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Somehow, some way, Em Jay manages to be even more clingy when she’s drunk. Just in a… well, in a very different way than usual. Less hostile. Or something like that.
Okay, that’s not fair. Probably. Em Jay isn’t actually very clingy—Gwen’s just always busy spidering around, and she’s never been all that good with emotional intimacy, anyhow; something that’s only gotten worse after Peter, after the superhero stuff swallowed her normal civilian life whole, after the whole world found out who she is. And all that. One after the other, again and again and again.
But Em Jay is being clingy right now. And not even in a mean way; she doesn’t nag, she doesn’t even glare, just clings to Gwen’s arm in a way that makes Gwen feel way too hot underneath her hoodie; sticky, sweaty. She thinks Em Jay is saying something, too, but the music in the club is so loud, throbbing in Gwen’s ears and her bones, that she can’t hear her, that she can only stare at the dark-pink sparkle of her lip-gloss.
So unfair, seriously.
And she has no idea why Em Jay isn’t hanging out with Glory, who’s in a corner talking to Betty, leaning in too close even with the music too loud, but maybe they had a fight. Though Gwen’s usually always the one Em Jay fights with, while Glory’s the one who has to pick up the pieces, yeah, yeah, okay, she knows this, alright?
Em Jay’s hand feels clawing at her arm, digging into her flesh even through the hoodie. And Gwen’s been contemplating taking it off for quite some time now (though time blurs in her head until she doesn’t know how long they’ve been here already; feels like hours, though), because there’s so many people, because her skin is crawling, because she really doesn’t like clubs even when it’s half-dark in this one and people are most likely not going to recognize her, but jeez, Em Jay’s clawing up her arm as is, she doesn’t need that on bare skin.
Imagines the flaming scratches on her arm, the crescent moon indents. Shivers.
There’s a stain at the front of Gwen’s hoodie from one of Em Jay’s drinks, still wet whenever she moves, sticking to her sternum. Em Jay spins one of her rings around her finger, around and around and around. Her skirt’s short and she’s in fishnets and the lights are flashing and Gwen doesn’t know what to do with any of it.
“Why aren’t you with Glory?”
“What?” Em Jay yells over the music, looking a little startled—she was the one who kept on blabbering, though, why’s she acting all surprised that Gwen’s talking to her?—cupping her ear.
For a moment, Gwen thinks, what’s the fucking point? Whatever, whatever, whatever. Part of her wants to just walk off. Wrap her costume around herself like armor and find someone to beat up, to get beaten up by.
“Why aren’t you with Glory?”
Em Jay says something, but Gwen can’t hear her. It’s terrible—the way the music thrums through her entire body until she feels unsteady, the way the lights flicker until her eyes hurt, the way Em Jay’s lips move as if in slow motion, curving around the words Gwen can’t hear. The words Gwen has never, ever been able to hear.
She grabs Em Jay’s wrist, pulls her closer. The movement makes a bit of Em Jay’s drink slosh over again, but she’s drunk already—clawing and clawing and clawing at Gwen for no particular reason until Gwen’s so unsteady she can’t stand it—so she probably shouldn’t be drinking anymore, anyway.
It had started out fun enough. The Mary Janes had dragged Gwen here to celebrate after a successful gig—meaning, one Gwen actually attended, meaning, one that didn’t get interrupted by any of her extracurriculars for once, meaning, meaning, meaning—and because she can’t really get drunk, they’d made her drink a whole bunch to test her limits.
Now she has a headache and the edges of her vision are fuzzy and when she leans in, close towards Em Jay’s face, a part of her hopes Glory can see them. Feels awful for it. None of this is poor Glory’s fault—Em Jay and Gwen have just always been like this, always, always, always, ever since they’ve known each other, stuck in that place between liking each other and despising each other. They’re best friends. Or something like that.
“What?”
Em Jay’s face is red, up close. It makes her freckles contract against flushed skin, her eyes wide, and Gwen thinks she really definitely totally had enough to drink already. Takes the drink out of Em Jay’s hand, its grip surprisingly soft given how she’s still clawing into Gwen’s arm.
“Um,” Em Jay says, blinking, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. Gwen shuffles even closer, because the music is so damn loud. Em Jay smells like perfume and alcohol and sweat, her breath fanning erratically over Gwen’s face. “I wanted to spend time with you. You’re never around, after all.”
