Archive of Our Own

If there was ever a day for the Peter Parker luck to rear its ugly head, this was it. Obviously, this was it. It was only the most important night of Peter’s life, the one good event in a slew of bad ones, the shining star in a sea of black.

MJ was always his shining star.

So of course, tonight, things went wrong.

Peter gripped MJ around the waist, fingers clenching against the smooth, slippery hull of the yacht, and cursed the Parker fortune. A deck above them, an explosion boomed, and the huge boat pitched sideways. They skidded closer to the choppy waves of the Hudson before he dug his toes in, hard enough to physically dent the white metal.

Limp in his arm, MJ moaned, and Peter swallowed a hysterical laugh. Blood oozed from the gash on her forehead, staining her red hair and trickling down her temple, but she’d moaned. Which meant she wasn’t down and out.

Not entirely. 

He could work with “not entirely.”

“Mary Jane, wake up,” he panted, tightening his grip on her. The water was close, too close, and based on personal experience, a submerged Spider-Man was a useless Spider-Man. And if MJ hit the water in this condition, she’d definitely drown.

She’d drown.

No. No. Peter’s breath hitched as the river lapped his toes. Only his free hand had a decent hold on the yacht by this point; in these stupid dress shoes, his feet weren’t sticking like they should. Okay. They needed to climb. He ground his teeth, kicked off the rocking boat, slapped his hand at a higher point and—

They slipped.

NO.

Peter screamed and dug his fingers into the hull, desperation and raw strength cutting through the metal like paper. Blood welled around his fingers, dripping down his sodden suit jacket, but they weren’t in the water.

MJ wasn’t in the water.

Behind them, the city glimmered a mile away, a lovely scene for a stunningly dangerous moment. Muscles aching, fingers numb, shivering in the icy spray, Peter pulled MJ closer and pressed his forehead against the side of the ship. The smooth hull was startlingly cold, which focused his panicked mind.

“MJ, please. P-Please, Mary Jane, you have to wake up. Come on, please.” He was rambling, teeth chattering with every word.

In his jacket pocket, the tiny velvet ring box pressed hard against his heart, digging painfully into his skin.

Pretty fitting metaphor for tonight, all things considered.

Another explosion echoed, and Peter ducked over MJ to shield her from the debris that rained over the side of the ship. People on the deck were screaming, but there was nowhere to go… not unless they pitched over the edge like MJ did a few minutes ago.

Look how that turned out.

Peter squinted past the curve of the deck, towards the inky sky, the distant stars, just as a flash of green soared overhead. Green wings. Of course it was the Vulture. Even on a random Tuesday night, even on a freaking yacht on the Hudson, even with his Spider-Suit back in Manhattan, the Vulture still crashed their party.

Well, maybe not their party. Peter definitely couldn’t afford to sponsor a night like this. But the Bugle didn’t spare expenses with their annual gala.

So what the hell did these reporters bring worth stealing?

MJ’s eyelids fluttered. “P-Pete—” she mumbled, the wind whipping his name away as soon as it left her lips. Arms shaking with the effort of keeping them out of the water, knuckles white with strain and red with the blood streaming down his left arm, Peter pulled her closer.

“MJ, MJ! You have to wake up.” His voice was desperate, and he shook her just a little, just enough to emphasize his words without hurting her. “Please, Mary Jane.”

She moaned again, but forced her eyelids open. Always a fighter. Thank god, because if she was a typical damsel in distress, they’d both be dead.

Gunshots echoed on the deck, and Peter flinched. He needed to get up there, but—without his suit, what could he do? After that photograph, his only saving grace was that Peter Parker didn’t make headlines. No one knew what Peter Parker looked like.

That would change if he leapt in front of a bullet for someone.

Not that any of it mattered; he was still stuck to the side of a literal sinking ship.

“Come on, MJ, please.”

She tried to straighten in his iron grip, she really did. He felt her muscles straining, felt her dazed eyes struggle to focus on him.

“Sh-orry. ‘M here.” But her words were slurred, barely comprehensible.

Panic staked his heart. She never should have confronted that hijacker—Vulture’s minion. She should have known it was too dangerous. But he aimed a gun at Robbie, at her other coworkers, and MJ inserted herself smoothly and confidently.

It didn’t work.

It very much didn’t work.

Peter lunged, but he couldn’t stop the hijacker from slamming her head against the yacht’s railing. All he could do was leap after her when she tipped over the edge, falling straight for the icy water. People screamed, a rare, lucky break, since it covered the sound of his webbing as he solidly attached her to the curved underside of the yacht’s bow.

And then the explosions started, and the ship pitched sideways, and the webbing got wet and dissolved because he brought the wrong formula, because this was supposed to be a dry evening, a gorgeous, romantic night, and now all he could do was hold on for dear life.

But that wasn’t what scared him the most.

What flat-out terrified him was MJ’s bright green eyes, because now that they were open, they looked… glazed. His best friend, usually so intelligent and inquisitive, couldn’t focus on his face longer than a few seconds.

His heart hammered in his chest. MJ wasn’t okay. That meant he couldn’t count on her like he usually did.

Not good. Not good.

Sirens echoed through the evening, but the Coast Guard was still so far away. And what could he do? Hang here in plain clothes, defying gravity and human strength, until they shone a spotlight on him?

But their chances were so much less in the water. MJ’s chances were so much less. Peter’s breath hitched as he drew a ragged breath.

And then the bow of the ship surged forward, like something heavy landed on the deck above. Peter swallowed a shout as they pitched towards the water, the spray drenching his blood-soaked jacket. He strained to keep them both upright, but the metal under his fingers groaned, bending open. 

