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It’s ironic the way it happens: when the world reorients itself, the floor falls out beneath her feet.
MJ stumbles into the kitchen counter, the film lifting from her eyes like the snap of a veil. Her head clears, a sob rising from her throat, and somewhere in the background, she can hear Ned gasping for air. She knows, intuitively, that this has something to do with Spider-Man, and her heart lurches with a rabid, misplaced concern; a common sentiment for him, maybe, but it’s not the mask she pictures.
“MJ!” she hears Ned call. “MJ, are you okay?”
She looks over. Her best friend runs into the kitchen, holding his arm. She feels a tear slip down her cheek and roughly wipes it away, too mindless to feel embarrassed by the uncharacteristic vulnerability. All she can think about is Peter— behind that curtain, swinging her through the air, sitting on their living room floor while she sketched him speaking to Ned. At that moment, she’d wondered how she managed to draw him so well.
Without a word, she pushes past Ned and turns on the TV. For the rest of the night, they silently watch the news together, MJ keeping her eyes glued to the screen. She watches every fan who lights a candle outside his hospital, reading the signs they carry. Not one makes a mention of Peter Parker, but everyone cries for Spider-Man.
Despite her best efforts, MJ visits him at the hospital.
The entire train ride over, she berates herself for it, reminding herself that she has no right, that she and Peter are not friends, that she rejected him, even, in a way many would characterize as too bluntly. But every time she tries to get off at another stop, it’s that broadcast she pictures, those Spider-Man signs and the adoring crowd, and the inherent emptiness of them both.
Everyone praying for him is not someone who knows him. MJ is aware she’s hardly the exception, but she thinks the least he deserves is a quick visit from someone who can recall his face. She doesn’t know if Peter has other friends, but she gets the impression that he doesn’t. A loneliness hangs over him in a way that reminds her of her high school self before Ned, when she didn’t have the courage to let anyone in.
Or was it Peter who taught her that?
It’s a fifteen minute walk to the hospital, but MJ makes it in under ten. A plethora of Spider-Man memorabilia litters the sidewalk, as well as the crowd, dressed in varying shades of red and blue, with the occasional Knicks jersey. Nearly everyone wears a mask, but they keep their vigil outside the gates; an uncommon tact, yet telling of the respect he’s earned from New York.
Somehow, MJ makes it inside without much trouble. The staff looks harried, which she can assume is due to the stress of caring for a celebrity. She approaches the front desk with a matching sense of apprehension, feeling like a fraud.
“Hello,” she greets stiltedly. An older woman warily looks up at her. “I… I’m here to visit Spider-Man?”
A pointed beat. “Are you a family member?”
“Uh… no.”
“Are you his girlfriend?” she asks. “Are you his wife?”
MJ reflectively twitches her ring finger, a lump swelling in her throat. Would it have ever become that serious between them, or was she just his high school sweetheart? Before that moment, did either of them ever say I love you to each other?
Common sense and a deep awareness of self tells her no, of course not. MJ has never felt the urge to tell any of her past boyfriends she loved them, including Paul, who she’s been with the longest. She severely doubts she could’ve broken that streak for a teenaged boyfriend, regardless of what she said at Frank’s hideout.
Yet… there’s something inside her that argues otherwise. It might be because of how Peter gazed at her as he confessed, the naked longing in his eyes, or the heartfelt words in his letter. It might even be because she, herself, cannot remember, and the uncertainty of their past will always cast a shadow on how well MJ can know herself in relationships. Let alone know herself in love.
“Um…” she stammers, battling the sudden urge to cry. She’s done it more in the last three days than she has the last three years. “I’m actually his—”
“Hey!” a voice barks at her back. MJ and the receptionist turn to see the Punisher strolling towards them, his boot soles loud against the linoleum. “You’re that girl. Are you here to see the kid?”
“Yes,” MJ breathes. Relief tears through her. “Do you know where he is?”
“Of course I do,” he scoffs. He pauses beside her and levels a firm look at the receptionist. “Give her the visitor’s pass.”
Uncowed, the receptionist repeats, “Is she a family member? Because if not, we can’t allow her to come in.”
“She’s his wife,” Frank lies. MJ blinks in surprise, but doesn’t dare to contradict him. A few moments later, her ID has been scanned and a visitor’s pass is pasted to her front lapel.
She silently follows Frank to Peter’s hospital room, her anxiety growing with every step. Once again, she feels that she does not deserve to see him, that she has hurt him too profoundly to ever have the right to speak to him again, regardless of how civil he was in the aftermath of her rejection. Peter deserves to have a girl who loves him, who remembers him, who could look at him and recall the sensation of his kisses, of his caresses, who could hear him say, I love you, and only have the impulse to return it. Every moment MJ spends with him is a moment she takes away from that other girl, but she can’t— She can’t let sleeping dogs lie. She doesn’t want Peter to recover alone, knowing that nobody thought to see him. The idea of that, of him drowning in that sea of impersonal cards and flowers, makes her want to beat her fists against the wall for the unfairness of it all. So many horrible people exist in this world, yet it’s Peter who suffers the indignity of isolation.
Before she knows it, they’re in front of his room. Frank opens the door quietly, without knocking, and takes a peek inside. When he looks back at her, his voice is hushed.
