Chapter Text
Jean sat in the quiet of Peter’s mind and felt, for the first time in years, that the ground beneath her was solid.
The space was nothing like the sterile white void she had come to expect whenever she crossed the threshold into another person's consciousness. Usually she was met with an endless expanse where thoughts and memories drifted around her like constellations, waiting to be plucked from the darkness if she reached for them. It was detached. Orderly. A place she occupied, but could never truly belong within.
Peter's mind was different.
Perhaps she should not have been so surprised. He had resisted her before. Even wounded, there had always been something uniquely resilient about his mind, as though it instinctively protected the parts of himself that mattered most.
Now she found herself seated on the edge of a well-worn bunk bed in a bedroom painted a warm shade of green. Afternoon sunlight spilled lazily through the curtains, bathing everything in a golden glow that made the room feel impossibly lived in. There were mismatched books stacked on a shelf, faded Star Wars posters pinned crookedly to the walls, and photographs that carried the unmistakable sight of happy memories.
What’s more, she was in the embrace of a woman she never knew, but desperately wished she had. Peter's Aunt May, her powers supplied, smelled of vanilla and hugged her as if she was her own child. The sensation of loving arms around her was so foreign that Jean’s first instinct was to retract. To leap across the room in fear, for no one in her life – not since her sister – had ever shown her a modicum of comfort without some ulterior motive.
To harm her. To take advantage of her. To use her.
But somehow, maybe through Peter’s emotions which were available to her, she knew his aunt meant her no harm. Only genuine love and acceptance. And goddamn it, she craved that feeling like nothing else, even if it was through the lens of a memory.
With hesitancy, Jean allowed her arms to intently embrace the woman back, her hands resting lightly on her shoulders lest she disappear. The gesture was so effortless, so unguarded, that Jean felt something inside herself fracture with a quiet ache. She had spent years convincing herself she needed no one, but maybe she had just forgotten what it felt like to be wanted.
All too soon, the older woman pulled back from her, but before Jean could try and chase after her, a tentative, but oh-so-familiar voice distracted her. “Hey.”
Jean’s eyes snapped quickly towards the door of the room, only to find the owner of this memory standing before her. Peter looked different here, but then again, that was the norm. Once inside someone’s mind, it showed her who they truly were beyond whatever facade they may put up, and the same was true for Peter.
He stood across from her, not the armored figure in the red-and-blue suit, but the version of himself that lived underneath it all. Exhausted, young, and desperately trying to hold every broken piece together for the sake of others. The openness in his expression as he looked at her was just the cherry on top of it all. Vulnerable in a way she could only ever dream of being, but rather than feel envious or spiteful, she felt more seen than she had in years.
Seen for her anger, her vengeance, her loss, and even her love for what had been taken. All of that had been a weight dragging her down into an undertow of her own making, and now someone – Peter – had come along with a lifeline. No strings attached, only good intentions to release her from that weight.
And at that moment, Jean knew she had to let him. Had to, or else she could combust from the inside out.
Peter approached her slowly, like one would a spooked animal. Given her past track record, she couldn’t say she blamed him. Still, she kept her hands folded atop her lap and her blue eyes locked with his brown, trying to make him see she didn’t want a fight. Not anymore.
When he finally sat down next to her, his weight dipping the bed slightly, she let out a sigh that held every ounce of pressure she felt. “I’m sorry about your sister,” he said. Her initial reaction was to scoff, ask why he would feel sorry for her of all people, but his tone stopped that train of thought. It was sincere; she could just tell, even without probing his mind for any traces of sympathetic vibrations.
Lost on what to say, Jean settled for what was at the forefront of her mind as she blinked back a stray tear. “I’m sorry about your aunt,” she responded, meaning it with every fibre of her being even though the words felt inadequate. She had known May only through borrowed memories, but they had been enough. Enough to tell she had been extraordinary. The type of person Jean wished to have in her life.
Peter nodded, a fond smile gracing his face as he turned to face her more. “Yeah, you would have loved her,” he admitted, and Jean resisted the urge to say a part of her already did. “Look, just because we’ve lost someone, it doesn’t mean we have to do this alone.” At that, he placed a hand on her stacked ones, as if trying to make sure she really heard him. “We can’t; trust me, I've been trying. It doesn’t work.”
"Even if that's true..." Jean's voice barely rose above a whisper. She couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes anymore, instead focusing on the way their hands rested together atop one another. "I have no one."
Every person who had ever claimed to care about her had eventually become another lesson in why she should never let anyone close. They had abandoned her, feared her, or coveted the impossible power that hummed beneath her skin. Even surrounded by people, loneliness had always found a way to settle beside her like an old companion.
It was easier not to fight it anymore. She was other, and people like her ended up alone.
"You have me."
Jean stilled.
The words were spoken so quietly that, for a heartbeat, she wondered if they had come from her own imagination; some desperate wish conjured by a mind finally exhausted from carrying too much grief.