“H-Help,” he choked.

MJ sagged in his grip, her eyes rolling into her skull just as the hull ripped open, leaving a hand-sized hole where Peter had been clinging for their lives.

They plummeted.

Crashed into the murky water.

Ice. It was so fucking cold, Peter went into shock at the difference. The Hudson in November. Who knew? Mindless with fear, Peter went straight into instinct mode, kicked and swam in the direction he prayed was up with MJ limp in his arm.

His lungs strained for air.

They broke the surface—

—he gasped a breath—

—and the yacht slammed into him.

It might as well have been Rhino colliding with him at full speed. What little air he had vanished in a choked gasp, and a dull numbness swept from his back—the point of contact—through his limbs. He couldn’t move.

The current tore MJ from his arms, and in the dark water, she vanished.

Peter screamed, promptly choked on river water, but his body wasn’t moving and he couldn’t follow. No. No no NO. His mind clawed, wailed for air, but nothing was responding like it should. A sharp pain radiated from the center of his back, and his fingers barely twitched when he ordered them to move.

He was going to propose tonight.

Jesus Christ, his luck couldn’t possibly be this bad.

Peter’s eyelids fluttered, fighting a darkness that went far beyond the murky black of the river. He wanted to thrash, but all he could do is drift lifelessly. He was drowning. That’s what was happening here. MJ was gone, and he’d been hit with a boat, and now he was drowning.

And so was she.

They were both going to die tonight, all because he insisted they attend this stupid party.

MJ wanted to get pizza at Joe’s.

Peter’s eyes burned, agony breaking his heart in two.

MJ.

And then something slammed into the water above him, bright and violent and golden. Strong arms—metal arms—wrapped around his battered body, and before Peter could react, he was hauled out of the water and into the dark, noisy sky.

Lights flashed, people screamed, and half a mile away, nearly on eye level with them, the Vulture saluted with his wings and flapped away. Peter watched, dazed and distant, as the villain vanished into the night, abandoning his man to the cops rappelling onto the yacht. The boat was barely floating, smoldering with dangerous fire, choking the air with thick smoke, but most of the people on board seemed to be alive.

“So,” Iron Man said, casually readjusting his grip so he was carrying Peter bridal style. “Did you pop the question?”

Peter choked, coughing water, struggling against Tony’s hold. A flicker of relief echoed deep in his brain; he wasn’t paralyzed after all. Just stunned. But the screeching part of his mind, the you-fucked-up part, was too busy flashing louder than an air raid siren.

MJ.

MJ .

“S-She’s down—” Water surged up Peter’s throat, spilling from his lips in a violent gush, but he was gasping words the second he had the air. “She’s down there!” His eyes centered on the river, several hundred feet below, and all he could think was SAVE HER.

“Fuck,” Tony said. They were closer to the river bank now, and Tony aimed for a particularly tall building. “Okay, hang on, kid. Hang on, damn it.”

Peter couldn’t even comprehend what he was saying. “Tony, she’s drowning!!” He had to get down there, had to pull her out of the water before—before—

He kicked and struggled against Iron Man’s hold, denting the metal suit like it was made of plastic. Tony hissed in irritation—pain?—and landed hard on the roof. He dropped Peter to the gravel, pointed a metal finger at him.

“You stay here, Parker. Got it?”

Peter didn’t get it. He didn’t get anything but the fact that MJ was drowning.

But Iron Man didn’t wait for a reply. He jettisoned off the roof and soared back to the river. The whole flight only took a few seconds. It seemed so much longer when Tony was hauling him up here.

Peter threw himself to the edge of the building, fingers automatically pressing against his web-shooters. But a crippling pain ricocheted up his spine, and his limbs locked again. He sobbed, slumping over the ledge of the roof, barely able to hold himself upright as Iron Man soared between the police boats, hovered over a spot nowhere near the yacht—could the current really carry her that far?—, then plunged.

Peter’s breath vanished, and it felt like he was drowning again. Darkness edged his vision, but he held onto the roof with the desperation of a dying man, counting the seconds. They stretched to eternity.

What would happen if Tony couldn’t find her?

What if he did… but she was already gone?

Peter’s breath hitched, hot tears cutting through the icy river water as he imagined an entire existence without Mary Jane Watson. Without her sly expressions, her sarcastic nicknames, her passion and drive and determination to help in every situation. He couldn’t live without her. He’d almost had to do that once, and he just—he couldn’t do it again.

His back ached in fiery agony, his limbs tingled, but it was nothing compared to his breaking heart.

And then Iron Man shot out of the Hudson with something in his arms. Water streamed off him as he angled towards Peter, his suit roaring against the added weight. Peter squinted past the black spots flashing along his vision.

Red hair. Pale skin. A sodden blue dress.

He found her.

He found her.

“Mary J-Ja—” His words slipped away as Tony landed beside him on the roof, far more gently this time. In his arms, MJ was pale as a sheet, soaked through, and—not breathing.

Peter lunged, but his limbs still weren’t moving right. While he fumbled to reach MJ, Iron Man’s suit unfurled and Tony stepped out, dropping to his knees and pressing his ear to MJ’s open mouth. Based on the way his eyebrows knitted together, it wasn’t good news.

Peter crawled, swallowing a yelp of pain. His back was on fire, and his arms felt tingly, and his legs were like dead weight, but none of that mattered now.

“CPR,” he gasped.

“Don’t even think about it, kid,” Tony said sharply. “With your strength, you’ll do more harm than good.” And he balled his palms together and began pumping the center of MJ’s chest.

