Chapter Text
Chapter Two
...You Make Me Feel Seen
“MJ? Hey.”
It’s Peter’s voice that dives into the murky waters of MJ’s unconsciousness and tugs her gently awake. MJ groans, then sucks in a sharp breath as every muscle in her body tenses for a moment before falling undone again.
“I fell asleep in your bed,” MJ says dumbly, prying her eyes open.
Peter’s bedroom window faces the morning sun, and the light that pours into his room is bright enough to blind her. She scrunches up her face, squinting until she can make out his shape standing in the doorway.
He’s already dressed—a plaid blue button-up tucked into the front of his dark wash jeans, and a loose hoodie with Midtown’s logo printed over the chest. His hands are jammed into his pockets, and he shifts between his legs, broadcasting a mild level of discomfort.
MJ almost snorts. It’s not that the look doesn’t suit him. It’s just that he looks like an underqualified substitute teacher (the kind who lets the class watch YouTube videos instead of work and insists on going by anything but “Mr. Parker”), and for some reason, that thought amuses her.
“Uh, yeah. I didn’t want to wake you up and make you move, so I just took the couch. That’s cool, right?”
And because it’s never too early in the morning to fuck with Peter Parker, MJ quirks her brow and asks, “Is it? I mean, making me sleep in your bed without my explicit consent is kinda weird.”
Peter stumbles, “No! No, that’s not it at all! I just—it was a long night and you were already here, and obviously I didn’t mean to cross a boundary or anything but-,”
“Parker, I’m joking. Relax.”
“Oh, yeah,” Peter says, his voice bouncing up an octave. “Totally. Yeah, that’s cool.”
“What time is it?” MJ asks.
“It’s nine. May texted me and said that I should wake you up so that you can get down to the police station early for your mom,” Peter says.
He glances down and to the side, apparently fascinated by the intersection where the doorframe rests perpendicular to the hardwood. A fan of studying human behavior, MJ’s always somewhat subscribed to the theory that you can read people’s emotions by watching where their eyes drift. Generally, people look to the left when they’re lying, to the right when they’re telling the truth, up when they’re recalling memories, and down when they’re anxious.
Separate from those basic tells, however, MJ has devised that every individual has their own subconscious eye movements. Flash Thompson looks straight ahead when he’s embarrassed or scared, because he’s afraid of people knowing that he’s either of those things. Ned looks up and to his right when he’s flattered. Betty looks into people’s eyes when she interviews them—not always because she’s listening, but because she wants them to feel like she’s listening.
So, MJ knows that when Peter looks down and to the right, he’s searching for an answer. She’s seen him do it a million times before. During Decathlon practice on the rare occasion that he gets a question he isn’t prepared for. When he’s caught zoning out in the middle of class and the teacher quizzes him on what was just said. That one time he commented that the book MJ was reading was “cool”, and she’d replied, “Tell me what, exactly, is ‘cool’ about white supremacy and colonialism, Parker”, and left him stammering for a response.
MJ isn’t sure what answer Peter is searching for right now. She doesn’t even know the question—though she has her suspicions (see: “How do I talk to my sort-of-friend about her fucked up family issues without sounding pitying/offensive/self-righteous?”).
Peter glances up after a moment, meaning that he’s finally settled on something to say. “Look, MJ-,”
“Is my bag still in the living room? I should get my clothes,” MJ interrupts.
“Oh. Uh, yeah. I’ll get it for you,” Peter says, frowning.
He vanishes from the doorway and returns moments later with her schoolbag. MJ thanks him before kicking off the blanket that he must’ve put over her last night (because of-fucking-course he did), and swinging her legs over the side of his bed. Then she snatches the bag from his hands and shuffles off to the bathroom.
She showers quickly, an act that feels completely in vain when she’s forced to put back on the clothes she wore yesterday. Not that she doesn’t love her Frida Kahlo shirt—she just has a very strict rotation schedule of the women who get to be brandished over her chest, and Frida’s seriously been hogging the spotlight (on the other hand, Marsha P. Johnson hasn’t seen the light of day in a solid two weeks, and it’s honestly a crime).
Peter is waiting at the kitchen counter when MJ finally steps out of the bathroom. There’s a mug next to him—blue, with the pun, “Up and Atom!” written on the side. He’s typing away on his cellphone—to Ned, MJ assumes.
Peering into the mug, MJ grins. “Coffee?”
“What’s wrong with it?” Peter frowns.
