Chapter Text
It was morning, and Jean was pissed.
Twenty minutes. She specifically recalled telling Peter to wake her up in twenty minutes.
Somehow, twenty minutes became eight hours.
Eight hours where anything could have happened while she was unconscious.
She should be furious, but her fury was dampened when she saw Peter after waking up.
He still looked bad, bruises decorated his face, but his skin was no longer pale, and he seemed more energetic and less tired. He looked more…alive.
Jean didn’t understand it. Accelerated healing, maybe? Some Spider-Man thing?
What she did know was Peter looked magnitudes better than yesterday.
She was happy, but still pissed. So she glared at Peter with about as much anger as she could muster (there wasn’t much).
“You were supposed to wake me.”
Peter looked over, amused.
“Good morning to you too.”
“Twenty minutes.”
“You got your twenty minutes.”
“No, I slept for eight hours.”
Peter shrugged. “Well, twenty minutes does fit into eight hours so you technically did get your twenty minutes.”
“Parker, you should have woken me up.”
Peter’s amused expression softened. “You looked tired.”
Jean’s annoyance dampened. She was tired, and she felt better, but that was besides the point.
“You were shot.”
“Why is it always about me being shot?”
“Because someone has to be responsible.”
A snort came from the corner.
Jean turned.
Frank was awake, watching them with an expression that immediately annoyed her.
“Something funny?”
“Responsible?” Frank repeated.
Jean’s eyes narrowed.
“Yesterday I gave you twenty bucks to get something to eat.”
Jean said nothing.
Frank pointed toward the empty energy drink and crumpled chip bag nearby.
“That what passes for dinner where you’re from?”
Jean glanced at the evidence. Her face started to turn crimson, embarrassment flooding her system.
“…I ate.”
“You had chips.”
“Potatoes are food.”
Peter made the mistake of laughing.
Jean turned on him.
“Don’t start,” she said, pointing a finger at him.
Peter immediately raised both hands.
“Not saying anything.”
A knock at the door killed the conversation. Frank glanced toward the door before standing up.
“Come in.”
A man in black scrubs stepped through, a white coat hanging over him. Tall, mid-forties, tired eyes behind rectangular glasses, a tablet held in both hands.
Jean noticed the change in Peter immediately. The familiar presence she'd learned to recognize sharpened suddenly, anxiousness cutting through what had been easy amusement moments earlier.
The smile disappeared. His shoulders stiffened, his right hand instinctively reaching toward his face until stopping halfway.
Jean followed that movement.
No mask.
A realization that dawned on Peter too.
His eyes flicked toward the doctor. Then the door. Then back to the doctor.
For the first time since she'd woken up, he looked genuinely on edge.
The doctor regarded Jean and Frank with a nod, before turning to Peter.
“Good mor-”
“How many people have seen my face?”
The doctor stopped.
“Not many.”
“How many?” Peter said, slowly. He wasn’t loud, but there was no longer any amusement in his voice.
The doctor understood immediately.
“The trauma team that brought you in. The surgeons that operated on you. Two ICU nurses, and myself. That’s it.”
“…That qualifies as ‘not many’ to you?”
“At this hospital?” The doctor gave him a tired look. “Yes.”
Peter still looked distressed.
“Spiderman, I can assure you your need for privacy was paramount. Your chart was restricted as soon as we realized who you were. We don’t even know your name, as far as the hospital is concerned, you arrived as an unidentified trauma patient.”
Peter didn’t look particularly reassured.
“And the people who saw me?”
“Know better.”
The doctor’s eyes softened into something warmer, more reassuring.
“You have saved this city so many times and helped countless people. Nobody on my team is interested in repaying that by putting your face on the internet.”
The doctor's words eased Peter’s anxiety by a little. The doctor looked down at his chart.
“The round passed through the left side of your chest-”
Frank flinched. Jean’s stomach tightened. Neither said anything.
“It lacerated the lower portion of your lung, fractured a rib, and caused significant internal bleeding. You were also developing a hemothorax by the time you reached us.”
Peter stared, uncomprehending.
“In considerably less medical terminology, you are very lucky to be alive.”
Jean released a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.
“Normally, I would want to keep you here for several days for observation…”
“I am sensing a but…”
“But, you are healing at a rate so fast it escapes my medical understanding.”
Peter perked up so quickly Jean almost laughed. “Does that mean I get to leave?!”
“Yes. With restrictions.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”
“Rest. For at least the next several days. No strenuous physical activity.”
Peter nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
The doctor looked over the top of his tablet.
“That includes Spider-Man.”
Peter’s mouth opened.
“No swinging across Manhattan. No fighting. No lifting anything unnecessarily heavy. Give your body time to finish repairing the damage.”
“But if something happens—”
“I’ll make sure.”
Peter stopped.
Jean stopped too.
She hadn’t actually meant to say that out loud.
Peter turned toward her.
“You’ll make sure?”
Jean crossed her arms.
“You were shot.”
“I’m aware.”
“Apparently not enough.”
From the corner, Frank snorted.
“Listen to Red, kid.”
Peter looked between them.
“Oh, great. There’s two of you now.”
The doctor looked between Jean and Frank, seemingly satisfied.
“Excellent. Then I leave you in capable hands.”
The doctor turned to leave.
“Oh, whenever you are ready to leave, feel free to…Spider-man your way out of here.”
