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Snow. It was snowing on Christmas Eve in Queens, and Peter found himself smiling as he walked, dodging hurrying people, frantic last minute shoppers, coffee shop goers, little kids giggling, couples holding hands.
He clutched his rapidly cooling take-out cup of hot chocolate, grateful for the weight in his backpack, for everything his co-workers had slipped him through the day. Shame tried to stifle that gratitude, but tonight... wasn't it Christmas? Weren't gifts meant to come free?
So his steps came heavy, but his heart was oddly light, as he made his way home to his apartment.
He was waiting at a corner, ready to cross, shoulders hunched and hat pulled low, when he heard strains of music. Singing, voices, a choir, where? He turned, tilting his head to listen more carefully, just as the light changed and the WALK signal came on. He hesitated, watching as no one else glanced toward the sound, all of them simply putting their heads down and surging ahead, legs flickering shadows across headlights.
For a moment he caught the words: “...and still their heavenly music floats, o'er all the weary world...” and he could not have said why he turned to his left, and walked off down the street, following the song.
He found a crowd gathered on the sidewalk, on the front lawn of a church, light spilling out of the stained glass windows onto the snowy grass, yellow warmth glowing above a small shed erected to one side of the walk to the front door. Choir singing, people pausing, moving on, coming and going, while the music rose and fell among the snowflakes.
“...Oh rest beside the weary road, and hear the angels sing.”
Peter swallowed hard, surprised by tears prickling in his eyes, and he moved forward slowly, not pushing, just following the flow of pedestrians. He could already smell something that he was pretty sure was animals, and maybe hay? He didn't know, he was a city boy. He sidestepped a woman clutching her cup of steaming cider and a cookie, turned to avoid being taken out at the knees by a toddler attempting to fly, and then suddenly was there, inside the circle, staring at the little Nativity scene brought to life.
He blinked snow off his lashes, a kind of aching wonder working its way into his heart. There was a baby; a very real baby, wrapped snuggly in a blanket, with a little hat pulled over his head, fast asleep in the box of hay, while his mother, shawl tied up around her neck, leaned her elbows on the edge, smiling as she stroked one finger softly down the baby's cheek. A man with a wooden staff stood behind her, eyes going from her, to the baby, to the crowd and back, alert and watchful. Until the young woman said something over her shoulder that made him laugh. His eye caught Peter's, and he smiled, tilting his head in an invitation. Peter looked away quickly.
There were also three small sheep, standing or lying together, chewing and nibbling, and otherwise seeming very relaxed. A small donkey stood with them, eyes half closed, one back foot pulled up to rest.
Peter shivered, wanting to turn away, but his eyes were drawn back to the baby, whose tiny mouth worked in a yawn, face crinkling up.
The choir had begun another song, the woman singing along, and the baby relaxed again.
Something about the town of Bethlehem, and Peter finally tore his gaze away, looking across the cluster of an audience to where the refreshments were being served.
And then he froze.
She was bare-headed, snow collecting in her dark curls, and when she tilted her head back to squint up into the sky, Peter's heart broke under the weight of his love and his longing. There she was, on Christmas Eve. His MJ, less than 10 yards away.
He blinked, and a few hot tears spilled over, sliding down his cheeks. He didn't want to cry, he didn't, but oh, she was so beautiful, so strong, and funny, and fierce, and he missed her so so so much.
She looked over at him, and he stopped breathing. But she looked away again, quickly, and he did the same, abashed.
Leave, he should leave, he should really leave now, before anything went wrong...
Half-turned to go back the way he'd come, he couldn't help it, couldn't stop himself glancing back, just once. MJ stared back, a light of... recognition? kindling in her eyes.
“Hey!” she called, her voice cutting easily across the song of the choir and the chatter of the passers-by. “Peter!”
It was his name that held him there, still as the stone church rising above their heads; her, MJ, calling his name. She came elbowing her way across the lawn, and she was all Peter could see, she might as well have been the whole world as far as Peter was concerned.
“Peter?” Her voice trembled, her eyes were wide, and he could hear her heart racing in her chest. “Peter. It's you. I can't believe– I-I mean– I'm sorry, I didn't– What are you doing here?”
Peter couldn't speak, he couldn't move. He was suddenly quite sure he must be dreaming. What other explanation was there for this? For Michelle Jones to be standing in front of him, with the snow falling and the music dancing around them, and Peter's name on her lips?
“Hey,” he whispered.
Tears suddenly filled her eyes, and then she was fumbling in her coat pocket, stepping closer as she pulled out... a folded piece of paper.
