Chapter Text
The next time Peter meets a not-quite-MJ, he knows it from the start.
Another rift in the fabric of space and time – what else is new? The world’s been out of whack for a long time now, so nothing is really surprising anymore.
But this time he doesn’t meet a different version of himself, but – there she is.
Her hair is dyed red, she carries herself with more confidence, and she calls him ‘tiger’, but she has the same face. MJ’s face. And she has her name, too.
She sits with him on that rooftop, sharing an ice cream. Mint chocolate chip and raspberry.
If she has the same face, the same name, and she likes the same flavour of ice cream, isn’t that close enough? If she looks at him like she loves him, some version of him anyway, then isn’t that almost something real?
“My Peter...” she says. “My Peter died. And now I’m the one who’s getting dragged into the multiverse bullshit. How does that make any sense? I don’t even have powers.”
“But you’re so smart. You’re a problem-solver, I’m sure there’s something you could do to-”
“I’m an actress, hon. Not really the science type. I have you for that.” She pauses and looks away. “I used to, I mean.”
An actress? MJ? It’s hard to picture somehow.
Maybe this MJ isn’t really so close to his MJ after all. Not like it matters – it’s never really her.
“But I guess it is worth it,” MJ says then, her voice thick, “to see you again.”
She steps closer to him, glowing in the setting sun, and cups his face in her long-manicured fingers.
“You look old, Peter,” she says, smiling sadly.
“I’m not in high school anymore,” he says.
One of her fingers grazes a cut on his cheek. He flinches.
“I think you’re tired.”
“I’ve been doing this for a long time.”
“All by yourself?”
She knows, just by looking at him. She can cut him open with a single glance.
“There’s no other way to do it,” he says.
His heart is pulsing hard in his chest. She’s staring so intently. It feels like she’s going to call him out on a lie.
“But I wouldn’t let you do it alone,” she says matter-of-factly.
Like she thinks he’ll tell her she’s dead and gone in this universe. That they match in some way.
They don’t. She lost her Peter because he got taken from her. But he lost his MJ because he fumbled at every turn. Because he’s a whole mess.
“You would if you didn’t remember me,” he says. Turns. Pretends like his eyes don’t sting with tears, like he’s gotten used to being forgotten, forever and always, after so many years.
“Then I’ll just figure it out again,” MJ says with quiet certainty. “I know I will.”
“Not every universe gets a happy ending.”
She sighs, takes a spoonful of ice cream, and looks to the horizon.
“Believe me, I know.”
Right. She’s lost people in her universe – she has a whole life out there that Peter doesn’t know the first thing about. He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly feeling a sense of shame creep up in himself.
“Sorry,” he says.
“It’s okay.”
“No, I – I’m so sorry, I was making this all about me but at least she’s still alive. I shouldn’t have -” His cheeks feel hot and he can’t look at her. “I’m just... sorry.”
He feels her gaze on him, slow and steady.
“You’re sweet,” she says and looks away again. “He used to be... so sweet. I can’t believe I forgot.”
Maybe that Peter Parker has his own curse, too, then. The same kind of forgetting.
If they have the same kind of curse, this is a way of dying too.
“Soooo,” Peter says, looking for a way to change the subject. “You’re an actress, huh? Anything I’d have seen you in?”
And what was that? The most cliché question you could possibly ask an actress?
“I mean -” Peter tries to backtrack. “Not that I’d have seen you in anything – not because you’re not a famous actress! But because of the whole parallel universe thing.”
She’s just looking at him. Naturally, he can’t help but keep digging his own verbal grave.
“Maybe you were, like, in the space Notebook or the dragon Jurassic Park or something. Or the short-hair Tangled or the straight Brokeback Mountain or – I don’t know. I think I should stop talking.”
She laughs, short and ugly. His chest fills with warmth. It’s been so long since he made her laugh. Well, not her.
“That doesn’t even make any sense,” she says, still laughing.
He drinks up the sound. He would bottle it if he could.
“Well, you’re from the weird universe,” he says awkwardly. “So – who knows?”
“What the hell,” she says, “yours is the weird one. Mine’s normal.”
“Yeah?”
“I saw a billboard with the Kool-Aid man here earlier. He’s supposed to be neon green, you know? That’s objectively the correct colour.”
