"Kid, you gotta tell her at some point," Tony spoke absentmindedly as he tinkered with some rusted tech in his lab. The com in his ear he was speaking into let out an audible sigh, followed by:
"If I tell her, that puts her at risk," Peter mumbled, talking on his phone to Tony in his own apartment-the door shut in case May was listening. He paced his room, folding and unfolding his arms. "Not to mention she'd never trust me again."
"I don't know, she's Cap's daughter-and we all know how star-spangled awesome he is," Tony replied, rewiring some hardware. "Look, she's a good, understanding kid. I'm sure it'll be fine."
Peter swallowed, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. "What happens if it isn't fine?"
"Well, you're gonna be working with her regardless, so it's up to you." A spark ignited from the tech in Tony's hands, causing him to curse and drop it, and a knock sounded at his office door. "Listen, kid-I gotta go. Tell her the truth, and it'll all be fine."
The line disconnected, leaving Peter standing in the middle of his bedroom, phone still pressed to his ear. "H-hello? Mr. Stark?" After realizing Tony was no longer there, Peter gave another heavy sigh and tossed the phone on his bed.
"Peter?" May's voice called out. "You alright?"
"Yeah," Peter replied, wincing. He stared at his phone, knowing that if he texted her, she would reply right away. He wondered if she was home.
He opened his door just a crack, seeing May humming to herself in the kitchen, stirring something in a big bowl. He quietly slipped out, and was sneaking past the kitchen before she suddenly said, "Where are you going?"
Peter swore under his breath. "I-uh, was gonna get some fresh air. Can't focus on homework."
May saw right through him. Pointing her spoon at him, she said, "Are you gonna go hang out with [Y/N]?"
"I may go see if she's-uh, home."
"Is everything alright with you two?"
Peter took too long to answer. May set the bowl on the counter and crossed her arms, her glasses enhancing the worried expression that appeared on her face. Peter nodded his head vigorously, "Everything's fine," he said quickly. "School is just-whew. You know how it gets."
May's expression didn't change, but she picked up her bowl and resumed stirring. "You know you can tell me anything, right?"
Peter nodded again. "I-I know. But I promise, everything's fine."
He gave her a half-smile, and quickly left the confinements of the apartment. Closing the door behind him, he stared at [Y/N]'s across the hall. It would be so easy to just go up and knock, to tell her everything-but he knew it wasn't that simple. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he left the building without saying a word.
"You want me to do what?" you asked Tony, who patted the cinder block on the table in front of the two of you.
"I want you to hit it. Crush it. Test your strength."
You exhaled a heavy breath, staring at your hand folding into a fist. "Just-hit it?"
"However you hit stuff, I guess."
You lifted your arm above your head, thinking about how much this was going to hurt, and brought your fist down upon the block of concrete with all of your might. After a puff of grey powder exploded over you, only a dull ache throbbed in your hand. The dust settled, and you stared at the cinder block in front of you-completely smashed into two pieces of rubble. Tony had an excited grin on his face, offering you a towel.
"Holy shit," you said, staring down at your fist. "Holy shit!" You wiped the cement dust off of your hands, and looked to Tony with your mouth open.
"How did that feel?" he asked, skimming over a tablet, checking your vitals. "Elevated heart rate, full of adrenaline. I'm guessing it felt good?"
"It felt....amazing," you admitted, rubbing your throbbing fist. "Although it feels a little sore now."
"You're still human," he reminded you with a look over his glasses. "You aren't immune to pain, shock, whatever. I don't think you or Rogers are immortal, either. Your metabolic functions are enhanced off the charts, and you're basically immune to any kind of fatigue-but I don't think that extends to death."
Gulping, you didn't want to think about you or your father testing that theory. "Being immune to fatigue makes sense now," you said, changing the subject. "My fastest mile is seventy-three seconds."
"And you never thought that was weird?"
You shrugged. "I just thought I was good."
Tony stared at you. "You're nearly twice as fast as the best runners in history."
Opening your mouth to reply, your phone buzzed in your pocket. Sliding it out, you looked at the little message from your father that read: Working late, won't be home until tomorrow morning. Sorry, kiddo. I love you.
Disappointment sank into your chest. Putting your phone back into your pocket, you looked to Tony, who was busy tapping onto his tablet.
"I, uh-I gotta get going."
"Why?" he asked, not looking up at you. "Rogers is in Lagos until tomorrow morning."
"How do you-nevermind," you said, picking up your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow, Tony."
He gave a mock salute, and you slipped out quietly from his lab.
Walking along the streets, you breathed in the crisp, night air. Cars continued to honk in the distance, a siren sounded somewhere, and you were pretty sure someone was yelling some obscenity out of their window. You couldn't stop rubbing the fist that completely obliterated the block of concrete, the dull throb long gone now. You couldn't believe that all this time-you had harbored this strength and endurance, what your father was famous for. It all passed to you. You were truly the daughter of Captain America.
A sense of anger fell over you the more you repeated those words in your head. Your father had to have known, and all this time-he kept you hidden from yourself. You tried to justify it, but no matter how your thoughts collided in your mind, you couldn't find an explanation. Part of you didn't want to.
How could you tell him without him getting angry at you, and especially Tony? You would have to leave him out of it. And Peter-Peter knew about him.
Peter. You had completely forgot about him, until you turned onto your street and up the stairs of your building. Fumbling for your keys, you decided to see if he was home. You needed to vent to someone, all of this information sitting in your head was beginning to bubble and fester.
