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Things were going fine until Peter’s Spider-Sense decided to pop up like an unwelcome zit and ruin everything.
Officer Davis - the man who saved Peter from becoming street pizza during his fight with the Demons - had been on stage, receiving a medal of honor. He was getting the praise and recognition he deserved, and it felt right.
And between speeches, Peter made plans with MJ. She’d suggested a coffee date. Peter elevated the offer to a homemade dinner. (And - when MJ looked at him dubiously - he deescalated slightly to dinner at a restaurant.) And MJ seemed to be happy with it. And Peter was happy because MJ was happy and things were working and then-
And then Peter’s mood-killing Spider-Sense hit him like a lead pipe. The mother of all headaches scrambled his brain, screaming out warnings from the vans to Peter’s left.
Whatever MJ is saying, Peter doesn’t hear it. He pushes past her, trying to see what the fuss is all about. Trying to see why his useless sixth sense is throwing the world’s loudest tantrum-
He feels it before he sees it. His hair stands on end, negative energy crackling and popping in the air.
Demons.
On steps out of a truck. Another from a car. And there’s one in the crowd and one by the exits and one on the stage and-
Too many. Peter doesn’t know where to go. He doesn’t know how to protect all these people. Especially when the demons are charging up, glowing energy surrounding their silhouettes. Peter has seconds - maybe less - to save everyone.
It’s a fool's task to even try.
With less than a moment left, Peter returns to MJ. “Get down!” he warns, doing all he can to shield her from the sudden blast that swallows them whole.
---
The sky is crying.
That’s the first thing MJ thinks when she opens her eyes. Because water and little pieces of cellophane tumble through the air. Ash and smoke quickly overtake them. And with smoke comes fire.
The world returns to MJ at hyperspeed. She rolls onto her knees and pushes herself up, wincing as her whole body expresses its displeasure. But she can’t worry about that right now.
“Peter!” she screams into the smoke. He isn’t beside her like she thought he was.
People rush past her, and MJ tries to pick through them, looking for a familiar face. But Peter isn’t running in the crowd. He’s not rushing around trying to fix things.
MJ finds Peter alright, but everything about him is wrong.
Because Peter isn’t saving people or controlling the crowd. He’s being dragged to safety.
“Peter!” MJ shouts, jogging to catch up.
The man dragging Peter along is panting, clearly too busy to answer questions, so MJ doesn’t ask him any. She just falls in line, trying to ignore how Peter looks like a chewed-up ragdoll.
They reach the next block over, taking shelter behind the bank. People are everywhere, some injured, some trying to find their friends, and all of them panicked. There's screaming, sirens, wailing. The air is so thick with smoke that it stings MJ’s eyes and makes her nose run.
The kind stranger sets Peter down and looks at MJ. “Are you hurt?”
Her head pounds. She's overwhelmed. Her side aches. But she's okay. She's surprisingly unhurt.
She shakes her head. “Thank you.”
And then he disappears into the crowd, and MJ is more concerned about Peter. About how pale he is. How blood oozes from a cut on his forehead. How he isn’t moving.
“Come on, Peter!” she calls, one hand on his chest to feel him breathing. But he won’t move. Won’t even flinch. MJ’s other hand hovers uncertainly, searching for a pulse.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
It’s there, but it’s slow. Struggling, even.
“Peter!” She shakes him, any sort of calm replaced by an all-encompassing panic. “Come on! Wake up!” Her voice cracks, and she ignores how wet her eyes are. “Wake up!”
Nothing. Like screaming at a car that just cut you off. Instinctive. Pointless. Rarely satisfying.
MJ looks around. Aren’t there supposed to be medics or something? What’s the point of the sirens if none of them are coming to help?
“Miles!”
MJ sees a disturbing reflection of her nightmare just to her right. A woman shaking a teenager, trying to rouse him. But the teenager groans and cracks his eyes open.
Peter stays deathly still. Deathly pale.
MJ’s shaking fingers find Peter’s pulse again.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
She’s relieved, but she can’t enjoy the relief, because there are still major problems to worry about. All of those problems being Peter.
“Come on!” MJ has lost the fight against tears. She can’t lose Peter. She just… She can’t. “Peter, can you please open your eyes? Or squeeze my hand or… or something! Say something!”
And then Peter groans, cracking one eye. MJ jumps.
“Peter?”
He watches her through half-lidded eyes, hazy and barely-aware. “MJ…? Wh-What’s…?” But he’s not panicked. Not like he should be. He’s tired and sluggish and-
And he’s closing his eyes.