“Nothing, it’s just that I figured you’d be more of an energy drink kind of person. Judging by the all cans you shoved under your bed last night, I mean.”
The tips of Peter’s ears flush red, and he glances down at his hands. “I mean, it’s for you, actually. You take it black, right? I remember you talking about the corrupt dairy industry a few weeks ago, so I kind of assumed-,”
“No, yeah, that’s perfect. Thanks,” MJ says. She hurries to tuck an out-of-place curl behind her ear, suddenly self-conscious. She’s used to observing other people—not so much to being observed herself.
She takes a sip. The coffee’s a little weak, since Peter probably used May’s Keurig machine to make it, but MJ doesn’t mind. She’s thankful to have at least a little bit of liquid energy in her system. There’s no way she could head up to the police station and talk to her mother while caffeine-sober.
She’s halfway through her cup when she notices that Peter’s staring at her. She can see him out of her peripherals, chin resting on his fist and a placid expression on his face. Not one to be coy, she swings her head around to challenge him on it.
“What?” MJ asks.
Peter makes a face like he’s been caught watching porn (like, the freaky kind). “Wha-what are you-,”
“You were looking at me.”
“Me? No, I was—uh, I just, um, zone out sometimes,” Peter says, though the way his eyes fly to the left betrays him.
“Well, heads up, it’s kind of creepy when you ‘zone out’ in my direction. You know, like, hashtag-just-woman-things,” MJ says.
“O-oh, okay. Sorry, MJ,” Peter says.
Of course, his apology sounds way too genuine and MJ is hardly surprised when she’s slapped in the face with a fresh wave of guilt.
She remembers being especially impudent as a kid. Back then, her father was still a present force in her life, and whenever she spoke out, he’d take her aside and say, “Hey, Mickey, how about you find a nicer way to phrase that and try again?” (Mickey was the nickname her father always called her by. MJ would probably projectile-vomit on a person if they tried to use it now.)
And even though MJ doesn’t want to try again because she’s sworn-off feeling ashamed for speaking her mind, that doesn’t mean she can’t try and make amends.
So, MJ shakes her head. Smiles a little, to drive home the fact that she isn’t that pissed “I swear to God, Parker, I’m going to get you a ‘sorry’-jar. It’ll go right next to my ‘video game death’-jar.”
The corner of Peter’s lip tugs upwards. “With our combined forces, we’d make one hell of a racket.”
“And what would we do with all of that hypothetical money?” MJ asks.
“I’m thinking a yacht. Maybe two.”
“Right after we pay off bail for like, every person incarcerated for weed ever,” MJ adds.
“Oh, absolutely. But the yacht comes after that.”
An easy laugh fills the air, and MJ finds herself noticing how the corners of Peter’s eyes crinkle when he smiles—how one of his eyes squints slightly more than the other. The laughter dies down, and MJ finishes off her coffee. She nudges Peter with the empty mug before taking it to the sink to wash it.
“Seriously, though. You make me feel bad when all you do is apologize. I mean, it’s usually me being the asshole in the first place, if I’m being real with you,” MJ says.
“Oh, okay, uh…” Peter trails off. He looks constipated.
MJ smirks. “You’re trying really hard not to say it, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” Peter says, nodding his head. He swallows the apology on his tongue and clears his throat. “So, are we heading out now? We’ll probably have to go soon if we want to catch the train.”
“We?” MJ squints at him.
Peter’s eyes widen. “Oh, I’m—I just figured that since-,”
“Since what? Since we played video games together last night, you suddenly get a free pass into my life? Look, Peter, I get that your aunt feels bad for me or whatever, but I’m not a kid. I can handle things on my own.”
“MJ, I’m sorry.”
“Then put a quarter in the fucking jar,” MJ huffs.
She snatches her wallet out of her bag and shoves it into her pocket. She honestly wanted to stay in the apartment for a while longer. She’d hoped to put off seeing her mother for as long as possible, and if she’s being honest—there’s worse company than Peter. But if she stays within a fifty-foot radius of him for another minute, she’s seriously going to smack him.
She stops at the doorway for just long enough to say, “I’ll be back when I’m back. Don’t wait up for me.”
And then, she’s gone.
#
MJ doesn’t know much about the police station her mom is being detained at. She knows that they’re assigned to the precinct in which she lives. She knows that they have overnight holding cells, because she interviewed them for a research assignment on inhumane living spaces. She knows that they have sixteen one-star ratings on Google Reviews.
