Chapter Text
It’s always the same.
The silent scream, the absence of sound, not even the whistle of air, as time stills to nothing as she falls.
Slipping through fingers too late.
Too late.
Lifeless eyes, open, staring sightlessly.
Chest unmoving and still.
So still.
She’s not breathing.
And neither is he.
He doesn’t know how to.
Not anymore.
)(
“No. No, no, no. Come on. Come on. Wake up. Wake up! Don’t do this. Don’t . . don’t . . .
“I love you. I love you . . . please . . .”
I love you.
MJ wakes with her heart pounding to the rhythm of three words left unsaid.
She’s hit instantly with the unnerving disorientation of not knowing where she is. It lasts only a few seconds as her eyes open to the dimly lit room and the quiet murmur of voices on the flickering TV screen, and she remembers then that she’s in her own living room and not in the middle of Times Square.
She’s safe.
She pulls herself up to a sitting position and stares blankly ahead; the remnants of her nightmare lingering on at the back of her mind.
It’s always the same.
A crowd of weeping strangers united in their grief, and she thinks bitterly you can’t know how this feels. You can’t. Because he’s not breathing. And there’s only the sound of manic laughter as the Green Goblin circles above, and cries of anguish soon turn to cries of terror as fire starts to rain down on them . . .
She shudders, shaking the image away. Drawing her feet onto the couch, MJ bends her knees and hugs them to her chest.
The day’s main news headline remains unchanged as she watches it scroll across the bottom of the screen.
Harry Osborn Pleads Guilty
She doesn’t know how she feels about that. Not sure she cares, either.
Groaning into her hands, MJ blinks away the afterimage of Spider-Man lying unmoving, not breathing, on the ground. It feels like it’s been burned onto her retinas, and it doesn’t matter how hard she squeezes her eyes, it won’t go. It’s just like the ache in her chest that she rubs at absent-mindedly.
That won’t go either.
Not since that night.
“Hey,” a familiar voice wades into the silence, giving her the desperate foothold she needs to stop herself from sliding back into that deep, dark hole. “What are you doing out here? I thought you went to bed ages ago?”
MJ doesn’t turn around as she listens to the sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing, before Liz makes her way over to her curled up on the couch.
She’s in a pair of sleeping shorts and a tank top and has a cold bottle of water pressed up against her neck. The August heat is damn near unbearable, but MJ can’t feel it.
She can’t feel much of anything.
Liz settles on the seat beside her – a tentative hand resting on her shoulder and squeezing as she does.
“MJ?” she calls softly.
She continues to stare at the screen as they replay the video of Harry being walked out of the courthouse earlier in the day with the swarms of journalists surrounding him, and the flash of cameras all around, bright enough to blind. She’s sure the Daily Bugle are somewhere in the crowd there; wonders too if Harrington sent anyone from NY Pulse.
There’s a small click and the screen turns black as Liz switches it off, replacing the murmuring voices with the hum of static and silence filled only with a worried sigh.
“You’ve got to forgive yourself,” Liz says.
And for one confused moment, MJ tries to remember if she told her everything in the aftermath. If she spilled secrets that weren’t hers to tell in her despair.
But as Liz continues, she realises that no. No, she hadn’t.
“You didn’t know he was the Green Goblin, okay?”
Except, of course, she had. But she knows what Liz is trying to say.
Harry’s actions are not on her, his obsession with her is not her burden; and yet, she can’t help but feel it is.
Maybe, he’d had it right the first time.
It is her fault.
“Have you heard from him?” Liz asks then.
“From who?”
“Peter.”
And she remembers too, the morning after, the morning before, and the giddy feeling that had burst from her as she’d sat in this exact spot and spilled the beans to her best friend about the man who had somehow become her everything.
It seems so long ago now.
MJ takes a breath in and slowly exhales with a lie.
“No.”
)(
“Peter. Peter, sweetheart, wake up. It’s just a dream, it’s not real . . .”
His lungs are still burning from the screaming, gasping as he struggles for air.
“Breathe, Peter. Just breathe,” a voice says, clutching his fisted, white-knuckled hand in one of her own, the other, brushing his hair back in an effort to comfort.
And it feels like he’s six years old again.
Woken up by nightmares of his parents’ accident and the soothing voice of Aunt May cracking under the weight of her own grief.
He blinks his eyes open – wet with tears – and she’s right there. Sitting beside him.
The lamp on the wall is switched on, and it casts a soft glow about the room. It takes him longer than it should to get his bearings, but he can’t be blamed. Not least from the haze of the nightmare that still plagues him but also because this is not his bedroom.
Well, it is.
For the foreseeable future.
Until Aunt May’s fully recovered, or the reconstruction of her home in Forest Hills, his childhood home, is complete – whichever it is that comes first. Of course, the insurance companies dragged their feet in starting the rebuild, but a little push and pulling of strings by one Tony Stark, was enough to light their asses on fire and get them moving.
And this apartment in Queens that they’ve temporarily moved into – only last week following Aunt May’s hospital discharge – is courtesy of him, too.
He’d initially offered an Upper East Side penthouse, to which Peter had balked, and then very politely declined with an “uh no thank you, Mr Stark. Queens is fine. Is perfect, actually.”
Tony had raised a sceptical brow, but in the end had shrugged it off with a “fine. Whatever you want, kid.”
It’s just yet another thing Peter has to thank the man for.
As well as, you know, the little thing of saving his life . . .
But that thought will lead him down the path that winds its way back into the maze of his nightmares and he’s only just found the exit.