One and two and three and four and five and six and seven and eight and nine and ten and—

MJ didn’t move. Peter finally got to her, finally propped himself on his elbows to hold her cheek, study her face, but she was pale as a ghost and her forehead was still bleeding and she wasn’t breathing.

“Come on, Mary Jane,” Tony growled. “Come on.”

Peter was seeing stars. Heat rose along his neck, flooded his mind with a nauseating ache, but he sobbed, “MJ, please. Wake up!”

“Breaths,” Tony said, short and firm.

Miles’s mom invited Peter to take a CPR class once, but it had been months and he didn’t remember enough. He didn’t remember, and MJ was dying, and what if she didn’t wake up because he forgot this one, vital thing? Automatically, he pressed his lips to hers, tasted the grimy river water and salt from his tears, but Tony barked, “Tilt her head back, Parker, or the airway won’t open! Two breaths.”

Peter jerked her head back—almost too hard—puffed in two long breaths, and Tony resumed his ministrations.

And just when Peter thought his luck had really done it this time, that maybe MJ was this gorgeous, stunning thing he’d been gifted for the sole purpose of his agony when the universe ripped her away, she gasped.

She gasped.

Peter laughed, sobbed, even as she heaved, water cascading from her lips.

Tony turned her sideways so she wouldn’t choke again. “Jesus Christ,” he said, scrubbing his face with one hand, keeping the other firmly on MJ’s shoulder. “This was supposed to be my night off.”

MJ drew a ragged breath, shuddering with the effort of it, shivering in the cold. Her eyes were still glazed, but she glanced up at Peter as he bent over her. “N-Next time—Pizza.” Still slurring her words, still very much not okay, but she was alive.

Alive.

Peter wheezed another laugh, but that’s when the stars in his vision burst brighter, too bright, blindingly bright. The last thing he remembered was Tony shouting in alarm as he crumpled over MJ’s body.

“Okay, yeah, no. Sit down, Itsy-Bitsy-Spider-Girlfriend. This is not the ‘Medbay for Rebellious Kids.’ This is the ‘Medbay for Superheroes who can’t Perform Under Pressure, and Their Nearly-Dead Significant Others who were Specifically Told Bedrest is Essential for Recovery.’”

“Is that an official title?” MJ asked. “The welcome plaque must take up half the floor.”

“As a matter of fact, it does.”

Peter swallowed a groan, trying (and mostly failing) to follow the conversation. Pain thudded dully in the back of his skull, and his forehead burned with fever. Which usually meant he’d screwed up somehow, and his healing factor was working overtime.

It would explain the strong smell of antiseptic in the room, and the fact that he could distinctly feel two IVs: one embedded in each hand. That probably wasn’t a good sign.  

He wrenched his eyes open, blinking against the calming blue light.

“Told you he was waking up.” MJ’s voice was gravelly, raw, and she still looked paler than a sheet. But her head had been bandaged, blood cleaned from her skin and hair. She leaned over him, absently tracing the hospital nightgown’s outline along his collarbone. “Hi, Pete. You with us?”

The night slammed back into him, and he groaned. “Your company throws the worst parties.”

MJ snorted. “Excuse you, but I believe it was your villain who crashed said party.” She wasn’t slurring her words anymore, but he’d have to be blind to miss the way she swayed in her seat.

Tony didn’t either. He stepped into Peter’s line of sight, arms crossed, lips pursed in his patent disapproving look. At least it wasn’t directed at him today. Instead, Tony tapped MJ’s shoulder and jerked a thumb at the neighboring—empty—bed.

“Hello, hi. Remember me? The guy who paid that very expensive doctor to make sure you didn’t have brain damage? The same doctor who warned you not to get out of bed? Any of this ringing a bell, Mrs. Spidey?”

“My name is Mary Jane,” she replied, rolling her eyes. The motion made her hiss in pain, and Peter frowned.

Tony rolled his eyes too, although on him the motion was far more exaggerated, far less amused. “Oh, so you can understand basic information. Now be a dear and stop channeling Natasha.” When MJ didn’t move, he tossed up his hands. “What is it with redheads and bedrest? Jesus.”

“That’s—what I said,” Peter mumbled.

“Ah, ah. No comments from the nearly-paralyzed peanut gallery.”

Suddenly it wasn’t all fun and games.

Peter’s heart skipped a beat; that was a joke, right? It had to be a joke. But when he glanced at MJ, her lips were pressed so tightly they were almost white. A wave of fear crashed into him, and he tried moving his limbs.

His fingers twitched.

His feet didn’t.

“W-What—?” he gasped.

“It’s temporary,” MJ said, squeezing his bicep hard, hard enough it almost hurt, hard enough to refocus his panicking mind. This moment had to be why she forced herself out of bed, feeling as terrible as she must. She knew he’d freak. She knew she could stop the panic attack. “Pete. Pete, listen to me. It’s temporary. Okay? It’s already healing. You just need some time.”

His heart thrummed fast, too fast, but he didn’t feel like he wanted to leap onto the ceiling anymore. He focused on her words, clenched his jaw until his teeth ached, and nodded stiffly.

Temporary.

Not permanent.

Chanting that in his brain didn’t make the reality any less terrifying.

Meanwhile, Tony strolled to the other side of his bed, tapping the heart monitor like the spiking lines meant it was malfunctioning. “Super-humans. I swear to god, you assholes get everything. Bowled over by a 120 foot yacht? No problem. Just take a few days of bedrest to regrow your spinal cord. Good as new.”

Fear still gripped Peter like a vice. “Who said it was temporary? Did someone say that?”

