Work Text:
Peter stared through the glass of the donut shop from his vantage point across the street, pulling his collar up against the chill. Inside, the warm glow of the fluorescent lights illuminated Ned and MJ standing by the counter. They were laughing—real, unburdened laughter—while MJ handed Ned a cup of their usual coffee.
Peter knew for a fact that specific blend tasted like burnt cardboard, but watching them now, he would have given anything to share a cup of it.
He looked down at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand. It was the letter. He closed it, tucking it safely into his jacket pocket, and recited the words in his head one last time. Just walk in. Read the words. Make them remember.
Taking a deep breath, he finally found the nerve to cross the street and approach the entrance.
He paused just outside the door. Through the glass, the muffled sound of Ned and MJ giggling over something incredibly stupid reached his ears. God, he missed this. He missed them so much it was a physical ache in his chest.
After one final, agonizing second of hesitation, he pushed the door open.
Chime.
The familiar little bell rang out above him, a sound that used to mean safety and warmth. Instantly, Peter watched the transformation happen. As soon as he stepped into MJ’s peripheral vision, her shoulders squared, her posture straightened, and her expression smoothed out into something entirely polite and entirely distant.
Peter bit back a snort. He and Ned used to call it ”MJ Work-Style”—the robotic, professional persona she adopted for customers, completely separate from her usual cynical, brilliant self.
Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw Ned catch the shift too, letting out a muffled laugh that was immediately cut short by a lethal glare from MJ.
“Welcome to Peter Pan Donuts, what can I get started for you?” MJ asked.
She offered a customer-service smile, but Peter knew the difference. It was a mask. The real MJ rarely smiled, but when she did—when she was tucked away in Ned’s room or sitting on a rooftop with Peter—she truly had the most beautiful smile.
And God, Peter had missed it. He had missed her so much that his throat went completely dry, leaving him trapped in his own head.
“Uhm, excuse me, sir?” MJ’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, her brow furrowing slightly. “Are you ready to order?”
“Oh! Uh, yeah, sorry. Just give me one second,” Peter stammered, his heart hammering against his ribs. He forced his eyes upward, pretending to study the menu board filled with various coffees, teas, and pastries, desperately trying to buy himself some time.
His eyes danced across the familiar text, and before his brain could stop his mouth, the words slipped out. “Man, did you guys remove the MJ Special?”
The words hung in the air, sudden and heavy. Peter froze, the blood running cold in his veins as he realized what he had just said. He slowly lowered his gaze to the counter.
MJ and Ned were staring at him, completely paralyzed. The easy, casual atmosphere of the shop vanished in an instant, replaced by a tense, suffocating silence.
Ned was the first to break it, shifting uncomfortably and looking Peter up and down. “Dude... uhm, do we know you or something?” He didn’t sound angry or defensive; he just sounded entirely baffled.
Before Peter could even attempt to craft a lie, Ned whirled around to face MJ, his expression dropping into a dramatic pout. “MJ! I thought the burnt cinnamon blend was our thing!” he huffed, sounding genuinely offended. “Did you give away the secret recipe to some random guy?”
MJ didn’t answer Ned. Her eyes remained narrowed, locked entirely on Peter, searching his face with a sharp, piercing intensity that made him feel completely exposed.
Peter gulped, his hands digging deep into his jacket pockets. “No! I was—uh, I just overheard you guys the other day,” he lied, the words tumbling out in a panicked rush. “You were talking about it, and I just wondered how good it actually was because, yeah, uh... you were basically glazing it!”
Ned blinked, a look of sudden realization washing over his face. “Ohhhh! Right, we were talking about that pretty loud on Tuesday.”
MJ, however, didn’t buy it for a second. She crossed her arms, her posture stiffening. “Okay, Mr. Liar. What can I actually get for you?” Her tone was sharper now, a distinct edge of hostility replacing her customer-service facade.
Peter swallowed hard, feeling the sting of her suspicion. “I’ll just have the... uh, the espresso, please.”
