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The proximity alarm blares minutes before her article goes live.
For a moment, it startles her. MJ is at the Bugle, arguing with Robbie over the headline, fighting to shed Officer Davis in a heroic light—the best light, the he just saved Spider-Man light—when her cell phone beeps.
That’s it. Just one, fast beep.
But she’s a millennial; her phone doesn’t make noise. The only sound she allows is the proximity alarm.
Which means Peter is near her apartment.
MJ’s breath vanishes. Peter doesn’t go near her apartment. Not anymore. For the last six months, she’s watched his cell phone bounce all over the city, but she might as well have caused a HAZMAT spill on her city block, for all he swings around it. And yeah, they’ve been chatting lately. But that doesn’t mean their breakup never happened.
So what is he doing?
God, he better not be bleeding out in her apartment again. The very thought seizes her, strangling the air from her lungs as she imagines worst-case scenarios. Probably, he’s fine. Probably, he just wants to say hi.
But what if—
“Mary Jane." Robertson drums his fingers on his desk. “I’m going to take your silence as permission.”
The headline reads: HERO COP EXPOSES ARMS RING, SAVES SPIDER-MAN.
It’s not bad, but they can do better. MJ grits her teeth, resisting the urge to tug out her phone. Peter lost the chance to be number one in her life when he sidelined her, called her “unspectacular” in their blowout fight. Right now, she has a job to do.
Plus, he has no idea she’s tracking his phone. If he really needed help, he’d call.
Yeah.
MJ sets her jaw. “You’re giving too much away. No one’s going to read that. I’m telling you, Robbie, we have to go with something stronger.”
Robbie laughs a little, shakes his head, and deletes the headline. “You’re the writer,” he replies, only a mite sarcastic, as he pushes away from the desk.
She slips into his space, typing swiftly:
HERO COP JEFFERSON DAVIS, EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW.
“I promise we’ll get more publicity with that,” she gestures towards the screen.
Robbie responds by leaning past her, clicking the bold PUBLISH button. “I guess we’ll see.” He smirks as the finished article appears on the front of the Bugle’s website, the headline big and dramatic, then glances at her. “Nice job tonight, Watson.”
MJ’s already reaching for her cell phone. “Hmm? Oh, thanks.”
But when she opens the tracking app, Peter’s already swung away from her apartment.
False alarm after all.
Two days later, Osborn announces he’ll be awarding Officer Davis with the city’s medal of honor. It’s a publicity stunt, conveniently coinciding exactly with the mayor’s rally in two weeks, but MJ swells with pride.
Especially when Robbie sends her an email stating, “Guess you were right,” and a link to her article’s hits. It’s over-performing, far better than her other, less attractive pieces. People love reading about city heroes.
MJ is dialing Peter’s number, bouncing on her toes in her apartment, before she even realizes what she’s doing. When it rings, the sound might as well be screeching brakes. Bad idea. Calling Peter like they’re dating, like he’s the only person she has to rave about her success with. Two conversations in two weeks doesn’t mean they’re talking, not like this.
Hang up the phone, MJ!
Too late. He answers on the second ring, sounding pleasantly surprised. “Ah, MJ! W-What can I do for you?”
And that stops her short.
Suspicion immediately blankets her excitement. “Are you hurt?”
“What? No! Why would you t-think that?”
Because he’s stammering. It’s not unusual inside itself; for all his bluster as Spider-Man, Peter usually stammers when he’s put on the spot. But she’s an investigative reporter. She discerned the difference between him stammering out of embarrassment and pain years ago.
This? This is pain, hard and fast.
“Pete. Don’t lie to me. Where are you?” It doesn’t matter what he says next. She’s already toggled him to speakerphone, already pulling up the tracking app. His cell phone is at a highrise in the financial district, and not for the first time, she wished it showed height in addition to location. Hopefully he isn’t bleeding out on the roof.
MJ goes cold at that, shoving off the couch and grabbing her jacket.
“Never mind. I’m coming to get you.”
“How do you know w-where I am?” Peter asks, more perplexed than anything.