“You- you dropped this. In the café.” MJ's voice shook. “And Ned picked it up, and he couldn't figure out what it was at first, until I saw my name, and then I didn't understand at all, but I can't stop thinking about it, and I can't stop thinking about you, and every night I have these dreams, and I pick up my phone expecting a text from someone I think is you, and I hear someone talking about science, but I can't figure out whose voice it is, but it's you, I know it's you, and I– mph.”
Peter kissed her. He knew he would probably wake up, almost certainly, because that was the way dreams tended to work, but he didn't care, he wanted to kiss her just one more time...
The warmth of her lips, and the cold of the tip of her nose, and the icy shock of snow slipping off her hair onto his neck, sent Peter reeling back.
“What?”
MJ covered her mouth with one hand, fighting back sobs. “Peter,” she said again, and reached for him, her hand landing on his arm, fingers gripping the sleeve of his jacket.
“But- but- you can't be real!” Peter gasped. “You can't remember me. You can't- You'll get hurt, you can't know me–”
“But I do.” She stepped closer, following him, holding tight to him, and Peter automatically reached up to touch her arm in return, to steady her. “I do, even if I don't know why. Why would I forget you, Peter Parker? You- you hate peppermint, and you read stupid comic books, and you have a silver spoon with a tiger on the handle you inherited from your grandmother. You- you're Spiderman, and you've never read the newspaper, and I'm in love with you.”
Her shoulder was real and solid under his hand, bone and muscle, and she was still exactly those two inches taller than him, and he... he was Peter Parker. She knew him, she knew Peter, she knew who Peter was, and he could feel the snow, cold on his face, and...
“MJ...”
He crumpled, and she caught him, her arms tight around his neck, and he clung to her, sobbing so that he could not speak.
Their next kiss was softer, a little shy, and tasting of tears and snot. They drew back to wipe their faces, laughing a little, awkward with the shock of it all. Peter discovered he was shivering badly, and he reached for MJ again, staring into those brown eyes of hers, beautiful even bloodshot from crying.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
She rested her forehead against his, draping her arms around his neck. “Are you?”
He almost laughed. “Honestly...” He ran his thumb gently along her cheekbone, slid his fingers up into her hair, snow crusting on the curls and waves. “You cut your hair,” he said hoarsely.
“Only a little. A few inches.”
“Yeah.” Peter still felt as if he was in a dream, but even if it was, it hadn't ended yet, and this was too good to waste. “You look amazing.”
She smiled, pulled him closer, and he rested his chin on her shoulder, closing his eyes to listen to her breathing, the snow falling, the choir launching into another song.
“Silent night, holy night...”
An old song, a gentle one, a song he'd heard a million times.
“All is calm, all is bright.”
Peter tilted his head back, squinting up through the snowflakes, following the line of the church steeple up into the sky. He'd never been one to believe in miracles, but however this gift, the gift of the girl in his arms, had come from, he wanted to accept it.
“Hey, MJ,” Peter murmured. “The baby's awake.”
She turned, keeping her arms around Peter, and they stood like that, holding onto each other, watching the little baby giggle in his mother's arms, arms pulled free of the wrapped blanket to bat at her face, her hair, and the woman blew a raspberry into the baby's tummy, both of them laughing. The light from inside the shed shone on the yellow straw, spilled out onto the white snow.
“Glory streams from Heaven afar. Heavenly hosts sing 'allelujah'...”
MJ stirred, nudging her head against his cheek. “You didn't answer my question.”
“What question?”
She shifted to look him in the eye, that searching, no-nonsense look she would get sometimes. “Are you okay?”
For a long moment the “of course” hovered on the tip of Peter's tongue, until the man in the Nativity scene, leaning over his wife's shoulder to make faces at the baby, looked up and caught Peter's eye again. His bearded smile was bright, the knowing glance of a stranger, who understood something that couldn't be said. Peter smiled back.
“Maybe I don't have to be.”
***
It should have been impossible, that Peter should walk down the streets of Queens, holding his girlfriend's hand, as snow fell on Christmas Eve. It should have been impossible that anyone would know who Peter Parker really was. It should have been impossible that the revelation would fill Peter with hope rather than terror. It should have been impossible that a night could be called bright.
But when did Christmas ever care about what was possible?
charitylewis Fri 12 Dec 2025 01:38AM UTC
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Vandalia1998 Fri 12 Dec 2025 08:54AM UTC
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hamcheesetoastie Sat 13 Dec 2025 07:55AM UTC
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