But other than that, MJ is at a loss. Admittedly, her relationship with the NYPD is pretty estranged.
She keeps her hands out of her pockets as she walks inside. Tries her best to look like she’s not on drugs (she isn’t), hasn’t tried drugs (she hasn’t), and wouldn’t try drugs given the chance (she wouldn’t. Probably). There’s a reception desk across from the door, where an officer stares lethargically at a computer screen.
“Um, hi,” MJ says, stepping up to the desk. “I’m here to talk to Sandra Jones. I’m her daughter.”
The officer tears his eyes away from the computer and looks MJ up and down. “You got ID?”
“Yeah,” MJ says, “it’s in my pocket. I’ll get it out now.”
She fishes her wallet out of her jeans and slips out her ID, placing it on the desk for the officer to scrutinize.
“Alright,” he says, pushing it back with two fingers. “Wait here while I call an officer to escort you back to the holding cells.”
MJ gives him a tight smile. “Thanks.”
The officer comes within the next few minutes. MJ recognizes him—he’s the same cop who apprehended her mother last night. When he looks at her, it’s with kind eyes, and though the blue uniform makes MJ uneasy regardless, she’s glad that out of all the officers in the building, he’s the one who’s escorting her.
“Hey, kid,” he says, cracking a sympathetic grin. “How’d you sleep?”
She glances at the bags under his eyes. “Probably better than you.”
“Late night arrests call for a lot of paperwork.” He laughs, though MJ suspects it’s just to lighten the mood. “Anyways, we didn’t get to exchange pleasantries last time I saw you, did we? I’m officer Grant. I’ll take you back.”
“Okay, thanks.” MJ chews on the inside of her cheek. “I’m Michelle, by the way.”
“Michelle. It’s nice to meet you.”
They head through a heavy metal door, and it hits MJ suddenly that she’s in a police department building and not a prison. There are no bars, no cages. No tattooed men trying to reach out at her like they do in the movies. Instead, the line of holding cells she’s introduced to give her the visual of a stripped-bare hotel.
Officer Grant leads the walk down the long, off-white hallway. Artificial lights bore down on MJ’s face, and if she tries hard enough, she can faintly hear the buzz of electricity as it passes through the fluorescent bulbs.
Her mother is in holding cell G, the last cell in the hall. Officer Grant unlocks it with a key from his keyring and holds the door open while MJ slips inside before following behind her to stand guard. The room is the size of two walk-in closets, and includes little else save for a caged-up wall clock, a stone cot with a foam pad thrown over it, and a metal toilet.
MJ’s heart clenches when she sees her mother. The drunken rage from the night previous is long-gone, replaced with exhaustion and misery. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and her face is pale and shining with sweat. Her hair looks like the unfortunate product of a Van De Graaff generator experiment. Something in the room vaguely reeks, and MJ assumes that it’s because her mother has been puking out her hangover.
“Hey,” MJ finally says, swallowing the hard lump in her throat.
Her mother looks at her coldly. “Did you text Devon last night?”
“Yeah,” MJ says. “No reply.”
“Figures. The bastard,” her mother huffs.
“Anyways, Ms. Jones,” officer Grant says, nodding towards MJ, “We’ll finish your mother’s booking and preliminary hearing by five, and then she’s free to go home until her court date in exactly one week. She will be required to check in with an official at this station every day before noon until then.”
MJ’s brow twitches. “All this for a noise violation fine? Don’t you think that’s excessive?”
Officer Grant looks at MJ like she’s grown a third head. “It would be excessive if we were only fining her. But on top of disturbing the peace, she’s also being charged with aggravated assault and several counts of property damage, including the bullet hole in the apartment drywall that was made by an unregistered weapon.”
MJ cusses.
“Don’t worry, baby,” MJ’s mother says from the stone cot. “I’m getting my lawyer to meet me tonight. I promise, your mother has it all worked out.”
Tightening her jaw, MJ stands up straighter. Tilts her chin up, so that she can look down at officer Grant and project a confidence that she doesn’t actually have. “Can she go home on her own?”
“Yes,” officer Grant says.
“Okay, good. That’s good.”
MJ’s mother tugs on her shirt hard enough to partially untuck it from her jeans. “Clean the apartment before I get home, Michelle,” she says. “I don’t need to come back to that mess.”
Hate describes a feeling that MJ experiences quite a bit. She hates corrupt politicians, and she hates how billionaire capitalists abuse the working class. She hates misogyny. She hates how white people follow her around convenience stores to make sure she’s not stealing. She hates Donald Trump, and Margret Thatcher, and even Gandhi (seriously, look it up—the guy’s kind of a jerk).