MJ’s cheeks warm, and she fights to keep from blabbering incessant excuses. Truth is, she paid one of her informants to set up the tracker last year, after Rhino left him broken and unconscious in some alley on 48th. His mangled, "Help-" before choking and falling silent might never leave her mind. Even six months after their breakup, she checks it more often than she cares to admit.
Now she forces her voice to remain calm, collected, and she redirects the conversation to what's really important. “Peter. Is it serious?”
“No! That’s what I’m trying to t-tell you,” he huffs. “I’m not injured. I’m just cold.”
MJ stops short, her hand on the doorknob. Her body heats with embarrassment, with how solidly she overreacted. She forces herself to take several steps away from her front door, pinching her nose. “Cold? You sound like you’re bleeding out.”
“You’d know,” he says, and she swears she can hear his eyes rolling.
It shoves her stupid reaction even more into the limelight, and anger surges. At him, for making her worry, but mostly at herself for pretending like she’s in a position to care. She’s not his girlfriend anymore. At this point, they’re barely friends.
His physical state isn’t her problem these days.
Her words are curt, slicing through the phone. “If you’re cold, just go inside.”
“I c-can’t,” he replies.
He’s patrolling, then. She glances at the window, at the gloomy gray that settled over New York when fall firmly arrived and blue summer skies became a thing of the past. It has been getting colder, and Peter hasn’t done well with cold since the spider bite.
“Put a jacket on, then,” she says, exasperated. Mostly at herself, but he doesn’t know that.
“I have,” he retorts. “Did you n-need something, MJ?”
She almost hisses, “No,” and hangs up the phone, just for the satisfaction of leaving him confused and annoyed. But then she’d be losing points in their unspoken break-up game, and her pride won’t allow that. But she’s so far past bouncing about her article’s success that it takes a moment to come up with something else. Something unemotional, impersonal.
“Officer Davis is getting a medal of honor,” she says, forcing her reporter tone. Just stating the facts, over here. No big deal. “Osborn’s awarding it at his rally in a couple weeks. Just thought you’d want to know.”
“T-That’s great,” Peter exclaims, and for a moment it’s like their other conversation never happened.
“Yep,” she says, sinking back onto her couch. “That's it. I gotta go, Pete.”
“W-Wait, MJ.”
She waits, because what else can she do? She’s already made a fool of herself.
Peter draws a deep breath. “Do you want to come with me? T-To the rally? I’ll leave the s-spider-suit at home.” He laughs, like it’s the funniest joke of the century.
She sees it for what it is: a peace offering. It’s a glimmer of how he was at Mick’s, before the sirens whisked him away, left her with an empty booth, a basket of fries, and a soft smile. She smiled for a long time that night.
God, it’d be nice to smile again. And it wasn’t like she wouldn’t be attending the rally; Robbie was definitely going to need a follow-up interview.
So she swallows, running her fingers along the plush pillow under her hand. “Okay.”
“Okay?” he repeats, disbelief coloring his tone. Then he laughs again, brighter now. “Okay! Great. I’ll—I’ll t-text you.”
“Sounds good. Bye, Pete.”
“Bye, MJ!”
She checks the tracking app again, later that night, only to see him swooping through midtown. Another normal evening for their friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.
He doesn’t wait until the Osborn rally to text her. It starts casual, talking dress code like he doesn’t know protocol for political events. Considering her last debacle, she responds mostly out of shame. He’s really trying, so there’s no reason she shouldn’t.
It continues another week, until it becomes as constant as eating, easy as breathing. She gets up, texts Peter, goes off to work. Texts him throughout the day. Goes home. Texts Peter, then pretends she’s heading to bed just so she won’t be so desperate as to text him after 10pm.
No good comes from texting after 10pm.
She has standards, after all.
One week from the rally, she hears about the blizzard. Winter Storm Gia, they’re calling it, and it’s scheduled to dump a foot of snow over the weekend. Already, ominous clouds are darkening the skyscrapers. New Yorkers are always hurrying, but now there’s a frantic note to their movements, a sort of determination to finish their duties, stock up on necessities, and hole up over Saturday and Sunday.