Ah.
It’s weird. Sends Gwen’s heart careening, because it’s weirdly honest, coming from Em Jay. Because sober Em Jay would never admit to wanting to spend time with Gwen, not like this, not without insults or the added pretense of the band. Part of Gwen wants to put her fingers in Em Jay’s hair and pull a little, just so they’re fighting again, because that’s… safer. The other part, the one with the fizzy brain, has been thinking about Em Jay’s lip-gloss this entire time. Dark pink. Glittery. Dark pink. Glittery.
(She knows nothing about makeup—doesn’t even like wearing it, dislikes the feeling of it on her skin—but she’s still thinking about it on her own lips.)
“I’m here now,” she says, defensive, because there’s really nothing else to say to that. She is never around, but saying that out loud would mean some sort of defeat in this eternal war with Em Jay, something she’s not quite ready for.
Em Jay’s fingers tighten around Gwen’s arm. She rolls her eyes, presses her lips to a thin line, and Gwen wants to smudge that stupid lip-gloss all over her face. Gwen wants to—
“You’re so awful,” Em Jay hisses, and Gwen has to lean in even closer to be able to understand her. “Gimme that back.”
It takes Gwen a moment too long to notice Em Jay’s going for her drink in Gwen’s hand—stupid Spider-sense really isn’t good for anything, and her stupid head hurts, and God is being drunk annoying, can her body finally filter through the alcohol, or whatever, it really shouldn’t be taking this long—causing Em Jay’s hand to knock into Gwen’s; startling her, making her pull away abruptly, fingers slipping on the stupid glass until it falls and explodes on the floor in a splash of liquor and glass.
Ah, shoot. Oh, this sucks.
There are quite a few people staring, now, stepping away from the glass shards, and Gwen’s pants are speckled in alcohol splatters, her face and ears hot with embarrassment. What the hell does one do in a situation like this? Walk up to the bartender and ask for a mop? Just fuck off?
“Oh my God,” Em Jay hisses, loud enough so that Gwen can just so understand her, and this time when she steps closer, when she reaches out, Gwen is ready.
Ready for what, she doesn’t know. There’s that annoying, uncomfortable prickly feeling all over her body that’s been there ever since they set foot into this club, but it’s not like she’s expecting a fight. Not rationally, that is. Mentally, she supposes she does sort of feel like she’s being cornered in a dark alley.
Em Jay has always made her feel… on edge. They’ve always been fighting.
Of course, Em Jay doesn’t try to attack her—doesn’t throw her into a wall or dropkick her into the gut or throw bombs at her like her villains do—of course, the only thing Em Jay does is wrap her hand around Gwen’s wrist and tug. Gwen doesn’t budge. She forgets it, sometimes, how much stronger she is than anyone else. The restraint has become such an integral part of her that she forgets, sometimes, even after she lost her powers and they were replaced by the braindead (not an insult, just a fact) symbiote coursing through her body.
(And perhaps it’s that which makes her feel so weird, but that’s a lie, because she’s long since gotten used to the sensation, to what it does to her, with her. Yes, she’s angrier because of it, yes, she’s hungrier because of it, but she’s been both of those things already.)
Then her eyes flick to Em Jay’s face, and there’s something in her eyes that makes Gwen falter. That makes her allow Em Jay to tug her along, stumbling through the too-hot, too-sticky crowd of people, throbbing and aching in Gwen’s head, until cold night-air hits them. Pushing all air out of Gwen’s lungs.
Perhaps that’s why it takes Gwen an embarrassingly long amount of time to realize that they’re, in fact, outside. That Em Jay did, in fact, tug her out of the back door of the club.
It’s nicer here, in some ways. The music is quieter, dampened by the wall separating them from it, and the strobing lights are gone, too. New York has never smelled particularly good, so not much improvement in that area, but there are decidedly less people around.
But Gwen’s not alone, like perhaps she’d like to be, because Em Jay is here, too. Because Em Jay is here, because she’s cornered her into a dark alley, anyway, apparently, because that’s where they are. Complete with the big dumpster and the mesh fence next to them. How cliche. How boring.
(And Gwen’s always ready to get her teeth kicked in, but she’s never been ready for this, and she never will be.)
