American Institutions Fail Us All pt. 1
Friday passes in a blur, but he made double the money than expected, which is so very welcome. Peter knows he doesn't have to worry as much about rent as the average New Yorker because his lodging is under the table (no contracts or background checks, but hey, it costs less and no questions asked), but the burden lessened is fantastic nonetheless.
He wishes Friday night had been a blur, tossing and turning and nightmares of being strangled, rough and unnaturally large alien hands pushing under his shirt and tearing his clothes. Peter wonders if anyone else has this particular combination of nightmare fuel. Probably not.
He almost forgets to bring the LEGO Millennium Falcon set with him to the donut shop, which had ironically been a birthday gift from Ned's family.
As always, the restaurant is practically empty. Peter asks MJ if they're even allowed to start building the spaceship in there, to which she shrugs and Ned tears open the box a little too enthusiastically.
Table tops wiped and floor swept, MJ joins them at the counter while they build the LEGO set. There's no way they could finish it before her shift is over. This is the most time with them Peter has had ever since he erased himself, and he almost feels normal, if that were a thing he could consider his life at all in the last couple of years. In conversation, he pretends he forgot they had told him that the two of them were classmates, and that they must remind him. In turn he spins his tale of how he dropped out of school to take care of a sick relative, but that he's alright now and he'd gotten himself a GED and steady work. He feels awful lying, but it hurts too much to specify that May died, it's too close to the truth that he just can't cope with it at the moment.
Ned's grandmother calls, asking him to come home and it sounds so urgent that MJ becomes concerned, but Peter knows Ned's grandmother, knows how she is. Laughs internally at how he knows this precious and boisterous old woman who doesn't know him anymore. The donut shop is completely empty (aside from that laptop-corner guy), and MJ fiddles with a long LEGO piece in her hand.
The Thursday question is chipping away at Peter's self restraint. Not how's your mother, how are you, how's your dog (she doesn't have a dog), it's:
"Where do you go? On Thursdays?"
He's propped his face up with his fist, one elbow on the counter. His other hand rocks the unfinished LEGO set back and forth on its unsteady base.
MJ's pales, something he did not expect.
"What do you mean?" She cautions.
He opens his mouth, but she cuts in to control the narrative---she's anxious, and now he feels terrible.
"Are you stalking me?" She narrows her eyes. He's almost forgotten how much she was like this.
"W-when you leave here, I mean---"
"I know what you mean," she interjects, "are you stalking me?"
"No! No, it's not like that---"
"Don't think that I trust you, I don't care how much you come here. Trust is to be earned, especially by men." She jabs the long LEGO at his face like it's both a teaching tool and a weapon.
Ouch, but he knows. It's not about him personally, but she can't possibly know how much reminding him that he's a stranger twists the knife permanently lodged in his chest.
"No," he laughs, in hopes of lightening her up. "I mean like, every day when you leave here, you turn right. I'm usually here until closing, I see you turn right and go towards the office building. But on Thursdays, you turn left---I, y'know, I was just curious, what's on the left? Are you gatekeeping a restaurant or something? I promise I won't ruin your favorite hole in the wall if it is."
She lets out some mixture of a laugh and a huff, leans back in her stool and slides her hands with her across the counter towards the ledge.
"I wish I could say it was a good restaurant or something, but it's not. I'm sorry I can't tell you what it is, it's kinda private," he can feel her anxiety peaking again.
"Oh, oh no, don't say sorry, don't apologize," he rushes in. "It was just a question, you don't have to apologize for privacy, I mean, we all need that." Peter gives an awkward smile. Well, it feels awkward. He hopes it looks inviting.
He’s puzzled. Makes sense, a meeting. What else could be going on at a middle school at night? A meeting for what? MJ didn't have any siblings. Did she? He knew she didn't. Maybe it was for volunteering? Damnit, he loved her so much. She was such a good person, if good and bad is something people should be categorized into.
"Are you alright? You're kinda red," she teases. He realizes he was blushing just thinking about how much he loved and missed her, all while within her company.
"Ah. Uhm," come on, say something good in response.
Tingles down his spine, a chime at the door.
No one else was in the restaurant, except for now, Skip was.
Peter's fingers stick to the counter.
