The art of falling
The Weight of Glass and Gold
The morning sun at the Avengers Compound was always too bright, a judgmental searchlight that cut through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the common floor. Jane Stark sat at the breakfast bar, her fingers curled tightly around a mug of coffee that was mostly cream and sugar to mask the metallic tang lingering in the back of her throat. She wore oversized sunglasses, a fashion choice she’d blithely defended to Steve Rogers five minutes ago as a "new Gen-Z trend he wouldn't understand."
In reality, the fluorescent lights felt like needles behind her eyes.
"You're vibrating," a voice said from the doorway.
Jane didn't jump—she’d learned how to suppress the startle reflex—but her grip tightened on the mug. Peter stood there, looking far too alert for eight in the morning. He was wearing a Midtown School of Science and Technology sweatshirt that was slightly frayed at the cuffs. He looked like the boy she’d grown up with, yet the way he held himself, the subtle tension in his shoulders, reminded her of the secret they now shared.
"It’s the caffeine, Pete. I’m a growing girl. I have a lot of cells to energize," Jane said, her voice bright and brittle. She didn't look at him, focusing instead on the way the steam curled off her drink.
Peter walked over, hopping onto the stool next to her. He didn't say anything at first, which was worse. Peter was usually a fountain of nervous energy and rambling facts about spiders or Star Wars. Silence from Peter Parker was a heavy, pointed thing.
"You missed the movie night," he said softly. "Sam and Bucky actually stopped arguing long enough to watch *The Empire Strikes Back*. Even your dad stayed for the whole thing. He kept asking where you were."
Jane felt a sharp prick of guilt, followed immediately by a wave of irritation. "I told him I was at Maya’s. We were working on the history project. The one about the Cold War? Kind of ironic, considering half the people in this house lived through it."
"I stopped by Maya’s," Peter said.
Jane’s heart skipped a beat. She finally turned her head, the dark lenses of her glasses hiding the flash of panic in her hazel eyes. "What?"
"I was patrolling. Near her neighborhood," Peter continued, his voice dropping so the JARVIS sensors wouldn't pick up the specifics. "I thought I’d see if you wanted a ride home. You weren't there, Jane. Her mom said the girls had gone out hours ago."
Jane scoffed, a short, sharp sound. "God, Peter, are you tracking my phone now? Is that what the suit is for? Stalking your friends?"
"I’m not stalking you. I’m worried about you." He reached out, his hand hovering near her arm before he pulled it back, sensing the wall she’d built. "You’re lying to everyone. You’re lying to *him*."
"I’m managing my life," Jane snapped, sliding off the stool. "There’s a difference. Dad doesn't need to know every time I go to a party. He’d just freak out and build a specialized containment unit for my social life. You know how he is. He’s a control freak."
"He’s protective because he loves you," Peter countered, standing up to follow her.
"He’s protective because he’s terrified I’ll turn into him," Jane shot back, her voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room. She regretted it the moment it left her mouth. It was too honest, too close to the nerve. She softened her tone, forcing a laugh. "Look, I’m fine. I’m just having a little fun before senior year gets crazy. Don't be such a boy scout, Pete. It doesn't suit you."
She left him standing in the kitchen, his expression a mix of hurt and suspicion that she couldn't afford to care about.
***
By Friday night, the tension of the week had built into a dull roar in Jane’s head. She’d spent the last three days dodging her father in the lab, claiming she had "girl stuff" to deal with—a phrase that usually made Tony Stark retreat in awkward silence. It was a cheap tactic, but effective.
She met the group at a construction site near the docks. It was a skeleton of a luxury high-rise, all steel beams and shadows. Jack had brought a bottle of expensive tequila he’d swiped from his father’s cabinet, and the air was thick with the smell of clove cigarettes.
"Stark’s in the house!" Jack yelled, his voice bouncing off the concrete.
Jane climbed up the temporary stairs, her boots clattering. She felt the immediate shift in the atmosphere—the freedom, the lack of expectations. Here, she wasn't a Stark. She was just the girl who could hold her liquor and had the best stories about "crazy uncles" who were actually international assassins.
"Hey, princess," Cam said, stepping out from behind a pillar. He looked effortlessly cool in a leather jacket, a smirk playing on his lips. He didn't wait for a greeting; he just pulled her into his space, his hands sliding down to rest heavily on her hips.
"Hey yourself," Jane murmured. She liked the way he looked at her—like she was a prize he’d already won. It was shallow and uncomplicated, a relief from the soul-searching stares of the Avengers.
He pressed a plastic cup into her hand. It was warm, the tequila sharp and biting, but she downed half of it in one go. The burn was a welcome distraction from the memory of Peter’s face in the kitchen.
"We’re going up to the twentieth floor," Cam whispered, his breath hot against her ear. "The view is better. Less crowded."
Jane looked over at Maya and Chloe, who were busy trying to light a joint while Jack filmed them for a private story. They didn't notice her leaving. They never really did, not unless she was providing the entertainment or the booze.
The twentieth floor was open to the elements, the wind whipping through the unfinished walls. The city lights twinkled below like fallen stars. It was beautiful, in a lonely, jagged sort of way.
Cam sat down on a pile of drywall, pulling Jane down between his legs. He started kissing her neck, his hands wandering under her sweater. His touch was possessive, pushing boundaries in a way that Jane told herself was just passion. She leaned back against him, closing her eyes as the tequila began to hum in her blood.
"You’re so tense," Cam muttered, his fingers tracing the line of her bra. "You need to relax, Jane. Forget about that tower and your old man."
"I’m trying," she breathed.