“He’s sleeping,” he warns her.
MJ nods and follows him in, her eyes immediately going to the hospital bed. Peter lies beneath the thin, white blankets, his pale face bandaged and an IV connected to his arm. His hospital gown hangs off his shoulder and his neck is bent at a strange angle, like he fell asleep while sitting up. It makes him look so young, so fragile, that MJ can’t help but rush over to him, the impulse rising on a deep swell. She takes a chair and sits beside him, staring hard at his face, wishing she had the audacity to hold his hand. The old MJ would have, she’s sure. She wouldn’t have been able to resist.
“What happened to him?” she breathes.
“He got shot.”
“I know, but by who?!” Still a whisper, yet an urgent one.
A beat. “By me.”
MJ snaps her head around with a stony glare, but Frank already has his hands up. “It wasn’t my fault. He got between me and the redhead.”
“The redhead?”
“The girl,” Frank explains. “The one that was in your head, in everyone’s fucking head. Peter didn’t want to kill her, so he shielded her from the bullet with his own body.”
Her heart trembles within her chest, and she carefully returns her attention to him. How can someone possibly be so good? It defies all reasonable logic, and makes a mockery of her supposed sense of morality. Sure, MJ might be a card-carrying member of her local DSA chapter, but has she ever extended a hand to someone she wasn’t sure deserved it, simply because she knew they might need a second chance?
MJ shakes her head once, pressing the heel of her palms to her eyes. “He’s an idiot.”
“And an asshole, too, for doing that to me.”
Nodding, MJ drops her hands with a slight sniffle. The urge to reward him for his compassion, beyond some stupid key to the city, eats at her. She sits and contemplates what he might like, until an idea strikes her. Without hesitation, she fishes her sketchbook from her bag and flips to the page she drew of him and Ned, before holding it next to his face.
Awe blooms within her. Somehow, she was able to get the curve of his nose exactly right.
“Can I leave this here?” she asks Frank. “I want him to wake up to this.”
As always, life returns to normal. MJ scores another job interview and ends it in her typical fashion: a rejection. This time, however, when she tells Paul about it, he gets annoyed with her.
“You know,” he says, voice tight over the phone. Obvious even through the Midtown bustle of workers going home. “It’s good to be principled, but we all have to work for a living.”
“I do work,” MJ responds. “I’m always picking up shifts at the coffee shop, and—“
“A real job, MJ,” he stresses. “A real job. One where you can help Ned pay the bills.”
“I do pay my bills!” She pauses in front of the subway station and discreetly moves aside to let the crowd pass, her face flushing with anger. Why are they even arguing about this right now? “I have never had an issue making my rent or paying my half of the utilities. Sure, I may not be working at Goldman Sachs like some other people, but I’m not embarrassed about how I make a living. For fuck’s sake, Paul, I’m twenty-two! I’m still figuring shit out.”
“That’s all well and good, Michelle, but how long can you get away with that? Soon enough you’ll be thirty and in the same place if you don’t start making some hard decisions.”
“What the fuck?” she exclaims. “I can’t believe this right now. You’ve known this about me. I thought you liked that about me!”
“I do!” Paul says, just as heatedly. “But I would also like it if you directed that passion towards something useful. Like a job!”
“Oh, fuck off!” MJ snaps, before hanging up the phone. Her chest heaves with emotion and her eyes sting with suppressed tears. She roughly wipes at them, glancing around to see if anyone is staring, but, predictably, not a single person seems to mind her public fit.
It hardly lessens the sting of shame, though.
With a huff, MJ stomps away from the subway station. Already, her phone is beginning to buzz with incoming texts, but she vindictively shuts it off. She’s uninterested in rehashing the topic or listening to him retract what was clearly his authentic opinion about her future. Clearly, her boyfriend of eight months thinks she’s an aimless leech who lives off the good will of her oldest friend. Never mind the fact MJ graduated MIT with summa cum laude, or excelled at all of her internships, or has a job right now. Serving coffee, sure, but she works harder than anyone else and has ambition, and fuck him for not recognizing it.
Eventually, MJ stops fuming long enough to realize she’s standing in front of her old high school. Her neck cranes back as she stares up at the roof, and without hesitation, decides she must be sitting at the top of it.
It's muscle memory that takes her there. MJ can’t remember ever standing on her high school roof before, but she intuitively knows which stairway leads to the top— near the left-wing, next to the janitor’s closet— and the amount of flights she’ll have to climb— six. It’s so uncanny that she almost feels disconnected from herself as she journeys up, driven by an instinct she might call subconscious.
When she reaches the roof, the sun is already beginning to set. MJ sits on the warm concrete and tucks her knees into her chest, planting her chin on top of them. Now that her anger has settled, only sadness remains, and the sick sense that maybe Paul has a point— she might be screwing herself over in the long run.
It’s strange when she thinks back to being eighteen. She’d been so confident then, certain in her choice of college and her major. For someone as talented in science and mathematics as MJ is, it’d seemed natural to choose aerospace engineering. It was a prestigious enough degree to make her father proud, and it gave her the ability to stay close to Ned in a new city, who oftentimes was her anchor when her loner tendencies flared in social spaces. She had excelled and she was happy, having bloomed into a version of herself she never could’ve foreseen. The real trouble only started afterwards, when they moved back to New York and MJ had to face the real world. Suddenly, it wasn’t so easy to cite her morals when companies with skyscrapers in FiDi came calling.