And so, he pushes it aside and lets out a shuddering breath instead, meeting her worried gaze as he does.
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh sweetheart,” she breathes out, and she sounds so close to tears, it only adds to the guilt that has his chest in a vice grip.
And he feels like he’s there all over again and he can’t breathe.
At all.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” she finishes with the kind of conviction that invites no argument.
He pushes himself up to sit and lets his eyes flicker over his aunt’s face, taking note of the sunken eyes and dark circles. She looks tired. As if the progress she’d made in her recovery has taken several steps back with the stress and worry his injuries have caused. Her hair is wrapped up in a silk scarf, hiding away the shorn hair where the surgeons had to burr a hole to alleviate the pressure from the initial bleed she’d suffered all those weeks ago. It’s just another reminder of what the Green Goblin’s nearly cost him.
“I’m supposed to be the one taking care of you,” he says on a shaky exhale.
She replies with a soft smile. “We take care of each other, remember?”
He manages a nod, and still feels so much like a kid, especially when Aunt May pulls him into her and hugs him tight.
“Have you spoken to her?” she asks quietly.
The her doesn’t need saying. Not when he woke up screaming her name.
“She’s not answering any of my calls or texts.”
Aunt May’s grip tightens. “I don’t think it means what you think it means, Peter.”
Peter sighs and pushes himself away. Aunt May’s hands drop to her lap.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, from what you told me happened, and from what I know of MJ, the poor girl probably thinks she’s to blame for everything –”
“That’s –” he starts to say with a shake of his head.
“– ridiculous?” Aunt May suggests, though from her tone it’s more statement of fact than suggestion. “Mmm, exactly.”
“What? What’s that face for?”
“Oh this face? This is the face that knows you. Knows that some part of you feels responsible for everything that’s happened, too. That somehow you should have been able to stop what happened to me, to MJ, but Peter . . . your powers, your abilities, they don’t make you . . . they don’t make you invincible, either . . .” She stops, voice wobbling as she forces out her next words. “You nearly died.”
And he feels like he’s been sucker-punched.
Because in the last few weeks since the Times Square show down, since he very nearly lost MJ, since he very nearly died had it not been for the emergency failsafe Tony Stark had built into the upgrade of his suit, they’ve not really spoken about what happened.
He hasn’t even spoken to Ned about it.
Not in any great detail.
And he’s still not sure he’s ready, which is why he gives her a shrug and a teasing smile and tries to make light of it.
“I guess that makes us even then?”
Aunt May lets out this horrified sort of half-sob, half-laugh as she raises a finger to scold him. “Peter Benjamin Parker, don’t you dare! That . . . that’s not . . .”
She doesn’t finish her sentence, because this time Peter pulls her into a hug and whispers, “I’m sorry.”
And means it in every way he possibly can.
)(
“Nice of you to grace us with your presence, Jones,” Harrington remarks as she slouches past him into NY Pulse half an hour late the following morning.
Her punctuality’s gone to shit these last few weeks.
Ned would say something ridiculous about her subconsciously emulating Peter in his absence because she misses him. And then would add that she should stop being a stubborn idiot and just pick up her damn cell phone already so the universe can correct itself. And to that she would simply stick up her middle finger and wordlessly collapse into her chair.
It doesn’t happen like that.
Not this time, anyway.
Instead, Ned shakes his head at her as she drops into her seat and Harrington disappears once more into his office.
MJ boots up her computer and can feel Ned’s eyes on her – telepathically trying to communicate with her and get her to turn around.
But she can’t.
Because she doesn’t need the reminder – the déjà vu of seeing Peter’s empty desk once more.
She waits for Ned to start talking, like he always does, regardless of her listening or not.
(She does listen. Always listens.)
But this time, he says nothing.
Just sighs – deep, heavy and disappointed.
And it burns.
Just the way her phone burns inside the pocket of her jeans in reminder of the message she’d received at 3am.
Lying awake in bed, sleep evading her, the notification sound of the incoming message had been loud enough to filter through the thump of her heartbeat drumming in her ears, and she’d been unable to resist its lure.
Four words had stared back at her against the brightly lit background of the screen.
It’s not your fault.
And for the first time, in as long as she can remember, she’d curled up against her pillow and allowed herself to cry.
She clears her throat, still scratchy and hoarse from the early hours of the morning and shakes away the memory. A double click on the email icon opens up her inbox to over a hundred unread messages and she starts the tedious task of sorting through them.
She’s only ten down when a shadow is cast over her and she feels the presence of someone behind her.
She tilts her head back.
“Eugene.”
He grimaces. “Michelle.”
She straightens up again as Flash rounds her chair and presses back against her desk.
“What do you want?” she asks.
She can hear him roll his eyes, before he shoves an envelope under her nose.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a card. For Parker. From the team.”
“And you’re giving it to me why?”
And MJ thinks she probably should have thought that knee-jerk reaction of a response through before she’d opened her mouth. But she supposes that’s why it’s called a reflex. No thinking involved.
“Um because a) he’s all the way in Washington in some recovery facility that I’ve never heard of – but apparently does exist – because I checked –”
“Aww, who knew you took fact-checking so seriously, Eugene? Good for you.”
He ignores her and continues, “– and b) you’re his girlfriend.”
Right.
That.
The whole NY Pulse team had been fed the same threadbare lie that Peter had been caught up in the Times Square chaos and had been injured pretty badly, thus needed to be transferred to some specialist hospital in D.C.
