Not a Hero

(12) Why The Bird Stopped Singing

Warning: Its a bit graphic so if you're sensitive to such its best to click away

--------

Dusk nestled itself on the horizon; painting the sky with yellow and teal hues. The warmth from the late summer's wind enveloped itself around my body, inducing cramped muscles to release themselves. I rolled my neck from either side, popping the achy joints. Finding myself bored I stood from the roof and began to stretch out the stiff joints.

After hours spent waiting for movements from the AIM soldier, I'd grown bored. Usually, Peter would have been with me, accompanying me on my self-imposed mission, nonetheless, he regrettably had to be at school. This unfortunate preoccupation had meant I would be alone in my stake-out until Peter could join me; a time which I found myself habitually counting down to.

"Hey! Sorry, I'm late." I turned my head to watch as Peter landed upon the empty rooftop, balancing a pizza box in his arms. "I figured you were so busy tracking this guy you'd forget to eat, so I picked up some pizza on the way over."

Stressed joints immediately released themselves as Peter came into view. Perhaps it was simply because I hadn't eaten since breakfast. Yes, that must've been it. Why else would the mere sight of him; attempting not to drop the oil-stained box as he landed, why else would it bring me such comfort?

I knew why, but I would never admit it to myself or anyone else. I didn't need to. I didn't need to confess it like a long-kept secret or like a painful crime I'd carefully hidden. I didn't need to, because I was satisfied; I could be satisfied with the long stretched patrols and asking each other specific questions so the other would become fixated; rambling on until daybreak.

"Has Mr. Stark said anything about giving us a real mission yet?" Peter set the pizza box onto the roof and nestled himself down next to it. His fingers grip the bottom of his mask, tugging it off. He shook his head softly, letting his curls settle while he opened the box and allowed its steam to escape.

"No," I replied, taking a seat next to him. I crossed my legs while leaning over to take a slice. "Which is why this has to go well to prove to Stark we can handle it."

I carefully took a bite, tugging at the sizzling cheese which stretched between the pizza and my lips. I looked over at Peter who seemed dejected, sympathizing with his desire for a long-awaited mission.

"Stark hasn't even been at the tower lately," I admitted with a bitter tone leaking into my words. "He's been on some vacation, probably just avoiding his responsibilities."

Despite intentions, my words seemed to bring little comfort. Frankly, I didn't know what to say. In part, I understood what he felt, but at the same time, I didn't. I at least lived in the tower making it harder for Happy to avoid me – though not despite his efforts – But Peter didn't. Happy had never even responded to Peter's texts. I just wish that they'd trust us a little and give us a mission.

Speaking of missions, our AIM workers' phone begins to ring, vibrating softly on the couch's rough fabric. He reaches for his phone, not taking his eyes off of his tv screen. He hums his answers, standing up to leave as the call ends as nearly as quickly as it began.

I rushed to finish my food, huffing out as it burns my tongue, before shoving my mask back on. Peter catches the memo, following in suit as he prepares to swing after the worker. Right as the man leaves the apartment building, a worn white van pulls in front, allowing him to slide in.

~~~

We land on a roof nearby as the car comes to a slow halt in front of an immensely sized building labeled "Bilderberg Academy". Its lack of security brought my curiosity, as well as its academic label. It's only defense seemed to be an iron fence surrounding the building, with tall hedges behind it. The few visible students seemed in a rush to their dorms, all wearing a specific uniform: a dark navy blue blazer with red linings and a yellow triangle on its pocket.