Em Jay huffs, lets go of Gwen’s wrist—and Gwen only now notices why her arm feels so weird; it’s because Em Jay isn’t clawing into it anymore—and walks over to lean into the club wall, fishing around in her pockets for what Gwen realizes is probably cigarettes. Because smoking is apparently something Mary Jane Watson does, now, more than just from time-to-time, more than just teenage curiosity, because neither of them is a teenager anymore. Full-on rockstar, Gwen supposes.
There’s no space for her here, she thinks as she glances at Em Jay’s black cropped shirt and the skirt and the fishnets—isn’t she cold?—and the sleek, dark red hair and the pale skin. There’s no place for her next to Em Jay, there never has been. It’s why she’s spending nights getting beat up instead of hanging out with her friends.
Music had felt right to her, for a long time. She supposes it still does. It’s just…
Man, she’s such a dick. Now she’s blaming Em Jay for being absent. And okay, maybe she wouldn’t be absent that much if Em Jay was a little nicer to her on occasion, but…
“Oh my God,” Em Jay says, and her voice, suddenly well audible in the night—filled otherwise with the low thrumming of the music and the sounds of lone cars and and and—startles Gwen. Makes her wrap her arms around herself. “Will you come over here?”
It’s always weird to be alone with Em Jay. Well, actually, it didn’t used to be weird—they met first, after all. Out of all of them, they met first, in dang fucking sixth grade, and for so, so, long, it was just them. It was just them, until Spider-Woman came along, until the Mary Janes and Glory (and Betty, too) came along, until it wasn’t just them anymore, until everything between them went weird and explosive—though Gwen always thought Em Jay was kind of a bitch and Em Jay always thought Gwen was sort of a weirdo, there was this affection there, Jesus, they were (are, Gwen thinks, achingly, they are, right?) best friends—and now it’s weird to be alone with her.
Now it’s weird with how Em Jay is glaring at her, itches in Gwen’s bones even as she walks over stiffly, even as she leans into the wall next to her, shoulders bumping.
Gwen opens her mouth. Closes it again. Stares and stares and stares at the brick wall across from them, thrumming her fingers against the wall behind her. She wants to ask again. Wants to ask why Em Jay’s being so clingy, why she wants to spend her time with Gwen when she’s always so annoyed with her. If they’ll ever really be friends again (though that’s unfair, isn’t it, because that’s her own fault), if Em Jay even actually likes her at all or if… this… whatever it is between them has become more obligation, habit, than anything either of them actively chose.
She tries to remember the last time Em Jay and her spent time together, one-on-one, without fighting the entire time. Tries to remember the last time she came home (or to band practice, or hangouts, or God forbid, even gigs) too late without dreading seeing Em Jay, without all this guilt. Tries to remember the last time she went to sleep without mentally apologizing to Em Jay; without bristling in irritation at Em Jay’s every accusing message, without ignoring them for days at end, sometimes weeks.
They’re terrible, probably, both of them. But it’s Gwen who started this.
“I’m… sorry.”
Em Jay doesn’t answer, and when Gwen glances at her, there’s a dirty look on her face. And that’s just what it is; even when Gwen’s trying to be nice, trying to take responsibility, Em Jay always looks at her like this. Like her very existence is frustrating. So wary, like she can’t trust her at all anymore.
And maybe she can’t. And maybe Gwen would deserve that.
“You know,” Gwen says, lamely, “because I’m never there. You’re, um, you’re right about that. I’m an asshole.”
Em Jay rolls her eyes. “Yeah, you are,” she says, perching the crumpled cigarette she managed to claw out of her skirt pocket between her lips. Leaning down, down, down, cupping the tip with a hand, lighting it with the other.
It’s hard to look away, for some reason. Gwen stares, stares, stares at the way the tip of the cigarette lights up bright orange, at the way Em Jay’s lips mold around it, staining it with lip-gloss. Her heart beats in tune of the beat thrumming into her hands even through the wall.
“What do you think Glory and Betty are doing?”
Em Jay arches a brow, and Gwen feels her face flush. Okay, yes, she’s babbling. Okay, yes, she’s doing the exact same thing she does when she fights her villains, uses her words as a shield from her own fear. She fiddles with her fingers behind her back. Bounces on the balls of her feet.
“Probably making out,” Em Jay says, finally, and her voice is so flat when she says that, her chest expanding with how deeply she takes a drag from the cigarette. Gwen truly doesn’t have the last clue what the hell is going on with Em Jay and Glory. But hey, she’s never around; of course she doesn’t know. “They do that sometimes.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
Em Jay shrugs. “Eh.”