“...Didn’t you just say no strenuous activity?” Peter deadpanned.
The doctor paused. The doctor paused. ““Then ‘Spider-Man’ , you're out of your way out responsibly. “Oh, Ms. Grey. One more thing.”
Jean looked at the doctor.
“The lab rejected your blood sample. Apparently it was contaminated somewhere during processing, so we’ll need to draw another.”
Jean stared at him.
“…Are you serious?”
“Unfortunately.”
“No.”
The doctor blinked. “Ms. Grey—”
“I’ve had enough needles in my arm.”
The doctor looked like he wanted to argue, then seemed to think better of it.
“All right. I’ll make a note.”
The doctor left, and Peter immediately turned to Frank and Jean.
“I want to leave.”
Jean couldn’t agree more, she didn’t want another nurse sticking a needle in her arm.
Frank snorted. “Figured you would.”
Peter swung his legs over and Jean was immediately by his side, putting his arm around her shoulder and easing him into a standing position.
“Thanks.” Jean looked away from Peter’s smile.
“Oh, by the way, you should take a look.”
Even though he didn’t need it, Jean hovered by Peter’s side as he walked toward the window. When he pulled back the curtain, he stilled.
“...What the hell?”
Down at street level, a crowd stretched along the barricades outside the hospital.
Children sat on their parents' shoulders. Construction workers stood beside men in expensive suits. Elderly couples lingered near reporters and news vans. Some wore red and blue. Others carried signs.
GET WELL, SPIDER-MAN!
NYC NEEDS YOU!
Peter stared outside for a long time, completely silent.
“...How long have they been out there?”
“People come and go, but there's always a crowd. Two days.”
Jean noticed the way Peter’s jaw went slack, the way his eyes lit up as he stared at the crowd.
He was in awe.
Somehow, he was genuinely surprised that all of these people had gathered here because of him.
For some reason, that irritated Jean.
He should have known.
Spider-Man had done so much for this city. He had saved countless people. Why was Peter surprised that they had shown up? That they cared whether he recovered?
He shouldn’t have been surprised.
But he was.
Jean didn’t know why that bothered her as much as it did.
“Why are you surprised?”
Peter glanced at her.
“What?”
Jean gestured toward the window.
“That they're here.”
Peter looked back outside.
“…I don't know.”
Jean's frown deepened.
That was somehow worse.
“I guess the front door is no longer an option.”
“Yep, but don’t worry.”
Jean and Peter turned to Frank, who had a mischievous smirk.
“I’ve got a plan.”
Jean had thought the hospital was bad.
She was wrong.
Manhattan was worse, way worse.
It was somewhat bearable right outside the hospital, partly because seeing Frank hoot and holler from the hospital room window while wearing the Spiderman mask was hilarious. There was also Peter’s silent appreciation of the crowd, the way he observed the cheering people with a mixture of awe and surprise, and how he enthusiastically reciprocated that Spiderman hand gesture that child did to him. It was a nice reprieve from the bombardment of thoughts that invaded her mind.
The reprieve didn’t last long. It collapsed once they reached one of Manhattan’s busy intersections.
Peter stayed a few steps ahead, weaving through the crowd at a pace noticeably slower than the people around them.
Jean assumed it was for her.
She stayed close behind, but the pressure behind her eyes was gradually building up.
Jean made it a block until it became unbearable. A hot white flash of pain rippled across her mind. It was agonizing and blinding, akin to being flashbanged. She clutched her head, squeezing her eyes painfully tight as the uninvited thoughts flooded her brain.
Shit. Did I leave the stove on?
I’m late to class!
Go! The light is green!
Fifteen bucks for this?!
A flash of frustration that wasn’t hers.
Man, I'm so hungry…
Woah that girl is hot as fuck.
“...It hurts,” Jean mumbled.
“What hurts?”
Jean’s eyes opened slightly.
Peter?
She hadn’t even realized she'd spoken loud enough for him to hear. He was no longer several steps ahead of her. He was right in front of her, concerned.
“My head…” Jean squeezed her eyes shut again. “Too many people.”
“Come on.” Jean felt a hand lay gently against her back as she was guided off the main street. She followed without arguing, too busy trying to keep her head from exploding.
Once they turned the corner, the barrage became slightly more bearable. Not quiet, not even close, but enough for Jean to finally get her bearings.
The thoughts were still there, bleeding in from the street, but they had lost some of their sharpness. Instead of crashing into her all at once, they came muffled through the alley, like voices from a crowded room heard through a closed door.
Jean exhaled slowly, relief flooding her as the pounding in her head lessened little by little.
They were standing beside a dumpster, tucked away from the endless stream of people moving along the sidewalk.
“Are you okay?” Jean turned to see Peter, his figure blocking the sea of people.
“Yeah…thanks,” Jean said, rubbing her head.
Peter nodded, turning his head to look at the busy main street before looking back at her.
“What did you mean by ‘too many people?’ Manhattan is always busy.”
“I mean…too many thoughts.”
Peter tilted his head. Jean was starting to realize he did that whenever he didn’t understand something.
“My powers are… different now. Before, I had to hop into someone’s head to hear what they were thinking. Now…it comes uninvited.”
“Oh,” Understanding dawned on Peter’s face. “That could be a problem.” He put a hand to his chin as he looked down in thought.