Knocking on his apartment door, you heard someone get up and walk across the room. The door opened, revealing May's smiling face.
"[Y/N]!" she exclaimed happily, opening her arms for a hug. "I haven't seen you around a whole lot, is everything okay?"
You graciously accepted the hug, holding onto her tightly. Her perfume was sweet and comforting, and you never wanted to let go. You had never known your own mother, and you always longed for that special, maternal contact. May was beginning to fill that void-she was so welcoming to you, even before you and Peter had begun to spend time together.
"School is starting to get a little overwhelming," you lied, breaking the hug.
May gave a sympathetic look, and gestured into the apartment. "Do you wanna come in for a bit? I made cannoli-new recipe. Peter went out for a walk, he should be home soon." She paused for a moment. "I'm surprised he's not with you."
"I wasn't home," you said, shrugging. "I-uh, got a Stark internship as well. Stayed later than I anticipated."
May clapped her hands excitedly. "That's amazing! Hopefully you and Peter will work together, then." She quickly ushered you inside before you could decline, sitting you at their small table by the kitchen. Placing a plate of cannoli in front of you, she sat opposite you and smiled. "Is everything okay between you and Peter?"
You picked up one of the pastries and tentatively took a bite. "Yeah, I think we're both stressed out with school and work, that's all."
She didn't seem like she believed you, but she dropped the subject. You both chatted mindlessly about anything else, until keys jingled in the front door's lock. Peter stepped in, closed it behind him, and froze as his eyes landed on you and May sitting together at the table. Looking at him now you wanted nothing more than to run to him, to hold onto him for dear life, but you were glued to your seat, staring at him. May grinned, and gestured to you. "We were just having some one-on-one time-have some cannolis, join us!"
You glanced at the clock on the wall, and cleared your throat. "I-uh-I actually should get going. But thank you so much for the food, it was really good. And uh....thank you for talking with me. It was really nice."
May smiled softly, and patted your hand. "Alright, don't be a stranger, [Y/N]."
"I won't," you said sincerely. Picking up your bag, you skirted around Peter, who still stood awkwardly by the door, fiddling with the hem of his sweatshirt. "I'll....I'll see you at school, right?"
He nodded, not looking at you. An unwelcome pang of hurt hit you in the chest, and you quickly left his apartment and went into your own. Collapsing on the couch, you pulled your knees up to your chest and hugged them tightly. The room was dark and cold and empty again, and you found yourself beginning to cry silently. May's perfume clung to you, and you started to cry harder. Alone. That was what you were familiar with, but you had gotten a taste of what family should be. You longed for a mother, even a father-just someone who would stick around. Someone who would stay, someone who would be your constant.
That angry feeling settled into your gut again. Furiously wiping the tears from your face, you noticed that your hands had turned into tight fists again, your fingernails digging into your palms. You needed to hit something.
In a few swift moments, you changed into the clothes you wore to work out, grabbed your duffle bag with waters, your gloves, some bandages, and left the apartment, slamming the door angrily-the sound reverberated down the hall, shaking the walls. You heard the sound of wood cracking, and glanced behind you. One of the hinges had shattered. You adjusted the bag on your shoulder and left the building.
"Was that [Y/N]'s door?" May asked Peter, cleaning up the kitchen table, listening to the sounds outside of the apartment. He sat up, alert. Something was wrong. Standing up, he turned to May to say something, but her expression said everything that needed to be said. He quickly grabbed his backpack in his room, and left out the front door.
He stopped in his tracks as he looked at [Y/N]'s own door. Making a note of the broken hinge, he looked down the hall for you, disappointment and fear setting in his bones. Afraid something had happened to her, he sprinted down the hall, taking his suit out of his backpack and donning it mid-run. He didn't care at this point, all he cared about was getting to her.
You shoved the rusted key into the old door in Brooklyn, and shouldered it open with a push. It creaked, the familiar sound almost a welcoming committee. A rush of warm, musty air that smelled of sweat and salt hit you. The fluorescent lights blinked on as you flicked the switch, illuminating the punching bags hanging from the pipes in the naked ceiling. Dropping your bag to the floor with a thud, you pulled out your gloves and began wrapping your hands in them....but something made you change your mind. You left the gloves in your bag and approached the punching bag with bare fists.
All of the rage that had been bubbling and building up in your chest was manifesting itself in your trembling hands and tensed muscles. Standing in front of the bag, you envisioned your father-looking at you with disappointment. You imagined a faceless woman standing next to him, a mother you never knew.
You didn't even realize you had struck the bag until you noticed it swinging, dust rising off of it. And it felt good. You hit it again, but harder this time. Pain lanced through your knuckles, but it only pushed you to hit it again and again and again, harder each time. You were crying now, angry tears running down your cheeks. You crashed your fist into the punching bag one last time, all of your known strength packed behind it, and the chain that held it up exploded-sending the bag flying clear across the room in a puff of dust.
Standing there, breathing heavily, you looked down at your hands. A trickle of blood dripped from a split in your knuckles, crimson drops pattering on the gym floor.
Swallowing hard, the red curtain of rage was gone from your vision. Now you were just sad, going and picking up the destroyed punching bag with ease and tossing it over to the side of the gym. A heavy sigh escaping you, you wrapped your injured hand with the bandages in your bag, and left, shutting the heavy metal door behind you. You locked it, and after a moment of standing on the empty street, you threw the key in front of you, watching it disappear in the dark.