The truth of course being, Tony Stark had pulled some strings to get Spider-Man airlifted out of New York City to get him help from his own doctors away from the prying eyes of the media.
Turns out Spider-Man’s throwaway line about Tony Stark that one time, hadn’t been so much of a throwaway as she’d thought. She really should have asked him about it sooner. Preferably before all this shit had gone down, and she’d had to fight Stark’s every security measure just for the chance to see him.
In the end, it was May who had vouched for her.
She wipes her mind of the image of him lying unconscious in that hospital bed – the last time she’d seen him – and clears her throat.
“Right, yeah. Fine, I’ll get it to him.”
Flash nods, handing it over, before straightening up to leave her be.
She’s not sure he hears her quiet, murmured, “thanks,” as he goes.
MJ continues to sit there, for a long while after he’s gone, turning the envelope over in her hands. Eventually she gives in to the pull of Ned’s laser focussed gaze which she knows hasn’t faltered once since she arrived.
He’s smiling at her.
Soft, cautious, and hopeful.
She takes a deep breath, stuffs the card into her bag and returns to her emails.
)(
It’s the first time Peter’s ventured outside, alone, since his battle with the Green Goblin.
The recovery has been slower than what he’s been used to.
The bruises and cuts have faded. His punctured lung all healed up.
But it still aches.
And part of him thinks it’s all just in his head.
The physical manifestation of a different kind of hurt altogether, but something he never gives himself a chance to dwell on.
It’s yet another hot, humid day in the city. The sun is bright, beaming at full strength down on them. And everywhere he looks, there are people out, soaking up the UV rays. The only people enjoying the heat, being the ones who have the luxury of time to do so.
He turns the corner of the street he’s on, and nearly runs into a kid running in the opposite direction. He stumbles to the side, brushing up against the weathered wrought iron railings of the building beside him, as the boy makes a run for it across the road.
The words “hey buddy, be careful!” never manage to fall off the tip of his tongue as another young boy, not more than seven or eight, runs past him just then, giving chase. It’s the mask he recognises, the familiar red and blue, and as he listens, he hears the unmistakeable shouts of “Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!” as he gains on his friend – well, (pretend) foe.
The sight of it makes something heavy lump at the back of his throat.
He misses being out there – being this city’s friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man. And by the looks of all those letters up on NY Pulse’s website, the city misses him just as much.
But Tony’s doctors had told him to take his time getting back to full strength; and it would be pretty damn stupid, and selfish, of him to ignore their advice. Especially after everything they’d done for him.
And so, he swallows it down, ignores the wail of sirens in the distance, tells himself it’s not forever and keeps walking.
It’s another ten minutes before his destination comes into view.
Peter remembers the last time he’d been here – surprising MJ at her bedroom window, the way she’d clung to him as he’d swung them through the night sky, and she’d shrieked in his ears as he’d swooped high and low. The way the words “I hate you” had fallen from her lips once they were back on solid ground, and it hadn’t felt like an “I hate you” at all.
It’s a reminder that his heart is still bursting with the three words that neither of them have uttered.
But he knows her.
Knows he loves her.
And knows she loves him.
And the only thing that makes MJ run is the fear of hurting the people she loves.
And he gets it.
Just how much she’s been blaming herself, if her self-exile and avoidance is anything to go by. He’s just as much an idiot for not realising it sooner. Not until Aunt May had had to practically spell it out for him.
It’s nearing 6pm when he climbs the steps to the front of her apartment building. Peter pulls out his cell phone and double checks the messages from Ned.
She’s leaving now is the last read text, sent not half an hour ago. And if he’s right, and she’s heading straight home without any detours, she should be here within the next twenty minutes or so.
He pockets his phone, sits down on the top step, and waits.
)(
MJ turns the envelope over and over in her hand.
So engrossed is she in her thoughts, she almost misses her stop. Sticking the card back into her bag, and with a deep breath, she steps off the train and makes her way out of the station.
She’s thought about making this journey countless times before but always stopped herself at the last moment, succumbing to crippling fear and belligerent guilt.
The address has been there, in the middle of all the texts he’s sent her since he recovered consciousness, and she’s read over it so many times she has it memorised.
She knows Aunt May will be there, too. But she’s not really thought this through beyond the point of the fact she needs to see him.
It’s gone on long enough – her cowardice.
She’s never thought of herself as a coward before, but that’s what she’s become in the last few weeks.
Running.
Always running.
Well, not any more.
Peter deserves better.
Her destination comes into view as she turns the corner and her first thought is that Stark’s put them up in a pretty nice apartment block which is very decent of him. She’s never been the man’s biggest fan, but for what he did for Peter? She thinks she’ll be forever indebted to him. It makes her wonder, though, just how Spider-Man had come to be on Iron Man’s radar, and how the relationship had evolved to the point where he would do so much for Peter without blinking.
But then that’s easily answered.
He’s Peter Parker.
Who wouldn’t?
Her heart rate picks up at the thought of him, the thought of seeing him again, as she steps up to the building. She notes the double doors, security camera high in the corner, and when she presses on the intercom, it connects immediately.
“Hello?” comes the familiar voice of May.
“Hi, um hello, Mrs Parker. It’s uh –”
“MJ! Sweetheart! Come on up!” There’s a small buzz and a click that follows as the door unlocks and MJ takes a breath and pushes it open.
Peter’s aunt is waiting at the door of their apartment when she reaches the third floor and the smile she gifts her is wide and genuine, and MJ has never felt so undeserving.
May hugs her and she stiffly returns it, before following her inside.