But she doesn’t hate her mom. Not even close.
MJ decided back in sophomore year that her mother, like Peter Parker, was not worth the emotional investment of her hatred.
But she doesn’t love her mother, because loving her would be the only thing more painful than hating her. Apathy, then, is MJ’s only resort. She doesn’t care when her mother drinks. She doesn’t care when her mother is sober. And this usually keeps MJ safe from the more dangerous alternative, which is caring until it physically hurts (there is not a way to care in moderation, unfortunately).
But seeing her mother right now, so pathetic and powerless—MJ feels a twinge of something hauntingly familiar in her chest.
“Yeah, Mom, don’t worry,” MJ nearly whispers. “I’ll make sure it’s all cleaned up.”
#
MJ feels her gut twist as she steps into Peter’s room.
He’s bent over the gutted computer on his desk, deft fingers prying away at a circuit board while he mouths the lyrics to an Alt-J song. Ridges form between his brows, and his thin lips are drawn back in what almost appears to be a grimace. He’s so deep in concentration that he doesn’t even notice MJ standing less than two feet away from him.
MJ opens her mouth to speak, but no words leave her.
She’s drawn Peter a few times before. Nothing crazy—it’s not like she has a full sketchbook dedicated to his face or anything. Just a doodle or two from lunch, and a few loose gesture drawings that she did in Spanish.
The thing about Peter is that, at a glance, he looks pretty average. Maybe above-average, if you’re an ass-kisser. Drawing Peter is a science that requires one to find all the little proportions that make him look like himself, rather than every other skinny white boy alive.
Imagining that her eyes are a pen, MJ draws the contour of Peter’s profile. From the slope of his forehead, to the pronounced ridge of his brow, to the slight bump in the bridge of his nose, and lower still—the valley created by the negative space between his upper and lower lip, and the slight jut of his chin.
And then, Peter turns his head, and MJ’s mental portrait is erased.
“You were staring at me,” Peter says. MJ blushes, though it’s not like this is the first time she’s ever done this. She stares at people all the time. Most of them just never notice her back. It doesn’t surprise her that Peter is the exception, but being caught still feels a bit wrong.
She sucks in her lips and stares down at the brown bag in her hands.
“Zoning out, actually,” MJ says weakly.
Peter turns in his swivel chair and smiles. “Hey, if I can’t use that excuse, neither can you.”
MJ flips him off. Peter laughs.
“Anyways, I brought lunch,” MJ says, reaching into the bag and pulling out two sandwiches she picked up at the bodega a few blocks away.
Peter takes the sandwich she holds out for him, grinning wider when he sees that she’s ordered it squished down flat, just how he likes it. He pulls back the tinfoil and takes an eager bite. “Oh my God, pickles too? How’d you know?”
MJ bites the inside of her cheek. “You brought one in for lunch once.”
“Seriously? That was like, a year ago,” Peter raises his eyebrows.
“I can’t help it if I’m observant,” MJ says. “Look, about this morning-,”
“Don’t worry about it,” Peter cuts her off. “Actually, check this out.” He reaches up to the shelf above his desk. “I found some old mason jars in the cabinet that May wasn’t using and, well, how do they look?”
He holds out the two glass jars, and MJ has to stop herself from laughing. One of them is labelled, “MJ’s Video Game Death Jar”, while the other reads, “Peter’s ‘I’m Sorry’ Jar”. A single quarter is already sitting in Peter’s jar.
“Rules,” Peter says, “we can’t take quarters out of the jars, and we won’t count it if you die in a video game because of me. We also won’t count it if I say sorry for something like bumping into you or stepping on your foot. Once we scrap up enough quarters, we can go somewhere.”
MJ lets out an airy laugh. “Okay, Parker. I’m in.”
They eat in silence until they both finish their lunches. MJ takes Peter’s trash from him and stands up. “So, hey, I’ve got to go back home to clean my apartment,” she announces. “Can you tell May that I might not be back for dinner? I don’t know how long it’s going to take. You know, like, depending on how much damage my mom did last night or whatever.”
“Uh, sure,” Peter says. “Actually, I can come with you and help if you want me to. The mess would probably get cleaned faster if we were both working on it, and it’s not like I have any plans for tonight.”
MJ groans. “You’re so fucking pushy, you know that?” There’s no bite to her voice—in fact, she’s almost relieved.
