed over me, but was quickly stunted by the realization that I didn’t know why we had come here. I looked at my father. He was stoic, emotionless, tapping buttons on a screen to power down the helicopter. I couldn’t imagine a world where he brought me here to cage me. But the thought lingered anyway.
Dad pulled the door on his side open and stepped out. It was a struggle, since he was down an arm, but once he was flat-footed on the ground he stuck his good hand out to me, palm face up. I climbed out of the helicopter without taking it.
The prison was huge, and we were only scratching the surface of it. I craned my neck and tried to see the expanse of the place, but that only resulted in me tipping back too far and almost tripping. Dad caught me with an arm across my shoulders, straightening my posture just in time for the Secretary to approach.
Ross, accompanied by several armed soldiers, walked across the catwalk that connected the landing pad with the rest of the building. He was dressed in a black zip-up jacket, not dissimilar from the one my father was wearing.
Dad called out to Secretary Ross without addressing him, as though they were old pals meeting up for a drink.
“So? You got the files? Let's reroute the satellites, start facial scanning for this Zemo guy.”
I followed my father’s pace towards the catwalk, meeting Secretary Ross at the edge of the platform. I shuffled along quickly, one of his steps requiring two and a half of mine.
“You seriously think I'm gonna listen to you after that fiasco in Leipzig?” Ross turned his nose up. Down the length of it, he scanned me up and down. “You’re lucky you’re both not in one of these cells yourself. What is she doing here?”
“Well, you said it yourself, Solo, she’s lucky the worst her punishment gets is a lifetime of grounding,” Dad replied. He tightened his grip around my shoulder and tugged me forcefully into his side, rubbing his bad fist into my shoulder and messing up my hair with the other.
“Now she gets to stick nice and close to dear old Dad, isn’t that right kid?”
I forced a smile onto my face, but it came out as a pained grimace.
Ross narrowed his eyes at the senseless nickname, but shook it off. He turned his back to us and motioned that he followed. When Dad released his hold on me, I pushed off and away from him, trailing behind the men in black into the prison. Each step was weary, cognizant that at any moment, the other shoe could drop and I’d find out I really did have my own cell here.
Ross led us through a series of hallways and elevators. The deeper we travelled into the prison, the more the pressure in my ears built up. Soldiers flanked on either side of us, the rifles they carried making me nervous. It was artificially bright inside and my eyes were having a difficult time adjusting.
The corridors were lined with solid steel doors, each with a tiny rectangular window that was too small to catch a glimpse through. They varied in colour, some a dull blueish-grey, others red or mustard yellow. As we travelled further towards the centre of the prison, the walls curved deeper and deeper around us.
Eventually, we stopped outside of a black door. The heads of several men blocked my view through the peephole, but I could hear the mechanic whirring of automatic locks unlatching and the door’s electronic motors swinging open. The soldiers around us stepped aside, clearing the path for me and my father to step into a room lined wall-to-wall with monitors.
One guard stood adjacent to the doorway, a handheld metal detector in his right hand. He waved it over my father, and of course it went off as it passed over his chest. Dad made a show of knocking on his Arc Reactor that was embedded in his skin. Even unzipped his jacket just low enough to see the glowing teal light through his t-shirt. The soldier nodded and allowed Dad to step into the security room.
I followed in suit, holding my arms away from my body as the scanner swept over my limbs and torso. The sitting weight of the necklace around my throat became a burning sensation, and I was certain it would set the detector off. I held my breath as the soldier waved his device over my chest, and to my surprise, the alarm never sounded. He waved me through with a flick of his wrist and I shuffled past him to tuck myself beside my father.
Above us, the ceiling was lined with dimly lit LEDs, but they were completely overshadowed by the glow of dozens of monitors rigged along the length of the room. Six men sat on either side at long desks, typing furiously onto cheaply made mechanical keyboards. I bit my tongue from making a comment about replacing the Cherry MX switches with silent ones for the sanity of everyone who worked here.
I glanced at my father, silently waiting for him to make his next move so I would know how to best follow. His eyes were glued to one screen in particular. I allowed myself to peer around the room, and realized then that each monitor was displaying footage from prison cells. The largest screen showed the entire prison room, the circular spacing of cells in the centre of the prison, with thick walls of glass that were reinforced with black iron bars that ran horizontally. The image was tinted blue and grainy, but I could make out the silhouettes of each inmate as clear as day.
My stomach churned.
Wanda’s cell was on the monitor that captured my father’s attention the most. The cell itself was empty besides a sterile-looking cot and one singular round table bolted to the ground. There wasn’t even a toilet, but I wondered if that was for the better, since all the inmates could see inside each other’s cell. Wanda sat on the floor of her cell, arms hugging her chest.
I stepped closer to the monitor and squinted at the pixelated image. An invisible string tugged the corners of my mouth down. Wanda wasn’t hugging her chest. She was wearing a straightjacket. I felt claustrophobic just looking at her.
I snuck another look at my father, but he turned away, clearly disturbed based on the lines across his forehead. I wondered what he was thinking about. I wondered if he was thinking about how he had tried to lock Wanda up himself. Compared to this, the compound would have been a dream.
Ross cleared his throat and both Dad and I turned to face him. He was standing at the back of the security room, in front of a sliding metal door.
“You’ll get five minutes to speak with our inmates. No funny business, and try to get something useful out of them, would you?”
Wordlessly, Dad left my side and sauntered over to the round-room’s entrance. Ross typed a code into a panel on the wall and the light above the door switched from red to green as the door slid open. Dad was about to walk through, when Ross put a hand on his shoulder.
“When you want out, give a thumbs up to that camera, got it?” He pointed at the camera that displayed the entire room.
Dad nodded, then peered back at me. “She’ll be in good hands if I leave her here with you, won’t she Ross?” Ross gave Dad a look that said otherwise. “It wouldn’t be very safety-conscious for me as a parent to knowingly put her in a room with such bad influences.” He drew out the last few syllables dramatically.
“Go in by yourself then,” Ross grumbled. The icy frown he wore sent a chill down my spine. I, for one, felt as though I would be much safer inside the round-room of cells filled with “criminals”, rather than left alone in close quarters with all these men.
“I owe you one, Pal. Be on your best behaviour for these nice government pansies, Laurel.” Dad said. He raised his good arm towards me and pointed directly at my sternum. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
With that, he disappeared behind the sliding door and walked into the centre of the round-room. I felt a strange sense of urgency tugging in the pit of my stomach. I stared at the biggest monitor, watching Dad turn in circles around the room. Out of the corner of my eye, Ross flapped a hand and the audio began playing over the speakers.
“The futurist gentleman! The futurist is here! He sees all! He knows what's best for you, like it or not.” Clint’s voice was loud and scratchy over the poorly designed speakers. He stood up to lean against the glass wall of his cell. My father stepped closer to look at his teammate eye to eye.
Or were they ex-teammates now? My heart squeezed inside my chest.
“Give me a break Barton, I had no idea they'd put you here.” Dad was much quieter over the intercom, and his back was to every camera so I couldn’t read his lips to decipher what he was saying.
“Well, you know they'd put us somewhere.”
“Not like this.” Dad glanced around the room. “This is a place for maniacs, for-”
“Criminals right? That's the word you're looking for right?” Clint leaned on his elbows against the glass, appearing taller than he was. “That didn't used to mean me, or Sam, or Wanda. It didn’t used to mean your little girl. They’ve got a cell for her right there!”
I forced myself to not follow where Clint was pointing, at the one empty cell in the circle. Had it really been meant for me?
“You broke the law, Clint. I didn't make you. You read it, you broke it.” To the left of the main monitor, one of the soldiers pulled up a closer view of Clint’s cell. I could see the anger steaming off his face. “You're all grown up, you got a wife and kid. Why didn’t you think about them before you chose the wrong side?”
Clint laughed dryly. “That what you told Laurie? That she chose the wrong side? How much did it cost you to bail her out?”
Dad jerked away from the glass wall so fast I’d have thought Clint hit him if I didn’t know any better. He turned his head, looking over his shoulder at the camera pointed at Clint’s cell. They didn’t seem to be visible from the footage, so I wasn’t sure how Dad sensed where exactly the camera was.
His eyes were narrowed, bloodshot and sturdy. I gulped, feeling like he was staring directly at me, into me.
“She knows it’s for the best.”