She’s led over to the living area and offered a seat, but for some reason feels frozen in place. Her knee presses into the edge of the coffee table as she stands there like an idiot, wringing her hands, before realising what she’s doing and promptly sticking them into the pockets of her jeans.
She thinks that’s amusement that flickers across May’s face, but she says nothing as she takes her own seat.
“You look better,” MJ finally manages to say.
“Thank you, I feel better,” May smiles. And then: “Better than you or Peter, that’s for sure.”
At that her head jerks and MJ notices the way the gentle smile on May’s face isn’t one of teasing but of concern. She sighs heavily and leans forward in her seat. “He’s not here.”
“Oh,” MJ breathes out. She’d been starting to suspect that was the case. It was either that or he was hiding from her, and she couldn’t really blame him if he had been – not with the way she’s gone and fucking ghosted him after being the one who walked him straight into the devil’s trap that got him critically injured.
“MJ, he’s not here,” she says again, because sometimes Peter’s aunt can also read minds. “I believe,” she continues, settling back again, “he’s gone looking for you.”
“Oh,” she says once more, dumbly. “Oh shit.”
And this time that is definitely amusement twinkling from May’s eyes. “I figured you weren’t here to see me . . .”
She wants to refute it, because she had wanted to come and check up on her but . . .
“I’m sorry. I should um . . . I should . . .”
“Go on,” she says softly, nodding her head in the direction of the door, “go.”
MJ doesn’t need to be told twice.
She thinks that’s an amused, fond sigh she hears as the door closes behind her, but she’s not really thinking about that.
She’s thinking about Peter.
How the dumbass is probably sitting there on the steps of her apartment building looking like a kicked puppy, and it doesn’t matter what he says, that is absolutely her fault.
But, of course, the minute she wants to get anywhere in a hurry, that’s the moment New York’s public transit system decides to laugh in her face. The big, fat, howling guffaws of Murphy’s law. Granted, it does that most days, but ugh, now?
Did the signal on the line have to fail now?
By the time she gets home – frustrated and out-of-breath – it’s 7.30pm and as she approaches her building, all that anticipation that had been building up at the thought of seeing him is gutted in one swift blow.
The steps are empty.
He’s not here.
He must have got fed up of waiting for her worthless ass and gone home.
She lets out a slow breath, her heart curling up on itself with the disappointment. The unopened envelope sitting in her bag feels ten times heavier than it did earlier, but that may just be the weight of her limbs being dragged along with her as she enters the building and climbs the stairs.
She fumbles with the keys at the door, and doesn’t look up until she’s inside, closing the door behind her and leaning back against it.
“Hey.”
Her keys land with a rattling clunk on the floor.
Because, of course.
There he is.
Sitting on the couch with a hand raised in stilted greeting. Alive. Breathing.
She hears the clearing of a throat and it takes her a second to realise it’s not Peter because he’s just as frozen as she is. She turns her head and sees Liz sitting in her armchair, smirk on her lips and eyebrows raised at the ridiculous display of what amounts to mortifying pre-pubescent angst in front of her.
When neither she or Peter make any attempts to speak or move, Liz pushes herself to stand with a shake of her head, and not so subtly says aloud, “I’ll just leave you two to it.” And then proceeds to walk past her, lowering her voice to whisper in her ear as she does, “he’s a good one, MJ.” The unspoken don’t screw this up rings in her ears.
Just as Liz reaches the door, she bends to swipe MJ’s keys from the ground and hands them back. “Nice to meet you, Peter,” she says finally, giving MJ a little shove forward. Peter returns the sentiment with a “you too,” and a wave.
And then the door shuts behind her, leaving the two of them alone, for the first time in what feels like forever.
And MJ feels like she’s right there all over again.
Sitting by his bedside.
Hoping, praying, pleading for him to wake up.
And now that he is, it’s funny how there still aren’t enough words in the world to tell him how she feels.
For now, though, she settles for just the one.
“Hey.”
)(
“Hey,” MJ finally breathes out, and Peter feels that one word squeeze around his heart – god, he’s missed her.
So much.
“Hey,” he says again.
“Liz is nice,” he continues after it becomes clear MJ’s not gonna say anything else, or even move for that matter. “She uh, let me in while I was waiting –”
“Yeah,” she nods, before taking a step into her apartment, dropping her bag and placing her keys on one of the shelves beside her. “I figured . . . I uh actually just came from yours –”
And it takes a second for that to sink in.
“You went to see me?”
“And you came to see me.”
“Sorry,” he says, instinctively apologising for the mix-up and wasted journey and time. He misses the way she flinches at the word but sees the wariness that’s weighing her down clear enough. She looks drawn and tired and he knows how that feels.
“Why?” he asks, suddenly. The one word flying out of his mouth. And there are so many whys he could choose from, so many, but he opts for the first one he can grip hold of. “Why were you looking for me?”
MJ looks back at him and her expression has never been so open, and it throws him for a loop.
And just like that, he knows exactly why, and heads her off at the pass.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
He’s said it before, but of course, she doesn’t believe it. It’s written all over her face – the guilt.
She shakes her head, a huff of air leaving her lips and it almost sounds like laughter. “Yeah, Peter. It was.”
“MJ –”
“No, Peter. No. I was a freakin’ idiot thinking I could take Harry on on my own and that I could somehow protect you from him. I should have told you that morning what I’d figured out instead of trying to be a goddamn hero.”
That morning seems so long ago now.
“Yeah,” he sighs. “You should have told us.”