“When I was…mutating. Everything felt…turned up. Sounds, movement, smells, everything.”
Jean looked at him.
“Not thoughts obviously,” Peter clarified. “I was so overwhelmed I didn’t know what to pay attention to.”
“What did you do?”
Peter thought for a moment.
“Stopped trying to pay attention to everything.” Peter suddenly looked up, Jean could practically see the lightbulb flashing above his head.
“Can you focus on one?”
Jean frowned. “One what?”
“Mind. Thought. Whatever you call it. Just one thing instead of all of them.”
Jean hesitated before reaching out.
Not into Peter’s mind.
She stopped at the edge of it, hovering around the familiar presence, like how one would linger at the doorway before entering a house.
The texture of Peter’s mind was immediately recognizable. And loud. Very loud.
His thoughts were fast and chaotic, firing out before disappearing, like fireworks at night. He was worried about how the hospital staff had seen his face. Faint amusement at Frank wearing his mask still lingered.
But eventually, all the thoughts circled back to her one way or another.
Is she okay?
Should I go and buy her some water?
I wish I could help more.
“You are helping,” Jean blurted, then stilled.
Peter paused, his posture laced with a combination of confusion and suspicion.
“Did you just read my mind?” His tone was calm, but slightly guarded.
Jean immediately pulled back a fraction.
“Not reading it. I’m just…” She struggled for the word. “Hovering, I guess.”
Peter still looked confused.
“I can hear things that are already on the surface. I’m not looking for anything.”
Jean suddenly felt less confident.
“I-Is that okay?”
Peter thought for a moment. “...Does it help with the noise?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not going through memories or anything?”
“No.”
“Then…yeah. That’s okay.”
Jean blinked. “You’re sure?”
“If it helps.”
Jean stared at him.
She had expected hesitation. Maybe suspicion. At the very least, more questions.
Instead, Peter had barely thought twice.
After everything she had done with other people’s minds, he was still willing to let her near his.
Her gaze dropped.
Why did he keep trusting her with things she hadn’t earned?
Jean hesitated before reaching toward him again. She felt the outer edges of his mind, chaotic but measured.
Peter’s thoughts met her almost immediately.
Still loud.
Still chaotic.
But familiar.
The pressure behind her eyes eased. Jean hated how much relief that brought her.
She looks better now.
A lot better.
Good job, Peter.
Jean’s lips twitched before she could stop them.
Peter smiled at her, just a small quirk at the corner of his mouth, before turning back toward the street.
He took a step, then stopped.
Peter glanced over his shoulder at Jean, thinking for a moment. Then he held out his arm.
Jean stared at it.
“What are you doing?”
“Hold onto my sleeve.”
Jean’s brow furrowed.
“Why?”
“In case it gets overwhelming again.”
Jean’s expression softened. There he was again, being nice when she didn’t deserve any of it.
She took the offer anyway. Her hand slowly reached out until she grabbed his sleeve. The Bellevue hospital sweatshirt was soft and inviting. She tightened her grip, feeling the outline of Peter’s arm through the fabric. To her dismay, the gesture made her feel even more at ease.
Peter waited until she had a firm grip before turning back toward the street.
“You ready?”
Jean looked past him. The neverending stream of people was still there. Thousands of wandering thoughts that required no invitation into her mind.
To her surprise, she was not as intimidated.
“I think so.”
They stepped back into the street again. Peter’s gait had purposely slowed, making sure to never go too fast lest Jean lose her grip. He occasionally glanced back at her, something that Jean appreciated.
The thoughts crashed back into her.
Late-
I’m so lost-
I have to call-
My stocks are crashing-
This time, there was someone familiar among them.
The other thoughts blurred together, overlapping until Jean could barely tell where one ended and another began.
Peter didn't.
Somehow, his mind kept its shape.
Jean focused on the boy who was guiding her through this overwhelming sensory overload.
The noise around her didn’t disappear, but it no longer felt impossible.
With the noise finally pushed into something manageable, Jean noticed something she hadn’t before.
Peter was still walking slowly.
She’d assumed it was for her.
It wasn’t. Or at least, not entirely.
His free hand kept drifting toward his left side. Not clutching it, exactly. Just hovering there whenever his stride became too long. His breathing had changed too. Shorter. Shallower.
“Peter.”
He looked back. “Yeah? Are you okay?”
Jean ignored his concern and focused on hers.
“Your side hurts.”
“I’m fine,” his reassurance was quick, rehearsed. Jean didn’t buy it.
“I see you clutching your side.”
Peter’s eyes drifted to his free hand.
“...It’s a little sore.”
“You have a fractured rib.”
“Hye, at least it’s not broken.”
“Peter.”
“Okay. Yeah. It hurts.”
“How long?”
“What?”
“How long has it been hurting?”
Peter looked away.
That was answer enough.
“You had enough going on,” he said.
Jean said nothing, but her grip tightened around his sleeve and she slowed her pace.
Peter had made the city manageable for her.
The least she could do was make the walk manageable for him.
Neither of them mentioned it.
It was long. It was arduous. But they made it.
They finally made it.
Standing in front of them was Peter’s door.
The walk sucked. Not only had Manhattan spent the entire trip trying to split Jean’s head open, but the elevator in Peter’s building had apparently decided today was the perfect day to break.