But again, she thought everyone knew this about her. She thought everyone understood she would never compromise herself for a check, and that she yearns to make a true difference in the world. Her father used to warn her that this idealism would hurt her someday, but she never anticipated it coming from a man who was supposed to support her, who said he loved this about her. In more ways than one, MJ feels duped.
She buries her face in her knees and stares at the horizon. The sun sinks beneath the Manhattan skyline, enveloping the world in shades of pink, red, and indigo. Not for the first time, she wonders where Peter is, if he’s recovered enough to resume his Spider-Man duties. It’s been over a week since she’s seen him swinging through buildings or fishing cats out of trees. Wherever he is, she hopes he’s okay and that the drawing she left him gave him some comfort. It’d hurt her to leave him there, knowing Frank was all he had for company.
Sighing, MJ hooks her finger through her necklace and toys with the pendant. The shape is indistinguishable, yet she’s increasingly been able to recognize it as a black dahlia.
For some reason, every time she wears it now, it makes her think of Peter.
An hour or so later, when she gets home, Paul is waiting for her in her bedroom.
He sits on the edge of her bed with a contrite expression, and opens his arms immediately once she walks in. MJ steps between his legs and allows him to embrace her, accepting the gesture for what it is; she can’t fault a man for apologizing.
“I’m sorry,” he says, head tucked into her chest. His voice, brittle from tears, rumbles against her breast. “I didn’t mean to upset you. You’re right. I do love those things about you, MJ. I love how passionate you are about politics and how much you care about other people. I was wrong to imply otherwise.”
MJ cards a hand through his soft, dark curls as she swallows a sigh. “Thank you for saying that.”
“It’s true,” he says, looking up at her. “I went about it the wrong way, but all I really meant was that I want you to do well, to find direction. And I only said it because I love you.”
“I know,” she says softly, leaning down to kiss him once. “I know you do.”
That night, when she falls asleep in the aftermath of their reconciliation, MJ’s dreams take a weird shape.
She’s standing on another rooftop while surrounded by debris, the evening sun obscured through the wet of her eyes. Her temple smarts, and she’s dimly aware of Ned beside her, silently weeping into his hands. Fat clouds hang above them, dark as a funeral shroud, and quake like the sky might crack open.
“Just wait,” she hears herself say. “Wait and tell me when you see me again.”
Another figure stands before her, but MJ cannot see him. She cannot hear his response. She can only feel him look at her cry.
Any vows she’s made to stay out of Peter’s life ends promptly the next afternoon, when Ned tells her he remembers him.
It happened because of a handshake, apparently. Peter had approached Ned at the deli and initiated an old handshake they’d used since high school, and that was that. They were best friends again.
MJ knows, in the beginning at least, that they attempt to handle this new— old?— development with some sensitivity towards her. They never hang out in the apartment while she’s there, and if Peter comes up, it’s to look at a new Lego set Ned bought or to wait, lingering by the door, for Ned to grab a coat before they leave together. He greets her, of course, and MJ is quick to return his warmth, but she’s terrified of doing any more. Every time she thinks of starting a conversation with him, she remembers his gutted expression when she said, “I don’t love you,” and the words die on her lips.
Yet, she’s desperate to speak to him. MJ feels it most keenly whenever they’re both in the living room, trying not to look at each other and failing. It’s impossible to ignore someone when their presence is a physical force, and Peter, whether he knows it or not, demands attention.
One evening, it finally comes to a head.
MJ is waiting on the couch for her friends to buzz the apartment when Ned walks in with Peter. She’d been, up until that point, getting ready to meet her friends at a bar. The plan was to get ready separately, but meet at MJ’s apartment since it was the closest to the train station. Her friends typically take a while to get dressed, so MJ had felt comfortable lounging in her outfit, makeup done, but with her bangs pinned to form a swoop. Her embarrassment flares when she notices them look at her.
Ned whistles good-naturedly. “Got a hot date tonight?”
“No,” she says through her teeth. MJ glances at Peter, whose eyes fly from her legs to the ceiling. A flush burns beneath her cheeks. “I’m going to a bar.”
“With the girls? Where?”
“I don’t know. Some place in Williamsburg, I think.”
“Trendy,” Ned says, then turns to Peter. “I’m gonna go change my outfit before we leave. You can just wait on the couch.”
Both Peter and MJ’s eyes widen at the unspoken taboo. Normally, Peter’s place is by the door while MJ’s is everywhere else, but usually the couch. The idea of sitting on it together, just a few feet away from each other, is so overwhelming and bizarre that MJ wants to do something stupid, like scream.
But Peter, obviously, obliges. “Sure,” he says, slipping off his sneakers and slotting them neatly against the wall. “Sure.”
Ned smiles dismissively, then turns to walk into his bedroom. The sound the door makes as it shuts behind him rings like a gong and echoes in the space between them.