Dad continued to stare down the barrel of the camera for another moment before blinking and turning his back on Clint, who proceeded to shout profanities like bullets.
“You better watch your back with this guy! There’s a chance he’s gonna break it.”
I blinked hard and heavy. My father was playing at something, he was trying to insinuate something, I was sure of it. Or maybe he was trying to make me feel crazy. Maybe he was just trying to get back at me for involving myself where I wasn’t wanted or needed.
I stepped closer to the desk, leaning over the shoulder of the soldier sitting in front of me. I watched my father step past Scott’s cell, too lost in thought to hear what he said. Nothing kind, from the looks of it.
Focus, Laurel. I scratched the back of my neck, replaying my father’s words in my head over and over, while trying to avoid looking suspicious. I was an actor, after all.
This was just a theatre. This was just a stage, an improv class and a lesson in “yes, and?”. I felt sweat beading under my imaginary spotlight. My fingers brushed the chain of my necklace and it triggered my father’s voice echoing in my mind.
She knows it’s for the best.
You’ll be on your best behaviour for these government pansies, Laurel.
I inhaled sharply, touching the metal rose through the fabric of my shirt.
Laurel, try not to be too upset. You know it’s for the best.
The necklace. My blueprints, my stolen mechanism, fitting perfectly between the curves and points of metal and gemstone. I had only moments to decide if I was being made a fool, or if my dad really was trying to say something.
Slowly, I feigned scratching at my neck again, letting my fingers connect with the clasp and slip it open. The chain fell down my shirt, but I weakened gravity’s pull on it. With careful control, I gently lowered the chain until it floated just below the hem of my shirt, where my hand was resting subtly, ready to catch it.
With the pendant in my hand, I frantically tried to find some way to create a distraction. Next to the soldier in front of me, a mug filled with pens and pencils sat. A smirk fought like hell to blow my cover; the mug was conveniently close to the soldier’s elbow.
A rush of power flowed from my sternum to my left hand, and I directed it sideways. The soldier’s arm jerked to the left, knocking the mug to the floor. Ross scoffed and the soldier, flustered, dropped to his knees to collect the scattered writing utensils.
I lowered myself to the ground to help him. He caught my eye and smiled. He looked young, likely only a few years older than I was. I gave him a courteous nod, then scrambled to grab as many pens and pencils as I could. With one knee still on the ground, I placed the mug back on the desk, then rose to my feet and returned to stand behind him.
I held my breath. I wasn’t sure if it worked, I wasn’t sure if that was even what my father had intended I do with the necklace. I’d felt something click and stick into place under my finger, as I had covertly pressed it to the underside of the desk while replacing the mug. The points of the metal rose pricked my finger, I felt the indents as I ran my thumb over it.
I didn’t blink. I didn’t breathe. I remained frozen, hoping, praying, that whatever Dad planted in my necklace worked.
Dad was standing in front of Sam’s cell now, their conversation looked much calmer than the one he had with Clint. They were speaking too quietly for us to hear. Behind me, Ross barked at someone to turn the volume up. Then it happened.
The monitors glitched, a flash of white passing each screen, followed by lines of static. The video on the main screen was frozen on the last recorded frame: an image of my father touching the wrist tied up in a sling. The wrist he wore his watch on. I bowed my head. It was all coming together.
The room was lurched into a panic. Ross was shouting at his men to get the footage back, asking them what they did wrong and sending insults flying to and fro. The soldiers leapt into action, furiously typing in attempts to regain control. Someone put their hands on my shoulders, pulling me back, away from the desk. I stumbled before pushing Ross’s nasty grip off of me.
The chaos lasted all of twenty seconds before the soldiers restored the security footage. Dad was still standing in front of Sam’s cell, a look of assurance flashed for a moment across the imprisoned man’s face.
“Well, thank you for nothing! Enjoy recreating Shawshank Redemption,” Dad said loudly as he turned away from Sam.
“Yeah, fuck you too Tony,” Sam shot back. “Tell Yanny she should take her inheritance and run.”
My father was staring at the exit camera with a blank expression on his face. His good arm was raised, his thumb pointing towards the sky. Ross typed the same code back into the panel on the wall, opening the door and letting Dad walk back inside.
He strode right past Ross towards me, stepping to my right, which squished me closer to the desk. I felt his elbow nudge my arm, and I slipped my hand underneath the desk, retrieving my necklace. I shoved my hands in my pockets and put on my best bored expression.
Dad offered a blunt murmur of thanks, then turned me by the shoulders and marched us out of the room. We didn’t wait for Ross or his men to escort us back to our helicopter. Dad’s pace was relentless, despite his shorter stature. I doubled my step count to keep up, the grip of his arm around my shoulder keeping me tightly upright.
We almost made it across the catwalk to the helicopter when we heard Ross call out after us.
“Stark! Did he give you anything on Rogers?”
Dad put his hand over my head as he pushed me inside the helicopter, protecting me from hitting it on the top of the door.
“Nope! Told me to go to hell.” He spun around charismatically and shrugged. “I’m taking her back to the compound instead. You can call me anytime, I’ll put you on hold. I like to watch the line blink.”
Dad climbed through the helicopter doors as he spoke, ushering me into one of the backwards, facing seats so that he could give Ross one final, shit-eating grin before closing the door in his face. He tapped rapidly onto the sidewall control panel, and the helicopter engine roared to life. We lifted off, leaving Ross standing in the rain, watching us fly away.
The prison faded from view, overtaken by wind and storm. I turned my attention to my father, who was seriously focused on his watch.
“What was that?” I shouted over the noise.
Dad raised his head, the sternness behind his eyes fading and replaced with sheer ecstaticism. He leaned over in his seat and held his palm up in the air.
“Come on, up top Sunshine!” I was baffled, and when I didn’t move, he took my hand, placed it in the air in front his his and clapped our palms together. “I thought for a second that you wouldn’t catch my secret messaging, but I should have known better. Of course you’re a genius, I made you!”
“What?” I choked out, absolutely befuddled. Dad shook his head, laughing.
“We make a great team, you and I. Makes you regret choosing the wrong side, doesn’t it. Or I guess I should say the ‘technically-not-wrong’ side.”
“Dad, please, speak English, I am begging you.”
Dad settled back in his seat, reclining it into a lounging position. “Grandpa was right. We went after the wrong guy.”
A wobbly breath escaped me and my shoulders slumped lower. A thousand questions raced through my head, but I wouldn’t get the chance to ask them. Instead, I simply asked, “So what now?”
“Reparations are in order, my dear.”
My cheeks lifted and I felt hopeful for the first time in days. “We’re going to go find him?”
“We aren’t going to do anything.” Dad shook his head. “Sam told me where to find Rogers, told me to go alone and as a friend. Can you trust that I’m going to do that?”
My lips pinched together and I felt the crease between my eyebrows grow. My father hardly admitted that he was wrong, his pride was too delicate. If he was asking my permission, it meant that he really did want to fix things.
I nodded. He smiled.
“Thank you. The helicopter is set to take you home. I will be back and if your mother taught me anything about peaceful negotiation, I’ll bring Rogers home with me.”
He didn’t give me a chance to respond. His pointer finger dug into a hidden button in his seat’s console, and metal crept up his arm. Tony, my father, disappeared underneath his suit of red and gold, and Iron Man launched himself out of the helicopter.
A/N: huzzah! another month another chapter. we are indeed on track to be done volume 1 of cherry bomb by the end of the year. thank you for reading and supporting laurie's story. ilysm xoxo go piss girl
Word count: 4.3k
Cherry Bomb Masterlist
Pain was not enough to describe how it felt to wake up that morning. Or afternoon. I could see light shining from behind my closed eyes, and from the warmth that kissed my cheeks I had to assume it came from the sun.
I felt heavy.
I was used to weight. I spent most of my days dancing with her, threading her through my fingers, weaving in and out of her grasp, usually winning our ongoing fight for control.
Today she won. She sat across my chest, she had her hands spread over my shoulders, on my thighs and my calves. I was sunk deeply into the mattress and would surely leave an imprint when I finally managed to pull myself up.
I could smell the unpleasant stench of disinfectant in the air. It burned the inside of my nose with each breath. A faint beep repeated a steady pattern. It matched my heartbeat, I realized.