She nodded curtly, turning to tap the order into the register. “Anything else with that?”
Peter hesitated. He mentally calculated the meager crumpled bills left in his wallet. He really didn’t have the budget to spend on a pastry. If he bought one, it meant he might have to go hungry or skimp on meals for the next few days. But looking at the two of them, so close yet an eternity away, he decided—just this once—he wanted something for himself.
“A donut,” Peter said softly. “Up to your liking.”
MJ’s fingers froze over the screen. She slowly turned her head back to face him. “Up to my liking?” she asked, her voice flat with utter bafflement.
Behind her, Ned let out a sudden hack, choking on a piece of his own donut. He coughed, thumping his chest, before looking up at Peter with wide eyes. “Man, you know, you’re a funny guy,” he laughed, trying to clear the awkward tension in the air.
“More like a weird guy,” MJ countered instantly.
Peter’s face flushed. He looked down at his hands, at the worn cuffs of his hoodie, at anything but her eyes. The words hung there between them—weird—and he felt the familiar weight of being seen but not recognized, of being close but impossibly far away.
He scratched the back of his neck, his fingers lingering there as if they could somehow anchor him. A weak laugh escaped him, almost involuntary. “Yeah, I... I guess I am.”
The silence stretched for a moment. Peter could hear the espresso machine humming, the soft clink of a spoon against ceramic from somewhere in the shop. He took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, more honest than he’d intended.
“It’s just been a really rough day for me,” he said. The exhaustion was real—bone-deep and undeniable—and it bled through despite his best efforts to keep it contained.
MJ was quiet for a beat. She turned back to the espresso machine, sliding a paper cup under the spout with practiced efficiency. “We all have it rough, man,” she said, and there was something in her tone—not unkind, but matter-of-fact. Protective, even.
Peter couldn’t help the small, bittersweet smile that tugged at his lips. It was classic MJ—offering a grim sort of solidarity while fiercely protecting her own walls, never wanting to sound vulnerable or weak.
“But I guess if you’re making me choose,” she continued, her tone softening just a fraction as she turned toward the pastry display, “you look like you need a classic glazed. No frills, just sugar.”
She reached into the case and pulled out a glazed donut, sliding it into a small paper bag with the kind of care that suggested she actually meant it. The gesture was small—almost nothing—but it landed hard in Peter’s chest. She’d chosen for him. She’d looked at him, seen something in his exhaustion, and decided he needed taking care of.
Peter stared at the bag for a moment, unable to move. His throat tightened. How long had it been since someone had done something like this for him? Since someone had noticed he was struggling and simply... acted? The weight of it—the casual kindness, the attention, the choice—threatened to crack something open inside him. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe through it.
Ned nodded in agreement, leaning his elbows on the counter. “Can’t go wrong with the glazed, dude. It’s a solid choice for a bad day.”
“Okay then,” Peter said, his voice slightly rough as he cleared his throat and gestured vaguely toward the empty tables in the corner of the shop. “I’ll just... uh, go sit down over there.”
“Hey, wait, you don’t have to sit alone,” Ned said, waving a hand to invite him closer to the edge of the counter. “The shop’s dead anyway. You can stay near us.”
Peter hesitated, the conflict roaring in his mind, but the magnetic pull of being near his best friends was too strong to fight. He stepped closer, leaning his hip lightly against the counter.
“So, where do you go to school?” Ned asked, leaning in with genuine, open curiosity. “Do you live around here?”
Peter felt a familiar spike of panic, but he forced his voice to remain steady, weaving the lie he had practiced a thousand times. “Oh, uh, no. I actually just moved to the area. I’m doing some online classes right now, just trying to figure things out.”
“Oh, nice! Online school sounds kind of chill, honestly,” Ned nodded, completely buying the story without a single second thought.
MJ, however, just leaned against the back counter with her arms crossed. She didn’t say anything at first. Her piercing gaze locked onto Peter’s face, studying him with an intensity that made his skin prickle.