Because of course it had.
Jean let out a long breath as Peter slid his key into the lock.
Then she noticed something.
Peter changed.
His shoulders dropped. The tension that had followed him all the way from the hospital seemed to loosen, little by little, until he finally exhaled.
It was subtle, but Jean had spent enough time watching him over the last two days to recognize it.
Whatever waited on the other side of that door, this was the one place where Peter Parker seemed to let his guard down.
Peter opened the door and held it, looking at her expectantly.
She stepped inside, and stopped.
Nothing has changed since she was in her last time.
The battered couch, the command center with the four monitors, 3D printer, and modified police scanner. The cramped kitchen, the small bedroom.
It was exactly the way she remembered it.
But this was different.
Before, she broke into this apartment to dissect Spiderman. See who he was, what made him tick, what weakness he had that she could exploit- anything she could use against him.
But now…
She was wondering where she should put her boots, and how much space she was allowed to take up.
“Welcome,” Peter said, walking past her. “I’m sorry about the mess, I didn’t exactly expect company last time I was here.”
Jean stayed at the entrance, her eyes still drifting around the apartment, taking the familiar details in.
She wouldn’t say the apartment was “messy.”
Just cluttered.
Tools were scattered across the workbench, unorganized wires that connected to the numerous electrical appliances at the command center. Unlabeled boxes on the shelves that contained electronic components. To anyone else, it may have looked like a chaotic mess.
But there was a strange order to it, one that only made sense to the person living here.
Plus, she wasn’t in any position to criticize the way Peter lived.
Up until now, she had been homeless. Living in vacant apartment rooms or hotel rooms after manipulating the hotel staff members into thinking she was a customer.
But still, as she took in everything, she noticed the apartment lacked something…
Personality.
No souvenirs. No framed memories. Nothing pinned to the walls except schematics and notes. The shelves were filled with electronic components and Spider-Man equipment instead of anything that might tell her who Peter Parker was when he wasn’t wearing the mask.
It was purely functional and practical. It didn’t feel like a home, more like a base where Peter refueled and slept before his next patrol as New York City’s favorite vigilante.
Jean followed Peter, who was now in the center of the living room.
“E.V.?”
A soft chime reverberated from somewhere above them, and one of the monitors abruptly woke up. A thin blue line appeared across the screen. It remained flat for a moment before rippling into a soft waveform as E.V. spoke.
“Welcome back Peter. “My suit telemetry indicates you sustained significant physical trauma seventy-one hours and forty-three minutes ago. Should I contact the emergency department?”
“Already handled that.”
“What’s that?” Jean asked
“Oh, that’s right you haven't met each other yet.” Peter gestured toward the monitor.
“Jean, this is E.V., my personal A.I., she helps me with…everything. E.V., this is Jean Gray, and she will be staying with us for a while. Say hello.”
The AI paused, processing the new information.
“Hello Miss Gray. It is nice to properly meet you.”
Jean looked at the monitor. “Properly?”
“Your previous entry was classified as an intrusion.”
Jean’s stomach dropped. Her eyes fell to the floor. One hand closed around the opposite wrist, thumb rubbing slowly across the skin. E.V. was technically correct, but that didn’t stop the shame from rising up, unwelcomed and unforgiving.
Peter immediately cut in.
“E.V.?”
“Yes?”
“Maybe don’t do a historical recap.”
“Understood.”
Peter looked back at Jean. She still hadn’t looked up.
“E.V., register Jean Grey as a resident. Give her full household access. She’s gonna be staying with us for a while.”
“Understood. Jean Grey has been registered as an authorized resident.”
There was a brief pause.
“Miss Gray?”
Her eyes lifted to the monitor.
“Yes?”
“My sensors indicate an elevated heart rate and increased muscular tension following my previous statement.”
Peter grimaced. “E.V.—”
“I believe I upset you.”
Jean blinked in surprise.
“That was not my intention. I apologize.”
“It’s okay. You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”
E.V. remained silent.
Jean straightened slightly and looked toward the monitor again.
“So…hello, E.V.”
A tiny smile tugged at her lips.
“I’m Jean. Properly, this time.”
“It is nice to properly meet you, Miss Gray.”
“You too.”
The avatar blinked.
“This is an unexpected but beneficial development. Peter does not bring over anyone, if delivery people are excluded.”
Peter’s eyes snapped to the monitor.
“E.V.-”
“There are several health benefits that correlate with social interaction-”
“Okay, we're done here.”
Jean looked at Peter, who now was suddenly very interested in the coffee table.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Peter coughed into his hand. “Anyway…make yourself comfortable.”
Jean nodded, though she wasn’t sure what comfortable was supposed to look like here.
She shifted her weight and tugged absently at the collar of her shirt. She took a whiff and cringed.
Two days at the hospital, combined with hours of walking through Manhattan in the heat, created a smell that she did not want entering her nose again.
Suddenly, she was painfully aware of how she smelled.
“Um…Is it okay if I use your shower?” Jean asked.
“Of course,” Peter said. He gestured toward the bedroom. “Bathroom’s through there. Towels are—”
He stopped.
His eyes moved over Jean.
No bag. No change of clothes. Nothing.
“Do you have anything to change into?”
Jean looked down at herself.
“…No.”