I had never been in a hospital before. I was never prone to illness as a child, never broke a bone or needed my appendix out. And had I required such extensive medical attention, I was sure that my father would have just gotten his M.D. to heal me himself.
The few times I got truly ill as a child were spent curled into the side of Tony Stark, snuggly tucked underneath a mountain of blankets and tissues. My favourite musicals would be projected onto the widescreen television. I would fake being ill sometimes. Not to get out of school or my tutoring sessions, I was never dumb enough to fall behind.
Rather, I knew that being sick was one of the few times I could get Dad to watch a musical with me. I tried every other route: bargaining, tantrums, promises to not sing along with the soundtrack. The only effective way to get my father to sit through the entirety of Singin’ in the Rain or Rent was by being totally and completely ill. My suffering was Dad’s biggest weakness.
My head felt like a bowling ball had been attached to my neck. I tested the waters slowly, gently encouraging the muscles in my neck and back to lift up. It was no use, I was being effectively paralyzed. My hands lay limply by my sides. I could ball them into fists, but no surge of energy was going to erupt anytime soon. I swallowed my pride, which, thanks to being more parched than a donkey in the desert, only made me sputter and cough.
I became acutely aware of the presence of another person in the room. My coughing had brought them directly to my side, calloused hands splayed over my own. I would never not be able to recognize my father’s hands.
With more mental push than necessary, I peeled my eyelids open. It felt like ripping sandpaper in half. The room was lit up by the sterile blue-white lights in the ceiling. I thought that I had been laying flat on my back, so coming to and staring straight ahead startled me. Made me dizzy, and a bit nauseous.
My vision was blurry at first. I blinked, each time my mind caught on to a new object in its peripheral field. The door to my hospital room. Glass, I noted, and sliding. An ICU door, if I didn’t know any better. I blinked again. A small counter and matching cabinet dawned with medical posters and trays. Blink. Blink. My father.
It occurred to me then that I must have been put on some crazy, heavy-duty painkillers. It would explain why my mind was so sluggish, why it took so long for my eyes to communicate with my thoughts. Of course Dad was the first thing I saw when I came to. It just took me a minute to register him.
I noticed the dark circles under his eyes first. He was wearing a black leather jacket with the collar popped. It acted like his armour for him, an appearance of intimidation in place of the iron. A fresh purple bruise painted his cheekbone, just under his right eye.
My heart dropped. Pairing with the utter disheveledness of his demeanour, patches of irritated and inflamed skin had appeared under his eyes and along his cheeks. Tear burns, the sign of a man who had been weeping for hours. Weeping for me.
Tony Stark was an incredibly emotional man. He did not have a concept of “chill” when it came to emotional expression. His highs were ecstatic, ranging from bouts of laughter to erratic fits of excitement when a project finally worked out right. His anger was just as loud and his pride was even louder. Or worse, when he was quiet, when his fuming was silently steaming off of him and the smallest slip-up could make him erupt like a volcano.
And unlike his fear, he rarely shied away from sadness. I had seen it nearly drown him a handful of times in my life, yet somehow it was always me finding him that would help him resurface. So yes, I had seen my father shed a few tears here and there. Any stage performance of mine was a surefire way to crack Dad’s waterworks. But I had only ever seen him tear up, maybe shed three or four before wiping his eyes and hauling me into the world’s best kind of hug.
Seeing the devastation in Dad’s face broke me. In that moment, I forgot everything that had brought us here. I forgot about our fight in the hallway of the compound. I forgot about being locked away there, and the betrayal when he first saw me in Germany. Everything became laser-focused on pulling him back from the deep.
I turned my palm over underneath his, palm up, and slid my fingers around his own. I half expected to feel his other hand caress my cheek. It occurred to me that I was facing into the hospital, away from the windows, and that the warmth from the sun I felt earlier was Dad.
I glanced down to find where his other hand had gone and winced. His left arm was snug against his chest, tied in a sling. Whether he dislocated it or broke it, I wasn’t sure.
My lips parted to ask. He spoke first.
“Hey there, sunshine.” His voice was low and gravelly. When his eyes met mine for the first time, they softened immediately. I could feel gravity releasing her grip on Dad’s heart, relief washing over his face. “You gave us all quite the scare.”
“What happened?” The words scraped against my throat as they came out.
Another cough followed and Dad released my hand to hold a pink plastic cup with a white straw up to my mouth. I drank the water down in generous gulps. A few drops dribbled down my chin, Dad set the cup down and folded the edge of his sleeve over his hand, wiping them away like he did when I was small.
“You got knocked down.”
I knew that already. He was there, he saw me on the ground. I hadn’t lost my memory, or at least I was pretty sure I hadn’t.
My eyes narrowed. “By who?”
Dad tore his gaze off of me. He was suddenly very interested in reading my vitals off the beeping monitor behind my head.
“Rhodey was trying to stop Wanda. We didn’t know that you were in the hangar bay. He didn’t mean to strike you down too.”
The screeching sound, the head-splitting pain, it all made sense now. Rhodey had shown me that feature of his suit the day Dad installed it. He’d made me wear industrial headphones then.
“Why does it sound like you’re trying to defend him right now?” I pressed my lips together to keep them from quivering. “Look at me. I don’t see him in a hospital bed.”
“He just got out of surgery a few hours ago.”
“What?” My heart sank. So maybe I did miss out on some important details from the airport. It hadn’t occurred to me that they kept fighting after I passed out.
“What happened?” I asked again, this time more urgently. I pushed up on the palms of my hands, trying to see through the glass into the rest of the ICU. I scanned frantically for Rhodey’s face, for his name on a door, but it was all muddled reflections.
“It was Vision. Hit Rhodey in the back when he was ten thousand feet up. Disabled his suit and he fell.”
“Vision was on your side.”
“He was trying to hit Wilson.”
I waited for Dad to go on, to tell me something about Rhodey’s status. I balled my fists when it was clear he was trying to keep me in the dark.
“Stop being so vague. Tell me what’s going on!”
“The doctors say Rhodey’s spinal column was shattered. Effectively snapped in two. He got lucky, he’ll likely only be paralyzed from the waist down.”
Lucky? Only? I felt like we were speaking different languages. My head was spinning as I tried to grab onto the pieces of information Dad threw at me. Rhodey was paralyzed. Rhodey almost died. I almost died.
“What about me?”
Dad’s face hardened. “You are going to be fine. It was just sound waves, you’ll recover. I’m taking you home today.”
“Oh.” I swallowed. I nodded towards the cup that rested on the side table, but Dad didn’t hand it to me this time. “Okay.”
Dad had shifted back a few inches. His shoulders were taut and the familiar line between his eyebrows was growing. Now that he and I both knew I was going to be fine physically, it was only a matter of minutes until I’d face his reprimand.
The repetitive beep, beep, beep, beep, from the monitor felt like a sharp stab with every passing moment of silence. The whirlwind of doubt I was spinning around in was getting stronger. I needed him to say something.
“Just yell at me, please.”
“I don’t even know where to begin with you.” He was so quiet I hardly registered what he said. A vein in his forehead was protruding.
“I know I messed up, okay? I know you’re mad at me, so just say that. But it’s not my fault you guys took it too far and got Rhodey hurt.”
Dad stood up so fast the bed shook. He turned his back to me and wiped a hand down his face. My heart picked up its pace, which was embarrassing because the monitor reflected it. When Dad turned back to face me, I was uncomfortably reminded of who he was to the world.
Man of Iron. A billionaire entrepreneur to be admired. And an overpowered genius who was feared.
“No. Just, stop while you’re ahead. You aren’t Kevin McCallister, I didn’t accidentally leave you home alone and you aren’t clever for sneaking your way halfway across the world. In fact, all this says about you is that you must be incredibly stupid. What were you thinking?”
It was my turn to answer with silence. If he was going to speak to me like that, I wasn’t going to dignify him with a response.
I could see how easily he got frustrated. “Well?”
One of my eyebrows popped up. “Oh, I’m sorry, is it my turn now?”
“Don’t start, Laurie.” If I could draw a little cartoon of my father now, he’d have smoke coming out of his ears.
I breathed in deeply and tried to think of something calm and mature to rebuttal him.
“You turned the one place in the entire world where I feel remotely normal into a prison. And then you expected me to just sit there, by myself, when Clint came to rescue Wanda?”