She checks the status of her heated blanket and that there’s canned soup in the pantry.
And then she texts Peter.
Blizzard warning in effect. You hear?
It’s a fast message, sent while she sweeps into her apartment’s elevator, heading to the Bugle. His response arrives as the double-doors slide open on the ground floor.
Oh, great.
She can practically hear his sarcasm. Spiders are ectotherms, and that part of his spider bite is constantly warring with his human side. Last winter, he was bundled so tightly on his non-patrolling days that he looked like a marshmallow. (It was cute. Especially that day he forgot his scarf and had to borrow hers. Pink was a good color on him.)
But even though his spider-suit has built-in thermals, it’s hardly enough on the coldest days. He usually sits blizzards out.
Guess NYC will have to do without their masked hero for a bit, she types, stepping through the apartment complex's revolving door. The outdoor chill slams into her, and she regrets only bringing her leather jacket. Definitely time to upgrade.
I’ll manage, somehow, he replies.
MJ’s brows furrow. She wants to type, don’t push yourself, but that’s edging into the I worry about you territory, something she’s pointedly avoided after their phone conversation last week. She toys with the idea of inviting him to her place to warm up in the middle of patrols, but even that’s pushing it.
Where are their boundaries now? It’s hard to know, and that’s frustrating as hell.
She thinks about her response for a few minutes, walking towards the subway with her cell phone in hand, before texting: I still have that pink scarf.
It’s flirtatious, and she only realizes it after pressing send. Her breath hitches, but his response is neutral enough to avoid a panic attack.
Haven’t you heard? I’m a red and blue kinda guy.
She laughs under her breath, then shoves her cell phone into her pocket before she can push them into dangerous territory.
Winter Storm Gia is not a drill. It screams into New York City like a furious banshee, layering the streets in snow and coating the windows in ice. The city screeches to a halt in a way MJ has only seen a few times before, leaving the sidewalks barren and the city sounds muted. Even though it’s Friday, Robbie emails everyone and orders them to stay home, stay safe.
Gladly. MJ cuddles up on her couch with her heated blanket and a bowl of soup, half-watching the weather channel, half-perusing her laptop, open on the coffee table.
It’s a lovely afternoon… right until May calls.
MJ stares at the caller ID for a solid thirty seconds before answering. “Hello?”
The voice on the other line sounds relieved. “MJ? It’s May. Parker,” the woman adds, as if MJ wouldn’t remember her. The thought would be hilarious, if May calling wasn’t so abnormal.
“Yeah, of course. Hi, Aunt May. Is… is something wrong?” MJ almost adds, “with Peter,” but stops herself at the last second. Maybe Aunt May just got bored and wanted to say hello.
But of course, that’s not it. May draws a shaky breath and says, “Maybe. I’m sorry to bother you, honey, but… have you heard from Peter?”
Of course. Of course it can’t just be a social call. MJ’s heart leaps into her throat, and she grips the phone a bit tighter. “Why? Where is he?”
“I’m not sure,” May sounds nervous, anxious. “I’m probably overreacting, but this storm has me worried. He got evicted from his apartment a week ago, and I haven't seen—”
“What? He got evicted?”
May hesitates. “Ah, he probably didn’t want you knowing about that. I just—he mentioned you two have been talking again, and I thought I’d call, just in case you know where he is.”
MJ can barely hear May’s words. Her mind is racing, combing through every text conversation they’ve had in the last week. And it sinks into place so solidly, she feels like an idiot for not seeing it before. What had she told him over the phone, that day he was so cold he stuttered over his words?
If you’re cold, just go inside.
I can’t.
Investigative reporter, her ass. She took such pride in knowing Peter, knowing how he reacts, that she didn’t bother analyzing his conversations for clues. Didn’t think he’d be hiding something this big from her.
Why was he hiding this?
He’s embarrassed, she realizes. She would be too; getting evicted is a deeply personal consequence to a bad financial situation. But as much as she understands, anger flares hot and fast. Because she could have helped, damn it. Even though they were barely talking a week ago, she’d never leave him homeless. The fact that he thought she would insults her more than she expected.