Peter takes his place beside her, on the farthest edge of the couch. MJ plays with her stockings, tugging the sheer, black fabric away from her legs before letting it snap back. Silence stretches, the awkwardness nearly palpable, until Peter clears his throat. Her eyes dart to meet him.
“So, um—“ He scratches the back of his neck. “Do you usually, uh, like to go out? To bars, I mean.”
“I’ve learned to tolerate it,” she replies. “They can get a little overstimulating sometimes, but it’s nice to hang out with your friends.”
A smile touches his lips. “It’s nice to hear you say that. You weren’t always…”
He clamps his mouth shut, and MJ’s heart squeezes. It’s an impossible thing not to stumble into for him, their past together, but she can tell he never meant to bring it up. He hasn’t since that moment with the letter.
“You’re right,” MJ offers compassionately, and Peter’s relief at not offending her is visible and immediate. “I got much better at making friends in college. Being in a new city kinda forces you to.”
“Did you like Boston?”
“I did,” she says. “Historical cities are nice. It had a lot of museums and I liked that it was walkable.”
“So not so different from New York, then?”
MJ smiles, which prompts an identical one from Peter. “In some ways, no, but if a Bostonian heard you say that, they’d kill you.”
Peter laughs. It transforms his whole face, and the sound dips straight to her stomach. “I’ve heard that stereotype, but I gotta be honest, my only frame of reference for Boston is the Celtics.”
“Really? You’ve never been?” She would have figured that superheroes are world travelers.
“To Boston, no. But I've been to Germany, to D.C., some cities in Europe. Outer space, even.”
“Outer space?!” MJ exclaims. “For what?”
“Avengers stuff.”
“Look at you,” she whistles, leaning back as she eyes him appreciatively. “You should work at NASA.”
Peter huffs. “I would if my social security was still on record.”
Her smile falls. Silence emerges again, and MJ sees the exact moment Peter realizes he’s said something objectively sad and uncomfortable. His shoulders slouch and his eyes dart away. He shields his face with his hair.
“Why did you do it?” MJ hears herself whisper. “Why did you let him cast that spell and make everyone forget you?”
“I didn’t have a choice,” he says ruefully. “It was the only way to save everyone.”
“At the expense of yourself.”
“Wouldn’t you do it?” he returns, imploring her. His hands are folded over his knees, his dark brows furrowed. “If it was between you and everyone you loved, what would you do?”
Love. That word again. MJ’s heart throbs with pity and a strange, surging desperation. It’s pure impulse that makes her say, “I wish there was something I could do.”
“You already tried.”
He must be referencing her kiss, but she didn’t really do that, did she? It was that telepath girl. The one who took over her mind and tried to trick him. Ned was able to remember by doing their handshake, but would that work for her?
Maybe I can—
MJ, almost unwittingly, mindlessly, scoots closer to him on the couch. Peter’s eyes widen, his mouth parting to speak, until something in her expression makes him clamp it shut. A strange intensity falls over his face when her fingers brush his cheeks, and a shiver visibly runs through him.
“That wasn’t me,” she whispers. His breath warms her lips. “I never tried anything.”
“MJ…” She feels his forehead brush against her own.
Then, a door bangs open. “I’m ready!”
In a flash, MJ flings herself away from Peter and lands on the other end of the couch, her chest heaving. Ned ambles out in jeans and a graphic t-shirt, seemingly none the wiser, and grins at them both.
“You ready?” he asks Peter.
“Uh—“ He clears the rumble from his throat. “Yeah. Yeah!”
Peter practically flies from the couch, but not before sparing her a final glance. It sends a peel of heat straight through her. “Bye, MJ.”
“Bye, Peter,” she says, too softly. When the door shuts behind them, she buries her face into a throw pillow and chants, “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck!”
Later, when she reflects on this moment, she chalks it up to a bout of insanity, of intense curiosity, as MJ is occasionally predisposed to.
How could she have helped herself, really? Through Ned, she’d learned that memories could be recovered through touch, and Peter had looked so sad that it stirred a similar kind of desperation in her to remember. Granted, it was a stupid idea, and one she’s ultimately glad she didn’t indulge, because what did she think would happen? That true love’s kiss would break the spell? It’s almost disgusting how foolish she’d been, and how selfish, knowing how much he reportedly loves her.
Paul fails to notice her increasingly somber mood, thank God. Ned points it out once or twice, but his curiosity is easy to shake off with so many things to blame it on: her failure to secure a job she wants, her frustration with her co-workers, her dad, whenever he happens to call.
Peter, of course, gives no indication that he knows anything, but doesn’t offer any questions either. Nor does he try to hide how openly he stares.
It makes her feel on edge, teeth grit, exposed like a nude woman on stage. Every time MJ is around him, she wants to shake him by his shoulders and demand that he stops taunting her, but she’s afraid of the consequences that might follow.
It’s gotten to the point where Peter even appears in her dreams. Most of the time, he looks as he does now. But every so often, she’ll envision a distorted fragment of an image— a boyish haircut, a shattered necklace— and she doesn’t know if that’s worse. The entire ordeal is unsettling. It’s not uncommon for MJ to wake up already ruminating on the possibility of uncovering repressed memories in her sleep. And the uncertainty of it, of never really knowing fact from fiction, is enough to keep her in bed most mornings. There’s a secret life she’s lived that she can’t remember. There are experiences she’s had that she might never access again. In some ways, it would be safe to say that Peter Parker knows MJ more intimately than she knows herself. Which is a terrifying thought for a girl who’s lived most of her life never trying to be known by anyone.