This time, MJ does not look charmed. It was as if she had felt him out on Thursday and concluded that the vibe was indeed off. Peter recalls Ned and MJ whispering Thursday. What had he said?
"You should be in jail," he mumbles as the memory surfaces. MJ had stood to greet Skip as per her job, but she notices Peter speaking under his breath, and a concerned look washes over her, like what Ned had told her yesterday was confirmed.
Skip is completely unable to read the room. "What have we got here?" He says, noticing the LEGO spaceship. MJ doesn't move from where she's standing, halfway between the front counter and Peter, but her eyes follow as Skip strides over to the LEGOs. He's wearing a blue baseball cap, and the way he ducks his head makes him unreadable, only pushing Peter further towards the edge.
Skip picks up a piece. "I love LEGOs," he says, smiling between Peter and MJ as if the temperature in the room had not dropped ten degrees since he entered. "I used to babysit a lot in college, and I made so many LEGO sets."
Peter looks like he's uncomfortably concentrating on something, he knows, because he's been told many times before that’s how he looks when his face crumples, but he can't help it. His mind finally registers the image of Skip holding a LEGO brick, and Peter sweeps his arm over the entire counter, clattering all the pieces to the floor and destroying all that had been painstakingly assembled so far. At that moment, the bells tinkle and a potential customer pokes his head in but immediately leaves, startled just as MJ and Skip were.
Peter is more in control this time, his reactions delayed but at least he's moving at all.
"Woah, woah man," Skip says.
"Prison," Peter breathes. It's all he can manage. He's just too flabbergasted. It was as if the first time was a glitch in the simulation, like Skip would never show up again and it was only an accidental nightmare. Yet here he was. Gears are shifting behind MJ's expression and Peter wishes he could explain, but it might just break him, and he also wishes he could in particular break every one of Skip’s fingers, chop off his hands and mail them to whichever shitty authority that had been paid off to release him.
"You should be in prison," he says loud enough for everyone to hear, crumpled expression unchanging but now he's gripping the counter so hard it could break, and that would not be good at all. He thinks he sees that businessman who is always sitting in the corner snap his laptop shut.
Skip drops the smile in an instant. Mind still churning, MJ moves towards the back where Peter is, but he wishes she moved towards the door. Wishes she left so he could stomp Skip to death. If anyone in the entire world deserved it, if there was anyone he couldn't fix, it was Skip.
MJ finally spoke: "I think you need to leave." She swallows.
Skip’s head snaps in her direction, expression no longer friendly. "What?" He pants. "Why? What have I done?"
"It seems you are making my customer extremely uncomfortable," she manages, but Skip dramatically gestures to the colorful plastic all over the floor.
"I'm making him uncomfortable? He's saying weird shit to me and making a fucking mess," Skip spits, sounding like the rational one in the room.
Peter finally has it in him to look at MJ with pleading eyes, as if she, the underpaid donut shop employee, could do something. As if Peter himself couldn't tear this place apart with his bare hands if he wanted to.
Skip’s shoulders heave with the effort to remain calm. He's nervous, like he's been caught, because in a way he has. Peter opens his mouth but Skip beats him to it.
"I'm here legally," he seethes, and MJ visibly tenses with the confirmation that he's some kind of criminal.
"How did you get out?" Peter asks, a sternness coming over him now that protective instincts are kicking in as the threat of Skip's presence expands beyond himself.
Skip laughs. "My uncle is rich as fuck, that's how. How else?" He turns to MJ, who is noticeably straining to breathe evenly, to appear calm. "Relax, no need to call the police. Your customer, whose name I do not even know, has no right to remove me, and now I'm dying to know just what his deal is."
MJ doesn't remove her hand from the store phone.
Skip takes one step towards Peter, which provokes him to rise up from his stool and back away two full steps. Skip chuckles, it sounds annoyed.
"Do you have---"
"I don't have any siblings," Peter cuts him off. Skip raises an eyebrow.
"I really think you need to leave," MJ cuts in. Skip gives her a surprised look.
MJ's voice sounds strained, anxiety repressed in the back of her throat. "You said there's no need for the police but frankly, I think my customer and I both feel threatened, confirmed by you approaching him, so you should leave."
Skip raises his hands in mock surrender and makes a show of backing up, stepping over LEGOs as he does.
"I can't believe this," Peter whispers.
"Believe it, pal. Do I know you?"