“I—I’ll find him,” she says, abandoning her soup, her blanket, her laptop. “Don’t worry, Aunt May. I’ll find him.”
“Mary Jane Watson, you listen here,” Aunt May snaps, shockingly fierce. “You will not go out in this weather. This is my problem, not yours.”
MJ almost laughs. “Pete’s always my problem, May. And I know exactly where he is.”
She hangs up the phone, then, and just as swiftly tugs open her tracking app.
Peter might not be answering his phone, but it’s still transmitting a signal. His blinking dot should be comforting, but instead, she’s just filled with dread. He’s at a skyscraper in the financial district, the exact same one he was at a week ago, the day they announced Davis was getting a medal.
She prays Peter has enough sense to find somewhere indoors to hide, but he's not one to inconvenience strangers. And if he’s not even answering May's calls, something wrong.
MJ tugs a hat over her hair, grabs an extra jacket, and sprints for the elevator.
It’s fifty-six stories of finance offices, one of those fancy, gilded buildings that look fabulous on the header of a professional website. For a moment, MJ is certain Peter’s squatting somewhere inside. But the building has locked windows and 24-hour security, alongside plenty of external crevices for a guy who can climb walls to hide.
And when she squints up, up, up, bracing herself against the biting wind and howling snow, she can see something dark blue flapping in the breeze. Almost like a construction tarp, except they’re missing all of the required on-ground signs. A quick internet search confirms her theory: there’s no construction happening at this building.
Which means that someone is protecting themselves against the cold with a cheap, plastic tarp.
For someone so smart, Peter’s a goddamn idiot sometimes.
She curses him all the way to the security desk, stamping the snow from her boots and flashing her press badge. “I’m here to interview Mr. Mallow. He’s expecting me.”
Jacob Mallow heads Mallow & Dobson, LLP. They’re the highest-profile law firm in a three-block radius, which is saying something in this part of New York. A partner at such a firm wouldn’t take a snow day, even for a blizzard like Gia.
Her gamble pays off. The security guard squints at her badge, then jerks a thumb at the elevators. “Floor 45. Can’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” she replies, and strolls for the elevators.
It takes three tries to identify which floor hosts Peter’s hovel. The tarp was on the northwest corner, she knows, so she keeps moseying through private offices as if she owns the place, peeking out the windows into the white-out conditions on the off chance she sees a flash of his stupid hidey-hole. Her lock-picking skills come in handy more than once, right until she finds the corner office with the private bathroom and the tiny window that looks out over… an ornate eagle statue, a smaller version of the ones on the Empire State Building.
And below it, a dark blue tarp, secured on all sides to create a makeshift tent fifty stories off the ground.
“Couldn’t have a normal ex, could I?” MJ mutters, abandoning the bathroom to stomp back into the office. The executive would have seen the tarp if he opened a window, but his desk faces towards the doors instead, and nothing about his personal effects implies he’s observant.
That, and the windows don’t open this high up.
MJ curses, calling Peter for the sixteenth time, only to get his voicemail. His phone must have just died, too, since her tracker’s offline for the first time in ages. She squints for the tarp, flapping in the icy wind, as dread creeps through her fingers. She’s going to have to be drastic, but—stupid boys call for stupid measures.
MJ finds the heaviest, most size-efficient statue in the guy’s office and tests its sturdiness against the very thick, equally sturdy glass.
Three echoing smacks, and MJ’s very grateful everyone on this floor stayed home today. Another two smacks and the glass cracks. Four more and it splinters to her toes. MJ shields her eyes and slams it twice, harder than ever.
The glass shatters in big, gaping sheets. Two tip outward. They're going to crash to the ground, and what if there's someone unfortunate enough to be walking down there--MJ gasps, panics, and desperately reaches for the razor edges. But before the glass can fall very far, before she can tip through the opening herself, a familiar schwick sound cuts through the wind.
“Oh, thank god,” MJ says.
“Are you t-trying to k-ill someone?” Peter exclaims, webbing the glass to the side of the building before crawling through the open window. He’s wearing the spider-suit, but his movements are clumsy, and he slices his arm on one of the jagged edges.