Life retains its sense of irony.
The next time they see each other, they’re standing on the subway platform, both heading in the same direction.
MJ notices Peter first. He has his hoodie pulled up and his face bent towards his phone, but she recognizes the tip of his nose: pointed and slightly crooked. Anxiety and shame strikes her square between the ribs, and there’s a half-second where she finds herself turning away, until he lifts his head.
Their eyes meet through the shifting crowd. Peter’s mouth parts, while MJ tries to decide what she should do. They haven’t really spoken since their moment on the couch, which has largely been by design. It’s not like she wants to avoid him, but MJ is afraid of how impulsive he makes her. Besides, Paul doesn’t deserve to reap the consequences of her stupidity. He’s a good guy and a solid partner, and she knows it would kill him to find out what almost happened.
Yet Peter still approaches her, anyway.
He slips through the crowd with ease, his hands buried in his jacket pockets. Her heart thuds when she spots the fresh bruise blooming along the edge of his right cheek. As well as his split lip, red and a little scabbed over, like it’d only just recently healed. An intense worry nearly threatens to bowl her over, so strong MJ has to cross her arms to keep from reaching for him.
Why do I feel this way? she thinks, slightly panicked. I barely know him.
Or, rather, she barely knows him anymore.
“Hi,” MJ greets weakly, once he’s close enough to hear. “What’s, um… What’s up?”
“Uh— nothing.” His gaze hasn’t left her face. He looks uneasy, like he’s afraid she might run away. “I was just, uh, getting on the train.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” she says. Peter chuckles. It helps her relax a little. “Are you going anywhere?”
“I’m… visiting a hospital, believe it or not.”
MJ goes cold. “Are you hurt?”
“No, no,” he reassures her, before stepping closer. He pulls the sleeve of his jacket down enough to reveal his suit beneath. “The staff at New York-Presbyterian are always asking if the kids can meet Spider-Man.”
“Oh,” she says softly. “That’s very nice of you.”
Peter tucks his hand back into his pocket and gives her an awkward smile. “Eh, you know. It’s part of the job, I guess.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that. I mean, I don't think I ever hear of Daredevil visiting kids at the hospital.”
“Would it surprise you to know it’s because they don’t ask for him?” Peter asks wryly.
MJ laughs. The sound is nearly swallowed by the din of the crowd, but Peter’s answering smile is wide and immediate. It thrills her to notice how often that happens, this seeming call and response between her amusement and his joy.
“What about you?” he asks, his voice lighter. “Are you headed anywhere?”
“Central park.” MJ reaches into her satchel and lifts her sketchbook. “I’m planning to draw and people-watch.”
“Your two favorite things!”
Her brows quirk. She nearly asks him how he knows this about her, until realization strikes. Right. He’s talking about the old MJ, his MJ. The one who apparently loved him.
The train arrives just then, thankfully before the moment can turn awkward. MJ and Peter hop onto the nearest car and sit next to each other, silent again, their shoulders pressed together. She drums her fingers against her satchel in a nervous rhythm, trying to think of something else she can say.
“You know, um—“ she starts.
“I’m sorry about—“ Peter says.
They both stop to gape at each other, momentarily speechless, until he breaks the tension with a short laugh. “You first,” he says.
“Thanks.” MJ gives an awkward chuckle, tucking a curl behind her ear. She shifts towards him slightly. “Look— I, um… I wanted to apologize to you about what happened last week.”
Peter immediately shakes his head, but she continues. “No, I know I have to. It was— wrong of me to do that and to put us both in that position. I honestly don’t even really know what I was thinking, but I know it was selfish and potentially hurtful to you. And I…” She puts a hand over her chest. “I still don’t remember anything, Peter, but I know that I care about you.”
It’s an uncomfortably vulnerable statement, but a genuine one. Despite whatever confusion Peter may instill in her, MJ cares about him. She finds herself thinking about his safety often, and it makes her happy to know that he and Ned are friends again. Though she’s still unsure of where she stands, she knows that she wants him in her life in some capacity.
Peter looks at her for a long moment, his eyes searching and almost intense, before he softens.
“I wanted to say the same thing,” he admits, taking his hands out of his pockets. She watches him play with his fingers, nicked from previous injuries. “Things have been tense between us lately, and I know haven’t exactly made things easy for you—“
She snorts. “I’ve hardly made things easy for myself.”
“—But beyond anything, MJ,” he finishes. “Before we were anything, we were friends, and I’d like for us to be friends again.”
“Are you sure?” she asks, after a beat.
Peter smiles and bumps her shoulder with his own. “Of course I’m sure. Who wouldn’t want to be friends with you?”
“About half of Queens,” MJ snarks. “And most of our classmates at Midtown high, but—“
He laughs, recognizing the olive branch for what it is, and offers her his hand. MJ takes it and pumps their wrists in a handshake— not anything half as elaborate as what he might do with Ned, but just as meaningful. A helpless joy bubbles within her and spreads across her face. It reminds her vividly of how she felt while speaking to him through the curtain in Frank’s hideout. He just makes it so easy.