"I was," there's too much saliva in Peter's mouth, overcompensating for the dryness that it had been the past fifteen minutes. "I was fucking eleven years old."
A glaze of realization spreads over Skip, but he doesn't look remorseful. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't recognize you. You're all grown up now." He smiles naturally, like Peter is an old classmate or something.
At this point, Peter backs against the wall. He grips the bathroom doorknob, to put his energy somewhere, knuckles bleached with fear. The tension of needing to fight for his life but not being able to release the adrenaline is wearing him out, and it only builds by the second.
"I mean," Skip continues, "it wasn't just you. I babysat plenty, so forgive me for not recognizing you. Really.”
But I'm the first one who reported you, Peter thinks. It happened so many times that Skip may have lost count? He can't breathe.
"Leave, or I'm calling the police," MJ threatens.
Skip locks eyes with her and takes strides towards Peter. Peter doesn't even know how to compute, what to do. He squeezes his eyes shut but opens them when he feels MJ move, and the footsteps stop. She's standing between Peter and Skip, clutching her own phone with her thumb hovering over 311.
"You don't want to call the police," Skip asserts. "Do that, and it'll be a whole ordeal. I'm free no matter what, and the police will be here for hours, and we'll have to hash things out, and re-traumatize your poor customer. Do you want that?" He says 'customer' with a jab, like he knows what's really happening, that they're friends.
Peter snaps the doorknob off the bathroom door, splintering wood as it goes. Skip and MJ startle as it clatters to the floor, but the laptop-corner-booth man is just watching this play out as if he's a statue in a museum, mouth barely agape. Then he swiftly picks up his things and slips out the door, and now it's just the three of them.
Unsure of how to respond to what just happened, Skip turns to walk out the door. "I'll be back here," he announces.
"If you reoffend, you're dead," Peter calls out.
"So obviously, I won't be doing that," Skip chortles. “But you've pissed me off. And now I can come back, whenever you're here, and disrupt your playdates or whatever the fuck you're getting up to with your girlfriend. It's not like she can quit her job," he snides.
Skip finally leaves, and Peter sinks to the floor. He's beyond drained. MJ just sort of stands there for a moment, the final gears click-clicking into place in her mind before she sinks down on her hind feet to be eye level with Peter. He slumps with his head tilted back, eyes closed, trying to not experience sensory overload just from some donut shop lights.
"Peter," MJ tries. He shakes his head, now downwards. His bent knees collapse so that he sits cross-legged, and MJ scoots a bit out of the way to make room for him. He grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes, blocking out the light and grounding himself with touch.
MJ pulls on his elbow, trying to speak to him, but he jerks in response.
"I'm---I'm sorry, can I touch you?" She cautions, and he can feel the warmth of her palm hovering over his forearm.
Peter hears an invitation for comfort, for contact, and involuntarily makes a sound, as if he's strangling himself holding back a wail. Unable to think, he lunges at MJ for a hug. She yelps as she's rocked back on her heels before she's pulled forward into a half-way hug where Peter, struggling to breathe even, is sort of reverse-cuddling how someone would usually be expected to be held if they're panicking. She's sideways but she manages to rotate and hug his shoulders while his arms are woven around her and his forehead is pressing into where her shoulder meets her neck. MJ glances at the doorknob on the floor. She doesn't appear anxious to him, but his own senses are so out of control that he can't be sure. A surge of self hatred runs through him at the possibility he's making her uncomfortable, but he can't let go. He just can't let go.
"Hey," she tries again, voice tender. She grips his shoulder and gently pushes him back, and his arms loosen as he realizes how iron his grip was. He wasn't crushing her at all, but she definitely could not have moved if she tried.
"I'm sorry," he sobs into her teal uniform. "I'm---I'm just so alone."
He feels MJ's heart pick up. "Hey, you're not alone," she says, tucking his hair behind his ear and trying to coax his face upwards. She keeps the other arm wrapped around his shoulder, indicating she just wants to look at him, not that he needs to go away.
"But I am," he says flatly. He gasps and swallows air to suppress another sob. "I really am."
"No, you're not," she reassures, removing the hand from his back and using both hands to pull his face up. God, her hands, her hair, her neck, it was almost too much. He's struck by the idea that she may never even be attracted to him in this new life, and he immediately unwinds himself and cringes away and back onto the wall. She leans in after him and keeps one hand on his shoulder, rubbing while the other moves fallen hair out of his eyes.