“Oh. Shit. Sorry.” Peter grimaced. “We could’ve gotten you some stuff while we were walking back.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’ll get you some stuff tomorrow. Clothes, shampoo, conditioner—whatever you need.”
Jean opened her mouth to protest, then stopped.
She didn’t have any money.
Her gaze dropped for a moment.
“We don’t have to get a lot.”
Peter frowned slightly. “We’ll get whatever you need.”
Before she could argue again, he gestured toward the bedroom.
“For now, you can just borrow some of my clothes.”
Jean followed him into the small sleeping area.
Peter opened one of the drawers and started digging through it before pulling out a faded blue Captain America T-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants.
“These should work.”
Jean took them from him. “Thanks.”
“Yeah. Of course.”
Peter walked toward the kitchen, looked in the fridge, and whatever he saw caused him to wrinkle his nose and close the fridge door with finality.
“You okay with takeout? There’s not much in the fridge.” Peter asked, pulling out his phone.
Jean nodded, gathering up the clothes in her arms. “Yes, I’ll eat whatever.”
Peter looked up from his phone. “Okay, but what do you want?”
“Whatever you’re getting is fine.”
Peter stared. “Jean.”
Jean paused. She didn’t expect him to press the question.
“…Chinese?”
“Chinese I can do. ”
She still hesitated. “If that’s okay.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
Jean paused. Peter looked genuinely confused, like the possibility that she might be asking for too much hadn’t even occurred to him. Before she could figure out what to do with that, he looked back at his phone.
“What do you get?” Peter asked.
“What?”
“Chinese food. What do you actually like?”
Jean thought about it.
“Lo mein.”
“Chicken?”
“…Beef.”
“Cool,” Peter tapped in the order. “Enjoy your shower. Towels are in the bottom drawer.” Peter withdrew from the bedroom and pushed the curtain forward, giving Jean some privacy. She heard his footsteps go back to the living room and heard him plop down onto the couch.
She bumbled his (her) clothes and entered the bathroom.
It was small, very small.
Barely bigger than a broom closet. A cramped sink sat against one wall, cracks spidering around the drain beneath a tiny medicine cabinet. The toilet was directly in front of her, with the shower crammed into the back corner. Exposed pipes ran along the wall, probably sharing plumbing with the kitchen on the other side.
Jean stripped and stepped inside the shower. She let out a long sigh as the warm water hit her shoulders.
God, she missed this.
For months, showers were a luxury. An abandoned apartment room that still had running water, an empty hotel room people forgot to lock. She couldn’t recall the last time she could take a shower without wondering how quickly she needed to leave.
Here, nobody was going to make her leave halfway through.
At least, she didn't think so.
Her thoughts drifted back to Peter.
Towels are in the bottom drawer.
He'd said it so casually.
Like she was supposed to remember.
Like she was going to be here long enough for it to matter.
Jean stared at the tile for a moment, smiling faintly.
Peter kept doing that.
Saying things as if there would obviously be a tomorrow.
She should probably hurry.
Hot water wasn't free. Neither was the food Peter had just ordered. Or the clothes folded outside the shower.
Jean closed her eyes.
Nobody had given her a time limit.
For the first time in months, Jean stopped counting the minutes.
As Jean took her shower, Peter parked himself at the couch, fingers idly tapping against the wooden coffee table as he stared off into space.
The only noise in the apartment was the water running from the shower. He appreciated the silence. It gave him enough clarity to think.
He'd gotten Jean somewhere safe, but Peter knew that only solved the immediate problem.
His fist clenched as he remembered what Jean had told him at the hospital.
Damage Control is still after me.
She was right.
They probably wouldn't try anything right now. Not after everything that had happened. They were just part of a disaster involving the Hulk and Spider-man getting shot.
Jean would be safe here tonight. Maybe even tomorrow.
But eventually, they would come for her.
Peter huffed in frustration.
He could hide Jean, but that’s not living, that surviving, something she had been doing ever since her powers developed.
He could fight Damage Control if they came, but that would only make the situation worse. Fighting federal agents while protecting the woman who held Manhattan hostage was practically writing the argument for them.
He could move her somewhere else, but she would just be running again.
This situation was beyond him. He needed someone who knew how to fight this kind of battle without actually fighting. Someone who understood governments, agencies, and all the bureaucratic shit Peter had absolutely no idea how to navigate.
Tony was dead.
Doctor Strange dealt with the mystic arts, not with politics. Plus…they weren’t friends anymore.
There had to be someone who could help him.
Peter’s eyes lit up. There was someone, someone who was very fond of steaming hot tubs.
His gaze drifted to his phone. His rapidly tapping fingers stilled. He reached over and typed out the number he memorized. Before clicking the call, he took a deep breath.
The phone rang for only a moment.
“Who is this?” The voice that answered was sharp, and full of suspicion.
“Hi Yelena, it’s Spider-Man.”
There was a pause on the other side of the line.
“...Spider-Man? Are you okay? I saw the news.” Gone was the suspicion, replaced by enough concern to derail Peter’s train of thought. He had never heard Yelena sound like this.
“...Y-Yeah. I’m okay. I’m resting right now.”
Peter heard a sigh of relief from the other side of the line.
“That’s a relief. I didn’t want the sad man to become a dead man.”
“...Thanks.” The warmth that Peter felt from Yelena’s concern faded as the real reason he called resurfaced. He rubbed the back of his next, hand slightly shaking.