“I hope our wonderful friendship is everything you remember and more, tiger,” she says.
“Tiger?” Peter repeats, delighted.
“I meant it a little sarcastically, but I don’t know. I think it suits you.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
They settle back into their seats, the air lighter between them. MJ is content to let the rest of their ride pass in silence until she feels a nudge against her shoulder. When she glances over, Peter is holding out an earbud.
His brown eyes sparkle. “You wanna listen to some music?”
“Sure,” she says, and pops it in.
For the next three minutes or so, it’s Kath Bloom who croons into their ears, and who MJ mimics afterwards, singing under her breath, every time she thinks of that moment.
When she gets home from the park several hours later, MJ finds Paul waiting in the kitchen, an abandoned carton of orange juice next to him.
“Hey!” he greets, ambling over to give her a kiss. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been waiting for over an hour.”
“At the park,” MJ responds, a bit tightly. “If you were curious, you could’ve just called me.”
Paul’s eyebrows shoot upwards and he raises his hands in a defensive gesture. “I was only asking.”
“I know.” She briefly shuts her eyes, sighing deeply through her nose. Irritation licks at her insides, warming her all over, but she forcibly swallows it down. MJ is uninterested in squabbling over her being withholding again. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, babe.”
Paul reaches for her waist, presumably to kiss her again, but she dodges to drop her satchel onto her desk chair. Her boyfriend perseveres and hugs her, anyway, dropping his chin onto her shoulder.
“Ned’s staying at a friend’s house,” he says, pressing a long kiss to the side of her neck. “I took that as an invitation for us to spend some time together.” He shifts against her back, his hands falling low on her hips towards her zipper. In a flash, MJ turns in his embrace, his wrists held firmly between them.
It shocks them both.
“I’m sorry,” she gasps. Paul’s eyes are wide, bright with disappointment and bewilderment. She kisses him quickly to assuage his hurt feelings, then pulls away to caress his cheeks with her thumbs. Reeling, she adds, “I’m just… I’m not really in the mood today.”
He stares at her for a moment. MJ’s heart thunders violently, as skittish as a newborn deer. Though she knows it’s ridiculous, there’s a part of her that fears Paul may be able to see echoes of what she’s done lately with Peter, and it stirs an uncomfortable, prickling sensation of guilt. MJ hasn’t technically done anything— they’d never kissed and she’s hardly touched him outside of the web slinging— but the fact that she even has to qualify it makes her itch.
For a moment, she debates whether she should tell Paul about her newfound friendship with Peter, until he smiles and hugs her again. A short, perfunctory squeeze.
“I’m gonna go use your shower,” he says, bypassing the moment entirely. “You don’t mind if I sleep over, do you?”
“No,” MJ says softly. “I don’t mind at all.”
She has that dream again— the one where she’s standing on the rooftop with Ned. The clouds are as dark and bulging as they’d been last time, and MJ can see vague shadows through them, shifting in the wind.
The figure in front of her is muted and gray, but MJ can see whispers of a face. He doesn’t look like anyone she can identify on the street, but she senses, with some primal, animal intuition, that she loves him. They love each other.
Her hands are touching his cheeks. Warm breath tickles her lips, hitching in an uneven rhythm, like he is keeping his sobs locked in the square of his chest. Everything about him makes her heart ache.
“Just wait,” she hears herself say. “Wait and tell me when you see me again.”
“What if you worked at Stark Industries?” Peter asks.
They’re sitting on a bench together outside of the coffee shop she works at. MJ’s shift ended about ten minutes prior, but over the past month, it’s become something of a ritual to cool off with him afterwards. Supposedly, he enjoys their coffee enough to drink it everyday— or whenever he knows she’s working.
“I’ve considered it,” she says lightly, stretching her legs out in front of her. It’s half-past 7, and Ned should be getting home from work soon. Earlier that morning, MJ had promised to buy them dinner, but the effort it’ll take to fish her phone from her pocket and call their favorite pizza shop is almost too much to bear. She groans, just to give her frustration life.
Peter laughs. “What? Is the suggestion that bad?”
“No,” she says, rolling her neck to look at him. His chin is propped against his hand, his curls messy from the wind. Or his mask, or whatever the hell he was doing before he decided to drop by. “I have to buy dinner.”
“So go buy dinner.”
MJ kicks at his foot, but he dodges her easily. Superhero instincts.
“I’m going to,” she grouses. “But I overestimated how willing I’d be to speak to another human being after ten hours of speaking to several human beings when I told Ned I’d buy him pizza.”
“Let me do it, then,” Peter says, taking his phone from his pocket. “My job doesn’t require much social interaction, so I’m fresh.”
MJ smiles at him saccharinely, which he interprets as an agreement. Well-versed in her and Ned’s preferred eateries at this point, he calls the exact place she’d been thinking of and places their usual order: a large cheese for MJ and a hawaiian for Ned, who is tasteless in this way. She listens, idly, to the low rasp of Peter’s voice and watches him speak. With dusk approaching, his eyes look nearly black in the receding light. It flatters him.