Peter pulls his most disgusted looking face.
“Eww. Sounds radioactive. Not very appetizing.”
“You’re the expert,” she says and nudges his foot with hers.
It takes him a moment to get it, then he groans.
“The spider that bit me wasn’t neon green,” he says.
“See,” she chuckles again.
And she’s so beautiful. And she likes him, even if it’s cheating. Even if it really belongs to somebody else.
And she’s so close. Would it really be so bad? Just to pretend, just for a second –
He’s leaned in before he even knows what he’s doing and –
She turns her face away in an instant. It stings immediately. It was a bad idea, of course it was, but, fuck, it stings.
“Oh, tiger.” She doesn’t sound mad but her voice is full of pity and that’s so much worse. “You’re not my Peter and I’m not your MJ. Sorry.”
“No, no, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have – yeah.”
He wrings his mask in his hand. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t do this again. It’s not right, it’s not good, it’s certainly not healthy. More importantly, it’s not fair to the real MJ. She would hate him if she knew. (She would give him that same pitying look. I don’t love you.)
Why does he just have to be so damn weak every single time?
“Hey.” MJ’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts. “Don’t do this. It’s okay. But I’m not who you’re looking for.”
Of course she’d be kind about it.
She was kind then too. I do see why she would love you, the girl you wrote that letter to.
“I know.”
He means it too. He’s going to stop dreaming about her – the only dream worth having. Maybe because he didn’t lose her so permanently. His parents, Uncle Ben, Aunt May, Mr. Stark, they’re all gone forever. But MJ is still here.
And that’s good, that’s so good, that’s the way it should be. She should be out there living her life, happy and free, without having to bear any of his burdens. Spiderman’s burdens.
Maybe it’s okay to get a little closer to Ned, maybe her too, but not close enough to accidentally burn down what they built without him.
Not-quite-MJ spends the rest of the evening with him, chatting about nothing for hours. She’s not MJ but she’s fun too. Kind.
But her window of opportunity to leave is small and when the portals open again, she has to go back to her own universe.
“You’re not too bad, Peter Parker,” she says to him. “And your MJ is still here. Don’t squander your chance this time.”
What does she even mean by that? He doesn’t have a chance left, that’s what he’s been trying so hard to convince himself of all this time.
He wants to ask her but she’s already turning to leave.
“See you around, tiger.”
And then she’s gone. The portal closes.
The world is like it was before. Like she was never here.
Just another dream Peter didn’t deserve to keep.
“I took the job,” MJ says.
Paul is staring at her judgementally. He’s been doing that more and more lately. Why didn’t you do this, why did you do that? Do you think it makes sense to act this way?
And now his gaze feels like the kind of judgement she’s reserved for herself.
“What job?”
“Oh, you know... One of these corporate hellscape jobs. I’m selling my soul, yay.”
He keeps staring her down. All bitter. And not even the fun kind of bitterness.
“I don’t mean that,” MJ says quickly. “It’s actually not too bad. Like, worker’s rights and sustainability, they’re – okay, in the scheme of things.”
She regrets it immediately. Why does she feel like she has to justify herself or prove herself so much? Especially to Paul, who works for an all green all renewable all sustainable utility company.
“In the scheme of things,” Paul repeats sombrely.
Paul is fun when he’s in a good mood. He’s fun after two cans of beer. He’s fun at the movies or at dinner or taking a walk in the park.
Today, in the apartment, after an eight-hour shift, his mood is sour.
“Yeah, I mean they donate,” MJ says. “That’s good, right?”
“You didn’t even tell me you had an interview.”
MJ sighs and flops down on the couch.
She really wants fun Paul back.
“It slipped my mind, okay? I’m sorry.”
Paul takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a second. It’s kind of annoying. The way he pushes down his emotions instead of just saying what he thinks.
“Whatever. So are you coming to the luncheon next week?”
Luncheon, luncheon... MJ vaguely remembers Paul mentioning something like that in their regular diner a couple of days ago.
But that is going to be on Wednesday and Wednesday...
“Oh shoot, I can’t,” MJ says. “It’s my cousin’s rehearsal dinner.”
“Your cousin’s getting married?”
“Yeah. She met the ‘love of her life’ apparently,” MJ says, rolling her eyes. As if such a thing exists.