"Hey," she says yet again. "Do you want to move to a booth to talk?"
Exhausted, he shakes his head no.
"I can tell you what I do on Thursdays," she whispers.
Peter presses hard into his eyes, pushing tears out from the sides. "He's a fucking pedophile."
"I know, I know," she coaxes again. "You don't have to tell me. You don't have to talk about anything you don't want to."
Peter breathes deeply, in and out, in and out, eyes still closed. It's not that he doesn't want to breathe, he's just so tense that it's a battle to breathe even, every inhale and exhale at war for his attention. He can't look at her. The hand in his hair travels down his neck and over his chest, landing on his heart while her other hand steadies him by the shoulder.
“I need you to calm down,” she says.” Do you want water?”
“No, don't---don't leave."
“Can we talk? As in, like, can you respond, you think?”
“Yeah," Peter rubs his nose with one sleeve. Oh, gross, he should have asked for a napkin. "Yeah, I can."
Ah, fuck it. MJ sits cross-legged in front of him, hunched over patiently. Peter inhales deeply once more before exhaling, and he thinks he’s settled into a safe rhythm. He peels his hoodie off and blows his nose on the already dirty sleeve and tosses it aside. It lands by the doorknob that was torn from the bathroom. By him. He waits while MJ’s gaze lingers on the doorknob. Finally she looks back at him, rubs her hands along her shins, pulls her knees up and tucks the loose hair behind her ear. She's nervous. Peter thunks his head back on the wall and inhales. He waits for her to speak, scrunches his eyes and rubs at his tear streaked cheeks with his fingers.
"Tell me to stop if you need me to," MJ says. She hadn't even started speaking yet.
"It's fine, it's fine," Peter insists. "You don't have to tell me what you do on Thursdays."
"But I want to, I think it would be good for you."
They lock eyes and he waits for her to speak, her mouth opening and closing twice before anything happens next.
"My mom and dad are divorced. Uhm," she chews her lip. Peter stares, and waits. Patiently.
"My uncle did stuff to me, you know, when I was eight, and we thought my dad didn't know, but it turns out recently that my dad did know, and that's been---well it's been a lot," she waves her hand with frustration, like "you know how it is," as if everyone is molested by their uncle.
Well, Peter thinks darkly. Enough people are for it to feel that way.
"So when she found out he knew, they divorced, and it's been rough, drudging all that but I can't afford a therapist---so there's this state funded group meeting at the middle school down the block from here on Thursdays." MJ finally inhales, she'd stumbled all that out in one breath, and Peter's heart is shattering. Maybe she's right, he didn't need to know this right now. Maybe he can't handle it.
"I'm sorry," he manages.
"I'm sorry, too." She smiles and tucks her chin over her knees.
"Well, you didn't do anything wrong, don't say sorry."
MJ plays with her shoe laces, not looking at him. "Neither did you. Do you want more coffee?"
She moves to get up, and he grabs her wrist, immediately recognizes her wariness and lets go. What the fuck is he thinking?
Peter notices the clock on the wall. "You close in 3 minutes."
"It's fine. We leave the lights on, so I just have to clean up at some point. We can stay here as long as you want."
"I'll help you clean up," he offers.
MJ urges him to sit in a booth and busies herself with machinery, returning with two coffees that actually taste good. She laughs when he hums in surprise at the first sip.
"I knew you hated that coffee," she announces as if she won a bet. Like his cover is blown, because it sort of is. Who would want dirty bean water?
She takes her own sip. "I doctored it up."
"I can only afford so many a week, and you know we humans need our coffee, so it is what it is." Peter laughs nervously and gently rotates the coffee cup with his fingers where it rests on the table.
"The store is closed, so you won't be paying for these. It's on me."
"Oh, no, I couldn't let you do that."
"You can, and you will. Your shitty coffee orders are putting me through school."
Peter laughs, but he winces at the mention of college.
A beat passes. Another.
"Would you be interested in joining me? Thursdays?"
Peter's brought out of his staring contest with the coffee cup design by her question.