“He didn’t rescue, she was never being held captive!” Dad kept cutting his own thoughts short. “I expected you to tell me what was going on. I expected that you’d give me a heads up!”
“Give you a heads up?” I let out a genuine laugh. “Are you serious? You left with no notice except than that stupid fucking necklace-”
“That necklace cost a fortune and it looks beautiful on you.”
I almost bit back with a snarky remark about how he couldn’t buy my forgiveness, but the words died in my mouth. I flung a hand to my sternum and felt cold metal kiss my fingertips. I rolled the necklace between my fingers, feeling the outline of the rose press into my skin. He put it on me while I was out cold.
I shuddered.
Any sarcasm that was reeling to escape me had fled. Adrenaline washed over me with a sense of calm that was so strong it almost frightened me.
“I had no idea where you were. I had no idea what was going on. I found out that Steve was under fire from Clint Barton instead of my own father. And then you start shooting at everyone for no reason! What was I supposed to do?”
“You weren’t supposed to be there at all!”
“Well then build a time machine and lock me up better. I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to take some goddamn accountability. I want you to-”
I stopped him in his tracks, sitting up to make myself taller. The sudden movement caused my muscles to scream in protest. “Me take accountability!? Are you kidding me?”
“Don’t cut me off again. Yes, you taking accountability. You endangered yourself, you endangered everyone around you-”
“I’m pretty sure it was you with the weapons but okay.”
“Laurie, I swear to God if you cut me off one more fucking time.” Dad’s good was raised like a prayer. Or a warning.
“You’ll what? I’m already in a hospital bed, and I doubt you’re letting me escape the mighty grip of Tony Stark anytime soon.”
Dad’s chest began to rise and fall rapidly. His good hand balled into white-knuckled fists at his side, and his jaw flexed.
"I can't even look at you right now."
He turned his back to me and folded his one fist behind his back. With his gaze locked on the plaster hospital wall, Dad started listing off names like he was reading directly from an incident report.
“Barton, Maximoff, Wilson, and the little guy are being held at a secure facility for the unnaturally enhanced for the time being. They’re all going to face trial in the coming weeks to decide what the consequences of their actions will be.”
“Rogers and Barnes are unaccounted for. They stole government property and are seemingly in hiding. There’s a warrant out for their immediate arrest without trial.”
I felt every word like a gunshot to my chest.
“Natasha has cut off all communications with me, and from what I can tell she is choosing to live on the run instead of facing authority. All three of them are being declared enemies of the state.”
“What’s going to happen to me?” I regretted the words the moment they tumbled out of my mouth, how selfish they sounded. Stark or not, I was rich enough to have my treasons covered up in cash. I knew better than to ask stupid questions.
“You,” Dad began, folding his arms over his chest, “are lucky that I am your father. I paid double some kid’s college tuition to have you expunged from any record of this incident.”
“What did you really tell them?”
Dad sighed. “I told Ross the truth. That you’re an immature teenager having some sort of hormonal psychotic break.”
I blinked away the burning in my eyes and stared at my hands in my lap, at the crescent moon marks that were never deep enough to scar, but appeared often enough to never disappear.
“I don’t understand how it got this far.”
“Of course you don't understand. You were never meant to understand this. Baby, you’re still just a kid.”
My head shot up, and this time I let the tears make their appearance.
“That isn’t fair, Dad. You don’t get to stand by my side after everything we’ve gone through, after what I had to do in sokovia? After Ultron?” voice breaks tears fall “After I sat and watched the news every day for three months while they kept you in that cave, just praying that the headlines would say something about you coming home. You don’t get to stand by me through all of that and still call me a kid.”
“Well you are a kid.” Dad shrugged, dismissing my dramatic monologuing and everything I wanted him to understand. “You’re my kid and you almost just died!”
Dad had taken a seat again and was holding my hands between both of his. The arm in a sling was angled outward, and I could see that the position was uncomfortable, pain was etched on his face.
He was squeezing my hands so tightly it hurt. I winced and his eyes widened in realization. He dropped my hands as though I was the one hurting him. I felt the remnants of energy trying to pull him back as he did. A heartbroken frown glossed over my face.
“Well now I wish I had.” I shuffled lower into my hospital bed and leaned sideways, turning my shoulder to Dad.
I wasn’t expecting the feeling of a hand gripping my shoulder, so I inhaled sharply when Dad pulled me back to look at him.
“Shut up.” His one hand kept my shoulder firmly pinned in place, and his other held a finger threateningly in my face. “Don’t say shit like that if you don’t mean it.”
I lay frozen, glaring at him, though the image was blurred. I tasted metal and salt in my mouth.
I watched Dad snap back into his body. He blinked, the coldness behind his eyes replaced with concern, and he sat back in his chair. His bad arm returned to rest against his chest. The hand on my shoulder didn’t leave. His iron grip transformed into a firm but gentle squeeze. A silent apology.
Dad shut his eyes and momentarily released me to rub his temples. He got headaches frequently, and this time I don’t think he would have been joking if he said I was the reason for it.
When he placed his hand on my shoulder again, it was a warning this time.
“You’ve lost the privilege of being out of my sight.”
I let my gaze fall. I nodded in response, shame taking over.
“I have business with Ross and you’re coming with me. No, zip it. I don’t want to hear it.”
I opened my mouth to protest, to plead to be brought home, but snapped my jaw shut. Dad rose to his feet and I felt the absence of his hand on my shoulder hammer a nail in my heart.
“The nurses are outside with your discharge papers that I’m going to sign. And don’t bother trying to come up with another escape plan. I’ll know where you end up.”
His words hung heavy in the air. As he walked out of the room they landed directly onto where the rose pendant rested on my sternum.
Without much choice left, I forced my body to leave the safety of this bed and put on the clothes that were folded neatly on one of the countertops along the wall. The flannel and pants I had worn to Germany were replaced with a plain shirt and jeans. The items easily cost more than someone’s cellphone, yet I found myself missing the polyester.
I tugged the shirt over my head and slipped through the door into the ICU. Dad stood at the nurse’s station in the middle of the room, leaning his good arm on the desk. When he saw me, he nodded his head towards the exit.
I walked gingerly towards him, legs wobbly and weak. He and I nearly made it to the exit when the elevator doors to our right opened. A team of surgeons and nurses crowded around a gurney. They wheeled the patient past us towards an empty ICU room.
Everything in my gut told me to keep walking. But I looked down as the team passed us and almost succumbed to gravity.
Rhodey didn’t look like himself. A breathing tube was jammed down his throat, mechanically breathing for him. He was asleep, but he didn’t look peaceful.
Dad’s good arm slung around my shoulders and kept my feet moving forwards.
A/N: Fredrick Cruz belongs to the wonderful @w1steriaawp from her fic titled Quiet Uptown. While these worlds are not directly intertwined, if you look closely you may find easter eggs sprinkled within the chapters ;)
Word count: 0.8k
Cherry Bomb Masterlist
The first time someone had explained what a panic attack was to Fredrick, he had almost laughed their socks off. The doctor was a kind woman, with curly red hair and freckles that plastered her face. The badge on her white coat read “Dr. Sinclair.” She explained to Fredrick that no, the blurred vision and ragged breathing and the certainty that death was coming for him was not a heart attack. He told the doctor she was mistaken. He didn’t get panic attacks. He wasn’t one of those people. He had just been overworked and was exhausted, and he had lost his daughter in the crowded mall at Christmas time. His little girl was always sneaking off.
Fredrick sat in the plush leather chair of his office, staring at the open computer screen. His briefcase lay on its side on the floor. He was waiting. He was always waiting. Waiting for an email reply, for a new task, for his life to feel normal again. This day he was waiting for those blasted Accords to come back, hopefully signed.
He passed a hand through messy brown hair. Fredrick had no idea how heavy a task writing them would be when he first agreed to the assignment. He cursed himself for not realizing the implications.
A gentle knock on his office door shook Fredrick from his thoughts. He beckoned the visitor to enter. Ginny, the floor’s secretary, stood in the doorway with a briefcase in tow.
“Agent Romanoff sent this in for you, sir.” Ginny also had a kind smile, not that Fredrick was in the state of mind to notice another woman’s good graces. He would never allow himself to do so.
“Thank you Ginny.” Fredrick nodded as Ginny set the briefcase down on his desk. He waited for her to depart before popping open the clasps with a click.