“Right,” Paul nods slowly, pressing his lips together. “And you only found out about this today because some kind of magic spell erased you from your cousin’s memory and she just remembered your existence.”
A magic spell? That hits a little close to home but Paul’s not a psychic – as far as MJ knows – so she’s just going to ignore that.
“Okaaay,” MJ says. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. What’s the big deal?”
“MJ, I’m your boyfriend, and I know nothing about your life. Does that make sense to you?”
There it is again. Does it make sense? Who cares if it makes sense. So what if she hasn’t figured it all out yet?
“You didn’t tell me about the interview, you didn’t tell me about your cousin’s wedding. Last week, Ned had to tell me you’re allergic to shellfish when I was making dinner. I almost killed you, MJ!”
“That’s a bit dramatic,” MJ says slowly. “It all worked out fine.”
“You still don’t see the problem. You’re supposed to tell me these things. You’re supposed to talk to me,” Paul says, overly enunciating the last three words.
MJ hates that too. It makes her feel like a child.
She hates this whole conversation. She was annoyed at first, but it’s starting to feel different. Serious. She wants Paul to stop talking. To leave.
She’s starting to get a headache.
“Last I checked, you’re not my keeper and you’re not my therapist, so I don’t need to tell you everything that’s happening in my life.” She means it as a joke but it comes out flat. Cold.
Cold, frigid Michelle Jones, why won’t you just feel something?
For a second, MJ is back in primary school, sitting motionless on the swings after Lindsey Palmer told her she won’t be friends with a slug who never smiles.
“I’m not asking for everything, I’m asking for something. Anything.”
This feels like the same thing. The same kind of ending. MJ tries to pivot, to salvage it somehow.
“But we have fun together, right?”
“We do.”
She likes Paul. She liked him ever since he came up to her at the party and said ‘black is really your color’. She’d said ‘because I look like death?” and he said “because it brings out your eyes” and that had been that.
And she’d thought to herself, I’ll give it a shot this once. It’s fine, people make friends and they have boyfriends, and maybe she can actually do people. Maybe she’s not just some weirdo, doomed to stay lonely forever. It worked with Ned, after all. She thought to herself, this time, I’ll really try.
Maybe she didn’t try hard enough.
“Isn’t that all that matters?” MJ says.
She sits up. She already knows the answer, doesn’t she?
It feels like she needs to look Paul in the eyes for this, whatever his next sentence will be.
“If you love someone, you share your life with them,” Paul says, almost pleading. “You open up. Is that so difficult?”
MJ’s heart stops.
“L-love?”
Love? They’ve never said that, they never needed to. Wasn’t it all fine? Why does Paul have to change things, they got along well, they had fun together. There’s nothing more.
And weren’t they both clear on that, that this was easy and simple and good and that there was no need to complicate it with L-words?
“Oh, I’m sorry, are we not using that words yet? That word too big for you? We’ve been dating for more than six months!”
She wants to say it. Looking into Paul’s furiously glimmering eyes, she wants to say it more than anything. Do the normal people thing. But she can’t.
She’s supposed to love him. He’s a good guy. But he doesn’t make her heart race so uncontrollably she feels like it will burst out of her chest. He’s never made her palms sweat or the hair on her neck stand up. He’s never given her butterflies. That’s why she liked him so much. Because it didn’t feel too big for her to hold in her hands. It wasn’t overwhelming, it wasn’t scary, it was just... Paul.
Love is something people do when they’re ready to place all their bets on the same person and they don’t care if they lose. Love is something that will turn to ashes in your mouth if you’re not careful.
If it’s love, it will hurt the most.
“You do... love me,” Paul says slowly. “Don’t you?”
He’s staring at her intently, waiting for the answer, and her throat goes dry. It’s hard to swallow.
She’s never told a guy that she loved him. Except it kind of feels like she did and then it all burned up right after.
“I... I... Paul -”
“Save it.”
Paul starts pacing around the room, picking up little trinkets he’s left across the apartment, his copy of Beowulf, the AXE body spray, the Interstellar Blu-ray.
MJ is frozen, can only watch. What could she possibly say to fix this? There’s nothing. Nothing except the one thing she can’t say.
As he’s scanning the room, Paul’s gaze lands on her sketchbook and he picks it up.