The silence stretched between them—uncomfortable, heavy, deliberate. Peter could feel her dissecting every word he’d said, every micro-expression on his face, searching for the lie beneath the surface.
He shifted his weight, suddenly hyperaware of his hands, of the letter crumpled in his pocket. The quiet seemed to expand, filling the small shop with an almost suffocating tension. Ned glanced between them, sensing the shift but not quite understanding it.
Finally, MJ broke the silence, her voice cutting through like a blade. She pointed a finger at his hands. “You’ve been fiddling with something in your pocket this entire time. What is it?”
Peter froze.
Slowly, his fingers wrapped around the crumpled piece of paper in his jacket. He hesitated for a long, agonizing second before pulling it out, holding it gently between his fingers like it was made of glass.
“It’s... it’s a letter,” Peter said, his voice cracking slightly. He stared down at the messy handwriting, his vision starting to blur. “For the people I lost. I just... wanted to say everything I never got to say.”
He swallowed hard, trying with everything in his soul not to cry, but the sound that came out of him was completely broken and hollow.
Ned’s expression softened instantly, his face falling into pure empathy. “Man... I’m so sorry. I’ve been through that. Losing family sucks. It’s the worst thing in the world.”
MJ looked at the letter, then up at Peter’s shattered expression. “You should be happy, honestly,” she said, her voice blunt but grounded in her own reality. “At least you had people you cared about that much. That’s better than them being alive and you just going through shit with them.”
“MJ!” Ned hissed, shooting her a shocked, reprimanding look.
“No, it’s okay,” Peter cut in quickly, raising a hand to stop Ned. “Really. She’s right. I’m glad I had them.”
A heavy, quiet silence settled over the counter. The only sound was the low hum of the refrigerator.
MJ shifted her weight, looking down at her shoes for a brief moment, a rare flash of regret crossing her face before she looked back up. “Sorry,” she said, the word quiet, rare, and entirely genuine.
“It’s okay,” Peter smiled weakly, though the gesture felt completely hollow. He looked at the espresso and the glazed donut sitting on the counter. “Hey, uh... can I actually take the food and coffee to go?”
“Yeah, of course,” MJ said, quickly grabbing a small paper bag and a lid for the cup. She packed them up efficiently.
As she slid the little brown bag across the counter, the crinkle of the paper felt painfully loud in the sudden quiet of the shop. Peter nodded tightly, his throat closing up completely. A sharp, suffocating wave of regret hit him so hard it made his chest physically ache.
He shouldn’t have come here. He shouldn’t have dropped hints about the “MJ Special” or tried to look into their eyes, foolishly thinking he was strong enough to handle the polite, blank distance staring back at him. Every second he stood here, he was just torturing himself, memorizing the shape of a life he had willingly surrendered to the dark.
His fingers trembled slightly as they took the bag from her. For a terrifying, desperate split second, he wanted to freeze time. He wanted to throw away the lies, pull out the letter, and just beg them to remember the rooftop, the scaffolding, the blood, and the laughs. The urge to scream his own name was so violently loud in his head that it made him dizzy.
But then he looked at the faint, nearly healed scratch on MJ’s forehead—free of the dust and chaos of that night on the statue. He looked at Ned, completely safe, untouched by the shadows of a world that hunted heroes.
They’re safe, he reminded himself, the bitter truth settling like lead in his stomach. You did this to keep them alive. Don’t ruin it now.
He forced his fingers to tighten around the handles of the bag, grounding himself. He couldn't afford to be selfish. He forced his eyes away from MJ's piercing gaze before he could fall apart right there on the linoleum floor.
"Thanks," Peter whispered, his voice dangerously thin as he took a step back. "Bye."
He turned and walked toward the door, his chest aching, ready to escape into the cold air before he completely lost his grip on his emotions. He reached out and placed his hand on the metal handle.
"HEY, loser."