He flipped her over, pinning her beneath him on the dusty floor. He was kissing her hard now, his tongue tasting of smoke and salt. Jane felt a flicker of the old discomfort—the sense that this was moving too fast, that she didn't actually *like* the way he was breathing so heavily in her ear—but she pushed it down. This was what she wanted, wasn't it? To feel something real?
His hand moved to the button of her jeans, his eyes dark and focused. "Come on, Jane. No one’s watching."
She let him. The act itself was messy and lacked the grace she’d imagined, but the physical sensation was a powerful anesthetic. In the heat of it, she didn't have to think about her father’s legacy or Peter’s disappointment. She was just a body in the dark, vibrating with a borrowed energy.
Afterward, as she buttoned her shirt with shaking fingers, Cam lit a cigarette, not looking at her. "That was good. We should do that more often."
Jane nodded, though her stomach felt like it was tied in knots. "Yeah. Sure."
She took the flask from her pocket, the one she’d started carrying everywhere, and took a long pull of the vodka she’d stashed inside. The burn settled the nausea.
***
The return to the Compound was harder this time. The elevator ride felt like it took hours. When the doors opened to the penthouse, the lights were dimmed, but the holographic displays in the corner were glowing blue.
Tony was sitting on the sofa, a glass of scotch in his hand. He wasn't working. He was just sitting there, staring at a photo of the two of them from her graduation from middle school.
"You’re late," he said. His voice wasn't angry. It was flat. Level. Which was much, much worse.
"The movie ran long," Jane said, her voice a little too loud. She stayed by the elevator, keeping the distance between them. "We went for pizza after."
Tony stood up, turning to face her. The blue light of the displays highlighted the deep lines around his eyes. "I called the theater, Jane. They didn't have a ten o'clock showing of the movie you mentioned. In fact, that theater has been closed for renovations for two weeks."
Jane felt the blood drain from her face. She’d gotten sloppy. The alcohol had made her feel invincible, but it had also made her stupid. "Okay, so we went to a different one. I forgot the name."
"Stop," Tony said, his voice rising just a fraction. He walked toward her, his eyes scanning her face, her messy hair, the dust on her jacket. He stopped three feet away, his nose wrinkling. "You smell like a distillery, Jane. And cigarettes. And... god, is that concrete dust?"
"I was just hanging out, Dad! It’s not a federal crime," Jane snapped, her defensiveness flaring up like a shield. "I’m seventeen. I’m allowed to go to parties. I’m allowed to have a life."
"This isn't a life, Jane! This is a disaster in the making!" Tony paced the length of the rug, his hands gesturing wildly. "I know this look. I know this smell. I spent twenty years perfected the art of hiding exactly what you’re doing right now. You think you’re being subtle? You’re a Stark. We aren't subtle, even when we’re trying to be."
"I’m not you!" Jane shouted. The words felt like a physical blow. "Just because you couldn't handle your life doesn't mean I can’t handle mine. I’m getting straight A’s. I’m on the track team. I’m fine!"
"You’re not fine! You’re lying to your friends, you’re lying to me, and you’re showing up at two in the morning smelling like a bar floor!" Tony stepped closer, his face etched with a mixture of fury and genuine terror. "Who are these people, Jane? This Cameron kid? Peter told me—"
"Oh, of course! Peter the Snitch!" Jane laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. "Did he tell you about his little hobby too? Or does he only report on my sins?"
Tony froze. "What are you talking about?"
Jane bit her tongue, the realization of what she’d almost said hitting her like a cold shower. She couldn't out Peter. Not like this. Not because she was angry. Even in her current state, she wasn't that cruel.
"Nothing," she muttered, looking at the floor. "He’s just a dork. He doesn't understand that people actually like to have fun."
"Is that what you call this?" Tony asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. He looked at her, really looked at her, and for a second, the anger vanished, replaced by a devastating clarity. "Jane... I see the way your hands are shaking. I see how hard you’re trying to stand still."
"I’m just cold, Dad," she lied, her voice trembling.
"Don't," he said, his voice breaking. "Please don't do this. I spent my whole life trying to make sure you wouldn't have to carry the weights I carried. The drinking, the... the holes in the soul you try to fill with things that just make the holes bigger."
"I’m not filling anything," Jane insisted, though the emptiness in her chest felt like a vacuum. "I’m just having a good time. Why can’t you just let me be happy?"
"Because this isn't happiness! It’s a distraction!" Tony yelled. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "You’re grounded. Effective immediately. No phone, no bike, no leaving the Compound except for school. And Happy will be driving you to and from every day. No exceptions."
"You can’t do that!"
"I just did. I’m your father, Jane. And I’m not going to sit back and watch you destroy yourself because you’re too stubborn to admit you’re struggling."
"I hate you," Jane whispered, the words fueled by the tequila and the shame and the overwhelming need to be anywhere else.
Tony flinched as if she’d slapped him. He looked old. He looked tired. But he didn't back down. "I know. But you’re staying home."
Jane turned and bolted for her room, the door slamming behind her with a force that rattled the frames on the walls. She threw herself onto her bed, burying her face in the pillow to muffled the sobs she refused to let him hear.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from the group chat.
*Cam: Tonight was hot. Jack’s having a thing tomorrow at the beach. You in?*
Jane looked at the message, her vision blurred by tears. She looked at the silver flask sitting on her dresser, the moonlight catching the polished surface.
She felt like she was drowning, the water cold and dark, but the only thing that felt like a life raft was the very thing pulling her under.
*Jane: I’ll be there. I’ll find a way out.*
She put the phone down and reached for the flask. She needed one more drink. Just one, to quiet the noise. To stop the shaking. To make the world feel soft again.
She wasn't like her father, she told herself as the liquid burned its way down. She was in control. She could stop whenever she wanted.
She just didn't want to yet.