“You know what else?” he says. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but this – this is messed up.”
“What do you mean?”
Paul starts flipping through the pages and when he gets closer to the end, her heartbeat speeds up.
“You drew me once, maybe twice?” he says. “But look how many times you drew him.”
His face flashes by as Paul flips through the book.
“I didn’t – I -”
But there are so many more drawings of him than she remembered. Peter. The itch in her brain. The thing that’s gone missing, that feels like a hollow ache in her chest.
She just couldn’t help it. The drawings. Her hand kept moving across the page and before she knew it, she’d drawn him again.
Luckily, Paul skips past the one drawing of Peter in his Spiderman suit and doesn’t even notice.
“Ned’s friend. Who you barely even talk to,” Paul says. “What is this? He’s your muse? Your great inspiration? Or are you really in love with him?”
“Of course not! I – this is private, I never showed you these -”
“Just another piece of you I can’t have, then.”
Paul closes the sketchbook, more gently than she expected, and puts it back on the low living room table.
“MJ, I like you. I liked this. But – I can’t keep digging for scraps of you. I don’t deserve that. And you don’t deserve it either. So I’m – I’m sorry but I’m done,” Paul says, with quiet finality.
MJ is still frozen. This would be the moment to stop him. I do love you. I do.
But that would be manipulation and her throat is too choked up for that kind of lie.
She watches him leave, glued to the sofa. The soft click of the door.
The ending is soft, because Paul is a good guy, so he doesn’t yell, he doesn’t slam the door, he doesn’t curse her out. It hurts a little bit.
But it would have hurt so much more if she’d ever actually let him in. If she’d actually taken the risk. But maybe, if she loved him, she wouldn’t have lost him at all.
Things go back to normal. Back to suit, gloves, mask. Swing, web, punch. Help an old lady across the street. Do a backflip. Nearly get killed. Fight a guy with laser eyes. A squirrel. A woman in a costume. Nearly get killed. And nearly get killed. And nearly get killed.
It’s safe to say, Peter has had a really bad day.
He’s bleeding from three different cuts. He hasn’t slept in 48 hours, not eaten in 16. The Scorpion has been hunting him for an eternity.
In this condition, he can’t beat the Scorpion. It was stupid of him to even try. And if he catches him now, who knows if he’ll even make it out of that fight alive. So instead, he’s been running. And running. And running.
His arms growing weak. His eyes growing tired. Every muscle burning.
He needs a break. But if he stops, he dies. He’s too far to make it to his flat but –
Maybe -
He’s been trying so hard to be good, not to make himself MJ’s problem again. To let her go, for good this time.
He’s been trying so hard, but the thought keeps hammering in his brain. If he takes that turn, tricks the Scorpion while hiding in the sewers, and then doubles back to her apartment –
Where else could he go? Ned’s not at their apartment, off to visit family. Frank would probably just shoot him again. He doesn’t have anyone else.
Excuses, excuses, excuses. You just want to see her again, don’t you? Always breaking your own promises.
But he can’t take it anymore. He can’t take it.
He’s too tired. Too weak.
His plan works out perfectly, getting the Scorpion of his scent. He’s at her apartment five minutes later, walking the stairs instead of crashing through the window like he was tempted to.
At the door, he props himself up against the wall with one hand, breathing heavily. His vision is going blurry through the mask. He hasn’t knocked yet.
The best thing, the right thing to do – might be to go home. It doesn’t matter how tired he is, it doesn’t matter if he collapses on the way, he can’t do this to her again.
But this place – even the smell in the hallway – feels so safe. He raises his hand to knock.
No, no. He can’t do this. One quick step back almost brings him to his knees.
Maybe it would be fine just once. She’ll let him stay just this one time and he’ll never bother her again. Maybe he should just knock –
No. He’s heard the story’s too many times, one relapse and it’s over, your self-control is shot. He needs to get away from here, now.
He needs to –
The world goes sideways again but suddenly there is a hand on his elbow to steady him. He turns and comes face to face with her.
“MJ,” he breathes.
“Peter,” she says with wide eyes.
Peter blinks as his eyes go wet.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
“But Ned’s not here.”
So quick to point out his mistake, his failure.
“I know.”
For a few seconds she only stares at him while his heavy, exhausted breaths fill the air.
“You left a ...” MJ splays her fingers out.