Fredrick pushed the top of the briefcase open. He sighed heavily and shook his head. The Accords had arrived neatly, and in a timely manner, but that didn’t relieve the pressure building in Fredrick’s chest like he thought it might.
He picked up the weighty document with one hand, flipping it over so he could take a look at the very last page. Fredrick’s free hand moved to his mouth, fingers brushing over dishevelled spikes of an untrimmed moustache. He claimed he was growing it in, but his daughter laughed at him nonetheless. Fredrick didn’t know how to feel as he glossed over the signatures scrawled across the page. He counted one, two, four signatures. The anchor tied to his heart tugged downwards as he took note of the empty line above Steve Roger’s name. Four signatures was enough, they had told him. He had to hope that Steve could forgive him for this.
Flipping the Accords closed with a thunk, Fredrick traced a finger over the cover page. A frown danced over his face when he noticed a dark brown splotch just below the spine. Had they spilled coffee on all of his hard work? He honestly wouldn’t have blamed them, he never gave himself credit enough as it was. Fredrick checked to make sure that the signed page wasn’t stained. It wasn’t, which meant he could submit this copy. Thank goodness, he thought. Handing them the first copy was hard enough.
As Fredrick placed the Accords back into the briefcase, he noticed that the splotches covered the fore-edge as well. He examined them closely, pushing the glasses up from the edge of his nose. The image of himself looking like an elderly librarian almost made him chuckle. And he would have, if not for noticing that the splotches along the fore-edge were a shade of brown closer to red. Closer to blood.
A gasp escaped Fredrick’s mouth and he dropped the Accords. The clatter echoed off the four walls of his office. Had there been a fight? Whose blood was on the document? Whose blood was on his hands?
Fredrick wiped his palms down the smooth fabric of his dress shirt, even though they were clean. He pinched the space between his eyebrows, trying to slow his suddenly ragged breathing. His heartbeat began to race and he cursed himself once more. Fredrick was a professional. He had work to do, he did not have time for these mind games his brain put him through. In a few hours he could pick his daughter up from school and make the phone call to ensure that his friend was unharmed. He regretted ever agreeing to take this assignment.
A/N: two chapters within the same month is crazy for me guys lets celebrate! we are finally out of the woods (out of the airport)!!! only up from here (more suffering) huzzah!!! thanks for reading ily all and massive shoutout to amber for editing this bad boy ily amber
Word count: 3.8k
Cherry Bomb Masterlist
When I was younger I really enjoyed drawing. I would doodle at the back of meeting rooms during Dad's press conferences. I would draw small stars and other symbols in the corners of math worksheets and in the margins of books. I have always seen the world in a visual way.
Eventually Steve came along and he taught me how to sketch. And while the team was across seas fighting for justice or righteousness, I would listen over the comms and I would draw. I could just barely picture what they were seeing from the blueprints of the buildings they broke into and the short descriptions they uttered into mics. I would close my eyes, lean back in Dad's office chair, and draw the fight in my imagination.
Dad’s team lined up one by one: The Black Panther, my father, and Nat. Vision floated above them, The Spider-Man and Rhodey to his left. On either side of me, Steve's allies fell into a similar formation.
It was an even division, six against six. The eye slits in Dad’s suits glowed white, and from so far away I wondered if this was how the men he punished felt like. Terror paralyzing them to the spot, unable to look anywhere but at his emotionless face mask.
“What do we do, Cap?” Sam’s eyes never left the target.
I held my breath.
“We fight.”
That was all the signal they needed to move into the next act of this performance. It felt rehearsed, everyone knew the motions, knew their blocking on the stage. I was motionless as they began taking slow steps forward, testing the opposing side with each plant of a boot on pavement.
I snapped into tune with my team. A shudder crawled down my spine. Accepting a spot on any team came too easily. With every inch we moved, Dad's team moved three. Soon enough we were running at full speed towards each other. I braced myself for impact.
I skidded to a halt, arms thrown out to keep my balance. The dance continued, each fighter on the field wordlessly choosing a partner. The screech of metal colliding rang out when Dad's iron-clad fists met Steve's shield. The Black Panther opted to take revenge for his father’s death against Bucky. Clint shot arrow after arrow at Natasha, but a gleam in both of their eyes gave me the sense that they were having fun with it all. Vision tried to intercept Wanda, lover against lover, friend against foe. The battle had begun.
It felt natural for me to stand alone, watching from the sidelines. I could feel the younger version of myself rattling against my ribs like a rabid sports fan against the plastic barriers of a stadium. This was her dream come true; seeing the action unfold in real time.
I almost didn't see him coming. I was completely enraptured by the thrill of the fight, that his blur of red and blue came hurtling into my line of vision too late.
I threw myself to the ground, attempting a duck and roll manoeuvre that ended up feeling (and looking) more like a child in gymnastics class. I ignored the ache along the right side of my body where I landed too hard. I expected I’d wake up a bit blue tomorrow.
The Spider-Man surrounded me. He swung down from above, kicking me hard in the chest. I landed on my ass with an oof. He leapt down again and I held my forearms in front of my face. The webs he shot nearly caught my wrists and bound them to the cement again, but I managed to catch them in midair. The clump of sticky white substance was suspended for a moment, until I launched them right back at him. The mass landed on his face, blinding him. He reeled backwards.
I was impressed with myself. Wanda and I had experimented before with this side of my abilities, but that almost always ended with her hitting me in the face over and over.
I supposed the element that was missing from our training sessions was the white-hot fire burning inside me now. The adrenaline, the rush. My senses felt more heightened. I was more aware, more present.
The Spider-Man wiped his mask clean, although strings of webbing stuck to his cheek and under his chin. His knees bent, and before I had time to react, he had launched into the air. He flipped over the several feet of distance between us and landed inches from where I stood. I tripped back a step.
The first swing of his fist barely missed my cheek. I dodged it by leaning, but not enough to miss the rush of air that brushed my skin in his place.
I was wildly underprepared for sparring. He was completely decked out head-to-toe in a suit made of protective nanotechnology. That, combined with what I now recognized as superhuman-level strength, meant that I was at a massive disadvantage.
I charged a fist at him anyway. He caught my hand in his own but I reacted quickly. Digging my nails into my palm, I sent a surge of energy through my arm into him. He flew backwards, his body slamming into the outer wall of the terminal before slumping to the ground.
He hadn’t expected that, clearly, from the way his limbs shook and he pulled himself up onto one knee. The white eyes of his mask narrowed again. I had figured earlier that there must have been a camera on the inside of the suit that tracked and mimicked his real facial expressions. And if I was right, the look The Spider-Man was giving me now caused my stomach to flip.
He was low to the ground preparing to lunge at me again, when something beyond me caught his attention. His eyes looked behind me and, against any of my training, I turned my back to him. My jaw fell slack.
Scott was, well, huge was the only word ringing in my head. He had become a giant, growing hundreds of feet tall. His hand was extended up, fingers balled into a fist around something small and shiny.
Oh hell, I thought. He was holding Rhodey by the foot, the way a toddler would grab a Barbie doll.
A stunned laugh escaped past my lips. I looked over my shoulder, relieved to see that The Spider-Man was still distracted by Scott's transformation.
I used his lack of attention to my advantage, booking it to my left where I could take cover inside a cage of parked vehicles. I slipped between the hoods of two transport vans, planting my back against the cold metal.
Following the few moments of reprieve I took to catch my breath, came the waves of pain. The adrenaline slowed its course in my veins and I was acutely aware of how sore I was. I rolled up the flannel sleeves, which were now tattered with rips, and hissed at the sight. My arms were covered in red splotches of road rash and freshly blooming bruises. I was sure the right side of my torso looked similar.
I steadied a palm on my bending knees and keeled over, holding my stomach and swallowing a wave of nausea that washed through me.
"A little bit far from home, aren't we?"
I hadn't heard Natasha step into the circle of vehicles. She was dressed head to toe in fighting black.
I was in no mood for a lecture. I peeled my back off the van door and squared my shoulders. Fists tucked tightly in front of my face, I teetered on wobbly legs.
Natasha raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a downwards smirk. She narrowed her eyes, contemplating. Whatever she was thinking, it wasn't written plainly on her face, unlike the way I knew she was reading mine.
"Alright." She bowed her head. "Have it your way."
I blamed the exhaustion for my slow reflexes. I blinked, and Natasha was on me, beside, behind and around me. Her jabs were fast, perfectly calculated.