“Sorry Yelena, but this isn’t a social call.”
“I figured, you sure you don’t want another hot bath?”
Peter chuckled. “Maybe next time.”
“If you say so. Is this small potato stuff again?”
“...I’d say more like medium size potato stuff.”
“Medium potato? Okay. Tell me.”
Peter’s attention briefly flickered back to the bedroom. Jean was still in the shower.
“Remember what happened a couple days ago? At Roosevelt Island?”
“Yes, I watch the news, sad man.”
Peter paused, realizing that what he was about to say was completely ridiculous.
“...You're still there, sad man?”
“Yes, sorry…You know Jean Grey?”
Silence.
“The woman from Manhattan?”
“Yeah.”
Another pause. Peter took a deep breath.
“She’s in my apartment.”
“...What?”
“Yes.”
Yelena didn’t say anything, but Peter could hear rapid clicks over the line.
“Stay there. I’ll call someone-”
“No!” The denial came without thought, carried by a shout that surprised Peter. He looked back at the bedroom. The water was still running.
“...No?”
Peter winced.
“...I didn’t mean to be that loud.”
“Yes. I noticed.”
“She’s not a threat.”
“Spider-Man, she held Manhattan hostage.”
“I know.”
“People could not move.”
“I know.”
“So why are you defending her?”
Peter went quiet. He couldn’t argue with any of that, what she said was 100% correct. Maybe that was what made this so difficult. Yelena knew what Jean had done, but she hadn’t seen the why.
“She was looking for her sister.”
“...What?” Yelena’s tone was quiet, and filled with an emotion that Peter did not normally associate with the former Russian spy.
Peter closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“...Yeah. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this.”
Yelena didn’t say anything.
“Her sister was taken. Damage Control was experimenting on her. Everything that happened was her trying to find her.”
“Did she?” Yelena asked quietly, as if giving Peter a chance to prove her wrong.
Peter didn’t answer. His silence was enough.
“...Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” Yelena said, her tone softer. “I understand why she was desperate. That doesn’t erase what she did.”
“I know,” Peter said, sighing. “I just…you weren’t there, Yelena.”
Yelena was silent, and Peter kept going.
“I was there when she found out. It got bad. Really bad.”
Peter thought back to when he stumbled across the frozen members of The Hand. It was such a surreal experience, it was as if they were frozen in time.
“She could’ve gone further. She had every opportunity to.”
“But?”
“She didn’t.”
Peter leaned back in the chair.
“She still stopped herself.”
“And that is enough for you?”
“No… but it matters.”
Peter waited with bated breath for Yelena’s decision.
“Okay, I believe you.”
Peter blinked.
“You do?”
“Yes, but what do you want me to do?”
“… I don’t know.”
“Very helpful.”
“I was hoping you would.”
Peter rubbed the back of his neck.
“Is there anyone you can call? Somebody who can get Damage Control off her back? I… I’m not asking you to make everything disappear. I just…she can’t spend the rest of her life waiting for them to kick down the door.”
Yelena said nothing, but rapid clicking followed.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking.”
“At what?”
“Your medium potato.”
Peter snorted in amusement, but kept quiet. The rapid clicking continued, adding another sound to the quiet apartment. Peter’s attention flickered back to the bedroom. He heard something unexpected coming from the bathroom. Was that…humming?
“Huh…”
Peter’s attention shifted back.
“What?”
More clicking.
“This might actually be possible.”
Peter jerked up in the chair and immediately regretted it when his ribs protested. “Really?”
“Do not sound so excited yet.”
The clicking intensified.
“Damage Control has records on her, but none of it was made public.”
“Really?”
“No arrest warrant. No photograph. They haven’t even attached her name to the incident.”
“Why?”
“Because they are trying very hard to keep this quiet.”
“That’s good?”
“No. It is useful.” The rapid fire clicking screeched to a halt.
“Did you find something else?”
His question was ignored. “This is fucked.”
Peter frowned. “What?”
“Some of these records…they should not be buried. Some of this is so redacted the page is more black than white.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
Yelena didn’t answer immediately, There was a pause of contemplation.“...I don’t know yet.”
Before Peter could comment on her vague answer, the topic already moved on.
“Anway, there may be someone.”
That…was good. Though Yelena’s tone immediately put Peter on guard.
“Who?”
There was a pause.
“Valentina.”
Peter huffed as he ran a hand through his hair .Everything about Val felt transactional. Every smile, every word out of her mouth seemed to come with fine print.
“…Does it have to be her?”
“Yes. She is terrible, but she knows how to make government people do things.”
Peter considered it. “…Can we trust her?”
Yelena actually laughed.
“No.”
“Great. Wonderful." Peter threw his hands in the air.
“It's okay sad man, I may not trust her, I have something almost as useful.”
“What?”
“Leverage.”
Peter sat up. “How much?”
“Enough.”
“…Okay, I guess that works.”
“Do not worry, Sad Man. I will deal with Val. She will call you.”
Peter sighed a breath of relief. ““I owe you a lot of potatoes.”
Yelena laughed. “Maybe I call you Potato Man now.”
Peter smiled. “I’d prefer that over Sad Man.”
A beat.
“Me too.”
Something in her voice had changed.
“Maybe Sad Man does not fit anymore.”