He hisses, dropping to the ground in a graceless heap. But he’s inside, and that’s more than MJ could boast a few minutes ago.
“Peter!” His name is a sigh of relief, even though his movements are slow, even though his arm is bleeding now. She pushes him upright, bracing him against an unbroken window as she tugs off his mask. His eyes are sunken, his face gaunt, and he flinches at the cold wind.
Yep. She's going to kill him.
“What the hell were you thinking?” she snarls, gripping his arm hard enough to bruise.
The temperature in the office has dropped drastically, and snow swirls through the jagged opening above them. For all his indigence earlier, now his eyelids flutter. “M-Me? I’m not the one w-who s-shattered a window in N-N-New York C-City.”
She can barely understand him past his chattering teeth, his slurred words. She throws her second coat at him, then tugs her hat over his ears. His skin is icy, waxen. Not good. In her hands, his mask is warm, the heating mechanism cranked up to the highest setting.
It’s not enough, clearly. Why he thought it would be, in a blizzard hitting negative digits, she has no idea.
“You should have shattered a window days ago,” she hisses, fury keeping her hot even as the cold settles around them. “Jesus, Peter, this kind of weather could kill a normal person, much less someone like you.”
“S-Strong and handsome?”
She growls in exasperation. “Don’t be cute. Don’t even try, Parker. Shit, I didn’t think this far ahead. There’s a security guard downstairs. I’ll—I guess I’ll create a distraction, somehow, and we’ll rendezvous across the street. Try not to let anyone see you looking like this.” She gestures towards the very noticeable, highly identifiable red and blue spandex.
Peter looks dazed. “W-What d-do you m-mean?”
“I mean that if I walk out with Spider-Man, we’re going to raise more than a few eyebrows,” MJ deadpans, shivering in the chill. It occurs to her, too late, that he’s not shivering.
Shit. This is bad. Even she knows that when hypothermia sets in, shivering stops.
Peter still seems confused, brows furrowed and lips set at a downward tilt. Maybe it’s her imagination, but they look… slightly blue. “Are we g-going somewhere?”
“Well, we sure as hell aren’t staying here,” MJ replies, harsher than intended. She fervently rubs his uninjured arm, trying to coax some warmth back into his skin, then notices his blood seeping into the poor executive’s dark carpet. It isn’t a deep cut, but when she curses and applies pressure to it, the pain seems to shock him into mild focus.
“O-Oh,” he says, blinking hard. “B-Back to your p-place?”
“You are a genius.”
He frowns, and she feels kind of bad. Then she remembers how he worried her, worried May, and swallows her apology.
Peter glances at the open window, like he’s forcing himself to focus. “I can get us t-there.”
“There is no way in the seven hells that we’re swinging all the way back home,” she says, rolling her eyes.
He blinks hard. “Let me g-get us t-to the ground, at least.”
It would be easier than explaining why Spider-Man is strolling out the front lobby. MJ heaves a sigh, mostly because she has no idea what kind of distraction she’d have to cause otherwise. “Fine. But I’m taking the elevator. And if you’re not across the street in five minutes, I swear to God I’m going to kick your ass.”
He quirks a grin and offers a messy salute. “Roger, R-Roger.”
“Dork,” she says, and shoves his mask into his hands.
She offers a polite goodbye to the security guard, sitting at his desk like nothing’s wrong, as she hustles across the street. Sure enough, Peter didn’t die on the way down fifty stories. He’s wearing her spare puffy coat and her hat, but even with the mask, she can see how he hunches against the wind.
She hates to do it, but they can’t go anywhere with that mask on. Even with the city shut down like it is, someone will snap a photo of Spider-Man hobbling to her apartment. And a photo of an injured Spider-Man is like a fucking cattle call to crime lords.
“Pete. The mask,” she says, quietly.
He stares at her for a long moment, like he has no idea what she’s asking. Then he jerks, mumbles something, and yanks it off his head. A violent shudder wracks through him, but he shoves it into the coat pocket.