Relieved, because she’s finally found something about Peter that could be considered a flaw: that he is insistent, and that his respect for boundaries is greatly overshadowed by his desire to overstep them. This is good, because now she has an actual, valid reason to dislike him.
His intentions are good enough, sure—but doesn’t everyone have good intentions behind their faults?
Peter’s forehead crinkles, “MJ, I’m-,” he pauses before he can say the S-word, then continues, “-trying to help you. That’s all.”
MJ snorts, amused at the effectiveness of operant conditioning on Peter’s behavior. Oddly enough, knowing that her irritation towards him is somewhat justified makes it easier for her to imagine him invading her personal space.
It’s this ease that allows MJ to pull the corners of her lips upwards, as she says, “Yeah, okay. But if you sound even vaguely pitying, I’m fining you a quarter in the jar.”
Peter matches her expression. “Deal.”
#
MJ’s apartment looks a lot better without the emergency vehicles parked in front of it. Not to imply that it’s the Ritz—the building hardly sticks out amongst the multitude of all-brick structures in Queens—but at least she’s not getting any serious Bronx-vibes from it anymore. MJ leads Peter through the main entrance, and up a single flight of stairs to her apartment.
She hesitates at the door (even though she told herself on the train ride over that she wouldn’t).
“You okay?” Peter asks.
“Fine,” MJ says back, too quickly.
A hard swallow, and she’s digging out her keys—shoving them into the lock, and pushing her way in.
Bile crawls up her throat as she takes in the mess. She purses her lips as she steps over a broken flowerpot, careful not to walk in the spilled dirt lest she grind it into the carpet. The shattered remnants of a wine bottle are on display in the kitchen—the half containing the neck is mostly in-tact, however (MJ imagines her mother using it as a makeshift weapon).
Picture frames knocked off their hooks lay in the hallway that leads back to the bedrooms, the glass cracked and fractured. MJ stops by one of them. It’s an old family photo—her, her mother, her father, and Devon. It’s the only photo of her father up on display in the house (though it gets taken down occasionally, when MJ’s mother brings her boyfriends over).
Most of the central damage, however, is located in MJ’s mother’s room. MJ can see exactly where Devon must’ve been looking for his birth certificate. The entire bed is practically flipped over, revealing the box springs underneath, and everything from inside the nightstand drawer rests in a heap on the carpet. The clothes in the dresser have been thrown out, and even the glass ceiling lamp has been dismantled.
It’s a chaotic whirlwind of destruction, and it’s got Devon’s name all over it.
MJ releases a breath.
“Okay,” she says, steeling herself. “I’ll clean up the glass in the kitchen, and you can start vacuuming up the dirt by the front door. Our vacuum is in the closet right next to the bathroom. Sound good?”
Peter nods. “Sounds good.”
While MJ picks up bits of glass with a wet paper towel, Peter dumps the broken flowerpot shards into a trashcan. They move on quickly, covering up every bit of evidence that the night before even happened. They do it with a kind of clinical grace, as if this is some stranger’s apartment that they’ve been hired to clean and not the site of domestic violence dispute involving MJ’s mother and sibling.
Once the living room and the hallway is tidy to MJ’s liking, they move on to her mother’s room. MJ gets on one side of the overturned bed, and Peter gets on the other, and they both heave it back onto its frame.
“Alright,” MJ says, rolling her shoulders. “Do you see a fitted sheet anywhere?”
“That’s the one with the elastic, right?” Peter asks.
“Have you never made a bed before?”
“I mean, May does it for the most part.”
MJ gags. “You make her clean your bedsheets? That’s kinda disgusting—not gonna lie.”
“I don’t make her! She just does it!” Peter defends, his voice squeaking.
“So, like, when you-,” MJ doesn’t say the word, instead opting for a hand gesture to get the meaning across, “-do you just have to be really careful not to get it on the comforters or…?”
“Oh my God, no,” Peter says, horrified. “I don’t even-,”
“You’re a teenage boy, Peter. I’m pretty sure you masturbate,” MJ deadpans. “I mean, just about everyone does it. Psychologists actually say-,”
“Can we please not talk about this right now?” Peter asks.
His face is blazing red, and he looks like he’s about to puke. Satisfied with his discomfort, MJ laughs and tells him to start folding her mother’s clothes while she makes the bed (she makes an exception for the bras and underwear, though—she’s not trying to traumatize the guy).