“Well, my very expensive doctor performed surgery to try and repair the damage, but said, and I quote, ‘his nerves were stitching back together under my knife.’ So yeah, pretty sure you’ll be plucking cats out of trees soon enough,” Tony remarked.

Someone knocked on the door, and Peter craned his neck—the only part of his body responding properly—to see Pepper Potts strolling inside. She always held herself like she was minutes away from purchasing a continent or something. Her sharp eyes assessed the scene, and she frowned when she saw Peter awake, MJ out of bed.

“Ah, Pepper, the love of my life,” Tony drawled, strolling towards her. “Welcome to the Medbay for Rebellious Kids. Trademark pending.”

Pepper shook her head, tucking a Starkpad under her arm. Peter didn’t miss the flash of big newspaper headlines before the screen vanished. “So you’re saying they’re ignoring a doctor’s orders after trauma? Hmm. Where have I seen that before?”

Tony pressed a hand to his chest, feigning hurt.

“Anyway, I need to talk to you,” Pepper said. Her eyes flicked again to Peter and MJ, both listening intently, and she cleared her throat. “Outside.”

“Uh oh,” Tony replied drily, but he motioned for Pepper to lead the way. At the frosted glass door, he pointed firmly at them. “Spiderlings, stay.”

Then he followed her into the hallway.

MJ squinted after them and muttered, “Well, that was suspicious.” And in true Mary Jane fashion, she pushed to her feet like she was going to eavesdrop or something equally ridiculous. Except she literally staggered, grabbing the mattress of his bed like a lifeline.

“MJ,” Peter begged, lunging forward, but—nothing happened. Anger and fear curled around his mind like a dark, spindly hand: you can’t go after her. You can’t even move.

But either she heard the desperation in his voice, or her pain really was too much, because she sunk back into her chair. Maybe it was his imagination, but her skin seemed paler than before.

“Sorry. Old habits.” She sounded faint, too.

Peter clenched his eyes shut. “Please,” he said, voice strangled. “Please go lie down.”

MJ didn’t even argue. She just squeezed his arm again, then stumbled to the nearby bed. He almost didn’t think she was going to make it, but she eased onto the mattress and turned to face him.

He could barely reposition himself to look at her, numb as he was.

Paralyzed like he was.

God, he hated this.

“Sorry I have the worst luck,” he whispered, staring at the ceiling instead.

MJ laughed, weakly. “Your luck has nothing to do with this, Pete. If you’re going to blame something, blame the wing-wearing freak who attacked our boat. I’d bet my left shoe that’s who they’re talking about out there.”

Maybe they were, but it wasn’t like Peter could help. Wasn’t like he could do anything, not like this. Some amazing Spider-Man he was. Self-loathing forced him into silence, into misery, until he realized she was waiting for a reply. The best he could come up with was, “Aren’t you barefoot?”

“Who says you’re not observant?” In his peripherals, he watched her tug the thin medbay blankets over her head, like she did at home when he turned on the bedroom light at 3am. Her voice was muffled, distant. “Get some sleep, Pete. We’ll go after Vulture tomorrow.”

Peter couldn’t even nod. He fell into silence, and eventually, sleep.

The next time he awoke, it was because Tony was cursing under his breath as he tinkered with some gadget. The lights were on full-force now, and Peter felt like he could breathe a hundred times better than before. Optimism nearly had him laughing as he moved his hands, felt the muscles twitch in reply.

Pain followed on its heels, but pain meant he could feel. He relished in it.

Except his legs still didn’t move.

Panic nearly choked him, and on instinct, he craned his neck past Tony, towards MJ’s bed. MJ’s empty bed. Now he did choke, eyes widening, heart thumping. Logic told him she was fine, that this place was safe, that if Tony were sitting here, it meant she’d been relieved of bedside duty.

But where MJ was concerned, logic didn’t really convey. Especially after recent events. Especially when she was recovering from a debilitating wound.

And death, his mind whispered nastily. Don’t forget that part.

He doubted he ever would.

“Where—” His throat was too dry, and harsh coughs rattled his chest, cutting off his question. Deep aches permeated his lungs, his heart, his throat. His back. How many painkillers was he on last time? Because now he felt like he’d been run over by—

Well. By a boat.

Tony glanced up at him, quirking an eyebrow. “Huh. You’re supposed to be out for another four hours.” He glanced at the IVs—still plural—and tapped one with his screwdriver. The clear bag swayed on the metal post. “Testing, testing. Are these things on?”

“MJ?” Peter asked hoarsely.

“Jesus, if I ever go this doe-eyed over Pepper, shoot me with my own goddamn repulsor ray. Actually, she’d probably do it for you.”

Peter coughed again, gasped in pain, and forced out another question. “Is she s-safe?”

“Kid, look who you’re talking to.” Tony rolled his eyes, tossing his latest invention on the bedside table. It looked almost like a new webshooter. “Doc wanted her to get real sleep, so I put her up in our fanciest suite. You know, the one Pepper usually reserves for Wakandan royalty. Spider-Girlfriend isn’t a shopper, is she? Because that apartment definitely comes with a company credit card.”

Peter nearly laughed, but he’d heard Tony deflect enough times to know something was wrong.

Wrong with MJ? God, hadn’t Peter lived that nightmare enough?

“Tony,” he said.

Begged.

Tony sighed, scrubbing his face. “She’s fine, Pete. Well, mostly fine… Well, she was mostly fine, until she heard what happened to her coworkers. Then we definitely had to sedate her.”

“What?” Peter yelped.

With a wave of Tony’s hand, a large, holographic screen appeared near Peter’s bed. He glanced at it: a news broadcast bearing the words YACHT PARTY TURNED DEADLY WHEN THE VULTURE ATTACKED.