Peter looks back and there’s a dark red handprint on the wall next to MJ’s door. Blood from Peter’s soaked glove.
“Oh.”
“People are going to think Ned and I are serial killers. Probably won’t get any more visitors after this.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It helps my reputation,” MJ says with a lopsided smile. “I hate visitors.”
Peter snorts. “Right.”
He takes one more breath.
“I’m really sorry about all this. I should go.”
He turns to leave but MJ’s voice stops him.
“Or you could... stay?”
She’s not looking at him as she says and he can’t read her like she used to.
But it’s enough.
Like a vampire – he can only enter with explicit invitation.
Inside, he lets himself curl up on her and Ned’s couch. He’s done it a couple times before when he was hanging out with Ned but he’s never been alone with MJ in this room.
He expects her to go to her own room or leave completely but she lingers by the door.
“Don’t you want to take that off,” she says, gesturing to his mask.
“Oh, I...”
“Can’t be comfortable.”
“It’s not.”
He laughs awkwardly and pulls of the mask. It clings to his skin with sweat and blood. His hair must look a total mess. But he’s never impressed her anyways.
“And what about the suit?”
She fixes him with her gaze, like she really expects him to take it off right then and there.
“Oh, uhh-”
He’s probably flushing, like a complete idiot.
“Kidding. You dork,” she says. “But you could borrow one of Ned’s sweatshirts. He won’t mind. Probably won’t wash it for a week knowing that ‘Spiderman’ wore it.”
She rolls her eyes. She’s never been impressed by Spiderman either.
“Okay,” he says. “Thanks.”
After he’s changed into Ned’s sweater, he lies back down on the sofa, one arm flung over his forehead. He keeps listening for MJ’s footsteps in the apartment, cupboard closing, something being put down.
Her smell, slightly different now, some kind of perfume she didn’t wear before, is everywhere.
Every single tense muscle in his body relaxes. If he concentrates and focuses his senses, he can hear her heartbeat. Steady, steady, steady.
Suddenly the heartbeat gets louder and clang.
Peter opens his eyes.
“I could use a drink,” MJ says, “how about you?”
She probably doesn’t realize how injured he is, how most of the blood is not his own but some of it is. The wounds are already healing, though, and Peter is really too tired to care.
“I could, uh -” Peter sits up, clutching his forehead. “I could use ten drinks.”
MJ hands him a can of beer and sits down next to him on the couch. As if she sees no problem sitting so close to him while his whole being tunes into her nearness.
They drink the first beer in silence.
Peter finishes it in one go while MJ is staring at him.
“You know that stuff is nasty right?” she says judgementally.
“Then why are you drinking it?”
“Touché.”
By the second beer, MJ is giggling and telling him some funny story that happened to her in uni, something about a kooky professor.
By the third drink, she leans into him as she’s laughing and he has to push her upright.
“Oof,” he says. “You are a lightweight.”
“I’m not,” MJ says. “I’m actually heavy. Try lifting me up!”
“That is... not a good idea.”
“We could do that, that scene from Dirty Dancing.”
She stands up, swaying around the room and begins singing: “You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen.”
“Wrong song.”
She stops in her tracks and turns back to him.
“No, it isn’t.”
She shoots him a quizzical glance. Looks him up and down once.
“You’re not drunk. Why are you not drunk?”
“Metabolism of a spider, remember?”
“I don’t think spiders have good metabolisms.”
He shrugs.
“You really weren’t kidding about these ten drinks, huh?” she says.
Then, she disappears. Maybe that was it. He’s not a fun drinking companion so she’s leaving to hang out with other people...
But she returns ten seconds later with two gold brown bottles.
“You, good sir, need the whiskey,” she says and shoves the bottle into his arms.
“Thank you, kind ma’am,” Peter says, playing along. “May I inquire the year?”
“Oh, it’s the finest in the house. Three months old. Fresh from the cheapest shelf of the discounter.”
Peter makes a show of studying the bottle appraisingly, like some kind of sommelier.
“No glass?”
“This is basically like beer to you anyways.”
Peter shrugs again, opens the bottle and lifts it in her direction. “Cheers.”
He doesn’t remember ever seeing her drunk. He wasn’t really expecting this.
When did she stop treating him like a stranger?