Restoring her mother’s bedroom to its previous glory is a chore that lasts until half-past-four. MJ sighs as she shuts the last drawer, resting her hands on her hips.
“We did pretty good,” MJ says. She turns to Peter and feels a sense of guilt that’s become all-too-familiar lately. “Thanks, by the way. You were right about things going faster with both of us working on it. I’m sorry I keep lashing out, I just—I’m not really psyched on the idea of having an audience while I navigate my fucked-up family troubles.”
“Of course, MJ. It’s cool,” Peter assures her. “Do you want to pack a bag?”
“Oh, shit. I almost forgot. Thanks,” MJ says.
She walks back into her room, yanking a travel suitcase out from under her bed. It’s the same suitcase that she’s had since she moved into this apartment from the suburbs. The same suitcase she’s taken to DC, and to Europe, and likely the same suitcase she’ll be taking to NYIAD.
She packs a handful of shirts, underwear, and jeans, along with her toothbrush, hair ties, hair brush, and her razors (she may be a feminist, but for her personally—there’s nothing better than running your fingers up legs that feel softer than a baby’s ass). Last is her silk pillowcase, and a small box of art supplies, in case she gets the sudden urge to draw.
Zipping up her suitcase, MJ runs through a mental checklist of supplies one last time before getting up and leaving.
Peter’s standing in the living room when she finds him. He’s staring at the wall—or rather, the absence of wall. Following his eyes, MJ finally notices the bullet hole. It’s not very large—hardly the size of a fingernail. But it makes MJ feel like her heart is twisting like a rag, wringing out all of the emotions she’s worked so hard to keep in.
“Fuck,” MJ murmurs.
The broken glass, the dirt-stained carpet—hell, even the overturned bed—those are things MJ can deal with while maintaining a safe sense of detachment. A bullet hole is too much. It’s too real. She feels her hands begin to shake.
“MJ?” Peter whispers, turning to look at her. His eyes flicker down. “You’re shaking.”
Based on all of the books MJ has read in her lifetime, there is an infinite number of good reasons to hold someone’s hand. For example: on a date? Sure. Confessing your feelings? Absolutely. Trying to comfort your friend who is having an anxiety attack over the realization that her mother could have murdered her brother?
Capital “N-O” fucking way.
MJ shoves Peter away as soon as she feels his hands wrapping around hers. “Are you fucking kidding me?” she hisses.
“I’m sorry,” Peter winces. “I was trying to help.”
“Jesus Christ, I literally can’t stand you sometimes,” MJ huffs. She shakes her head and turns towards the hallway. “I’ll be right back, Peter. I need to fix this.”
Marching into the bathroom, she grabs the first tube of white toothpaste she can find. Then, she hurries back to the living room and uses it to fill the cavity in the drywall. It’s not a perfect match with the eggshell-colored paint surrounding it, but MJ doubts her landlord will notice the difference between dried-out toothpaste and the rest of the cheap spongey drywall.
“Looks good,” Peter says.
“I don’t need your approval,” MJ snarls back. She checks her watch. Five o’clock, on the dot. “Come on, Parker. Let’s get the fuck out of here before my mom shows up.”
Peter hardly protests as she grabs his wrist and yanks him out the door. They don’t talk as they hurry to the train station. They don’t talk the entire ride back to Peter’s apartment. They communicate in a strict nonverbal code made up of pitying looks and withering glares. MJ keeps a count of every time it looks like Peter wants to apologize, so that she’ll know how much he owes his jar when they get back.
The total cost of feeling sorry for your friend? Two dollars and twenty-five cents.
#
“So, Michelle, tell me how things went at the station,” May asks, reaching into a Wendy’s bag to pass out dinner. She’s let her hair down since coming home from work, and she’s replaced her slacks with a pair of fuzzy pajama bottoms. A faded concert tee from Madonna’s 2008 Sticky and Sweet tour hangs over her shoulders, reminding MJ that May is much younger than she seems.
MJ’s eyes flicker down towards her food. “It was good,” she says. “Her court date is next week.”
“Okay. I’m glad you agreed to stay with us. It’s nice having another girl in the house.” May grins.
“Thanks,” MJ says, attempting a weak smile.
“Yeah,” Peter adds, “it’s nice having you here.”
He tosses a look to May—so subtle that anyone less perceptive than MJ would’ve missed it. It’s a flicker of the eyes and a twitch of the brow that reads, “Something happened, let’s talk about it in private”.