It leaves him holding her pink beanie, which he offers to her. Even though there are dark circles under his eyes, and his cheeks are bright red, he says, “H-Here. You n-need this.”
She groans. “Jesus, Pete. Focus on yourself for a goddamn change.” With a scowl, she tugs the beanie over his head, then presses into his side. It’s partly for warmth, partly for comfort, but mostly for stability. With every step, Peter seems one light breeze from collapsing.
And Winter Storm Gia has ensured there will be no light breezes for the next few days.
The roads are empty, and they don’t have time to wait for a taxi to magically appear. MJ huffs and tugs Peter towards the nearby subway stop. It’s not a great option, but it is heated. This time, when she pays and pushes him through the grimy turnstile, her eyes dart to the people she usually ignores—the homeless, the downtrodden, the unfortunate evicted. They huddle for warmth, silent and sad, wearing second-hand coats that barely seem to be doing their jobs.
Her heart twists, and she makes a mental note to cover them in an article, once this is over. But for now, she has someone else to worry about.
The coat she gave Peter is long, but he keeps tugging it further down, a poor effort to hide the bright red, webbed designs on either hip. It only kind of works, but the blue leggings almost look like jeans from a distance. She has to hope it’s enough.
There’s a few people on the train, so she tugs him to a back corner and puts him against the window. As they pull away from the station, he leans heavily on the glass. MJ presses a hand against his forehead, wincing at the unnatural feel of his icy skin.
“Shit, Pete,” she murmurs, pressing against him, rubbing his arm again. Her hands are trembling, but it’s not from the cold. If May hadn’t called, he literally could have died this weekend.
No more almost-flirtatious texts. No more not-dates at Mick’s. No more plans to attend political events as Peter and MJ, rather than Peter, and MJ.
She just did six months without him. The idea of a lifetime more, because of his idiotic carelessness, is fucking terrifying.
“Maybe you need a hospital,” she says, when he doesn’t reply. The glazed look in his eyes is starting to scare her.
But he just shudders in response, violent and exhausting. “N-No, I’m f-f-fine.”
She doesn’t even have the energy to roll her eyes. Not anymore. Her voice is low, brimming with furious undertones. “Uh uh. You lost the chance to pull that bullshit when you decided a blizzard was a dandy time to sleep outside. And on a high rise, no less? Jesus, Parker. What the hell? FEAST wasn’t good enough for you?”
She only curses, really curses, when she’s furious enough to kill him. And she only gets that mad when he edges too close to death on his own accord. She knows it, and he knows it, but this time he just drops his gaze to his shaking hands. He clenches them, although his fingers don’t seem to be responding like they should.
“M-May would w-worry if I stayed t-t-there.”
Oh, god. “You’re joking, right?”
He glances at her, his eyes fever-bright.
She clenches her jaw. “Who the hell do you think called me, Pete?”
His shoulders slump. “S-S-Shit.”
“Yeah,” she mutters. There’s more to say, but she can scream at him properly when he’s safe in her apartment, when his cheeks are pink instead of blotchy red, when his eyes aren’t rimmed in purple, when his hands aren’t shaking and his speech isn’t stuttering.
They ride the rest of the way in silence.
She heaves a sigh of relief when they stumble through her front door. The apartment seems hot after the blistering cold outside, but Peter barely seems to notice. He hesitates, but she pushes him towards the couch with a stern gaze.
“Sit. I’ll make you a bowl of soup. When did you eat last?”
“Uh…” he cuts himself off, thinking.
Christ. If he has to think about it, it’s been too long. MJ groans. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.” He sinks onto the couch, hunching in his snow-flecked coat, as she pours a can of soup into a sauce pan. Then, when he isn’t looking at her, she googles hypothermia care.
The resulting articles are not encouraging, since it’s pretty easy to identify how far gone Peter is. But the cure is basically get him warm, which she can definitely do.
She leaves the soup to simmer, then crosses into her bedroom. In the bottom drawer, way in the back, she has a few of his clothes: sweatpants, a heavy sweatshirt, and a few sets of boxers. Her cheeks warm with embarrassment—sentimental drivel, saving this stuff—but she fishes them out regardless.