"Uhm." It would mean more time with her, but was it really? More people to meet even, with a common ground. Probably the worst common ground he can imagine. This isn't really what he fantasized bonding with her over, he couldn't have possibly conjured this up. He wonders if they ever would have told each other before he erased his life. It's not like what Skip had done had a profound effect on his day to day, or his ability to be affectionate with other people. Except for night terrors, just on occasion. (Around every June. Without fail). Except for his debilitating social anxiety, but a lot of young people had that, right? Right? His problems weren't unique.
Well, what he felt was his main problem was rather unique, Spider-Manning and isolating himself in a way that he was almost positive was dehumanizing, but. It is what it is.
His mind races with scenarios of how life could play out from here. He didn't want Ned or MJ to know he was Spider-Man again. It was dangerous enough last time, he knows now, but he also promised to find them. Must that promise include restoring their memory? Did they only agree in the hopes of their memories being returned? If he didn't tell them eventually, if he kept going down this shaky path of reunion, he would be betraying their trust. Wouldn't he?
"Hey," MJ reaches across the table and places her hand over his. He was gripping the coffee too hard and had spilled it all over his hand and onto the table, he hadn't even noticed. MJ peeks over his shoulder and at the doorknob on the floor.
"I'm sorry about the door, I guess the handle was loose," he chokes out.
MJ doesn't take her hand off his sticky coffee fingers.
“You know, I was a little weirded out by the way you keep coming here. For unremarkable coffee.”
Peters eyes dart between her ears. Oh no.
“I know you only come when I'm working. But I don't feel threatened by you, so I haven't done anything about it. But if I ever did, I would have done something. I would have worked something out with my coworkers.”
Oh, fuck. This is terrible. He's made himself a weirdo. He should have known. He did know, he knew this was a bad idea.
“So just tell me, I feel like I have the right to ask, don't you think? Why you keep coming here, I mean.”
Slowly, Peter inhales and tries to keep his eyes from wandering. He's glad to be talking about something else, and he thinks she's done this on purpose; she was savvy. So good at navigating conversation when she chose to.
"Well, it's extremely convenient," he starts. It's true. Tell the truth, don't lie, he chants internally.
"I can't afford coffee as fancy as this on the regular,” he laughs, gesturing to his drink now spilled on the table.
“And I came here, and there you were. And I work Wednesday and Friday evenings, so I can't really come here then.” That was true too, although he intentionally works in tandem with her schedule.
"And---" he knows how she is about this, knows she's going to corner him with his words and he actually wants her to, as if they were still bantering in high school. But they're not. "You're really pretty, uhm. You're so pretty. And I'm sorry I'm not trying to be, uhm, bad, I'm not objectifying you I swear it's just nice to come here and---and have routine and someone to see and---"
MJ's laugh cuts him off. "You don't have to apologize for thinking someone's pretty. Most people think other people are pretty, it's a normal feeling," she chuckles, but she's not mocking him. She'd caught him in his words yet again, he'd gone too far the other way and yet she still guides the conversation wherever she wants. Still, she looks a little embarrassed. He loves her.
"But more than that," he begins again, afraid he'll lose his train of thought. "I wanted to talk to you, get to know you, not just because, uhm, because I think you’re pretty. I see the books you bring to work that are behind the counter and I want to talk to you about them? Maybe?"
MJ arches an eyebrow. "You want to talk about Andrea Dworkin and Malcom X?"
"Yes," he gasps truthfully. He did because of her, because she had already taught him months ago, before all of this. "I've read excerpts, but never full books. Uhm, I have a hard time with reading."
MJ looks astonished, and pleased. Good, oh, good.
Peter thinks of what to say next. "You know, I really am lonely," he admits. Prays this doesn’t sound too awkward or horrible, because after all that's transpired this evening, he can’t stop now.
"I'm not from around here," he lies. "I think I messed up some things and I lost the few friends I had---I mean, I didn't do anything, like, I didn't steal from anyone or cheat or you know---things happen---but more than that, I am alone." He gulps.
MJ sips her coffee, holding the cup with her clean hand.
"No family?" She asks quietly, like she already knows the answer. Peter exhales and his lungs shudder. He looks at the ceiling, blinking rapidly as he spreads his hands on the table for support.
"Uh, well. I was orphaned by a plane crash when I was young, like really young---sorry, that’s dark. My aunt and uncle took me in, and that was great, but my uncle was. Uhm. Well he died a few years ago, so that's that. And. Uhm," Peter inhales wetly and MJ looks so guilty.