The words hit him like a physical blow. Peter tensed up entirely, his hand freezing on the door handle. A sudden wave of dizziness washed over him, the room spinning as the old, familiar nickname echoed in his ears. His heart hammered violently against his ribs.
He forced himself to turn around, his vision swimming, but he could still make out the words she said next.
"Come by again if you have another rough day," MJ said, her voice softer now, her defensive walls completely down. "We're always here on Thursdays."
"Yeah," Peter choked out weakly, his head dropping instantly as he tried his absolute hardest to keep the tears from spilling over.
"Yeah, man! Thursdays are awesome here, seriously. Come by again," Ned chimed in, smiling warmly and waving.
"Alright," Peter whispered.
He pushed the door open, the bell chiming one last time. The cold air hit his face as he stepped onto the sidewalk, and for a moment—just a moment—he stood there. His lungs drew in the sharp, frigid breath of the city, and he tried to hold himself together. His fingers gripped the paper bag so tightly the edges crumpled beneath his palms.
He could do this. He could walk away. He could survive this like he'd survived everything else.
But then he heard it again, echoing in his mind: loser. The way she'd said it. The way she'd looked at him. The way she'd invited him back, not knowing—never knowing—that he was the person she'd loved. That he was the person who'd loved her.
The realization crashed over him like a wave, and something inside him snapped.
Peter's breath hitched. His vision blurred. He started walking faster, then faster still, until his feet were moving of their own accord. The paper bag swung wildly at his side as he broke into a run, his boots pounding against the concrete.
He ran blindly, heading nowhere and everywhere at once, his vision completely blurred by the tears pouring down his face. He bolted down the crowded street, slamming hard into a few pedestrians as the sidewalk blurred into a smear of grey.
"Hey! Watch it, kid!" someone yelled, shoving him back.
The sharp impact jolted his hands, sending the paper bag and the coffee cup flying out of his grip. The hot coffee spilled violently across the concrete and the glazed donut rolled straight into the dirt, but Peter didn't care. He didn't look back.
Desperate to hide his breakdown from the public eye, he veered down a narrow side street and ducked into the dim, empty hallway of an old apartment building, collapsing against the entryway wall.
The cold bricks of the hallway bit into his back, but Peter barely felt it. His chest heaved, his breaths coming in ragged, suffocating gasps as he stared down at the damp, wrinkled paper in his hands. The ink was already starting to bleed from his tears, blurring the words he had spent weeks carefully drafting in the dark.
Every word on that page felt like a physical weight, crushing the air right out of his lungs. He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes, but he couldn't shut out the memories. They rushed into his mind, vibrant and agonizingly loud, filling the quiet, empty corridor.
Hi, my name is Peter Parker, and you don't remember me, but I have something to tell you that's going to sound crazy.
He is sitting on the edge of a sagging mattress in a hollow, unfamiliar apartment. The room smells like dust and old paint. A single, bare bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting long, lonely shadows across the floorboards. His hand is shaking so violently he can barely hold the pen, staring at the terrifying void of a blank page, trying to figure out how to write himself back into existence.
But it's the truth, and I know you're going to believe me, because you're very good at telling when I'm lying.
The memory shifts to a sunlit, crowded street in Venice. The air smells like salt water and pastries.
MJ stops walking, turning to look at him with that sharp, piercing gaze that always made him feel completely transparent. ”You’re Spider-Man,” she says, her voice flat and utterly certain.
Peter’s heart drops into his stomach; he stammers, waving his hands, throwing out one terrible, desperate lie after another. But she just rolls her eyes, a tiny, triumphant smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She always knew. He could never hide from her.
We used to know each other. We were together.
Suddenly, he’s high above the glittering lights of Manhattan. The wind is a freezing, roaring rush in his ears, but the girl in his arms is warm.
MJ is clinging to his chest, her fingers dug deep into his suit, screaming in absolute terror before her fears melt into a breathless, euphoric laugh. When they swing down onto the pavement, her eyes are wide and sparkling under the streetlights. She catches her breath, looks up at him through her messy hair, and pulls him down by the mask for a perfect, unforgettable kiss.