Peter’s breath caught. His throat felt raw, like he was choking on river water all over again. “W-Who died?”

What he thought was, who else died?

“Couple reporters. One of the waiters. And the hijacker asshole Vulture left behind.” Tony spoke casually. Too casually. Peter knew it was a defense mechanism, but—those reporters were MJ’s coworkers. They’d been his coworkers too, once upon a time.

“Betty?” he rasped. “Robbie?”

Tony raised his voice. “FRIDAY.”

“Betty Brant is marked as safe, boss. Joe Robertson is still in critical condition, but showing signs of recovery. Deceased reporters include Alex Beuerlein and Kate Wallon. And of course, Peter Parker and Mary Jane Watson are still listed as unaccounted for. Presumed deceased.”

Peter felt faint.

“Couldn’t exactly broadcast that I plucked you from the river, then didn’t, you know, take you to a hospital. Your identity’s already hanging by a thread, kid,” Tony said.

On the TV screen, the news flashed a new question: WHERE WAS SPIDER-MAN?

Tony huffed, and the TV vanished with another wave. “I figure we’ll get you two functioning again, then pretend some benevolent family found you downriver and nursed you back to health. The news will eat it up.”

“I should have helped,” Peter moaned. His words were shaky, dangerously weak. “I should have—”

“Don’t make me sedate you too. I’m fresh out of elephant tranquilizers.”

“But—”

Something snapped in Tony’s attitude. “Jesus, Parker. You can’t stop every crime. I know recent events implied you’re out there fighting alone, but that’s not true. Stop trying to shoulder the fucking world.”

Peter’s breath caught.

They hadn’t talked about the events over a year ago. The prison break. The quarantine. Otto and Li and the Maggia and everyone else Peter tackled alone while the Avengers converged on California.

Tony came back to find the city in shambles. He called Peter to Avengers Tower, and they spent a half hour in deadened silence before Tony whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Peter had replied.

After that, they didn’t talk about it.

Maybe they should have.

Tony pushed to his feet, aggressively smoothed his grease-stained shirt. “Natasha’s hunting down that flying asshole. Cap and I are on standby when we find him. So don’t you dare think this is your responsibility.”

Peter’s eyes widened, and he clamped down the urge to argue.

“You know what you could do with your suddenly free schedule?” Tony fished into his pocket, plucked out a black, velvet box. Peter’s eyes widened as he set it on the bedside table. “Propose to Spider-Girlfriend. Take it from someone who knows firsthand; you don’t want to wait on that. Especially not with a woman like her.”

Without another word, Tony strolled from the medbay.

And Peter still couldn’t follow.

It was another day before Peter thought about Miles.

And he only thought about Miles because MJ ran into the medbay, shoulders heaving, eyes wide, and exclaimed, “Pete. Look at the news!”

Peter had been trying—and failing—to move his feet, the last holdouts of his paralysis. He could bend his knees, roll over, all that good stuff, but his feet might as well have been blocks of flesh. Useless.

It made him feel useless too, especially when MJ thrust a Starkphone in front of his face, enlarged the footage, and unmuted the audio.

“—battling the Vulture in a vicious fight over Midtown,” Cheryl, NBS’s no-nonsense anchor, was saying. “Although clearly not the original Spider-Man, his apprentice seemed to be holding his own until Vulture hiked him up over the Empire State Building… and dropped him.”

Peter’s heart stopped.

No. Peter had gone over what to do when fighting someone with wings. Web yourself to the villain and don’t let go. In the event you do let go, aim for the tallest building, try to swing yourself out of the fall. If all else fails, use the parachute.

He’d put a parachute in Miles’s suit, didn’t he?

Didn’t he?

Peter went blind with panic as the news channel flashed to footage of Miles, pitch black suit dark against the evening sky, falling.

MJ’s voice broke. “They think he l-landed somewhere, but they haven’t been able to find him. They can’t find him, Pete.”

Peter was already forcing himself upright, swinging his legs out of bed. He didn’t really need legs to swing through the city. He’d crawl if he had to. “I’ll go—” But the second his feet assumed any weight, a sharp pain stabbed the center of his back, and Peter crumpled with a groan.

MJ caught him, hauling him back onto the bed. Her eyes were still a little cloudy, but she was a lot more alert than the last time he’d seen her. She pushed him against the mattress. “Don’t you dare. I’ll find him.”

“I feel obliged to say that neither of you need to find him,” FRIDAY’s accented voice said.

They froze.

“Miles Morales, the second Spider-Man, was ‘snatched out of the air’ and is being transported here for medical attention as we speak. Boss wants me to say that if either of you leave Avengers Tower, he reserves the right to hack your social media accounts and post every embarrassing photo he has of you two.”

FRIDAY paused, then added, “Between you and me, there’s a lot of them.”

MJ pressed a fist to her lips, like she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. Peter slumped against the mattress, chest heaving with lingering pain. “So he’s okay?”

“He’s registering two broken ribs and multiple lacerations, but nothing debilitating,” FRIDAY replied.

Beside him, MJ had gone very still. “Wait. Did—did anyone tell him we aren’t dead?”

Peter stiffened.

“In fact, no one informed Mr. Morales of your continuing corporeal existence. His vitals indicate he’s emotionally distraught.”

For an AI, she sure sounded judgmental.

Peter moaned, and this time, it wasn’t because of the pain.

Miles arrived twelve minutes later via a stretcher that must have been waiting near the landing pad. The doctor hovering over him was a no-nonsense man, and clucked irritation as his aides positioned the stretcher near Peter’s.