She inhales sharply and looks away at his blunt agreement.
But Peter’s not finished.
“I’m not gonna argue with you there . . .” he watches as she folds her arms across her chest, closing herself off again, but still he continues, “but . . . but I know we would have ended up in exactly the same place, MJ. Harry wasn’t gonna stop and I had a target on my back the moment I fell in love with you whether you tried to stop it or not. The only person to blame for what happened is Harry Osborn, and he’s in a maximum-security jail cell, facing a life-sentence, because of you.
“You,” he breathes out once more as he steps towards her, and he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence because MJ lets out a shuddering breath and fixes her gaze on him.
“I keep seeing you lying there on the ground, not breathing,” she admits softly.
“I keep dreaming that I’m too late, that I let you slip through my fingers, every single time.”
He takes another step closer and he can feel the tension radiating off her – she’s so tightly coiled, one false move and he knows she’ll snap.
But it’s MJ who surprises him one more time. Because it’s her who closes the distance between them, reaching out to slip her hand into his, and it’s with that first tentative touch of her skin against his that he breaks.
He doesn’t think, just acts on pure instinct, pulling her to him and melting against her in a hug that catches in his chest as his lungs fill with nothing but her.
Her head falls into the crook of his neck and she’s breathing out a hot burst of air and an apology she can no longer keep the pressure seal on. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m right here, I've got you,” he breathes into her curls, tightening his grip on her.
He’s not sure how long they stay there – wrapped around each other, breathing each other in. He’d be content to stay like this forever, but his traitorous stomach decides to remind him he hasn’t eaten in a while, and he’s actually starving.
MJ snorts in amusement and Peter can’t help but laugh too as he kisses the side of her head and pulls away just a fraction to the sight of her smiling down at him.
“Hungry?”
“Apparently.”
“Staying?” she asks then. It’s an echo of that night and he knows she isn’t just talking about dinner.
He answers her with a kiss pressed to her lips and whispers against her skin -
“I’m staying.”
-
They spend the rest of the night making up for lost time. In between the hugging and the kissing, there’s a lot of talking – alternating between the past and the future. MJ struggles with it – and he realises just how much it had shaken her to see him like that and he understands why she’d stayed away. In turn, he finally spills his feelings about what happened that night and the ghosts that have been haunting him since. They talk too about what they think will happen to Harry – the terrifying, unthinkable possibility of him not being locked away and how they would deal with it.
Together, is the only answer.
They fall asleep curled around each other, and it’s the first time since that night that they sleep undisturbed.
Nightmares chased away by their own personal knights.
He is hers.
And she is his.
)(
Ned’s reaction to seeing the both of them walking into NY Pulse the following morning, hand in hand, will forever be MJ’s go-to memory for when an instant pick-me-up is needed.
His smile is all beaming white teeth and dancing eyes, alight with the kind of happiness Ned Leeds deserves for himself.
It’s like Christmas has come early for him.
Which is, of course, a bit of a reach given New York is a sweltering swamp but the sentiment remains the same.
“FINALLY!” Ned whoops, loud and proud, collapsing back in his chair, arms raised to the heavens.
The whole office turns their eyes on them – even Harrington pokes his head out his door at the commotion.
The silence that follows Ned’s exclamation explodes then into a burst of noise as their fellow colleagues surround them, all expressing their relief at seeing Peter back at work, and most of all, healthy. But there’s intrigue too – they wouldn’t be journalists if curiosity didn’t run rampant in their personalities – at what happened that night in Times Square. And although Peter’s physically recovered enough to be back at work, she can sense that this is all a little overwhelming for him by the way he grips her hand.
She’s about to intervene when Harrington steps into the crowd and exerts the kind of authority she never knew him capable of (and it strangely makes her proud). “Alright, alright, let the man breathe. Get back to work people. This magazine is not gonna publish itself.”
The crowd disperses.
Harrington presses a hand to Peter’s shoulder and is genuine as he tells him, “it’s good to have you back, Parker.”
Peter nods his thanks.
“Did you get the card?” Flash asks then. His voice comes from the other side of the room. Still seated, he has his legs propped up on his desk as he leans back in his chair.
Peter scrunches his forehead. “Card? Uh no . . .”
“Oh, my bad,” MJ pipes up then, momentarily disentangling her hand from his – she’s been surprisingly unbothered by their united show of PDA – and rummages through her bag for the now bent envelope Flash had entrusted her with yesterday, and hands it over.
She’d completely forgotten to give it to him last night.
Funny how the weight of it in her bag had vanished the moment she’d seen him. She had planned to lead with the card as the excuse that had brought her to see him, but then Peter had jumped the gun and (impressively) gone right for the heart of the matter.
And well, everything else had just faded to insignificance amongst the hours talking and making out. Although most of that had been making up for lost time, as well as a haze of “oh god you nearly died!”, part of it had also been an attempt to distract him from the collection of notebooks and drawings on her desk which she hadn’t had the foresight to clear away when he’d stepped into her bedroom.
Peter had been only too happy to snoop around, and it didn’t help when she’d not-so discreetly tried to remove those notebooks from clear view.
“I knew it!” he’d said with a wide grin when he’d managed to finagle one of her drawings out of her grasp, “I knew you were sitting there in meetings doodling and . . .”
She remembers the way his voice had drifted off when he’d finally recognised it was a drawing of him.
His “MJ, this is . . . wow!” quickly turned into an “ow!” when she’d launched the basketball (he’d gifted her last Christmas) at his head.