MJ has always been fascinated by the near-telepathic bond that some people share. How an entire sentence can be said with a look, how a pat on the back can mean hundreds of different things. She’s seen it between Peter and Ned at lunch—when Peter has a bad day, and Ned nudges their elbows together as if to say, “It’s alright. We don’t have to talk about it, but I’m here for you”.
She used to share that bond with her older brother. She could read his face like a book—could understand from one expression whether he wanted to play video games, or whether he was getting ready to mess with her, or whether he was in trouble with their parents and wanted to get out of the house.
Likewise, he knew her. He’d bring snacks from the fridge for them to share whenever she was upset, without even needing to ask her beforehand. Sometimes, he’d randomly come up behind her and mess up her hair with a, “Chill, MJ. It’s alright”, and she’d wonder how he knew that she was worried about the spelling test coming up.
It’s sad, but she still tries sometimes to re-connect link between them. It never works. Whatever bond they shared when they were kids—it’s been gone for a while, and MJ’s pretty sure that it’s never coming back.
May looks down at her fast food and sighs. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make anything tonight. Work’s been busy.”
Peter immediately jumps into the expected behavior, assuring May that Wendy’s is just fine and that he’s “totally cool” with having it for dinner. MJ rolls her eyes. She wonders if Peter has ever made a complaint in his life (there’s no way that he’s satisfied all the time—unless his pleasure is performative).
Maybe it’s to one-up him, but MJ leans forward and offers May a tight smile. “I like to cook.”
“Oh?” May asks. She breaks into a laugh. “I’ve never been fond of it. I guess you know that by now, though.”
“Yeah, I uh, picked it up. You know, living with my mother and everything. I had to learn.”
MJ doesn’t divulge any deeper information, and thankfully, May doesn’t seem interested in digging for it. She settles for a sympathetic nod, and silently urges MJ to continue speaking.
“So, I mean—don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but if you want, I can actually like, make dinner tomorrow night.”
May smiles. “Is that an offer?”
“Yeah. I can cook pretty much anything. You name it,” MJ says.
“That’s so nice of you. Isn’t that nice, Peter?”
Peter glances up from his food. He doesn’t look at MJ. “Oh? Yeah, it’s nice.” There’s a detachment to his tone that sends a shiver up MJ’s spine. MJ frowns—she’s really not tolerant when it comes to passive-aggressive bullshit. Especially not from someone like Peter.
“Is something wrong?” she challenges, tilting her chin up and drawing her brows in.
Peter shakes his head. “I just didn’t think you were into domestic stuff like that.”
“It’s not the domesticity of cooking that pisses me off. Honestly, it’s not even the domesticity of women. It’s the expectation that society places on women to embody that domesticity—that’s what I can’t stand,” MJ rattles off.
Peter raises a brow and lets out a tiny breath of relief, like, “Okay, MJ’s talking about patriarchal subjugation again, which is a good indicator that she is probably okay”.
The rest of dinner goes uneventfully. After she helps Peter and May clean up, MJ slinks away to the bathroom to change into a pair of pajamas (hers this time, thankfully). Peter is waiting in the hallway for her when she steps out.
“Hey,” Peter says.
“Hi,” MJ replies, unmoving.
Peter sways his body to the side a bit. “So, I actually need to get in there. You know, to take a shower.”
“Oh. Yeah. Right,” MJ says, the heat of embarrassment catching her cheeks as she moves aside to allow Peter access to his own bathroom.
“Do you want to set up a game while I’m busy? There’s no way I’m letting my jar fill up before yours,” Peter asks, passing her.
Honestly, the thought of forgetting the day’s events in a never-ending CGI alien slaughter-fest sounds pretty damn appealing. MJ manages a smile.
“Sure, Parker. I’m on it.”
#
They’re about thirty minutes into playing when Peter speaks up.
“Hey, I’m sorry about dinner. I guess the cooking thing caught me off guard,” he says. He rams his weapon into an alien, staining the base walls with luminescent blood. “Hey, there’s a needler here if you need more ammo.”
“Thanks,” MJ says, collecting it. “Anyways, didn’t I go over the-,”
“The standards of domesticity. Yeah, you did,” Peter says.
Both characters march down a dark corridor, glancing around for any signs of hostile life.
“Oh, shit there’s a swarm of them,” MJ says. “Grenade, grenade!”
“I’m out!”
“Shit!”
An explosion sends MJ’s character flying. She groans and adds a mental tally to her current death count (she already owes a buck-fifty—she’ll be dead broke by the end of the night).