Half an hour later, the bottle almost empty, Peter thinks it still had no effect on him until he realizes he nodded about a dozen times to something MJ said.
“And now that you are appropriately buzzed,” MJ says and bops him on the nose, “you should lift me up. Like in the movie.”
Peter shakes his head. Why is she obsessed with that? “Not a – not a good idea.”
“Don’t worry, you probably wouldn’t drop me.”
Peter closes his eyes. The alcohol is not helping his headache, but it is making him feel a bit funny. He tries to hold on to every last ounce of self-control.
“That’s not what I’m worried about.”
“I’m not thaaat heavy.”
“I can bench-press a bus.”
MJ pushes his shoulder.
“Then where’s the problem?”
“The problem is -” Peter starts, prepared to give a big lecture, but he suddenly can’t remember the problem.
The room is swimming a little bit. Being drunk is just like getting punched in the face.
“Okay,” he says.
Why not? It’s a great idea. Recreating a romantic scene with MJ? He loves MJ. Great idea.
“Okay?”
“Let’s do it.”
Her face splits into a smile and it’s all worth it.
He gets up and she walks to the other side of the room.
“No music?” he says, slightly sceptical.
“You sing it.”
“Wha- what? How does it go again?”
God, is he really doing this? He’s smitten. He’s stupid for her.
“And I’ve had the time of my liiife,” he sings, definitely off-key. “And I’ve never felt this way before.”
She runs towards him, as fast as a drunk girl can who’s trying not to lose her balance, like she still trusts him. He catches her by the hips and lifts her up. It’s so easy, she barely weighs anything.
And she’s laughing and she really doesn’t have the best form for this dance move and a moment later he puts her on the ground again but she’s still close, so close.
And if he only tilts his head up a little bit, he’ll be kissing her. But it’s not a good idea, for some reason... It’s escaped him now but there was a very good reason not to do it, he’s sure of it.
But then, she kisses him.
And Peter can’t think of anything at all.
He’s insane and he’s lost it and he’s about four years younger. She tastes like beer. She licks into his mouth and her hand is in his hair and she’s pulling him down onto the sofa with her.
She wants him...
Her nose knocking into his, then his teeth knocking into hers. Wow, they’re both so bad at this. But it’s good. It’s still so good.
She wants him and the night is endless and her hand is in his hair but she’s not pulling at it. Every one of her actions is soft, soft, soft.
They kiss for ages and this is the first time she’s kissing him and the hundredth time he’s kissing her.
He loves her and she wants him...
He pushes himself up by his elbows when the realization hits him, like cold water down his spine.
Because she doesn’t love him. He doesn’t know what this is, but it’s not love. And maybe she’s drunker than he thought and she would never do this if she was sane and sober.
She’ll regret this in the morning. He’s already regretting it. The alcohol has left his system now. Probably did a while ago, but he was still drunk on her.
She doesn’t notice anything is wrong, isn’t even looking at him. Still giggling.
Why would she kiss him? Is this dark and hollow like the pity in her eyes? Is it wet and bitter like the alcohol? Dirty and hazy like a dream you wake up from confused and dehydrated?
Even with the clear sound of her laughter and her gentle touch still in his curls, this isn’t the kind of love it was before, lying on a school rooftop, or sharing tiny kisses in the bottom bunk. That’s the kind of tender he’s never going to get back.
In the morning... she’s going to hate him. Or, maybe worse, she won’t feel anything at all. She’ll forget all about it, not because of a spell but because it mattered so little.
“In the morning...” he says, throat dry.
“I’m going to be so hungover,” she says, buries her face in the crook of her elbow. Then she looks up. “Wait. Do you even get hangovers?”
“Probably not.”
“Ugh, that is so unfair.”
Then she closes her eyes again and her breathing goes all slow. Asleep.
He doesn’t know what would be worse, if she regretted it or if she didn’t. Tomorrow, she’ll think to herself, that was okay. Not too bad. Could take it or leave it. And I’m okay with never doing it again. And then she’ll go make coffee and stale toast while he slinks out of the room like a cringey one-night-stand, doing the walk of shame in his Spiderman getup.
Fuck. He’s messed this up so badly. This is exactly what he was worried about. The relapse. The new memory. He’s going to replay it in his mind a thousand times.
Back to square one.