It was a familiar dance now, after nearly two years of rehearsing the same steps. Natasha would wait for my attack, sometimes allowing me to know what it felt when knuckles met muscle. At the compound, I was protected on all sides by padding on the floors and walls. Or by ropes lining a fighting ring which kept me from falling.
And despite what she’d say, I knew Natasha played it safe with me. No one would let her hear the end of it if I got injured during a training session, least of all my father. So I was protected by him too, even when he wasn’t around.
Out here, on this airport tarmac surrounded by an opposing team and concrete, I was on my own.
Natasha jutted her chin towards my feet. "Your stance is much better.”
Her eyes dragged up and down, silently examining my form. I had positioned my feet further apart and angled my hips better. "When did you have time to make that correction?"
I dodged another blow and got my hands back in front of my face. "Not a whole lot to do when you're being held hostage." I blew a strand of hair out of my face.
Natasha rolled her eyes and leaned back when I tried digging a punch into her side. She made the act look effortless, as though she was bored. "That's some strong language, Laurie. You weren't a prisoner."
"Yeah," I said, my breathing heavy. "That's what they keep telling me."
I filled my lungs with air, deep and slowly, just as Natasha had taught me. You can’t control the other person’s movements, but you can keep your head levelled and memorize their patterns. Natasha aimed a strike at my right side, and I managed to dodge it and hit her shoulder. Somehow, my attack was stronger than I anticipated, and she actually staggered. Or maybe she wasn’t prepared for me to actually fight.
I took advantage of her loss of balance and struck again, this time by grabbing hold of her bicep and tugging with all my might. It was a move she had done with me many times, flipping me over her shoulder so I would land flat on my back, often with a grunt and greeted with her elbow jabbing into my sternum.
It would have been so cool to finally have won a fight. Unfortunately, I was no Russian spy. I never even had an advantage over Natasha, her feigned wavering was all a ruse to get me exactly where she wanted.
She lunged backwards and I lost my footing. Her leg swept under my own and I landed on my back. I felt the crack of my skull on concrete vibrate all the way down to my toes. My eyes clamped shut, but I saw stars anyway.
Far away I heard Natasha chuckle. I was never a match for her, only a game.
“Come back up, птичка.”
She offered a hand for me to take. I hated how my face flinched as she extended her palm towards my face. Reluctantly, I grabbed hold and she hauled me back onto my feet.
"Folllow me," she said. She ducked low to the ground, peering out behind one of the parked vans. In the distance, I watched Dad, Rhodey, and The Spider-Man try to take down Giant Scott.
The Spider-Man swung around Scott's legs in circles and Dad and Rhodey distracted his visual field. I realized then where I had seen this scene before. Star Wars Episode Six, with the giant four-legged machines and wookies. Someone on that teamwas a big fucking nerd. And this time, it wasn't Dad. He hated those films.
Natasha tugged firmly on the hand that was still within her grasp. I bent my knees and followed her lead as she dragged me out into the terminal.
We zipped through the tarmac, ducking behind vehicles and carts holding suitcases in every colour. We moved tactically and low to the ground. About forty feet in the distance, a smaller hangar stood with its exterior doors open. Natasha angled our path straight for it, and it dawned on me that the Quinjet must have been parked inside. The very same one that Bucky and Sam were fighting to get.
And here I was, barreling through the tarmac at full speed alongside someone actively trying to stop them.
With our backs turned, someone began to fire shots in our direction. Natasha pushed me down behind a refueler truck and fired back at them. I only saw the red burst from the barrel of Natasha's gun. I hoped the receiver was good at dodgeball.
When we crossed over into the hangar, I keeled over, hands on both knees as I tried to catch my breath. My limbs felt heavy, weighing me down and whispering sneering ideas about laying down into my ears. I mentally made a note to start working on stamina instead of strategic sparring with Natasha.
She guided me off to the side of the hangar, still in front of the Quinjet. It took me a moment to realize we got there before Sam or Bucky. I pushed the thought of having to fight either of them from my mind. Or worse, having to be a helpless bystander as Natasha took them out. But mostly, I was grateful to be away from the fray.
It was quieter inside the hangar. The sound of gunfire and exploding cement that was so prominent before became soft echoes that reverberated off the hangar walls. The sheer size of the open doors made it look like I was watching the fighting happen on a movie screen. Not unlike how I used to see the Avengers fight when I was small.
Natasha paced up and down the width of the hangar. I stayed off to the side, watching her check the communications device on her wrist every few steps. A moment’s rest came and went quickly, disrupted by a deafening crack just outside the hangar.
Two dots of silver and red were running towards us, one slightly faster than humanly possible. Whatever held Sam and Bucky off had been defeated, or abandoned, and the two men were hurtling towards me and Natasha. I imagined they had no idea we were in here, though.
I moved close enough to the door to find the source of the cracking sound. To the left of this hangar stood a communications tower. Or rather, it used to stand. Something had cut the tower clean off from its base, and the remains now hovered above the ground. I could not see her, but I knew that Wanda was somewhere holding it up.
The tower remains were shaking in midair, and it was clear that Wanda was struggling to hold the weight herself. I didn’t think twice before I felt a rush extend out through my fingertips. An invisible extension of my hands and arms examined the tower. Gravity was a stubborn force, and it was pulling and fighting with Wanda to bring the pieces towards the ground. I imagined my hands resting on top of gravity’s, asking it to release its powerful grip on the tower.
My entire body was shaking. I had once held up a structure much larger than this, but that was a different time, when I was a different girl.
I was able to see the white reflection of sunlight off Bucky’s metal arm. I blinked, because I must have been seeing things, but I swore that the other dot was carrying a red and blue shield. This wasn’t the mission. This was not the plan. Where was Sam?
As the dot grew larger, Steve’s outline was clear as day. He had taken Sam’s place, running alongside Bucky towards the Quinjet. They were going to make it. In the back of my mind I wondered why Natasha was letting me aid Wanda, why she wasn’t taking me out to secure the hangar bay.
An ear-splitting screech consumed all my senses. I let go of gravity’s hold on the tower and covered my ears as I crumpled into a heap on the ground. I couldn’t see anything besides blinding, white-hot pain. My muscles contracted involuntarily, leaving me paralyzed. I choked on air that could neither leave or enter my lungs. I was dying. Natasha had struck me with her taser or maybe gravity was finally taking its revenge over my rule. Either way, surely, this was dying.
I felt the cold press of cement against my cheek. Although coming back to the world was slow and sluggish, I eventually regained awareness over my senses again. Every nerve in my body hurt. Something warm and liquidy pooled under my skin.
Someone, Natasha maybe, hauled me to sit upright against the wall. I lay my palms flat against the ground. My lip quivered, the way it does after throwing up in the middle of the night. A pathetic whimper slipped through them. I swallowed the taste of bile and gasped for air.
I forced my eyes to peel open, an ache at the base of my skull groaned in protest as I took in the light of day again. Time was moving strangely, and I watched the scene unfold before me in a dream-like trance.
The tower had crashed into smoking pieces, barricading the hangar door. Steve and Bucky had just made it through. They stood a few feet away from Natasha, who had her arm raised, ready to fire her taser if they moved an inch. Their mouths were moving, but the ringing in my head kept me from hearing what they were saying.
Natasha fired her weapon, and my heart sank. I willed myself to get off the ground, but my muscles had transformed into honey, keeping me glued to the spot. I could barely process my confusion when neither Bucky nor Steve took a hit. I craned my neck, ignoring the searing pain that came with movement, and saw that behind my teammates the Black Panther was on his knees.
Natasha was a traitor.
That was why she let me assist Wanda with the tower. This was her plan all along - betray my father and help Steve escape. A part of me was angry at her, the part of me that would forever be loyal to Dad no matter what. But mostly, I was astonished. Out of every Avenger, Natasha was the one who knew how to follow through with orders.
But she had also escaped captivity by following her own agenda. Just as she was doing now. And with me as her witness, she had just condemned herself to a life locked away.
Steve and Bucky took their golden ticket and ran. Steve slipped straight past Natasha and up the Quinjet’s lowered onramp. Bucky followed in suit, but hesitated at the bottom of the ramp. My vision was too hazy to see his face clearly, but I swore I saw him nod in my direction before slipping inside the Quinjet.