“Done,” he announces, snapping his phone shut. MJ jolts a bit, shocked from her stupor, and those eyes slide to her own. The energy abruptly shifts as he realizes she was staring, forcing MJ to turn away.
A protracted silence follows, before he adds, “They said it’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
“Cool.”
Sometimes, when MJ has to be honest with herself, she’ll admit that when she’s around him, she feels shaken loose. Like someone grabbed her by the shoulders and violently knocked her head around to disorient her. It reminds MJ, rather uncomfortably, of how she felt during the mind-freeze, or next to him on the couch— mindless, propelled by a deep agitation of spirit.
“So… about the job,” he starts.
Reluctantly, she looks over at him again. His attention is fixed to her face, and he radiates a singular intensity she’s come to associate with him. It might be because he’s Spider-Man, but Peter sees the world differently, in more vivid colors.
“What about it?”
“What’s really holding you back?”
MJ raises her brows. “What do you mean?”
“You’re practically a genius,” he says, without reserve. “If not outright. You were the only person to help me figure out why my inhibitor chip wasn’t working, and you did that within minutes of just looking at me. You graduated from MIT with honors and you’re an aerospace engineer. You could work anywhere, so why aren’t you?”
It’s a question MJ has been fielding for a while, to the same effect. “I don’t want to sell my soul.”
“Who would you be selling your soul to?”
“You know,” she says, picking at a loose thread on her shirt. “Defense contractors, the government. The people who make their money off the degradation of others. I don’t want to give my brain to them.”
“You want to save the world,” Peter observes.
MJ lifts her eyes to him, but pauses at his knowing expression. He holds the tip of his finger to his temple and taps it, adding, “There’s an ancient Greek word I like a lot. It’s called homophrosyne. It means like-mindedness.”
A whole universe exists in that statement, but she can only bear to grasp the sentiment behind it: I understand you. And why should that surprise her? If anyone knows why MJ thinks the way she does, it would be a superhero. It would be Spider-Man.
“So, what do you suppose I should do?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “But I have to be honest, I’m not too worried about where you’ll end up. I could even see you being president someday.”
MJ loudly scoffs. “I’d never be president.”
“I’m aware, but I’d like to live in that world. We always need more people like you.”
“Or like you,” she says softly. Their gazes lock, and pure impulse prompts her to tap her temple, earning Peter’s laugh.
“Homophrosyne,” he says.
Afterwards, they go to Ray’s to pick up their pizzas, the implication that Peter will be joining her and Ned for dinner remaining unspoken, but fairly obvious. A slight drizzle starts on their way there, before becoming a full downpour just as Peter, leaning over the counter, takes the boxes into his arms. MJ watches the clouds shift through the shop window, an echo of deja vu panging through her.
“Your apartment is about a five minute walk from here,” Peter says, sidling up beside her. “I’m not afraid to run.”
She tips a smile to him. “Neither am I.”
MJ offers her coat to cover the boxes, which leads Peter to— very gallantly— drape his own jacket over her shoulders to protect her from the rain. Though she would normally refuse, MJ allows the gesture, tucking her hair back and pulling the hoodie over her face. His scent envelops her, masculine and slightly musky, but with a lingering sweetness that makes her laugh. She recognizes it.
“Do you wear curl cream?”
“I love Miss Jessie’s,” he says without shame. “I’ve been using it since high school.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
They’re soaked within minutes. MJ shrieks a laugh once exposed to the strength of the rain, while Peter, doubtlessly accustomed to bracing the elements, takes her hand and begins to sprint. The streets are empty save for a few stragglers, which gives them the freedom to run around lightpoles, under scaffolding, through narrow sidewalks, without giving anyone issues. It’s a bizarrely liberating feeling, and MJ can’t help but grin the whole way, a child again.
When they reach her building, Peter skids to a stop, causing her to crash into his back. Instinctively, he takes her under his arm and leads MJ to the front door, where they huddle together to escape the downpour. She fishes for her keys with trembling fingers, freezing everywhere but where Peter is pressed against her. Once she finally manages to open the door, she turns to invite him inside, but pauses when she realizes how close he is. His nose is barely inches from her own, and his eyes, dark as the night sky, swallow her field of vision. There is little of the world outside of him.
Peter, very carefully, reaches around her and deposits the box of pizzas onto the row of mailboxes in the hallway. His hand skims his jacket as he pulls it back, but he keeps it hovering over her waist. MJ’s heart pounds a frantic beat she’s positive he can hear, and she lets the hoodie fall from her face. His gaze drops to her lips, their foreheads brushing as he leans in.
That sensation overcomes her again— the same one that drew her to him on the couch, the naked urge she’d felt to touch him. She tilts her head and he follows, their mouths parted, gasping, his arm caging her in. His stomach brushes against her own when he exhales, and she nearly sighs, her palms finding the sides of his face. They’re not kissing, but the exchange feels more thrilling, more intimate than sex.
“MJ,” he breathes, enthralled. “MJ.”
She pulls him in. His mouth falls to her neck, beneath the wedge of her jaw, and fixes to it. She moans as he kisses down her throat, arousal flaring in her gut. Her fingers wind into his curls, and she directs him towards her lips, utterly mindless in the pursuit of his touch.