Tony wasn’t with him, so Peter assumed he deposited Miles and returned to the fight. Natasha and Captain America wouldn’t do much good against someone with wings.

MJ jogged to Miles, but she didn’t get the chance to say hello before the doctor started ranting.  

“I swear to god, this one’s even younger than you were.” He pointed his penlight at Peter, lips drawn into a deep scowl. “Is there some kind of preschool that breeds spider people?”

But Peter wasn’t listening, because Miles met his gaze at that moment, and all the color drained from the kid’s face. He struggled against the doctor’s firm hold, gasping for air, cringing in pain. “P-Pete! Holy—it’s really you. You’re alive!”

God, Peter wished he could get out of bed. “Yeah, man, I’m okay—”

The doctor grunted under Miles’ strength, glared at Peter, and said, “Yes, yes, we’re all fine. Let’s try not to puncture any lungs with that broken rib, hmm?” And he flashed the penlight in Miles’s eyes.

Peter was rambling now, though. “God, I’m so sorry, Miles. We should have called, or—or had Tony call, or—”

“Dude, did you see? Iron Man plucked me outta the sky,” Miles went from relieved to star-struck in an instant. It was like Peter staring at his teenage self, before time with Tony Stark transitioned from a rare, valuable treat to a consistent comradery. “Vulture dropped me, and the parachute malfunctioned, and I thought for sure I was gonna die, and then he just—BAM, grabbed me!”

Suddenly, Peter understood why the other Avengers had always been so amused when he stopped by. He laughed in spite of himself. “Pretty cool, huh?”

“Oh, come on, they’re just people.” MJ rolled her eyes, but squeezed Miles’s shoulder while the doctor poked and prodded at his stomach.

Miles hissed when he hit a sore spot, flinching away. “They’re superheroes, Mary Jane! Superheroes.”

“You’re a superhero too, dork,” MJ replied affectionately. But her tone switched fast enough Peter’s head spun. “I mean, a stupid one who tackled a violent freak in a metal suit alone, even though Peter specifically told you not to do that, but—”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Miles exclaimed. The doctor rolled his eyes and swiftly inserted an IV into Miles’ free hand, making the kid wince. His voice dropped as he watched the doctor tape over the needle. “I didn’t—I thought you were dead. I thought you guys were gone and… and I was it.”

Peter couldn’t stop the strangled sound that slipped from his lips. It didn’t take a mirror to know Miles still wasn’t over his Dad’s death—or that this was too similar.

Needlessly so.

“Miles, I’m so sorry.” The words were wrenched from Peter’s soul.

MJ hugged him, hard.

But a few apologies couldn’t make up for the days of agony, and they all knew it.

Tony strolled into the room an hour later, dusting off his clothes as if he’d come from brunch instead of a fierce battle. “Well, we clipped the Vulture’s wings. You kids ever heard of Armenium X?”

MJ was gone, pulled aside by the doctor for a follow-up examination. Miles was sitting upright on the stretcher, running a finger over the expert bandages the doctor had applied to his already-healing cuts.

Peter was still in bed. Because of course he was.

He wasn’t bitter about it at all.

But their mild conversation ceased as Tony kicked the door shut, plucking his sunglasses off his nose. “Focus, Spider-One. Spider-Two. Armenium X?”

“I know the answer, boss.”

“No one likes a smartass, FRIDAY,” Tony said.

“If you already know, why are you asking us?” Peter replied, exasperated. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been incapacitated the last few days.” He gestured towards his legs, still twinging in pain from when he tried to stand and failed miserably.

Tony rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and who’s fault was that? You have a cell phone and my phone number. Frankly, I’m pretty offended you didn’t think to call when that asshole hijacked the yacht.” Then he paused, considered, and added, “Actually, I’m offended you didn’t ask for one of my yachts for your fancy proposal. I have seven.”

“Seven yachts,” Miles mouthed, eyes wide.

“It was supposed to be low-key,” Peter muttered. The velvet box was pressed against his stomach, hidden under the bedsheets. Even though he knew, logically, that Tony’s medical help earned more for an incident like this than he could fathom, it had taken Peter ages of secret, odd-end jobs to save up enough money for that ring. He couldn’t risk someone swiping it while he slept.

Tony waved a hand, dismissing him entirely. “Armenium X is the new drug on the streets. Except instead of getting you high, this one just makes you bleed from all your orifices. And I mean all of them.”

“So—it’s a bioweapon.” Peter felt faint.

Beside him, Miles went stiff as a board. “It’s not, like, out there, is it? Cause I don’t know if you heard, but we already went through that.”

The glare Tony offered could peel paint. “Yes, thank you, Spider-Two. I did happen to hear that all of New York was closed for a day. Made the news even way over in California.” He cleared his throat, but not before Peter saw the flash of anguish in his eyes. Then his expression regained its smooth, casual air. “Lucky for us, it is not, in fact, ‘out there.’ Unluckily, it might be very soon, because your dear friend Albatross swiped a flash drive with every detail about its creation.”

“It’s Vulture,” Miles said helpfully.

Tony groaned. “Jesus, just when I thought we’d outgrown this attitude, you go and find a starry-eyed replacement.”

Miles huffed, his face darkening into a blush.

But for once, Peter wasn’t in the mood to joke. “I—I don’t understand. What was a flash drive like that doing on the yacht?”

“Apparently, one of the reporters was looking into it. Kate Wallon. Probably thought she could make it big with an expose on the anniversary of Devil’s Breath.” Tony pressed his lips together. “I’d ask her, but she died in the explosions.”