Peter paused.
“Really?”
“You sound happier.”
Peter didn't answer immediately. His eyes wandered toward the bathroom. The shower was still running.
“Anyway, bye Potato man. I’ll leave you to your girlfriend.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Mm-hm.”
Click. Peter stared at his phone.
“Very mature,” He mumbled, setting his phone on the table.
Even though Val wasn't his first choice, he was glad he was able to do something for Jean. He trusted Yelena, if she said she had enough leverage, then he believed her.
The sound of the water cut off, and Peter’s eyes reflexively went back to the bedroom. He heard a door closing, rustling, and after a minute, the curtain was pulled back.
Peter stilled.
Her hair was still damp, darkening the shoulders of the faded Captain America shirt he'd lent her. The black sweatpants were obviously too big; the cuffs were rolled up several times just to keep them off the floor.
He shouldn’t have been surprised. Jean’s clothes were dirty and she had only one set of clothing so he lended her his clothes, but seeing her actually wearing them was something else.
And not only that, but she…looked different, less guarded, more relaxed.
This expression, combined with her wearing his clothes, felt strangely domestic, and his mind drifted back to memories that remained in the past. Before the spell.
Jean looked at him. “Is something wrong? Did I use the shower for too long?”
“No.” Peter quickly reassured her, he coughed into his hand.
“How was it?”
Jean’s lips curved. “It was great. I forgot how nice hot water is.”
Peter found himself smiling back.
She then went to the coffee table, picking up the old takeout bag.
“What are you doing?”
“Cleaning,” Jean said, walking to the kitchen trashcan.
“I can see that.”
“Then why did you ask?”
Peter watched as Jean picked up a leftover glass and put it in the sink. He glanced around his apartment.
Screwdriver beside him on the couch. A leftover sock resting on the ground. Protein powder containers stacked on top of each other instead of in the garbage.
Peter cringed. His apartment was a mess, Jean was just too nice to say that out loud. And not only that, she was cleaning his mess. A houseguest. This was disgraceful. May would not approve of this.
He stood up, grimacing as the pain in his side protested. Jean’s head snapped toward his direction.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping.”
“You should be resting.”
“And let you clean my messes? Nope.”
“Peter, you were shot.”
“And these are my messes.”
“Peter.” There was something in Jean’s tone that caused Peter to pause. Her eyes were wide, as if pleading. “Please sit down, and let me do this.”
Peter stared at her.
Oh.
This wasn’t about cleaning.
He didn’t entirely understand what it was about, but apparently she needed this.
“…Okay, he said, settling back onto the couch.”
“Thank you.” Jean went back to cleaning.
Peter watched in dissatisfaction.
This felt wrong.
She was a guest. Guests didn’t clean up their host’s messes. May definitely would not have approved of this.
He almost got up again, but then he remembered the look on Jean’s face when she’d said, Please. Just let me do this.
He still didn’t understand why it mattered so much to her.
Maybe she just hated sitting around.
Peter could relate to that. There’s always something that he could be doing.
Whatever the reason, Peter decided to stay where he was.
Thankfully, Peter didn’t have long to feel guilty, because a few minutes later, there was a knock at the door.
Peter stood to answer the door, feeling Jean’s glare burn into the back of his head the entire way.
He chose not to turn around.
A few minutes later, they were both sitting on the couch, the coffee table buried beneath takeout containers. Beef lo mein, rice, and more food than either of them could probably eat.
Peter had ordered extra.
He handed Jean a paper plate.
Peter watched as she took some lo mein, a small portion of beef, then stopped.
He looked at her plate, then back at the containers spread across the table.
“You know you can take more than that, right?”
Jean glanced at him. “I know.”
“Do you actually?”
Her eyes narrowed.
Peter gestured toward the food. “Jean, there’s plenty. I ordered extra.”
Jean’s gaze slowly drifted back to the containers. After a moment, she reached forward and added a much larger portion of beef to her plate.
She took a bite and chewed slowly.
Her eyes widened.
Then whatever restraint she’d been exercising disappeared completely.
Peter laughed as Jean started digging into the food with considerably more enthusiasm.
“Better than chips, huh?”
Jean glared at him over a mouthful of lo mein.
“…Yes.”
Another laugh escaped Peter as he started loading up his own plate.
Jean eyed the growing pile of rice with a skeptical expression.
“That’s a lot of rice.”
Peter glanced down at his plate.
“Spider-Man thing. I burn through food pretty fast. Gotta eat a lot of carbs.”
He scooped up another bite.
“Also, the hospital breakfast sucked.”
Jean snorted and took another spoonful of lo mein. Conversation ceased as the two became engrossed in their meal.
Peter leaned back against the couch as he watched Jean devour her food.
A thought occurred to him.
When was the last time I had eaten with someone?
It had been years.
Peter couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat down and shared a meal like this.
This was new. But nice.
Peter smiled, then took another bite of rice.
He’d forgotten how nice it was to eat with someone.
Once they finished eating, cleanup started.
Well, more specifically, Jean started cleaning.
She outright refused to let Peter leave the couch, insisting that he rest while she dealt with the leftovers. Peter reluctantly agreed, although he still made himself useful by gathering the paper plates and plastic forks into one of the empty takeout bags.
Jean carried the remaining containers into the kitchen and started finding space for them in the fridge.