The engines roared to life, I felt the vibrations shake the ground and my head. A surge of nausea forced me to curl to the side, bile spilling from my throat onto the ground. The Black Panther tried and failed to leap towards the Quinjet, his claws barely catching one of the tires and narrowly escaped being sliced off as the tire drew upwards into the wheel well.
The Quinjet hovered inside for a moment before pushing through the rubble of the tower and taking off into the open sky. A flash of red and gold sped into the hangar. I expected my father to hurry off after Steve. The repulsors in the hands and feet of his suit were probably fast enough to catch them if he redirected his fuel deposits.
Instead, he landed in a crashing heap beside me. The fall was so hard that his knee cracked the pavement. Dad caught himself against the wall, his hand slamming right beside my head. The face mask lowered immediately, Dad’s eyes wide with concern as they scanned my helpless shape.
“F.R.I.D.A.Y., read her vitals, now.” I couldn’t remember the last time I heard so much fear in his voice.
My father did not grow up with role models who showed him how to express emotions. At least, not in a healthy way. He repressed a lot of what he felt, and I knew that he fought really hard to change his ways when I came into his life. He never made me feel like I had to hide what I was feeling, and the older I got the better he became at showing his as well. Sadness and anger were safely shared in our house. But Dad never showed me his fear. He always masked it, whether behind iron or behind sarcasm, fear was the one thing that was not mine to know. My theory was that he didn’t want me to know that truthfully, he was afraid of so much, all of the time.
My useless earpiece had fallen out in all the chaos, and I did not hear what F.R.I.D.A.Y. had to say about the state of my health. Not that I wanted to know anyways. Dad reached out and cradled my head in his iron hand. The metal was cool against my skin and I leaned into the touch. I didn’t know when the tears had formed, just that they were streaming steadily down my cheeks.
“You scared me so bad, babygirl.”
The last time he had called me that, I was still small enough to be entirely enveloped in his arms, carried to his bed after nightmares. In this moment, I felt like that little, broken girl again, scared of the world but safe in her daddy’s arms. I wanted nothing more than for him to scoop me up and fly us home. I wanted to go home.
Someone spoke into Dad’s comms and made him momentarily look off into the sky. He muttered under his breath, then shot a glance back at Natasha. When his eyes met mine again, they were glossy. An expression he only ever shared with whiskey, or with me.
“I need to go, sweetheart, but you are going to be okay.” He pressed a firm kiss to the crown of my head. I tried to nod. “I love you, Little Miss.”
He was gone as quickly as he had come. Without his hand supporting my head, it lolled sideways. I fought feverishly to stay with the world, but it was fading too fast. Falling miles and miles down, and also none at all, I slipped into the dreamless dark.
A/N: another month another day closer to finally finishing this fic (except were only at the halfway mark buh). anyways enjoy and thank you for reading!!
Word Count: 3.1k
I have spent an absurd amount of time in my life on planes. We travelled around a lot before Dad stepped into the role of Iron Man. He would have international meetings with clients and buyers all over the world. We could go from being in Tokyo one week and Alaska the next. Sometimes it was multiple trips in the span of a few days. Dad would simply get tired of the Malibu house and fly us out to a different property for a weekend.
And strangely, I always loved turbulence. The sinking feeling in my stomach, the same one that came from those amusement park rides that drop you from miles up in the air. When I travelled with my dad as a kid, I used to stand in the middle of the jet during spurts of turbulence and try to time my jumps with the rise and fall. At least once a flight, I would manage to float, just for a second. I imagined that this must be how it feels to be on the receiving end of me on a good day.
On the flight to Germany, the turbulence came in bursts and stints, jostling us around like items in a shopping bag. Out of all of us, Scott had the hardest time with it. He nearly lost the caviar he had devoured an hour prior into an air sickness bag. Our flight attendant, Miriam, managed to scrounge up an anti-nausea pill in the first aid kit. Unfortunately, the medicine knocked Scott out so cold that Clint had to carry him out like a fireman when we landed.
When we touched down in Berlin, I stopped at the top of the airstairs and yawned. My arms extended over my head, stretching out far and wide. Our pilot had informed us it was just after ten in the morning locally, but the stiffness in my shoulders felt like a New York five. Sleeping on planes was never something I could do easily, and I found myself wishing I had joined Scott in some recreational Gravol.
Waiting for us on the private tarmac was a large white van. It was the kind of vehicle that teachers at Dalton warned us to never go near. The kind that transport shipments of narcotics, illegal weaponry and kidnapped children around the city. I skipped ahead of the group to open the door for Clint. He hoisted Scott into the backseat, letting his body slam against the long seat. Scott didn’t even stir.
Wanda and I reached for the door handle of the passenger seat at the same time. When my fingers brushed over her own, she turned her hand over and squeezed. I met her eyes, soft streaks of greening flashing in the blue. The ghostly feeling of a hand running down my back stood me up a little taller. It didn’t scare me; all I felt was her. Wanda’s gentle touch sent waves of ease through my body.
“Laurie, sit in the back,” Clint ordered as he climbed into the driver’s seat.
Wanda let our hands drop.
“Why?” I pouted. Clint rolled down the passenger side window.
“Because I told you that if you tagged along, you would do as I say. Capiche?”
I rolled my eyes and jammed myself into the tight space at the back of the van. Three, maybe four black duffle bags were stacked on top of one another, taking up most of the furthest seat. Scott’s entire body took up the middle row, so I flopped down beside the duffles and prayed the drive wasn’t too far. Between the chaffing from the cheap materials I was wearing and the feeling of the velvet seat cover under my hands that hadn’t been cleaned in who knows how long, I was starting to feel very claustrophobic.
There were no windows in the back of the van, so I had to rely on the minuscule view through the front windshield to gain my bearings. Throwing a pitiful look at Sleeping Scott, it was now my turn to get a bit motion sick. I swayed from left to right as Clint drove us in what felt like dozens of circles. I shut my eyes tightly and inhaled tense breaths exclusively through my nose. I was nearly going to start praying that the van would stop, then it did.
Clint pushed the gearshift into park. Wanda was staring to her right, out the window. From what I could see, we were still at the airport. I guessed that we relocated to a higher level of the parking garage. Clint was busying himself with fixing the gear in his belt when he started barking more orders.
“Wake Scott up and stay in this van. Under no circumstances are you to get out of the van. I don’t care what you see or what you hear, stay put. And stay out of sight.”
He wasn’t looking at me while he spoke, but I had a pretty strong feeling that he wasn’t directing his orders at Wanda. “What if there’s a fire?” I asked cheekily.
That got him to look over the seats at me. “Then pray for a flood.”
Though muffled through the walls of the van, I heard the screech of tires coming up behind us. Without another word, Clint and Wanda opened their doors with a click and got out. I scrambled from my seat in the back to crouch by the door and pressed my ear against the metal.
I could hear voices talking, but the words were indistinguishable. I recognized Clint and Wanda’s voices, but there was at least one other person out there. Their voice was familiar. Male, likely a friend because neither party used tones that indicated hostility.
“How about our other recruit?” The mystery voice said, raising his voice a bit louder.
“He’s rearing to go,” Clint responded. I cursed internally because Clint sounded closer to the van. I threw myself towards the back of the van, landing on my forearms with a thud. And just in time too, because Clint slid the van door open with a crash that woke Scott up. He shot upwards.
“Had to put a little coffee in him, but he should be good.” I hear Clint say.
I pressed my body as far back as I could so that I couldn’t be seen through the opening. Scott peeled himself off the seat, still groggy from the anti-nausea meds.
“What time zone is this?” He asked Clint, who pushed him forward.
“Captain America!” I heard Scott exclaim. “It’s an honour.” I should have figured. I let my body relax some. Now that I knew it was Steve, I was less afraid of accidentally revealing my position.
Clint leaned against the frame of the van and faced me, raising an eyebrow at my hunched form in the corner. “Why are you on the floor?” He mouthed. I shrugged with a smile.
“I know you know a lot of super-people, so…thinks for thanking of me!” I covered my mouth with my sleeve to muffle a laugh. Poor Scott, he didn’t know how to handle his nerves. He spoke up again, directing his attention to someone new. “Hey man!”
“What’s up, Tic-Tac?” Sam Wilson’s voice rang out. I wondered who else Steve had looped into this.