Peter flinched.

Miles raised his hand.

“Hand raising?” Tony regarded him with one raised eyebrow. “Where the hell was that when you were sixteen, Parker?”

Miles choked on laughter, then gasped in pain, but fought through it well enough to ask, “You have the flash drive, though, right? So—so it’s okay. Armenium X can be contained. …Right?”

Tony regarded him stoically.

“The flash drive was destroyed, wasn’t it?” Peter groaned.

“Ding, ding, ding. We didn’t even have to go to Vegas to win this one.” Tony pinched his nose. “Black Widow’s checking if Wallon had any other files, and everyone else is on alert for signs of release, but—well, we may need your help.”

“I can help too,” Miles said, too loudly.

Dread crept along Peter’s spine as he arrived at a different conclusion. “You don’t need us. You need MJ.” Because if anyone would know how to find a Bugle reporter’s backup files, it was her.

“I wasn’t gonna put it in so many words, and Natasha definitely wouldn’t… but yeah. We do.” Tony drummed his fingers on his arm. “We’re actually thinking your whole ‘being dead’ thing might work to our advantage here.”

“No one will be expecting her.” Peter’s fists clenched around the sheets, but he couldn’t deny the merit of the idea.

Tony shrugged. “I know after the last time she played detective, you might not be keen on her investigating this. Even with a secret identity, it’s going to be dangerous.”

“Everything she does is dangerous, and there’s no way I can stop her.” Peter hung his head. “It’s just my luck.”

Tony squeezed his shoulder sympathetically.

MJ still had a concussion, but she took the assignment.

Because of course she did.

“Does this make me an Avenger now?” MJ asked, peeking around his wheelchair so he could see her grin.

Peter was having a hard time smiling back. They were talking, their first private chat since he woke up in the medbay two days ago. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, New York City spread before them, a gorgeous display for such a dark conversation.

“It’s just a bit of snooping,” MJ said, after he didn’t reply. “I’ll be careful, Pete.”

“I know you will be,” he replied, but his voice was strangled, his hands gripping the wheelchair arms a little too hard.

She noticed. She always noticed. “Do you really think it’s going to be that dangerous?” For the first time in years, her voice wavered, just a bit. She sunk onto the plush armchair beside his wheelchair, arms wrapped around her stomach.

Around the puckered, vertical scar just below her belly button.

Peter swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “I just—Tony specifically said the words ‘bleeding from every orifice.’ What kind of drug causes that?”

“A drug we don’t want rampaging through the streets,” MJ said.

She was right.

Of course she was right.

He groaned, running a hand through his hair. At least his arms didn’t take herculean effort to lift anymore. He was, slowly, getting back to normal.

But honestly? His version of normal sucked.

“With my luck, you’ll uncover an underground race of super-hostile… alien… crocodiles, or something. And they’ll either make you their queen, or swarm the streets trying to murder you.” He forced a laugh he didn’t really feel, tried a grin that was more a grimace.

MJ didn’t laugh.

He glanced at her to find her sharp green eyes boring into his.

Peter squirmed. “What?”

“You just—” MJ drew a breath. “Pete. Not everything has to do with luck, and not all your luck is bad. You know that, right? Sometimes things just happen.”

“Yeah. Bad things happen because my luck is terrible,” Peter replied, and this time he laughed for real, a self-deprecating sound that summed up his views on the world.

“Was your luck terrible when I opened that locker door in your face?”

Peter was suddenly pulled back to the crowded, chaotic halls of Midtown High. Laughing with Harry. Stepping away from the popular kids, pressing his glasses further up his nose as he hugged the wall of lockers, not looking—and suddenly SMACK, right into a wall of metal.

MJ had gone as red as her hair.

Peter had too.

Now he rubbed his nose, scrubbing away the phantom pain. “I mean, it hurt—”

“It introduced us,” MJ replied, curtly. “Even if it brought you a little pain, we would never have met otherwise. If you think that’s a bad thing, you’re dreaming.”

Wait. Peter blinked. Had he offended her?

“Are you—upset?” Women were such a minefield; even after all this time, he was apparently still very capable of messing up a simple conversation with his best friend in the world.

Luckily, MJ never made him guess anymore. “Yes, you spandex-wearing weirdo. I’m upset.” She huffed, glancing at the tall ceiling, then the orange clouds drifting high over the skyrises, then finally back to him. “I’m upset because after everything good that’s happened to you, you still choose to focus on the bad things. The ‘classic Parker luck.’ Stop blaming luck for things that just… happen.”

Her voice climbed with every word, until she was punctuating her sentences with pokes to his shoulder.

Irritation bubbled in his chest, which was shocking and strange; MJ was a lot of things, but irritating wasn’t one of them. He’d been angry at situations before, sure, but it had been years since her words made him boil. Not since their breakup, six months before the Fisk takedown.

That time, he yelled.

This time, he clamped his mouth shut.

MJ stared at him like he’d turned into the Hulk. “No response, huh?”

God, he just couldn’t win this week, could he?

“I just—think it’s better if I don’t address that,” he said, aiming for soothing and steady. But his opponent was MJ, the fiery redhead, and that personality came out full-force at his placating words.

“Don’t patronize me, Peter. You think you’re the only one with bad luck? You’re not. My life hasn’t been delightful either.” She stared him straight in the eyes, but her fingers ran along another scar on her left arm: a cut her father had given her during one of his beatings.

Peter suddenly felt like shit.

“But despite everything, you don’t see me complaining about bad luck. Know why? Because I turned my life around. I did that. Not luck, not fate, not God. Me.” She pushed upright, flipping her hair over her shoulder with an almost violent shake of her head. “That’s why I’m mad, Peter. Because you did the exact same thing, and you still refuse to take credit for your amazing accomplishments.”