Slowly, almost afraid the movement would shatter the moment, she raised her head.
What she found was Peter looking at her with the same quiet sincerity he always seemed to possess so effortlessly. There was no hesitation in his expression, no uncertainty, as though he had merely pointed out something obvious. As though the answer had been there all along.
For a moment, she thought it might be some cruel joke meant to subdue her, but she quickly squashed that thought. No, the boy in front of her was many things, but deceitful was not one of them. If anything, he was earnest to a fault, so much so that his words could not be anything but true.
That didn’t mean they didn’t shock her any less. It would have been easier if he hated her. Hatred made sense, but this…? This made no sense at all.
She had invaded his mind, manipulated him, turned an entire city into unwilling puppets. Even threatened the people he loved. She had given him every reason to despise her, but he didn’t. No, he wanted to be there for her.
Something inside Jean shifted. Not all at once—not enough to erase years of fear and loss—but enough for the first crack to appear in the walls she'd spent her life building around herself. The realization stole the breath from her lungs, but before she could speak a word…
The world shattered around them as the bedroom dissolved like glass struck by a hammer. Warm green walls fractured into blinding shards of light, and Peter's hand tore from hers. A violent force ripped Jean backward, hurling her out of his consciousness so abruptly that she couldn't even scream. All around her, she could feel her control severing like a taught string being cut as she was thrust back into the physical plane.
But why was this happening?
She opened her mouth to call out to Peter when the shove hit like a freight train.
Jean saw it in fractured pieces: the red laser point that had been fixed on her head, the way he threw his body into the path of the shot without hesitation, the brutal impact that shoved them back before he steadied her. It all happened so suddenly that she felt the last vestiges of control over the people outside falter, all her concentration being diverted to Peter and how his arms held her in place.
“Are you hurt?” he asked her in a strangled voice as they stood together. It had all happened so fast that Jean was left to gasp out a response as she quaked in his hold, only to notice a stain of crimson on her fingers where they had held onto him.
Peter's blood.
Jean stared numbly at the red staining her fingertips, watching another drop slide from between Peter's ribs and strike the concrete below with a soft, almost inaudible patter. It seemed impossible that something so small could carry so much dread
"No..." The word escaped her before she even realized she'd spoken.
Peter swayed, muttering that he was okay, but one look at him told Jean otherwise. His face had gone deathly pale, the color draining so rapidly it was almost frightening to witness. His breath caught in shallow, uneven pulls, each one sounding wetter than the last. The arm still wrapped protectively around her waist loosened as though he no longer possessed the strength to keep it there.
“Peter…?” she gasped out, trying to grab onto his arm to stabilize him, before his knees buckled, sending him to the floor.
"Peter!" She caught him before his head struck the concrete of the floor, lowering him down with shaking hands that suddenly felt far too clumsy for someone capable of lifting buildings with a thought. Blood seeped steadily between her fingers as she pressed against the wound, warm enough to make her stomach churn.
“Jean, you gotta get out of here,” his strangled voice broke through her focus as she felt him begin to shake beneath her. “They’ll be looking for you.”
"No, no, no..." The words poured from her in a frantic whisper. “Just hold on. Just stay with me, please!” This wasn't supposed to happen. She had spent months preparing herself for every possible outcome. Every contingency. Every betrayal. Every sacrifice on her path to her sister.
Never this. And simply because Peter Parker couldn't stand by while someone else suffered. Her throat tightened as she reached instinctively into his mind. Unlike before, she found no resistance.
His consciousness flickered weakly beneath her touch, scattered and unfocused, pain rippling through every fractured thought. She recoiled for only a heartbeat before forcing herself to look deeper—not at his memories, not at the private corners of his soul, but at the delicate web of impulses racing through his nervous system.
“Jean, just go,” she once again heard his voice whisper, but she refused to listen. No, leaving him wasn’t an option. Not after what he had done for her; after he had effectively tugged her out of the dark pit where she had rested and into the light. At that moment Jean knew that no matter what happened to her, she couldn’t just leave him, Damage Control be damned.
Speaking of which, as if being summoned, Jean heard the rustling of Metzger in his chair, struggling, but very much angered. Before she could think twice about it, she reached into his mind (very easily, she noticed) and rendered him unconscious. The last thing she needed right now was that asshole making things difficult, she considered as she turned back to Peter.
"I... I can fix this." The words sounded hollow even to her. She wasn't a healer, and her understanding of the body was basic at best. But she did understand energy, and that may be enough. Closing her eyes, Jean reached inward, extending her consciousness through Peter's nervous system until she could almost feel each desperate beat of his heart as though it were her own.
There.
The damaged artery.
With painstaking precision, she wrapped invisible strands of telekinesis around the torn vessel, compressing it just enough to slow the hemorrhage without stopping the flow entirely. Sweat beaded across her forehead almost instantly. Too much pressure would stop his heart. Too little...
He would bleed out.
Her breathing became synchronized with his, as a way to keep in time the squeezes of pressure she had to apply.