"I'm sorry, you don't have to tell me, I get it," she apologizes, reaching for him and the one hand he has on the table because the other was now rubbing harshly under his eye socket.
"It's fine, my aunt just died a couple months ago. She was all I had left," he croaks.
MJ’s unnerved, curious. "Your family is gone and your friends just abandoned you?" She sounds both shocked and heartbroken, he knew he shouldn't have told her any of this so soon.
"Oh no, it's not like that, you guys---I mean, they would never, it's really just not like that. That can't be helped, it's not their fault, it's nobody's fault."
It's my fault.
"So this is reality. Uhm, so if I ever took you on a cute date," he throws that out there, and MJ's face shifts from pity-soaked horror back to surprise, "and brought you home for Thanksgiving or something, there really would be no one there. Just me and the cranberry sauce." He lets out a wet laugh, almost a wheeze. He doesn't know why he can’t stop talking. She laughs in response, trying to follow his comfort level.
"I don't think I can come with you on Thursdays," he finally answers.
I don't want our time together spent in group childhood trauma therapy.
"I don't think I need it. I'm not saying I don't need anything, but this---this has helped so much. I've never told anyone. Except for my aunt and uncle, they knew. We reported it."
"It's alright, you know what you need. And it's not like you even had much of a choice in telling me, what with the scene that guy caused here." MJ looks at him warmly, before that inquisitive expression takes over. "You're the one who caught him out, but he didn't recognize you?"
Oh, shit. What to say? She really keeps him on his toes, doesn’t she.
"I think we kept it anonymous for my well being. Like, the police knew but he didn't know who came forward. I wish I could have done it sooner." He wishes someone else had before Skip had gotten to him, but he doesn't blame any other children either.
She hums, nods. He can't tell what she thinks about what he just said.
MJ rolls her neck and reaches for his finished coffee. She rises and tosses the empty cups, moves to wash her hands and wipe the table down. "I'm going to start closing up. Not a whole lot to do, just mopping and counting the register."
"I can count the register, I'm really good at math."
"I think that's the only thing in the store you're not allowed to touch," she giggles. "Just wash your hands and pick up what’s left of that poor spaceship on the floor."
Oh, right. Speedily he washes, scoops up the now destroyed LEGO set into its box, picks up the bathroom doorknob and walks behind the counter without asking. MJ watches as he reaches under the industrial sink for the rolling mop bucket and wordlessly gets to work. She shrugs and continues counting, and soon enough they're done, store locked and there they stand outside in the cold, Peter lacking the warmth of his snot soaked hoodie. They left the doorknob near the register with a note.
"So," MJ says. Peter visibly shivers. "Would you like to go get real coffee somewhere?"
Peter laughs, and he can see his breath. "I think I've had enough coffee. I'm starving, maybe we could eat?"
MJ's expression brightens up, she had frowned when he turned down coffee.
"Sure," she smiles. "I'm paying."
"No," he chuckles somewhat as they walk, following her lead to whatever restaurant she had in mind. "I'm paying, seeing as I'm carrying you through college on coffee orders alone."
MJ kicks her leg out on her next step, laughing and leaning around to meet his eyes as they walk. "I'll let you have that one."
They arrive wherever it was that she had chosen, and Peter carries his ripped open LEGO box into the restaurant while meeting MJ's eyes, asking, can I bring this in here? She shrugs, he shrugs back, and they snicker as they sit at the nearest empty table. It's so much warmer inside, and Peter shakes his head to try and snap out of it, but it doesn't really work so he stares into his thumbs and picks at the skin instead. MJ had ordered without him noticing.
"What did you order?" Peter asks once he tunes back in.
"Spaghetti," she says. "But the good kind. I figured spaghetti was pretty neutral."
"I'm surprised you ordered. I could be deathly allergic to spaghetti, and I would have to turn it down, and that would be so awkward."
She laughs. "I'm sorry, then. Are you allergic to tomatoes? Hm?"
"No, I'm allergic to spaghetti specifically, of all things. Can you believe it?" To his surprise, she kicks at him under the table. Gosh, he's having so much fun. What a whirlwind this night has been.
Spaghetti arrives, and just as promised it's hot, good and neutral.