“Peter, stay with me!” MJ orders. She squeezes his hand tightly - painfully, even - and Peter’s eyes flutter open again. “Stay awake!” Then she looks up, desperately searching the crowd.
“Someone help!”
Medics have arrived - they’re hustling around now, shouting orders and handing out colored cards - but there are too many people. They’re not even close enough to hear MJ.
So she waits impatiently, brushing the hair from one of the cuts on Peter’s face. Rubbing one temple with her thumb, trying to keep him awake.
“Peter, talk to me,” she demands.
Peter looks around, eyes not really focusing on anyone or anything. “Wha’s… Wha’s goin’ on?”
“Demons,” MJ tells him. “They attacked the award ceremony.”
Peter’s nose crinkles, eyebrows low in a scowl. “Sp-Spider-Man’s gotta… gotta help.” But he makes no move to stand. He just lays there, weakly gripping MJ’s hand.
“No. Peter Parker needs to stay awake. The first responders are on it.”
“Hm.” But Peter says no more, staring up at the sky. MJ squeezes his hand every so often, nudging him awake again.
“Are you hurt?”
MJ jumps again. An EMT is standing behind her, expression all business. “Ma’am, are you hurt?” he repeats.
“Me?” She shakes her head furiously. “No, no, I’m okay, but Peter is-”
“You can walk?” the EMT continues.
MJ nods hard.
The EMT hands her a card with a green label and kneels down to feel Peter’s pulse. Peter… Peter’s eyes are closed again. “What happened to him?”
“I…” MJ’s throat goes dry. “I’m not sure. He… He wouldn’t wake up at first.”
“How long would you guess?”
“I- I don’t know. Five minutes? Ten? I… I’m really not sure.”
The EMT’s expression remains the same. He calls Peter’s name, and digs a knuckle into Peter’s chest. Peter grunts, shifting slightly. “Can you open your eyes for me, Peter?”
Peter doesn’t move.
The EMT snaps a card with a red label around Peter’s wrist. (MJ reads the label: “IMMEDIATE.” Her heart rate speeds up.) Then he squeezes the radio mic clipped to his shirt. He mutters something unintelligible into it, before saying, louder, “Got an E1 on the southwest corner of Harrison Bank. Male, mid-twenties, GCS seven. Head lac with moderate bleeding. Requesting ALS transport.”
The radio crackles. MJ can’t make the message out over the sirens, but the EMT does. He gives a quick, “Copy,” and then is digging through his bag.
“Does he have any medical history?”
Peter still isn’t moving. MJ squeezes his hand so hard that her own shakes, but he doesn’t even flinch.
“Ma’am.”
MJ looks up. The EMT is staring at her. “Does he have any medical history?” he asks again.
“Oh. Right.” MJ wracks her brain, but nothing is coming to her. Nothing other than freak spider powers, but that’s not really something people should know about. “Um, no. No, I don’t think so.”
The EMT “hm”s. Forces a curved piece of plastic down Peter’s throat. Sits back on his heels thoughtfully. “Any allergies?”
He’s so casual that MJ feels nauseous. She shakes her head, though she isn’t answering his question. She hasn’t even processed the question. Her mind is reeling, lungs seizing as dread wells in her throat.
When two more first responders arrive with a stretcher, everything speeds up. Suddenly, there’s a tube coming out of Peter’s mouth and a neck brace supporting his head. Someone is squeezing a bag, providing artificial breaths. (Did Peter stop breathing? Is he… Is he dead?)
And then the medics are rushing Peter away, and MJ has to sprint to catch up with them. “Hey!” She’s running on panic and adrenaline alone. “Let me go with him!”
They look at the card in her hands. The green label, proudly announcing her status as a “MINOR” patient. And the medic shakes her head.
“Closest trauma center is Bellevue. Meet up with him there.”
MJ should have guessed, but she’s still overwhelmed with disappointment. And that disappointment lingers as MJ tries to find a way out of the disaster zone. It haunts her as she hurriedly signs a medical treatment refusal form and digs her phone from her pocket.
Swallowing back nausea, MJ searches her phone contacts and then makes the call. The rings sound like a death knell. They’re drawn out and nerve-fraying. And then a click and the dreaded-
“MJ? I just heard on the news-”
“Yeah,” MJ says. “Peter and I, uh… We were in it.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m… fine. But, May… Pete is… I don’t… I don’t really know. He wouldn’t wake up.” And as she says the words, her voice breaks. Sure, she did her best to hold it together when it was just her and Peter. But now? With a real adult asking her what’s wrong?
MJ can barely keep it together.
“Just hang on,” May says firmly. “Where are you? I’m picking you up.”