But something bad was going to happen to the world. And the only way to stop it was to make everyone forget me, including you.
The sky above the Statue of Liberty is tearing open. Huge, blinding cracks of purple and gold cosmic energy split the darkness, bleeding in from other universes, threatening to shatter reality itself.
The wind is howling, carrying the dust of a broken battlefield. Doctor Strange is floating above the ruined scaffolding, his face grim, his hands glowing with ancient magic as he looks down at Peter, waiting for the devastating nod that will seal the boy’s fate.
Because I’m not just Peter Parker. I’m Spider-Man.
The memory flashes back further, to a messy bedroom filled with posters and clothes.
Peter drops silently from the ceiling, hanging upside down, completely unaware of the boy sitting on the bed. A sharp smash echoes through the room as Ned drops his half-finished LEGO Death Star, thousands of tiny plastic pieces scattering across the floorboards.
Ned’s jaw is completely slack, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and absolute awe. ”You’re the Spider-Man... from YouTube!” he whispers, a secret born in a messy bedroom that made them brothers.
And sometimes, Spider-Man has to do the hard thing. Even if it breaks Peter Parker’s heart.
Back on the ruined scaffolding, the world is ending around them, but Peter can only see her.
He cups MJ’s face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away her tears as his own vision blurs completely. ”I’ll find you,” he promises, his voice cracking, a desperate plea to the universe. ”I’ll come back to you, I swear.”
MJ grips the fabric of his torn suit, her knuckles white, pulling him close as the golden magic begins to swirl around them like a storm. ”I love you,” she whispers fiercely against his lips, her voice trembling with a terrifying certainty, right before the blinding, wiping light swallows her whole.
Maybe I’ll never read this to you. Maybe I’m just writing this for me.
He is standing in the middle of the warm, brightly lit donut shop. The smell of sugar and coffee is suffocating.
He watches MJ’s hands efficiently fold the paper bag, sliding his order across the counter with a polite, distant customer-service smile. The letter is right there in his jacket pocket, burning against his ribs. All he has to do is pull it out. All he has to do is read the first line.
But he looks at her unblemished, peaceful face, forces a quiet smile, and nods goodbye.
Maybe that’s my responsibility, to live alone with the truth.
The rain is pouring down in heavy, relentless sheets over a gray cemetery. Peter stands entirely alone in front of a fresh mound of earth, a single gravestone bearing the name May Parker. His clothes are soaked through, his skin bruised, his soul hollowed out.
The crushing realization settles deep into his bones: everyone who loves Peter Parker dies. The only way to keep Ned and MJ alive is to let them forget he ever existed. He has to carry the ghost of his life completely by himself.
But the truth is I love you.
Through the glass of the shop, the warm light frames his best friends perfectly. Ned throws his head back, laughing so hard his shoulders shake, slinging an arm playfully over the counter. MJ is smiling—that rare, genuine, breathtaking smile that she only ever saved for the people she trusted most.
They are safe. They are happy. They are whole.
And Peter is in the dark, watching from the outside, his heart breaking and swelling all at once.
Peter’s eyes scanned the very last line of the paper. The text was warped from the water dropping from his chin, the words almost entirely washed away.
“And I hope that deep down...” he whispered into the empty, shadow-drenched hallway, his voice cracking into a raw, broken sob. “...something inside you remembers you love me too.”
As the final syllable left his lips, the last bit of strength drained from his body. His knees buckled, and his back slid heavily down the cold brick wall. He collapsed onto the concrete floor, pulling his legs tightly against his chest and burying his face in his arms.
The silence of the hallway was shattered by the sound of his crying—deep, violent sobs that tore from his throat, echoing off the bare walls.
He rocked back and forth in the dark, completely overwhelmed by the phantom feeling of MJ’s hands gripping his jacket, the memory of her tear-streaked face on that scaffolding, and the ghost of a love that belonged to a boy who no longer existed.