Eh, she says. Okay. Well. Alright.
Before Gwen can say anything else—find another topic to babble about (perhaps even something else to hurt Em Jay with, because apparently that’s what she’s always doing, because apparently she can’t even stop doing that when she’s trying not to), another thing to distract from the moment of vulnerability she dropped, refusing to elaborate or let Em Jay say anything to that in return—Em Jay’s head drops to Gwen’s shoulder, for some reason.
“There’s stains on your hoodie.”
It takes Gwen a moment before she can reply, before she can do anything but stare at Em Jay’s slightly messy hair, at the smoke drifting up from in front of her face, before Em Jay’s words arrive in her head. Her voice scratches a little, like this, after the alcohol and the cigarette. She should be careful with all that; she’s their singer, after all.
“Well,” Gwen says, swallowing down her irritation. “That was you, so.”
“Was it?”
And man, yeah, she’s still so fucking drunk, isn’t she? Gwen almost forgot with how she went back to being all prickly, with the distance she put between them—or, well, now that she thinks about it, that was all Gwen, actually; Em Jay asked her to come stand next to her pretty much immediately, and now she has her head on Gwen’s shoulder—and all that, but yeah, definitely still drunk.
Gwen doesn’t quite know if she herself is still drunk, too. It’s almost embarrassing—she’s in college, she’s an adult, she should know enough about these things. But she’s also been a superhero since she was in high school, so maybe she can get a break. Just a small one.
The smell of smoke bothers Gwen for a few moments, but then her brain filters it out; she’s been over this, New York just doesn’t really smell that good, like, in general. And Em Jay smells like alcohol and salt and smoke and something about it makes Gwen want to claw into her arms, for a change. Something about it kind of makes Gwen want to stay.
Right on cue, Em Jay’s arm snakes around Gwen’s, cigarette perched between the thin, pale fingers of her free hand. Those same fingers, simply mirrored, dig back into Gwen’s arm, and in the strangest way, it feels like coming home.
Home is such a complicated thing. It used to be this, Gwen supposes. Well, not this—not the club, not the cigarette smell sticking to Em Jay’s hair; but her. But the school. But Peter and Harry. But the band. But her father, but his apartment, but now, nothing still feels like home anymore. There’s just all those flickers, like nostalgia, and it makes her want to taste the bitter tobacco on Em Jay’s tongue, even if she never kissed her at all before.
(But that’s a lie, because they used to sneak around in bathrooms in school sometimes and Em Jay used to sneak cigarettes sometimes but they were just stupid girls and Gwen watches how Em Jay’s eyes go a bit glassy, shimmering in the low light with what are probably tears if she looks at it right, and thinks, dang it, we’re still stupid girls, aren’t we?)
“Please don’t,” Em Jay whispers, suddenly, interrupted by a coughing fit, sending smoke spilling and flying and drifting; and while her voice is so, so quiet, it still manages to startle Gwen, “Jesus. Go. Please don’t leave me—leave us—alone so much, Gwen. Do you know how much we need you?”
Gwen’s lips are parted, and she doesn’t have a clue what to say. Em Jay’s looking at her, directly at her with blurry green eyes and a cigarette in her hand, brows furrowed together like a plea, like there’s much more her in that sentence than there’s a we.
Alcohol makes you honest, I suppose, Gwen’s brain supplies helpfully, but otherwise, it refuses to give her anything to work with. Em Jay’s hands are shaking, like she’s cold, like that cigarette is doing fuck-all to warm her up, and when Gwen untangles herself from her, Em Jay lets her.
Lets her, lets her, lets her, even when there’s that look in her eyes, that angry-bitter-hurt-sad look that makes Gwen’s throat knot up, the same she lies awake thinking about sometimes. All of the time.
Em Jay and her simply don’t get along, anymore. She’s Spider-Woman and she’s serious about it and Em Jay hates, hates, hates it, and if Gwen’s really honest to herself, she hates that Em Jay hates it.
Hates that Em Jay doesn’t understand her anymore, like she used to. Wants to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, wants to claw inside of her, wants Em Jay to revolve solely around her. Maybe then she’d feel better; but no, charming, funny Em Jay, arrogant, mean Em Jay gets along with so many people, and Gwen has never been able to keep up with her.
