Infelicity [P. Parker x Reader]

t h i r t y

4 Months Later:

The white ceiling above me hadn't changed in the many years that I've lived in this apartment, yet somehow, it was still as interesting as ever. Months have passed since I last stepped foot inside the New York sanctum. Dr. Strange apparently stopped Kaecilius and Dormammu, and then replaced Daniel's position.

Most days had been the same process over and over again: school, homework, occasional patrol, sleep. This mundane schedule seemed to fulfil most people, but to me, something seemed to be missing.

I rolled over on my bed and looked at my bedside table to see the pencil Daniel had given me. I hadn't touched it much since that day, only to move it when cleaning. Boredom had finally got the better of me though, and I knew it was time to figure out what my relic could do.

Lightly holding it between two fingers, I did the most obvious thing there is to do: I grabbed some paper and started working on a small sketch. Maybe something will trigger whatever this thing is supposed to do.

My mind couldn't help but wander to where this passion began. Dad would almost always spend Saturday mornings with me to help me learn to draw anything I asked. It first started with little doodles, before turning into larger projects.

"Dad?" I called out from the kitchen, grabbing a bowl for some cereal.

"Yeah?" I heard in response from somewhere else in the apartment.

"Are we still going to be drawing this morning?"

"And why wouldn't we?" he asked, fully stepping inside the doorframe of the small space. "You know you have to finish that bird you were talking up."

"I can't get the wings right," I pouted. My six year old self couldn't help but be curious, so I asked, "What have you been working on?"

Dad tilted his head, showing exaggerated contemplation. "How about I just show you?"

I eagerly followed Dad through to his workspace. The area was surprisingly messy, considering the rest of the room was orderly.

On the desk, there was a larger sheet of tan, recycled paper. Of course, the page was mostly no longer tan. Most of it was covered in whites and blues depicting a snowy scene. There was even a train making its way across a track higher up on the side of a mountain.

To the average eye, this didn't look anything less than beautiful, but I knew better. There were somber tones presented in many ways. Too many blue tones in the snow, and the overall darker look of everything gave that much away.

"Where'd you learn to do this?" I asked, after a period of silence.

"Most was self-taught, but I did spend a year at an art school right here in Brooklyn," he said before moving the piece back from my pudgy fingers and onto the table again.

"Can I go there when I'm older?"

"I think you need to get those wings on your bird first."

I finally learned how to officially draw a bird that day. Looking down at the paper in front of me, I see a bird very similar to the one I drew, but my skills have much improved since then. Putting down the pencil, I closed my eyes and leaned back on the chair with a large sigh. I hadn't had a drawing session with Dad in at least three years.

Looking back at the paper, I saw it's blank, and my drawing ceased to exist.

What the fuck? How did that happen?