“Seriously though, MJ,” Peter says, waiting for her to catch up to him from the respawn point. “It wasn’t really the cooking thing specifically. I just—I think I realized that there’s a lot I don’t know about you.”
“So?”
“So, we’re friends. We’ve been friends for a long time and—God, I didn’t know any of this was going on. I mean all that stuff with you mom, and having to cook your own meals because there was nobody to do it for you-,”
MJ sighs and pauses the game. She turns to Peter, and as much as she’d like to murder him for being so damn sorry for her, she can tell that he’s already worked himself into being genuinely upset.
“First of all, that speech was worth at least a dollar. Secondly, it’s okay. It’s not your responsibility to make sure my life is rainbows and sunshine, you know?”
“I know, it’s just-,”
“Peter, look at me.”
Peter swallows hard, and his eyes zero in on MJ with an intensity that almost makes her feel warm. The sincerity behind everything Peter does is too much. MJ’s mom used to complain that some desserts were just “so sweet, they were inedible”. MJ didn’t understand it back then—she assumed that sweetness was a good thing, and that there could never be too much of it.
But feeling this seen under the focus of Peter’s gaze, MJ is starting to realize what her mother meant.
Her eyes flicker downward as she starts to talk again. “Look, this situation sucks. And I didn’t want you to know about this shitty aspect of my life, but you do now. And like it or not, we’re both going to have to deal with that information, because we don’t get the luxury not to.”
“Did you tell your mom you were going to be staying with us?” Peter asks.
MJ shakes her head. “I didn’t have to,” she says, and they both understand.
She inhales stiffly. “My mom loved my brother, by the way. She loved him so fucking much.” She laughs then, because she’s sure that if she doesn’t laugh—she’ll cry instead. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Maybe because I don’t want you to think that it’s always been this way. She loved us, okay? She was a good mom, I swear.”
MJ has broken a bone before. She’s fallen down a flight of stairs. She’s gotten knocked upside the head in PE with a basketball. But none of those things could ever come close to the physical pain of talking about love in the past-tense.
This is why MJ tries not to care. Because if you’re reckless enough to care about the mother who loved you, inevitably you’ll be hurt by the mother who doesn’t.
There’s a shuffling noise as Peter reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a quarter and stands up, twisting the aluminum cap off of his jar. “In advance,” he says, and the quarter drops in with a soft, tink! That done, he sits back down on the bottom bunk. He stares at MJ’s hands.
“MJ, I’m sorry. Look, I know you think you’re mean, but you deserve to have someone who loves you.”
MJ snorts. “Yeah. Okay.”
“I’m serious. You deserve to be loved. Right now, as you are.”
MJ feels something bubble up in her chest, squeezing her throat like a vice grip. The game has been long forgotten by now, and honestly—MJ isn’t super passionate about finishing the level they’re on. Currently, the only thing she wants to do is hide somewhere dark and come up with a list of one-thousand reasons that Peter Parker is wrong.
You deserve to be loved. Right now, as you are.
Then why isn’t she?
MJ chokes on her next sentence. “I’m getting tired. I should—I should go.”
Peter doesn’t stop her as she gets up and stumbles out of his room, but MJ almost wishes that he did.
#
She’s laying on the couch, and it’s almost midnight. May’s air conditioner wheezes as it tries to keep up with the early summer heat. The sounds of New York play out just behind the glass windows. Something buzzes—her phone. MJ lunges for it, unhooking it from the charger.
Her bright phone screen blinds her corneas with an onslaught of blue light, as she frantically opens a text conversation with Devon. She’s been texting him since winter break, and he’s never once messaged her back. In the past twenty-four hours alone, she’s been sending out messages like crazy.
And now finally, finally, he’s decided to respond.
MJ: Where are you?
MJ: Are you at the hospital?
MJ: Mom is coming home tonight @ 5.
MJ: Can we talk?
MJ: Please, Devon. This isn’t fucking funny. You need to talk to me.
Devon: We can talk.
MJ’s heart picks up as her thumbs fly over the keyboard.
MJ: Thank God. When?”
She stands up and paces around the living room as she waits for him to return a message. She hasn’t talked to her brother since he left for junior year. After school let out for the spring semester, he found a way to continue living out-of-state on an internship.
A buzz sends MJ’s hands flying to her pocket as she unlocks her screen and stares at the message. She reads the words once, then twice.
And then her heart drops like a stone in her gut.
Devon: When I get my fucking birth certificate.