As Peter watched her, his thoughts drifted back to Yelena.
He considered waiting.
Only for a second.
“While you were in the shower, I called someone.”
Jean’s hand stopped halfway into the fridge.
“Who?”
“Yelena.”
Jean looked back at him.
“Black Widow.”
She slowly closed the refrigerator door. Her previously relaxed expression was now guarded and wary.
“Why?”
Peter paused, taking a moment to organize his thoughts.
“I remembered what you said about Damage Control still coming after you.”
Jean turned, giving him her full attention.
“You’re right. They probably will. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually.”
Jean said nothing. The silence stretched long enough that Peter felt the need to fill it.
“I called Yelena because I thought she might be able to help. She knows someone who might be able to pull some strings. Get Damage Control off your back. She also found out your name hasn’t been released publicly, nor has it been attached to the…incident.”
Peter was vague, but they both knew what he was referring to.
Jean looked away, suddenly very interested in the laundry machine.
“What did you promise them?” She asked quietly.
Peter blinked.
“Nothing.”
Jean’s head shot back towards him.
“I didn’t promise Yelena anything. And I definitely didn’t promise anything for you.”
Some of the tension in Jean’s shoulders eased, but only slightly.
“She said we should hear something in the next couple of days.”
Jean was quiet for a moment.
Then she crossed the apartment and sat at the opposite end of the couch. Her gaze dropped to the oversized sweatpants pooled around her ankles.
“What if it doesn’t work?”
Jean fidgeted with her rolled up sweatpant sleeve.
“What if Yelena can’t get them off my back?”
Her voice was calm, but Peter caught the things underneath it. The slight quiver. The way she wouldn’t quite meet his eyes.
His answer came without hesitation.
“Then I’ll be there.”
Jean’s eyes snapped up.
Something in her expression changed.
The anxiety was still there, but some of the tension had gone out of her face.
“…Okay.”
Silence filled the room again, but this time Peter didn’t feel the need to fill it.
His gaze drifted toward the window. At some point, the last of the sunlight had disappeared, replaced by the dim glow of the city filtering through the blinds.
Peter frowned.
Has it really gotten that late?
“We should probably get some sleep.”
Jean glanced at the window. “Yeah.”
Peter carefully pushed himself to his feet. He felt Jean’s laser focus.
“You can take the bed. I’ll take the couch.”
Peter couldn’t even take a step before Jean answered.
“No.”
Peter raised an eyebrow.
“You’re the guest.”
“And?”
“And guests usually get the bed.”
Jean folded her arms and stared at him with the patient expression of someone who had already reached the obvious conclusion and was waiting for him to do the same.
“Peter. You were shot.”
Peter sighed.
Here we go again.
It took twenty minutes for Peter to finally capitulate.
Jean had several arguments in her favor.
His doctor had specifically told him to rest. The best way to rest was to sleep somewhere comfortable, and his bed was objectively more comfortable than the couch. His ribs were still healing.
And, most importantly, he had been shot.
For some reason, Peter seemed to think his arguments were equally compelling.
Peter reminded her that she was his guest.
Jean reminded him that he had been shot.
Peter insisted that the couch was perfectly comfortable. Just as comfortable as the bed, actually.
Jean immediately pointed out the flaw in his argument.
If the couch was just as comfortable as the bed, then he should have no problem with her sleeping on it. Right?
Plus, he had been shot.
Peter tried a few different angles after that.
None of them worked. Jean’s single ‘you were shot’ argument dismantled any argument Peter threw at her.
Eventually, he admitted defeat—with one condition.
Jean could take the couch, but she was taking the blankets from his bed with her. The thicker ones. Peter argued that she would need them since it was colder in the living room. He would make do with the thin blanket normally draped across the couch.
Jean had started to argue.
Peter refused.
Apparently, that was his compromise.
And so Jean was laying on the couch, wrapped up in thick blankets like a cocoon, staring at a ceiling that was unfamiliar to her.
Once Jean was situated on the couch, Peter retreated back to his room. She stayed awake, long enough for the apartment to settle into a particular quiet.
After such a long day, she finally had some time to herself.
Not that she minded Peter. Peter was nice, frustratingly so.
He had proven it countless times today.
Him letting her hover around his mind to brace the onslaught of New Yorkers.
Asking what she wanted for dinner when he was paying for it.
Letting her grab however large a portion she wanted.
Calling Yelena…
Her hands scrunched the blanket she was wrapped up in.
Then I’ll be there.
Her mind drifted back to what he'd said when she presented the worst-case scenario.
How does he do it? How does one sentence make all the fear disappear?
Because for a moment, it had.
Four words, and everything had gone quiet.
The fear eventually returned. Of course it did.
Damage Control was still out there. Yelena's plan could fail. Sara was still—
Jean stopped herself.
None of that had changed.
No…
That wasn't entirely true.
Even if everything went wrong, she wouldn't have to deal with it alone.
Her fingers slowly loosened around the blanket.
Something inside of her loosened, as if a tremendous pressure on her very being was lifted. She let out a shaky exhale and felt her shoulders sink deeper into the cushion.
Everything was still fucked. Damage Control. Sara…
But for the first time, they were not all consuming.
Jean let her eyes close, feeling the tension leave her body.
The problems were still there. But for tonight, they felt a little less heavy.