“Uh, good to see you. Look, what happened last time when I-”
“Look, it was a great audition, but it’ll never happen again.” Sam interrupted. I smirked inwardly at the memory of watching Sam get thrown around the Compound property from my balcony last spring. It was quite the show.
Clint motioned for me to sit up, so I shuffled a little closer to the door until he put his hand up for me to stop.
“They tell you what we’re up against?” Steve asked.
“Something about some psycho-assassins?” Scott responded. I heard some shifting around.
“We’re outside the law on this one, so if you come with us, you’re a wanted man.”
I shot a hard look in Clint’s direction. I glanced out the door, then back at Clint, silently asking if what Steve said was the truth. It was so subtle I almost missed it, but Clint nodded.
“We should get moving!” A new voice called out. Another man, and he must have been standing further away from the rest. His voice was sultry and had the slightest hint of a European accent.
And as though it were a stage queue, alarms started to blare throughout the parking garage. A man over the intercom was saying something in German.
“They’re evacuating the airport,” the Maybe European man translated for us.
“Stark,” Sam stated.
“Stark?” Scott echoed in a question.
I was never one to miss a stage direction. Without missing a beat, I stepped out of the van and landed on the hard cement, despite Clint grabbing my arm and trying to pull me back inside. “Yes?” I said, drawing out the vowel.
I took in the crowd. Everyone turned to face me. Scott smiled brightly at me, but Steve and Sam both carried looks of disbelief on their faces. They were standing in front of a blue Beetle car. I frowned at it. Not the most subtle car, I thought. On the other side of the car was a man in a red shirt. Steve and Sam were standing shoulder to shoulder, so his face was covered.
“What are you doing here?” Steve asked. It was the closest to yelling he had ever gotten with me. He was frantically looking between Clint and me for answers.
“Don’t blame Barton, please.” I put on my best puppy-dog eyes for Steve. He was known for falling for the innocent act. “I made him take me. I wanted in on the fun.”
“This isn’t a fucking game, Laurie,” Steve said flatly. The sly smile on my face dropped instantly. Steve hardly ever swore, and he’d never directed hostility like this at me before.
“We really need to get going,” the European man said again. Steve continued to hold me under a harsh look. The alarm was getting louder, the sound reverberating off the cement pillars around the garage. Steve closed his eyes for a moment before addressing the whole group.
“Suit up.”
Steve stepped out as he said it and, like a movie, I felt the world slow down. The blaring alarm became muted as my focus honed in on the man standing behind Steve. My vision narrowed until everything beyond him was blurry. The centres of my palms started to build up pressure, and I closed my hands into tight fists. There was a car between him and I, just like last time. He looked different without the mask and military attire. But his eyes were the same, frightening blue.
The Winter Soldier stared back at me.
I staggered back, my calves hitting the ledge of the van. I sat down, suddenly very lightheaded. How long had it been since I’d last seen that man? A year? Maybe two? And yet I remembered our first meeting like it happened days ago.
I was twelve and I had never felt so small. I can still hear the ear-splitting screech that the car made as it slid on its side down the freeway. It was all I could hear every time I closed my eyes for weeks after. The doctors said that my eardrum ruptured and I nearly went deaf in one ear. I remembered hugging myself so tightly, stretching to cover the exposed parts of my body. I remember the feeling of a thousand hands pressing around me. They cushioned the fall when I was thrown from the car.
I remember opening my eyes and being on the ground. I remember pushing my aching chest off the pavement and seeing a machine with a beating heart thundering towards me. He got close enough for me to see the violence in his eyes. He raised a heavy-duty gun and pointed it directly at me. His soldiers flanked around him. I remember feeling so afraid, but not able to look away. I watched the bite in his eye flash with something I could only describe as terror, and he lowered the gun and marched past me. His men followed.
It had been two years, and I still occasionally got nightmares. They’re infrequent these days, and far less intense than they were that first year, but still omnipresent.
I stayed put while everyone else got right into motion. Clint popped the back of the van out and passed a set of black duffle bags around. I had guessed they were filled with illegal contraband, and I wasn’t far from it. Gear, combat boots, heavy-duty belts, and from what I could tell, everyone’s suits. I tried to reach a hand forward as Sam walked past with one of the bags, but he dodged me.
I slumped back into the same position leaning on the edge of the van. I let my head fall against the metal frame. My eyelids closed, and I listened to the sounds of several pairs of feet shuffling off every which way. Adrenaline before the fight must have kicked in already, because I was sweating and realizing that the announcement of my father’s arrival didn’t rattle me.
A deafening bang vibrated through the van into my skull.
Bucky’s metal arm was the first thing I saw when my eyes shot open. The reflection of the light hit my eyes directly, and I winced. He stood over me, leaning one hand against the van. His hair was longer than before, and the tousled locks fell over his eyes, casting shadows over his nose and jaw.
The air in my lungs was caught in my throat. I was trembling. I blinked hard, and then I was back on that bridge in D.C..
Bucky’s voice was low and gravely. “I’m sorry. Sometimes the arm comes down harder than I meant.”
I said nothing as I continued to stare blankly upwards. I planted my vision on the small scar on his chin. I did my best to control my facial expressions, but I was sure that the fear was shinning through.
He stuck out his metal arm for a handshake, and I jumped back. With a frantic motion, he put his hand back on the van and wiped the palm of his real hand and held it out to me.
“I’m James.”
“No one calls him that, only Sarah,” Steve said. His face was covered in shadows that bounced as his mouth moved. I pulled the blanket up higher around me, tugging on the bits that were stuck under Steve sitting on the edge of my bed.
“Who is Sarah?” I asked meekly. In the darker corners of my room, I saw flashes of the dream I had just awoke from. They were taunting me. My screams had drawn Steve into my room for the fifth night in a row that week.
“Sarah was my mom. She passed away when I was pretty young.”
I pushed my nails into the palm of my other hand. Steve reached through the dark and grabbed hold of me, setting both our hands onto the soft duvet.
“Do you miss her?”
“I do. But I wasn’t alone. After she died, Bucky and his family took me in like I was always theirs. He made sure that I stayed out of trouble and saved me when I got myself into it anyway. He was my best friend.”
“No one calls you that, only Sarah,” I said. I hated how shaky my words came out. The frozen look of fear on my face cracked the faintest bit. I made myself look Bucky in the eye.
“How do you know that?” The edges around his eyes crinkled.
“I used to have nightmares about you and that day on the bridge. I think I woke up screaming every night for a year after. I thought you were going to kill me.” The words were tumbling out of me faster than I could stop. “But every night Steve would come into my room, and he’d sit with me, and he told me stories.”
I paused and gave Bucky a real once-over. He had shifted from leaning on the van to standing upright. His arms were crossed, but the muscles in his biceps and shoulders were becoming less and less tense.
“He told me stories about you. Not the Winter Soldier, or even Sergeant Barnes. He told me about the real you, the “Bucky” you. He talked about how kind you were as a boy, and the lunches you’d share with him at school. He told me about the couch cushion sleepovers on your living room floor and how you always protected him.”
“It took a while, but eventually those stories helped. I started imagining that you weren’t this scary soldier, and that you lowered that gun to protect me. I realized that it wasn’t your fault, that they took advantage of your body and your mind, and you couldn’t control it. And I knew what that was like. And then the nightmares went away.”
Bucky didn’t reveal what he was thinking on his face. We became shrouded in silence.
“Steve said that he cares about you,” Bucky said lowly. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Steve standing by the blue Beetle. He was eyeing us, trying to sense if he needed to come save me. I shook my head at him. I was alright.
Bucky broke the silence again. “And I’m sorry anyway.”
I just nodded. I had reached the extent of what I could say to him and resorted to offering half smiles. It felt like he had more than he wanted to say, but his chance was taken away.
Sam had strolled up to us, trailed by everyone else. They were all holding bits and pieces of their suits. Sam tapped the van twice.
“You guys wanna have a meet n’ greet reunion somewhere else? We need to take turns in the van to change.”
I stood up and bit my lip to stifle a laugh. For every four cool things about being an Avenger, there was one humiliating part. The thought of these six-foot-tall men trying to crouch inside the van while fighting to get into spandex suits was enough to send me into a fit of giggles as I walked out of the way.
Bucky didn’t follow me, and I didn’t want him to. But I looked back over my shoulder and felt a certain measure of pride bloom in my chest.