“Ow, okay, fine,” he’d relented putting the drawings down, before reaching for the object she’d struck him with. And then she remembers how the sappy dope had gone all soft at the sight of a freakin’ basketball. “You still have this?”
She’d shrugged. “You still owe me a lesson.”
He’d thrown it back at her then and she’d managed to catch it deftly in both hands. “Doesn’t look like you need it,” he’d teased back.
And that may or may not have been a good time to subtly raise the love confession he’d somehow slipped in earlier in the evening – she still doesn’t even know if he realises just what he’d said – but somehow they’d ended up making out once more, which had been fine by her as she’d been all talked out by then, and the thought had been pushed aside.
Now, MJ forces her mind back to the less pleasant present of Flash grumbling at her. “Jones! Seriously?! You had one job!” He says it like she’s blown some deep cover CIA mission.
“Oh shut it, Eugene,” she snaps. “It’s a bit late for a get well soon card, anyway.”
“Yeah well I only got back the week before, and it was hard getting these tightwads to cough up!”
A chorus of ‘hey!’ and vocal objections start up around the room.
“It’s fine,” Peter says, voice cutting through the din. “Thank you Flash, thank you everyone, I appreciate it. I missed you guys.”
His little speech is received with some good-natured heckling and Peter’s cheeks pinken.
The warmth though from his colleagues is genuine, and she knows Peter’s the only person who could inspire that kind of reaction.
It’s hard to dislike him, and no one knows that better than her.
Because lord knows, she’d tried, and she’d failed miserably at even apathy let alone dislike.
Still, in hindsight, it all feels stupid now.
So much wasted time.
“So,” Ned starts once they’ve settled into their seats, “you two idiots finally got your acts together, huh?”
MJ smirks. “You’re one to talk, Leeds. When exactly were you planning to ask Betty out?”
Ned shakes his head. “Nuh uh, nope. Don’t turn this around on me.”
Peter laughs. “Come on, Ned. Just ask her.”
“You guys are the worst. I think I liked it better when you were ignoring me,” he says spinning and pointing a finger at her, and then back at Peter, “and you were sitting at home pining – Ned, is she okay? Ned, why won’t she pick up her phone? Ned –”
“Hey!” Peter interrupts, and he’s turning an impressive shade of red. “I wasn’t pining.”
“Was too.”
MJ sits back, watches the back and forth with an unabashed grin on her face.
Because, damn, she’s missed this.
)(
Things slowly settle back into a pattern of staff meetings, a steady stream of assignments including articles he doesn’t care to write and articles that have him bouncing in excitement to tackle, office banter and friendly rivalries, and of course, Harrington wanting to tear his hair out because of his wayward school of writers and their complete inability to do as they’re told.
Nothing much has changed.
Except, maybe everything.
Harry’s trial is brought forward, and the word is that he’s considered too much of a danger that even his gambit of a guilty plea is unlikely to reduce his sentence. He’s looking at a long time shut away – all his research and assets have been seized – and it’s the best outcome they could have hoped for. Unnervingly, it doesn’t stop the psychopath from trying to reach out to MJ through his lawyer; but the letter is sent back unopened and with MJ scribbling two words in black marker across the front.
ENJOY HELL
She could have opted for a more colourful two words but had shrugged up at Peter’s bemused face with a smirk and had simply said, “I’m keeping it classy.”
Aunt May continues to make a good recovery and after another week of living together, she practically pushes him out the door with a roll of her eyes and a no nonsense “I’m fine! Stop worrying about me! And anyway, I don’t want to be cramping your style.”
“You’re not cramping my style!” Peter had been genuinely horrified that he could ever make her feel that way, but then Aunt May had shrugged, and said with a terrifying glint in her eyes –
“Well, you’re cramping mine.”
And Peter, sensibly, had opted to keep his mouth shut.
Ned’s been working on his courage to ask Betty out, although his and MJ’s incessant needling doesn’t help. In any case, it doesn’t really end up mattering, because it’s Betty who marches up to him on a Wednesday morning, spins his chair around and plants one on him to the whoops and wolf-whistles of everyone around them. Peter commemorates the moment with a bag of stale jelly beans in lieu of confetti, which in hindsight hadn’t been his brightest idea.
But it’s not been all sunshine and smiles.
It’s the last week of August when Bill tells them he’s decided to call it a day and retire.
Although, not a complete shock, and the news comes with a happy sort of sadness, it still hits them hard – MJ especially. She’s grown fond of Bill and his megawatt smiles lighting up the Goodman Building lobby every morning. Still, the man has paid his dues and he deserves to enjoy the rest of his (hopefully many and long) years with his wife, kids and grandkids.
He tells them the news after both he and MJ return from lunch. He’s still got a few weeks left yet, but it all seems a little final. Especially when Bill leaves his post to come around the front desk and hugs them. MJ gets the first and longest hug – he whispers something in her ear which elicits a wet laugh and Peter opts not to make a fuss when he notices her discreetly wipe away her tears. After that, it’s his turn as Bill claps him on the back and makes him promise to “take good care of her, won’t you?”
Peter nods. “Of course.”
But the old man’s not done yet. After pulling away from the hug, he lowers his voice and winks – mischief glinting there – as he says, “just like you do the rest of this city, eh?”
At that, Peter’s eyes widen in disbelief, mouth gaping open. But Bill simply straightens his hat and chuckles, “I wasn’t born yesterday, Mr Parker,” and says nothing more.
Of course, it makes him wonder, and MJ notices his preoccupation as they make their way back up to the NY Pulse offices.