"Can you imagine being allergic to Italian food in New York?" Peter twirls the spaghetti on his fork like May had taught him and sticks it in his cheek.
"I don’t know, I'm sort of allergic to Italians in general.”
Peter almost chokes on a noodle with his laughter. What the hell does that mean? She's so funny. It really hadn't even been that long without her, he shouldn't feel this strongly. But every moment he spent alone there was nothing he could do to force the anguish under the surface except for being Spider-Man.
There's quiet, and eating. More quiet. He's never been more grateful for spaghetti.
"Do you want to come spend the night with me?"
Peter really chokes this time. Coughing, he smacks his sternum with his fist while she chuckles under her breath. "What? Why? I mean, I'm sorry---"
"It's just that you're alone, at least, that’s what you said," she offers. "I have a pull out couch, real coffee for the morning, a TV."
"Your mom would be okay with that? I'm not from your school," he responds. Although funny enough, he is from her school. Or was. And why would he say that, and not something like "I'm the strange, potentially stalker guy from the donut shop. Why on earth would you want me in your home? I know you, I know you’re not like this with people. You don't like people."
"She's out of town. I would ask to go to your place but that seems unwise, and I also can't imagine that it's very homey."
She's right, of course.
"You're not gonna try to kill me, right Peter?" MJ leans over her spaghetti, voice dramatic.
"No, no," Peter laughs and drags one hand down his face, then back up through his hair.
MJ wipes her hands with a napkin. She's nervous, but not like she was in the donut shop. That's good, that's a good sign.
They arrive at her home, and he has to pretend that he doesn't already know where the bathroom is so she can tell him it's on the left (aren't all bathrooms on the left?) He's washing his face with hand soap and cold water, soaking his overgrown bangs when she knocks on the door with clothes and a towel.
"Hey, here's some pajamas. It's my dad's old sweats if you don't mind, and a school shirt."
The shirt was good, it was an oversized gym shirt from their school, but her dad must have been a giant and he was much closer in size to MJ. Thankfully the pants had draw strings.
"The shower has one hot and one cold knob, and that stick-thingy most showers have to make the water come out of the top," she says, placing the towel and clothes on the sink.
"I don't think I'm gonna shower, I did yesterday---"
MJ stops him with a look that is so genuinely disgusted. Oh, right. The events of today at the donut shop had been awfully sweaty, he should definitely shower.
When Peter comes out of the bathroom, the pull out couch has already been made up and MJ is sitting on the edge in fuzzy green pants and a black Reebok's t-shirt, remote in hand and popcorn in the microwave.
"We sure are eating a lot," he says, gesturing towards the kitchen.
She smiles at him. "I think you need it. We don't have to watch anything if you don't want to, though." She places the remote on the arm of the couch.
Something they've both already seen is playing on low, and he hears the popcorn finish and retrieves it before gently sitting down next to her on the creaky pull out bed. MJ mindlessly reaches for some popcorn, the snackiest of snack foods, and just sort of stares at him. He stares back. Hulu rolls an ad for Bounty paper towels.
Eventually the popcorn is gone, the lamp next to the couch is still on but they're both lying flat on their backs gazing at the ceiling (she brought two pillows), not saying a word. He knows she isn't going back to her room.
He feels more at peace than he has in months. Before the blip, even. Before all that. Really.
Suddenly he becomes aware of their arms touching and he tenses. He understands why he is so comfortable, but why is she? She doesn't really know him. He's a stranger. Not only is MJ overly cautious, he just knows she generally hates strangers more than the average person. He thinks back on his promise to find her, how adamant she was that she'd find him if he didn't, although it should be impossible on her side of things due to the memory spell. He thinks of the broken black dahlia necklace she still wears, every day. It still happened. Everything still happened, it was just erased, somehow. But it happened.
He doesn't want to push it, doesn't want to turn towards her first and break whatever neutral stance they were in right now. Nerves flutter, and he's forced to think of Skip.
"Do you think," he begins. Licks his lips. "If I had the opportunity to get back at him. Should I?" He feels a surge of violence. Sees Skip all over the cement, tries to course correct his brain to imagine Skip in an orange jumpsuit instead. His heart rate picks up.
MJ turns on her side to face him, bed creaking too loud. He doesn't move.