He’s perched on the edge of the couch, fidgeting, when she comes back to the living room. “I d-don’t mean to intrude—”
“Stop. Don’t you dare go there,” MJ snaps. He flinches under her ire, and she draws a shaking breath before tossing him the clothes. “Get changed.” She doesn’t add, get better, but it's a near thing.
Although he can barely seem to walk, he makes it to her bathroom. She sets a mental timer, checking on the soup, but he’s back again in a few minutes. He’d look comfy, perfect for a lazy snow day, if his face wasn’t so sallow. She points towards the couch, then gives him the bowl of soup and a big glass of hot water.
“Not another word until you’ve eaten that whole thing,” she says, curtly.
He presses his lips into a thin line, but dutifully obeys. Nurse MJ has never had a reputation for great bedside manner.
While he sips on the water, shivering in slow bouts, MJ steps into the bedroom to call Aunt May.
The woman answers on the first ring. “Oh, thank god. Mary Jane, tell me you didn’t go out there—”
“Don't worry, Aunt May. He was exactly where I expected. This whole thing was a misunderstanding,” MJ lies. Aunt May doesn’t know about Peter’s extracurriculars, so this part, at least, is as familiar as breathing. “He got caught up at the lab; you know how he is. But he’s back at my place now, safe and sound.”
May breathes a sigh, relief spreading through her tone. “You are a gift, dear. Now pass him the phone so I can yell at him properly.”
“Get in line.” MJ laughs, while simultaneously digging her fingers into her mattress. Stupid Parker. Stupid. “But he pulled an all-nighter. He crashed the minute he got here. Can I have him call you in a few hours?”
“Of course,” Aunt May says, although MJ would have to be deaf to miss the suspicion in her tone now.
She doesn’t give the older woman a chance to press. “Talk to you soon, Aunt May. Thanks for calling.”
“You too, honey.”
She hangs up the phone, feeling worse than ever.
Peter does sleep, so it’s not entirely a lie. He can't finish the soup, only makes it halfway through before his eyelids start fluttering, so MJ presses him into the soft couch cushions and props his head on the fluffy Pikachu pillow they trade off during injuries. He’s out before his head sinks into the polyester.
A few minutes later, MJ notices the blood seeping through the gray sweatshirt. Shit. She totally forgot about the gash on his left arm, but apparently the cold weather delays his healing abilities. It’s scabbing too slowly, so blood is still seeping from the center of the wound.
It’s a testament to how far gone Peter is that he doesn’t wake up while she binds it.
Once it’s wrapped in clean white gauze, she tugs the blood-stained sleeve back over it, then tucks Peter in with her heated blanket.
Friday afternoon slips into evening as she perches on the armchair adjacent to Peter, watching him shiver under heavy layers.
It’s early Saturday morning when MJ wakes up, swaddled in the very blanket she’d covered Peter with hours ago. It takes a moment to place why that’s strange, and then she’s wide awake and very irked.
And of course, Peter is gone.
“You’ve got to fucking be kidding me,” MJ snarls to the empty apartment.
It takes two seconds to pull up her tracking app. Another second to process his location: a certain high rise in the financial district. MJ nearly pulls out her hair, but opts for several short, pinched breaths and a phone call instead.
This time, he answers.
And this time, she doesn’t save the shouting for later.
“Peter Parker, you had better have a goddamn good explanation for—”
“Wait, wait, I’m coming back. I promise, I’m coming back!”
MJ clenches her fists so hard her nails cut into her palms. “You’re absolutely coming back, even if I have to drag you here myself, again. Jesus Christ, Peter, did you forget the fact that you almost died yesterday? Or—”
“MJ!”
She shuts up, but only because it’s rare that Peter shouts back at her.
He draws a breath. “I’m just grabbing my things. Okay? If—If whoever works here came back, saw this broken window, and peeked outside, they’d know I was squatting up here. So I’m getting my things. That’s all.”
“It couldn’t have waited until daybreak?” she hisses.
His voice is apologetic. “People tend to notice when I go swinging around during the day. I—I didn’t want to worry you. I thought I’d be back before you woke up.”