One beat.
Hold.
Release.
Another beat.
His pulse steadied, only slightly, but enough to let her know she was doing something right. Suddenly, a groan escaped Peter's lips, making her jump slightly in shock. "...Jean..."
"I'm here." She hadn't meant to answer so quickly, or to sound so pathetically desperate, but she couldn’t help it. His hand searched blindly until trembling fingers brushed against hers. "I'm here," she repeated, quieter this time. The words surprised even her. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Not after he'd looked at her, and told her she wouldn't have to face the world alone anymore. She could not — would not — lose him.
Then the sound of a heavy pair of boots landed behind her, along with the unmistakable metallic click of a pistol cocking. "Step away from the kid."
Jean’s head snapped around. The man standing several feet away looked exactly as terrifying as she remembered. Broad-shouldered, battle-worn, and with an expression carved from stone.
Frank Castle stood a few paces behind her, the black of his tactical gear still dusted with concrete grit from wherever he had taken the shot. The pistol in his hand was steady, the muzzle pointed not quite at her heart but close enough that the distinction didn’t matter. His eyes moved from the spreading blood under Peter’s suit to the red on Jean’s hands and then to her face, hard and assessing.
“I said step away from the kid. You've got three seconds."
Jean did not move. Her fingers stayed pressed over the wound, telekinetic threads still wound carefully around the damaged artery. Every small adjustment cost her. Sweat tracked down her temple. The residual pressure of the city-wide hold she had just released still throbbed behind her eyes like a second heartbeat.
Jean looked from the gun back to Peter, not knowing if what she was about to do would be the most heroic moment of her life or the most foolish. "I can't."
Frank's eyes narrowed. "What'd you say?"
"I said I can't." For the first time in what felt like forever, her voice held no anger, only exhaustion and annoyance that this gut didn’t get the memo. "If I stop..." she whispered, concentrating harder as another tremor ran through Peter's body"...he dies."
From the corner of her eye, she could see Frank glance toward Peter, no doubt noticing that his bleeding had slowed to a near standstill under her care.
"What're you doing?"
"Keeping him alive."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"I really don't care what you believe, man." The words came sharper now, edged with desperation. "My telekinesis is compressing the artery. If I let go, he'll bleed out before we make it downstairs."
Jean kept her gaze steady even as her arms began to tremble from the strain of holding the artery closed. The effort made the edges of her vision spark white. “I can keep him stable long enough to reach a hospital,” she said carefully, the way she might speak to something half-feral and full of bite. “I can blur his face so no one recognizes him when they cut the suit off. But I need both hands free, and I need you not to shoot me while I’m doing it.”
Castle’s eyes flicked once more to Peter’s ashen face, and for a moment Jean could have sworn she saw something tender – almost paternal – pass through his eyes. For three long seconds the only sound was the distant wail of returning sirens and the soft, wet pull of Peter’s breathing. Then Castle lowered the pistol a fraction—not holstering it, but no longer aiming center mass. “You try anything—anything at all—I will end you.”
“I won’t.”
“Move fast.”
Jean exhaled shakily and turned fully back to Peter. She slipped one arm under his shoulders, the other still maintaining the delicate telekinetic compression inside the wound. The effort made sweat track down her temple and drip onto the front of his suit. She could feel every frayed nerve ending in his body, the way shock tried to drag him under. She pushed against it, pouring steady, controlled pressure into the torn vessel while simultaneously softening the specific lines of his face—erasing the identity the world had already forgotten once.
It was harder than she expected. Holding a life together and erasing a face at the same time required two different kinds of focus, and both were fraying.
Castle moved in without being asked. He slid an arm under Peter’s knees, taking him into his arms with the practiced efficiency of someone who had carried wounded men before. Jean kept her hands on the wound and the psychic tether, walking half-crouched beside them as they started toward the service alley Castle indicated—something that would keep them off the main streets a little longer.
Peter’s head lolled against Castle’s shoulder. His eyes cracked open for a second, unfocused, finding Jean’s face.
“Still… here?” he rasped, the corner of his mouth forming a smile so slight it made her chest ache. Jean’s throat closed so tightly it hurt. “I’m still here,” she answered, the same words she had given him minutes earlier, only now they felt like a vow she was already terrified of breaking. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Castle glanced at her sideways as they moved, the gun still loose in his free hand. “You better mean that, girl. Because if he flatlines on the way, the next round is yours.”
Jean didn’t answer. She simply tightened the invisible threads holding Peter’s artery closed, matched her breathing to the fragile rhythm of his heart, and kept walking.
The city around them was waking back up in confused, frightened waves. Somewhere behind them, Metzger was still unconscious in the wreckage she had left him in. Ahead of them waited fluorescent lights, questions, and the very real chance that the people who had taken Sara would try to take her again.
None of it mattered.
Peter had looked at her inside that green bedroom and said she had him.
She was going to make sure he lived long enough for her to say it back.