Chapter Text
I hate flying. I know it’s irrational. I’m more likely to be killed by a cow than to die in a plane crash… or something like that. But I fucking hate flying. Who knew that flying in a small plane is worse? It’s like a leaf in the wind, the way it knocks about from the turbulence.
I stare at the almost perfectly circular bruise on my right arm. It’s small; the size of a chickpea. It’s a grayish brown now, though yesterday it almost looked like I’d drawn on myself with a blue marker. I was trying to leave in a hurry and ran into the chair handle. Didn’t help one bit either - Stark still found me. Or his people did, anyway. Why can’t I just be fucking allowed to live my life the way I want? I just wanted to run away from university. It was all… Too much. I know Stark pays my bills, but... God, I sound like a spoiled child. I clench my fists as I feel the chair fall away a little beneath me. The descent has begun.
Mentally, I go over the events of the last month. My first session with a therapist, because I had been near my breaking point for almost two months. Her advice, of taking it slow. The stupid professor of my Classics Literature course refusing to give me an extension, and instead telling the entire class I was having ‘mental problems’. My complaints to the university board falling on deaf ears because the fucker has tenure; instead they offer the suggestion of ‘talking it out’. So I go. And I completely shut down during the conversation, as he keeps expounding on how my ‘extreme views’ on feminism might be making me feel isolated and alone… And still the board does fuck all.
I cycled home in a daze. I packed my bag when I got home, and fucking bought a ticket for the nearest bus out of Amsterdam. No fucking way was I gonna stay in this stupid fucking town or even this stupid fucking country. I picked a place at random. I figured that might make it easier for me to disappear. It looked pretty enough. I got on the bus, my head still buzzing from all the bullshit of the last weeks. I barely remember the trip. I remember getting out, and getting some coffee in a nearby café. Booked an Airbnb with the Wifi. All from my secret bank account. I knew Stark was watching from afar, but I figured that unless I actively endangered myself in a very obvious way, he’d stay put. I was wrong.
After a dazed week in Hannover, I noticed a not-so-subtle undercover agent following me. His shoes gave him away. Fancy dress shoes, underneath khaki slacks and an ill-fitting button up. So I quickly booked another bus, this time to Flensburg. A beautiful German harbor town, that I barely saw anything of. I booked another Airbnb, but stayed indoors. A few days later, I noticed someone staking out the place in a white van. They were good at tracking me it seemed, but not good at remaining inconspicuous. I tried many different tactics in the next two weeks. Book a ticket with cash. Or with a credit card on a different name. Book a ticket but get off halfway and take a different bus. All with varying levels of success, except for the fact that they always found me. On the last bus (one to Gdánsk, a port city in Poland), a man with another conspicuous pair of shiny dress shoes got on. I got off rather hastily, pretending to have forgotten something important. I bruised my arm on the chair handle. But they caught me. A smug motherfucker named Agent Govers drove me to the nearest airport (plenty airports in Bydgoszcz as it turns out) and accompanied me, oh joy, all the way to Warschau. After that, a flight to Toronto, and now, the final stretch from there to upstate New York, to the Avengers Compound. Agent Govers didn’t join me on this last trip. I guess I can’t really get away anymore, now. He might be distant and a dead beat, my uncle at least has tenacity. I’ll give him that.
“This little ‘rebellious teen’ spiel is over. If you can’t act like an adult, I won’t treat you like one.”
“Why can’t I just do what I want with my life? You never cared before!”
I try hard to keep my voice under control. To sound like I’m rational. But I know damn well it sounds tense and on the verge of tears. Fucking asshole. Now he decides to get all parental on me.
“That’s my money you’re spending on your fancy European education,” Stark says resolutely, sitting across from me in the limo that’s driving us from the airport. “And I’m not going to fund you running around Europe to ‘find yourself’.”
“I wasn’t trying to do that,” I say through gritted teeth. I stare at my shoes, feeling the angry tears rise in my eyes. I clench my jaw to try and force them back.
“No? And what were you doing? Researching surveillance and digital security in practice for… academic purposes? I’ll wager that’s why you had that secret bank account too, right?”
I snap my eyes up. I didn’t know he knew about the account. Fuck. Of course he does. How else did he track it all? God fucking damn it. I’m terrible at this shit. He keeps looking at me with a half-sarcastic curious look. I swallow and look down at my shoes again. My throat feels too tight and painful to answer. Luckily, the limo stops, and I get out before anyone can open the door for me.
“Look, kid, I know-”
“Don’t call me kid!” I say, turning to face him. I know I sound near hysterical now, but I don’t care. I am sick and tired of people telling me what to do and how to feel.
“You’re right, it is your money. And you’ve trapped me here now, and I have no means of leaving. I’m not gonna try. But don’t you fucking dare… To… I don’t need your fucking advice. You don’t even know me.”
I can feel my heart pounding in my limbs as I turn around and walk up the stairs quickly, and through the glass doors into the compound. Fuck Stark. Fuck uni. Fuck stupid Agent Grovers, too.