“I think about you so much,” she whispers. “Everytime… Everytime Paul tries to kiss me, I think of you, and it makes me feel so guilty.”
“Because it’s wrong?”
Their eyes meet. An electric thread shivers down her spine. “Because of you. Because it’s not you. It should be you.”
Peter groans in agony and presses her against the door. Their lips crash together, and his arm encircles her waist as he lifts her to him, yearning to be closer. MJ’s heart does something strange, expanding beyond the walls of her chest with pure elation, yet throbbing painfully, like she’s fit to burst. From the tips of her fingers to the bottoms of her toes, she is a living bruise, continuously pressed upon.
“I love you,” Peter confesses between kisses. His lips travel to her cheeks, her nose, her hairline, where he stops to breathe her in. “I love you. I love you so much it feels like I’ll die.”
Her brows furrow. A slight discomfort arises, and there’s a split second where she fears she must reject him again, until a splitting headache envelops her skull. With a cry, MJ instinctively pushes away from him, her palms flying to her face. A loud, distressed moan pours from her open mouth.
Peter instantly turns frantic. “MJ? MJ, are you alright? Did something happen?!”
“No,” she gasps. “No! No, it’s my—”
“Just wait,” she hears. It’s a groaning echo, accompanied by a series of images. “Wait and tell me when you see me again.”
In a panic, MJ scrambles past the door, but only makes it as far as the hallway. She huddles against the wall in a protective gesture, but feels Peter at her back, rabid with concern.
“What’s going on?” he demands. “Are you hurt?”
She can’t speak through her rapid breathing. Her eyesight has been replaced by a revolving set of fragmented moments— a rumbling cloud, Ned’s fingers covering his face, a teenage boy, rapidly coming into focus. He’s trying to tell her, “I love you.”
MJ rips her hands away and spins around, panting. Once she blinks through the fading darkness, she sees Peter just inches away from her, his face slack with terror. Her heart pitches, like it’s trying to escape her chest.
“What’s… What's the last thing I said to you?” she croaks.
He shakes his head in depthless confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“Before—“ MJ forces herself to inhale. Her voice is brittle with tears. “Before the spell, what’s the last thing I said to you?”
“MJ, I don’t understand—“
“Say it!” she shrieks.
Peter freezes, realization dawning over him. His jaw unhinges, his lips trembling as he recites, “Just wait. Wait and tell me—“
“When you see me again,” MJ finishes, tears blurring her vision. She blinks rapidly, but there’s no end to the flood. It’s all striking her at once. “Oh, Peter! Peter.”
She throws herself into his arms just as he tugs her in. Together, they fall against the wall with a loud thud before sinking to the floor in a heap, both weeping. Desperate lips and hands seek each other out, every sensation magnified with debilitating clarity.
It’s the strangest she’s ever felt. MJ knows, intuitively, that there are many memories they share she still cannot recall, but something inside of her, in the core of her very being, finally feels slotted into place. Like a puzzle piece, or a key sliding into a padlock. The MJ from before and the MJ she is now are one being again.
Peter pulls away from her lips and pushes her bangs back with his fingers, searching her face. With a primal, anguished hope, he asks, “Is it you? Is it really you?”
She recalls the last time this happened, she’d been brainwashed by Jean Grey in an attempt to trick him, and her heart shatters. She takes his face in her hands and kisses him again, gently, in a way no one can recreate but she.
“It’s me, Peter,” she says once she leans back. A mad smile stretches across her face, unhinged with relief. “It’s me. It’s me.”
They fall back together.
It’s only afterwards, when they’re lying snuggled top-to-toe in her bed, that MJ realizes the hard conversation she has awaiting her. When she, rather awkwardly, reminds Peter, he laughs with visible delight.
“Eh, he’ll get over it. Patrick was only ever your rebound, anyway.”
“Paul,” she says.
“See?”
MJ swats at his bare chest in reproach as Peter rolls her over him. She stays in the circle of his arms, her palms bracketing his face. Then, another realization.
“Oh!” she says aloud.
“What?”
“I just realized something,” she says. “The origin of all my weirdness lately. Do you remember when Jean Grey did that city-wide freeze?”
Peter winces, shifting uncomfortably. “How could I ever forget?”
MJ pops a kiss to his mouth in sympathy, before continuing, “All that time afterwards, when I visited you in the hospital, when I sat on our high school roof, when I nearly kissed you on the couch. All those dreams I had… it was my body remembering you, even though my mind hadn’t caught up yet.”
“Maybe that’s why it hurt you so much,” he offers, running a thumb down her temple. “When Ned remembered, it was almost instantaneous, but your mind was fighting it for whatever reason.”
“Through sheer stubbornness, I’m sure.”
Peter smiles and tugs her down again, their heads falling on the same pillow. She draws a finger over the dimple in his chin, rueful to ruin the moment.
“I still don’t remember everything,” she finally admits. “I know who you are. I know that I love you, but there are still empty spaces, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get those back.”
“We’ll make more memories,” Peter says instantly. “And if you have questions, I’ll always be happy to answer them for you. You only need to ask.”
MJ smiles, leaning over to kiss him softly. In the quiet of her bedroom, it feels like the grandest of homecomings.
“I’ll take your word for it.”