She shrugs out of her stained hoodie. Holds it out to Em Jay, who looks at her like she has two heads, who looks at her like she’s going to run away. Like both of them are going to run away, and then keep running forever, until they don’t have to deal with each other anymore, until they live lives where they aren’t chained together by duty and their social circles and whatever is still clawing deep inside of them, whatever still makes Gwen dream about Em Jay.
She’s mean. They’re friends, of course they are. They’re still friends. They’re still friends, and Em Jay is looking at her like…
“Take it,” Gwen says. “You’re shaking.”
Em Jay taps at her cigarette, the ash floating down. “It’s stained.”
“Take it. You were the one who stained it, anyway.”
Em Jay’s brows pinch and she bites down on her bottom lip, looking clearly like she wants to say something more, but she apparently thinks better of it; groans in frustration before dropping the half-smoked cigarette to the ground and stomping on it like it’s Gwen there in the dirt, instead.
“Fine.”
Fine, Gwen bites back, because Em Jay is still drunk and she’s still debatably drunk, as well, and they’re always so petty and that’s what got them into this mess, anyhow, isn’t it?
Em Jay looks strange in Gwen’s hoodie once she shrugs it on. It clashes with her outfit, bright turquoise against black, black, black, but something about it makes Gwen swallow. Something about it makes something in Gwen’s fingertips itch. The night air is pretty cold, actually. Maybe she shouldn’t have given that stupid hoodie up. It’s Em Jay’s own fault for not bringing one, after all; for going out like this.
For some reason, instead of complaining about any of that, Gwen finds herself cupping Em Jay’s jaw. Finds herself leaning in, watching how Em Jay frowns at her right up until their lips touch. Then Em Jay’s fingers are in her hair, suddenly, clawing, insistent, a desperate noise in the back of her throat and it rushes through Gwen’s body so hotly she doesn’t need that dumb hoodie at all. So hotly she feels as overheated as she had inside of the club.
(She wonders if Glory or Betty or both have already noticed their absence.)
Desperate, tugging at her hair. Desperate, pushing her tongue against her teeth, desperate, desperate, desperate, and Gwen was right, Em Jay tastes like smoke like she thought she would, tastes like smoke like she did in high school, but she tastes like alcohol, too, and her lip-gloss sticks their lips together until Gwen can’t breathe anymore.
Until she claws into Em Jay’s hair, too, fisting it into a makeshift ponytail, tugging it back, back, back forcing Em Jay to tip her chin up, to lean back further into the wall. Em Jay bites her for it, and it rushes through Gwen’s body, tingling in the pit of her stomach until it makes her go crazy, until it makes a noise slip out of her she’d really rather ignore.
Gwen doesn’t know what to do about any of it, but then again, she never did know what to do with Mary Jane Watson.
Still she pushes Em Jay into the wall further, still she wedges a thigh between Em Jay’s legs, pressing it into Em Jay’s crotch, hot against her, riding up Em Jay’s black skirt until it gives way for pale, freckled thighs, broken up into little shapes by her fishnets. Soft, digging into them, making the back of Gwen’s mouth very dry, despite Em Jay’s tongue—bitter and sweet and alcohol sharp and tangy—against her own.
Em Jay keens against where Gwen’s still tugging her head back by her hair, moans, hips rolling against Gwen’s thigh as if that’s what she’s been waiting for all evening, and perhaps it is. Perhaps she did. Perhaps Gwen has always underestimated how much Em Jay likes her; how much she likes Em Jay, too, perhaps. Perhaps part of her has always wanted to look under Em Jay’s skirt, more even than she wanted to kiss her—or maybe all of that is the same thing, anyway. Maybe something inside of them tangled together in sixth grade and then again in a dingy high school bathroom, and then again right now, and there’s simply nothing either of them can do about it.
She wants to get her fingers into Em Jay’s panties—she’s wearing a skirt, after all, and Gwen’s ears get unbearably hot at that thought again—but that would probably be too far. As if all of this isn’t, already. But she’s drunk. She’s drunk and Em Jay’s drunk too and she’s wearing Gwen’s sweater and her lip-gloss is smudging over Gwen’s face.
Gwen bets twenty dollars she doesn’t have in her head that Em Jay’ll pretend none of this happened tomorrow. But then again, so will she.