“What did he say to you?” she asks as he reaches forward to press the button for the twenty-third floor before stepping back to her side.
“Oh um nothing really.”
And he can see the questioning gaze from the corner of his eyes. “Just that he knows.”
“Knows . . .” MJ repeats slowly.
“Yep.”
“About?”
“Uh huh. Yep.”
MJ snorts, shaking her head in disbelief. “And there you thought Ned was bad at keeping secrets – at this point the whole world is gonna know you’re –”
Peter reaches out and presses a hand against her mouth muffling the word.
MJ rolls her eyes pulling his hand down by his wrist. “There’s no one here. And those cameras –” she looks to the top left corner, “have no audio.”
“You can never be too careful.”
“Hmm,” MJ hums and there’s a glint in her eyes as she leans forward towards him, and he has a fair idea as to where she’s going with this.
“But I’m pretty sure,” he whispers as she ekes closer, “they have visual.”
She laughs and he’s never gonna tire of that sound. She kisses him just as the elevator doors open to their floor and to the sound of someone clearing their throat.
Loudly.
It’s Harrington.
“I was just coming to look for the both of you.”
That in itself is weird. Harrington’s usually never fussed when the both of them turn up after lunch – as evidenced by Peter’s habitual tardiness – just as long as they do.
Taking in his more than usual harangued appearance, Peter asks, “everything okay?”
Harrington shrugs his shoulders as if he doesn’t quite know, and he’s done trying to know.
“The both of you have a visitor. Conference room.”
For one horrifying moment, he thinks it must be Harry. That he’s somehow managed to evade the police, or worse, they’ve let him out, and he’s here to finish the job he started. And by the way MJ stills beside him, he thinks she’s had the same bone-chilling thought.
But before he can ask Harrington any more about the mystery visitor, the man walks off into the NY Pulse offices, and he and MJ have no choice but to follow.
It’s only once rational thought returns and the glass walls of the conference room come into view that they both realise it definitely isn’t Harry Osborn returning for one last vengeful act.
No, because the large imposing figure standing with his back to them, staring out over the Manhattan skyline, can only be none other than –
“Mr Jameson?”
The former Editor-In-Chief of the Daily Bugle and publishing mogul turns around to face them. Unlit cigar clamped between his lips, he raises his eyebrows at the two of them standing in the doorway.
“Parker. Jones. About time. How long does a lunch break take these days? In my days, you ate in your sleep or not at all. But it’s all worker’s rights and blasted unions these days. Sit down.” He barks the order, and Peter slips into one of the chairs as MJ pulls out her own.
He watches as the man leans back against the floor to ceiling windows with his arms folded across his chest and directs an appraising look at the both of them.
Peter shifts uncomfortably; MJ only slumps back in her seat and splays her legs open in what can only be described as manspreading. He knows she’s doing it to piss him off and has to bite down on the urge to smile.
But whatever he’s expecting Jameson to say next, it’s certainly not this:
“Thank you.”
Peter’s eyes widen, and he thinks even MJ is shocked to her core as she straightens up just like that.
The words obviously taste bitter in the man’s mouth as he glares at them and gruffly says, “I’m not saying it again.”
“No, no we heard you the first time,” MJ says to that.
“Whatever I may or may not be, a reprobate and uncultured swine is not it –”
“Debateable,” MJ mutters under her breath, and Jameson’s on too much of a roll to have heard.
“– I was right to trust my instincts about you Jones. And you, Parker. As much as I was loathe to trust Spider-Man with this, I have to admit –” he stops, clears his throat and looks away, “maybe he’s not as feckless as I’d suggested. And he . . . he did New York a service for which I am appreciative. I uh . . . trust that you can relay that to your friend, Parker?”
Peter clears his own throat. “Yep, sure. Consider it done.”
Jameson nods. “And Jones. Miss Jones. You have my gratitude for putting the pieces of that message together.”
“About that?” MJ says then, and Jameson still looks like there’s something foul in his mouth as he barks;
“What about it?”
“How did you know that I’d understand it?”
“I would have thought fishing for compliments was beneath you, Jones.”
MJ sighs. “That’s not what I meant.”
Jameson peers down at her, says nothing more as he searches for his lighter inside his suit jacket, giving them a brief glimpse of a sweat-soaked armpit.
Nothing but a three-piece suit will do for J. Jonah Jameson even if the world’s on fire.
“I remembered your interest and incessant hunt for my final Daily Bugle edition for the 50th anniversary issue, and trusted you had intellect enough to put the rest of it together.”
“Right,” MJ says, accepting his explanation even if it is delivered with such obvious disdain.
“How long did you have that recorded confession?” Peter asks then as the thought comes to him.
Jameson reddens. And it’s perhaps the first time he’s ever seen the (former) big boss shamefaced or genuine with regret. He doesn’t answer, but Peter gets the picture.
MJ clicks her tongue, the unspoken ‘tut-tut’ in the air and it clearly rankles Jameson as he grunts. “Not that I have to explain myself to two mediocre staff-writers of a mere monthly publication –”
“– your publication,” Peter says.
“Not anymore,” MJ helpfully interjects in reminder.
“– but,” Jameson continues not rising to the bait, “it would have found it’s way to the appropriate authorities eventually. In any case, it all worked out for the best . . .”
MJ scoffs at the idiocy of his statement but says nothing else.