“Harrison Bank. Please be careful, though. There might still be…”
More demons? More bombs? Something worse?
“Hang in there,” May orders, undeterred.
MJ stays on the line. She doesn’t say much. Mostly, she just listens to May offer empty platitudes. She doesn’t hang up until May hurries up to her.
“MJ!” May hugs her and then pulls back, searching her for injuries. “Are you okay? “Where’s Peter?”
MJ nods, breathless. “He’s… um, Bellevue Hospital.”
May gives one sharp nod and starts back to the car. “They’ve got the roads blocked,” she warns. “I’m parked a few blocks down.” MJ follows beside her, a hole in her chest and concern in her eyes.
For a full block, they say nothing. May’s steps are quick and determined, and MJ has to hurry to keep up. Thinking about how scared May must be - thinking about what it would take for May to move this fast - makes MJ’s stomach flip.
“How bad is it?” May asks suddenly.
“I’m… not sure. He covered me when the bombs went off, and then… he just wouldn’t wake up. I mean, he… he did wake up eventually, but he wasn’t… wasn’t all there. You know?”
May knows. As much as MJ has dealt with Spider-Man’s mishaps, May has dealt with Peter Parker’s “clumsiness.” Sometimes MJ wonders if May hasn’t put two and two together yet. May’s smart - smarter than she’ll ever let on - and must have found Peter’s injuries (and their rapid healing) suspicious.
But May’s never said she knows, and asking her if she does will only reveal the secret if she doesn’t.
“Over there,” May says, rushing now that the car is in sight. MJ lags behind, so much so that the May is buckled in, engine running, when MJ gets there.
“Sorry.”
But May shakes her head. “Don’t be. I’m just…” She struggles for a word before shrugging. “Get in.”
---
By the time May and MJ arrive at the hospital, Peter’s already been admitted to the neuro floor. He’s pretty much waiting for them. Perks up when they walk through the door.
“Heeeyyy,” he slurs. “My fav’rit’ people.”
“Peter,” May says, hurrying to his side. “How are you feeling?”
“Me?” He laughs, but it’s forced and painful, cut off with a harsh cough. “Been… been better.”
May’s heart breaks at the sight of him, stitches lining his face and bruises decorating his skin. “Oh, Peter,” she sighs, taking his hand. “What happened?”
Peter pouts, his thumb running back and forth over her fingers. Just like she did for him when he was young and upset. “Explosions,” he murmurs. “I couldn’... May, I couldn’...” He searches May’s face, expression desperate. “There were too many. I couldn’ save ev’ryone.”
And May’s heart cracks a little more.
“You saved me,” MJ says, appearing on Peter’s left side. “You did everything you could.” And she says this forcefully, like she’s trying to pound it into Peter’s brain.
Something crosses Peter’s expression. Realization. Embarrassment. Tension.
But it’s a brief moment, and then the moment’s gone.
“Sorry.” His voice is so low that May has to strain to hear it. “I’m just… ‘m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Peter,” May insists. “There’s nothing you could have done.”
Peter sighs, eyelids drooping. “Yeah. Guess so.” He shifts slightly, but even that subtle movement makes him grimace and whine in pain.
MJ shushes him, murmuring comfort.
But May just loses her temper. “Did they give you any pain medication?” She moves towards the door. “Where’s the nurse?”
“May,” Peter groans, and he sounds so pathetic that May stops. “I’m… maxed out. I’m jus’... jus’ really banged up.”
He’s that hurt? He’s so hurt that he can’t breathe without being in pain while on the maximum dosage of pain medication?
May sees red.
“Who attacked the ceremony?” She looks between Peter and MJ, hoping one of them has an answer. “Who… Who did this?”
MJ looks at Peter. Peter, in a surprisingly lucid move, looks back, eyes uncertain.
“The Demons,” MJ says finally. “They’re… I’ve been researching them for an article. They’re a new gang, and it looks like they want to make a name for themselves.”
May’s jaw tightens. There’s only so much you can do about gang violence. Prevention is what May’s best at. Rehabilitation. But not fighting violence. That’s not in her wheelhouse.
“I’m… glad you’re okay,” May says simply, running a hand through Peter’s hair.
“Thanks, May,” Peter mumbles back, eyes slipping shut.
“Of course.” May drops a kiss in Peter’s hair. It hurts to see Peter hurt like this. He’s always been accident-prone, but an explosion? He’s outdone himself this time.
“He really scared me,” MJ says quietly.
May nods, allowing the fear to light her eyes. “Me too.” She reaches over and squeezes MJ’s hand. “Me too.”