"Do you think it will make you feel better?"
"I don't know."
"Does it feel like the right thing to do?"
Peter’s jaw clenches. He knows she can see him, he closes his eyes. "I don’t know."
"Does it feel like justice?"
He pauses. "I don't know what justice feels like. Our justice system doesn't make any sense."
"I know," she rubs his shoulder reassuringly. "It fucking sucks. And does basically nothing."
"And it's a coerced labor pipeline," he moans. He knows that because of her.
"But is vengeance justice? I don't know. Sometimes, if you wanted to you could argue that," she tries. But he doesn't think she's encouraging him to act out.
He finally turns to face her. "I think I know. That I'm not supposed to hurt him, I mean," Peter admits.
"I know you know. I mean, I knew you would know," MJ giggles quietly. She doesn't ask exactly how he would have gotten revenge.
"I don't trust him not to do anything. His uncle's probably shady as hell too. I'm thinking of other people, y'know," Peter sighs and allows himself to unclench and fully sink into the bed. "Other kids."
MJ doesn't break their gaze, and her expression is serious, as if they're rewriting U.S. judicial policy on her pull out couch. "You're right to think of them," she whispers.
"So what can I do?" He knows what he can do. Perhaps he could beat Skip to a pulp and threaten him into moving to the Alaskan wilderness.
"I don't know, I'm sorry I don't have answers." MJ sighs. "We're sort of helpless in this."
Spider-Man isn't fucking helpless.
"I don't want him back at your workplace," he whispers. MJ nods.
"We'll figure it out tomorrow," she whispers back. "I'm tired."
"Me too." Peter is outright exhausted and has been since they left the donut shop, but he can’t quiet his mind. She reaches for the hair that's spilled over his ear again, and he sighs.
She doesn't remove her hand, and her eyes scan his face. "There's something about you, I can't put my finger on it," she whispers to herself. But he hears her.
"What?" He says back anyway, needing to know if she’ll say it again.
"You're pretty too," she says instead. Oh. He's a million years away now, in Europe again (it was only over half a year ago). He's a million years away, in an opera house with her, terrified for his life as he's about to fight some fake fire monster. Barely a week away from the fallout that would cost him everything.
A tear rolls down his temple much faster than he could have ever prevented it, gravity drawing it towards his pillow.
MJ shifts, noticing. "Is something wrong?"
Well, many things are wrong, but not this. Peter places his hand over hers to keep it pressed against his face where it was, stroking and comforting and everything he needed and more in life.
"Nothings wrong," he whispers back, almost frantic. "Just say that again, maybe?" He's embarrassed. "Please?"
MJ burrows her head into her pillow and continues to stroke his face. "I just think you're pretty too," she says awkwardly. "Really pretty. Probably as pretty as you think I'm pretty. That's good, right?" She giggles.
"Yeah, yeah that's good---equality, right?" Peter laughs back, breathless.
She stops stroking his face and taps his cheek with her thumb. "Do you want me to turn off the light?"
He doesn't want her to move. "Only if you want it off," he says.
MJ gets up to turn off the lamp, but when she does a smaller night-light becomes noticeable from wherever else it was plugged in on the other side of the couch.
"I don't like the dark," she whispers after she's crawled back into bed and tucked her head under his chin without reservation. "Do you mind it?"
"I don't mind it at all," he answers too quickly, tentatively slipping his fingers through her hair.
His other arm reaches over her and she's slid one of her arms around his waist and kept her other arm bent between them, fingers picking at the peeling logo of her gym shirt that Peter's wearing. He knows she can probably feel how unnaturally strong his hold is, it's been too hard for him to control or act normal the last three days. He knows it doesn't hurt her, but he also knows she's smart. Really smart.
He still can't help it.
"Are you okay?" She speaks into his collarbone.
"I'm okay, are you okay?"
"I'm okay. Yeah."
"I just feel," Peter breathes deeply, lungs expanding against her palm now flat on his chest. "I just feel really safe right now."
He can feel her smiling against him through the t-shirt.
"That's nice," she mumbles, "me too."
Peter's legs are stiff and he slides his shin between hers, which is much more comfortable. She doesn't move and before he knows it, dreamless sleep pulls him under, the night light perfectly dim and MJ's steady breathing and soothing heartbeat aiding him to sleep.