It’s clear from what he’s not saying Jameson had been planning to use Harry’s confession to his own benefit at some point in the unspecified future, but Harry turning out to be the Green Goblin, and very much more than a simple psychotic murderer capable of patricide, had scuppered his plans.
Peter thinks, it’s better not to get stuck on the what-ifs.
In the end, they’d got the bastard. Together. And that’s what counts.
“So,” MJ asks, “are you coming back to the company?”
Jameson blows out a puff of smoke and Peter suppresses the urge to cough. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve decided to take a backseat role. It’s still my name on the company, so any sub-par work, I can still get you cut. Remember that. Now off you go.” He waves his hand as if swatting them away like bothersome flies.
Again, like nothing’s changed, but everything has.
As he and MJ walk out of the conference room, Peter can’t help the burst of laughter that leaves his lips.
MJ shakes her head as she looks down at him. “What?”
“I can’t believe he actually thanked us.”
“If you could call whatever that was a ‘thank you’, sure.”
“He did utter the words.”
“While looking like someone had a gun to his head, yeah.”
Peter chuckles again, still not quite believing what had just happened, and he’s too caught up in his thoughts to realise that MJ’s gone quiet beside him, struggling with her own.
Not until she’s tugging on his shirt, right before they re-enter the office.
“Hey,” she starts to say, “about last night . . .”
Peter frowns, brow furrowing in confusion at the abrupt, unexpected change in topic and mood. Because there’s definitely a different sort of tension in the air that wasn’t there a minute ago.
“What about last night?” he asks cautiously.
“You uh said something, that I’ve kind of been meaning to ask you about?”
And it’s the way she says it, shy and anxious, and suddenly he knows.
Know exactly what this is about.
Because he hasn’t forgotten.
Although he had thought it maybe a figment of his imagination – a blink and miss it kinda moment – especially when the whole night, morning and now day has passed, and she hasn’t spoken about it once.
Until now, that is.
And he’d hoped she’d missed it, because really, he hadn’t wanted the words ‘I love you’ or any variations to that effect, to be hidden away in the middle of a sentence about Harry freakin’ Osborn and his much-deserved life of imprisonment.
He’d wanted it to be more momentous.
Not like this.
And so, like an idiot, he lies.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
And MJ knows he’s lying out of his ass if the flicker of disappointment that crosses her face is anything to go by.
But it’s done now, and he can do nothing to fix it as MJ steps back into the busy hum of the office with a quiet "never mind", and doesn’t turn back.
)(
It’s stupid.
She really shouldn’t be so hung up on three little words.
She’s not some needy lead in a romantic comedy that needs it fucking spelt out for her. She knows how Peter feels about her – he says it in so many other ways.
In the way he smiles at her, brings her a cup of coffee every morning, the way he kissed her this morning, the way he’s saved her too many times to count now and nearly died in the process, and yet . . .
And yet, maybe she is that needy lead, and what the hell is so wrong with that?
It would be nice to hear the words from someone who means it for a change. To hear it from him and not just as an accidental slip of the tongue.
She doesn’t even know why she’d chosen that random as hell moment to bring it up.
It’s just that it had hit her then – walking out of that crazy meeting with Jameson – that it’s always been Peter.
Right from the very beginning.
And she loves the idiot more than she knows what to do with.
She sighs, and pushes the thought aside, and instead stares down at the notes from yesterday’s meeting. It would definitely be a better use of her time to get started on her article for next month’s issue rather than replaying Peter’s admission last night over and over in her head.
It’s become distorted white noise now and lost all meaning.
With a sigh, she leans forward in her chair and tries to read her own illegible scribble, half covered by her doodling.
Superheroes and why this world needs them is what she thinks it says.
She looks up at the blank white screen, fingers poised over her keyboard, and . . . nothing.
Nothing comes to mind.
She groans, pushing back in her seat.
And that’s when she feels it.
The light thwack of a small post-it flying into the side of her face.
She turns in the direction of where it came from, and it’s pretty damn obvious who threw it. Because Ned is definitely too far gone in the concentration zone to be resorting to paper missiles, leaving only Peter Parker. And even if she couldn't rely on the process of elimination, his attempt at fake typing is terrible and that faint blush on his cheeks is a dead give-away.
Intrigued, MJ swipes the post-it from where it’s fallen on the floor and unfolds it.
And her breath catches in her chest as she does.
Because there, in his distinctive mess of a scrawl, are three words.
And it makes sense that this would be the way it happens.
She huffs out a laugh, biting down on her smile as she picks up her pen and adds just the one word to the end of his sentence.
She then scrunches it up and throws it right back at him, watching as it lands in his waiting, outstretched hand.
Show off, she mouths.
But Peter just grins back at her as he unfolds the piece of paper, and MJ watches as that same grin softens into a smile that thunders against her heart.
Because.
I love you too.
He turns his head back in her direction then, and it’s all there in his eyes. But just in case she didn’t get it the first (or second) time around, the dork spells it out for her with his hands curled in the shape of a heart.
And there’s really only one way to respond to that travesty.
With two middle fingers raised and not even a flicker of a smile.
Peter laughs then – a sudden burst of sunshine that has Ned looking up, glancing between the two of them and rolling his eyes.
And MJ?
Well MJ is caught by a sudden flash of inspiration as she turns back to her notebook and sees it. There, amongst the senseless Monday meeting doodling, and half-finished sentences, is the image of one Spider-Man spinning his webs and flying through New York City, and just as easy as that, she knows exactly what she’s going to write about.
And so, with a crack of her knuckles, and a lingering smile, MJ does what she does best.
And starts to type.
End.