“Well, that’s another oversight in a long list of oversights,” MJ snaps. “If you’re not home in twenty minutes, I swear to God I’m pulling up that tracker again.”
“Wait, what tracker?”
She hangs up.
She thought she calmed down in the eighteen minutes it takes him to crawl through her window. She practiced breathing exercises. Meditation. Hell, even tried a few yoga poses, just in case it’d calm her thumping heart.
But seeing him again makes her fucking furious.
He barely has time to slide the window closed and pull off his mask before she reams into him. “Do you know how scared I was?”
“This morning, or—”
“Shut up.” He looks better, at least. His cheeks are still brighter than usual, but his eyes aren’t glazed, and he’s only shivering a little now. A beat-up duffel bag is slung over his shoulder. He’s standing straighter, too, which just means he doesn’t stumble when she jabs a finger into his chest, hard. “For someone so smart, that was pretty fucking stupid. You know that?”
His eyes flash now. “Hang on. I didn’t ask for your help.”
“I know. That’s the whole problem, isn’t it? Christ, Peter, I have plenty of space here. I told you about the blizzard. But you just assumed you could handle it, and then you scared the shit out of Aunt May, and I had to go around cleaning up your goddamn mess.”
He flinches.
MJ narrows her eyes. “Why didn’t you just come here first?”
“I did,” he exclaims, indignant. “I showed up, and then your article went live and I assumed you were busy and—and I didn’t want to bother you.”
She stilled. The proximity alert last week. When he paused over her apartment, centuries longer than he has in the last six months. God, he’d been looking for a place way back then, and they could have avoided all of this. Except he was too stupid to stick around.
And she was too stupid to ask if he needed help.
Peter runs a hand through his hair. “I mean, come on, MJ. We’re not exactly close anymore. Isn’t this weird?”
God, she’d have taken a little awkward banter over his waxen skin and sunken eyes any day. She shoves him again, and this time he bumps against the window. “Of course it’s weird. But I wouldn’t kick you out over weird. You don’t want to worry May by staying at FEAST, that’s fine. I get it. But I’m not May, and I thought we were—” she cuts herself off.
Peter frowns. “Thought we were what?”
“Closer than that. Better than this,” she gestures between them, then at the snow sweeping past her window. It’s warm and cozy in her apartment, but in that moment, it feels like she back out in the cold. She grips her arms.
He draws a breath, and it’s deep and full and beautiful. He’s fine now. Of course he is; nothing keeps the amazing Spider-Man down for long. But the words sit between them like dissolving web fluid, sticking them together even when she longs to pace across the apartment and pretend this isn’t happening.
She should know it’s never harmless flirting. Not with them.
Stupid, MJ, stupid.
Peter finally breaks the silence. “I’m always afraid to overstep boundaries. I—I don’t want to screw this up. Again,” he adds, quieter, almost bitter, before clearing his throat. “I guess I thought this wasn’t your problem. My living situation.”
“You’re always my problem, Parker." She shouldn't have to keep repeating this, but somehow she does.
His ears go a bit red at the statement, and he rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, MJ. Sorry I worried you.”
Any residual anger leaves in a whoosh. She swallows, forces a pained smile. “Sorry I yelled. You’re always free to crash on my couch, Pete. It’s… well, it was kind of nice, having someone to wake up to.”
She means six months ago, when he spent just as much time in her apartment as he did patrolling the streets. He always had a cup of coffee ready for her, extra cream and a sweet-and-low in her favorite Spider-Man mug. They’d sit on the couch and chat amicably, or they’d sweep around the apartment in a panicked frenzy preparing for the day’s work, but it was always more fun than blinking awake in an otherwise empty apartment.
Being with him was always better than being alone.
He quirks a smile. “Y-yeah. I thought so too.” And this time, it’s an embarrassed stutter, the kind she absolutely adores.
She shoves his shoulder again, playfully this time. Two friends goofing off.
Two exes testing boundaries.
And then Peter says, "What's this about you tracking me, now?"
MJ rolls her eyes, spinning on her heels as her cheeks flush. It's too early for this shit.