Was that a compliment? It sounded like a compliment.

“Um… thank you?”

It wasn’t a compliment.

“Don’t thank me for stating the obvious,” she snapped. “Do something about it.”

And she stormed off, shoving past his wheelchair in an angry cloud of muttered curses. Automatically, Peter spun to follow her—at least now he could—but stopped short. Just because he could didn’t mean he should. Honestly, he had no idea what they’d just argued about.

And if he was going to fix things, he needed to.

His fingers brushed the pocket of his baggy sweatpants, where the tiny velvet box sat hidden by the metal arms of the wheelchair. With a heavy sigh, he asked, “Hey, FRIDAY. Where’s Tony?”

 Tony was in his lab, working on Miles’s suit. Installing a new parachute and, according to the blueprints hovering over the workbench, adding taser-like prongs to his fingertips. Peter exhaled as he rolled over to them.

“Wow. That should amplify his venom strike by—”

“70,000 volts,” Miles exclaimed, whisking one of his black and red gloves off the table. He brandished it in Peter’s face, pointing at the metal tips subtly woven into the fingers. “Dude, Mr. Stark is so cool. Look at this. He came up with this in like, twenty-eight seconds.”

“Thank god you’re here, Spider-One. I’m getting flashbacks of your teenage years. It’s like Germany all over again,” Tony drawled. Then he took one look at Peter’s dazed expression and raised an eyebrow. “Uh oh. Girl trouble?”

“How’d you know?” Peter said miserably.

“Well, considering we just asked her to fake her death for an indefinite amount of time while investigating her deceased coworker’s research into a hyper-dangerous drug, I took a wild guess.” Tony gripped Miles’s shoulder, steering him towards the door. “I think you need a snack break, kiddo. No minors for this one.”

“I’m almost eighteen,” Miles protested. “And I have a girlfriend—”

“That is officially TMI,” Tony replied, and pushed Miles out the frosted glass door. It slid shut and locked with an audible click, leaving Miles standing awkwardly in the hallway. After a moment, he shuffled for the elevator, but Tony had already turned back to Peter with a clap of his hands.

“Let me guess. She wasn’t pleased that you proposed in front of a gaggle of reporters.” Tony paused, tapping his cheek, then said, “Oh, wait. That was me. Don’t ever do that; it’s apparently not the way to a woman’s heart.”

Peter moaned, dropping his head into his hands. “I don’t even know where I went wrong. She just got angry, and then I tried to diffuse, and then she started yelling.”

“Mhmm.” Tony was losing interest. He dropped back onto the stool next to his workbench, reaching for Miles’s glove, like this was all just a snatched opportunity to get Miles out of his hair for a few minutes.

“This is the part where you help me,” Peter said, almost petulantly.

Tony snorted. “I think you’re misconstruing this relationship. Or maybe you lost a few brain cells in that river. Either way, if you’re coming to me for girlfriend advice, you’re—what’s the phrase? Webbing up the wrong building?”

“Come on, Tony! I can’t propose to MJ unless I know where I went wrong—”

“I’m beginning to think you don’t want to propose to MJ.”

Peter literally lost his breath. Then he lost his mind. “What?! What on every Earth in the multiverse would make you think that?”

Tony heaved a sigh, twirling in his barstool. He waved the glove at Peter like a waggling finger. “Look, kid. You’ve been dating this girl for years. You’ve been talking about marrying her for months. You finally got a ring, you’ve had plenty of opportunities, and you still haven’t popped the question. So maybe it’s time to ask yourself why.”

Peter was rigid in the wheelchair, spluttering indignation. “I’ll tell you why! Because on the boat, we were interrupted by a fucking terrorist. And then she drowned and, oh yeah, died. And then we found out everyone thinks we’re gone for good, and now we can’t even correct them because there’s a bigger problem to fix. That’s why, Tony!”

“Interesting.” Tony narrowed his eyes and began ticking off fingers. “Because what I just heard is you procrastinated through a perfectly lovely evening until it was too late to act, then missed a Hollywood opportunity after she came back from the dead, and then ignored the quiet hours where you two talked in my medbay about how glad you both were to be alive.”

Peter went cold.

“Did I miss anything there, Parker?” Tony asked.

Peter couldn’t find the words. W-Was he procrastinating?

Suddenly, the ring box felt heavy in his pocket.

Tony turned back to the desk, reaching for the soldering iron. “I’m not judging. You know how long I carried Pepper’s ring, and she still hasn’t gotten it. But at least I’m not lying to myself about why.”

“What’s your reason?” Peter croaked. It felt like there wasn’t enough air in the workshop. Maybe not enough air in the world. MJ was amazing. Incredible. He loved her so, so much. Why wouldn’t he want to marry her?

Tony shrugged. “Same as yours, kid. A last-ditch effort to distance her from the dangers of this.” He gestured at Miles’s suit.

Peter felt sick.

“But—” he swallowed thickly, “she’s getting hurt anyway.”

“Yep.”

The silence between them sat heavy, cold.

Peter didn’t even realize he was crying until Tony tossed a rag at him, gestured towards his face. Peter scrubbed his cheeks, took an extra moment to press the red cloth hard against his eyes, then draped it over the wheelchair’s arm.

He pulled out the ring. It was small and simple, nothing like the one Tony picked for Pepper. But somehow, it emphasized all of MJ’s spunk, her fire, her drive. It encapsulated their love, so much that Peter went to look at it four times a week while he saved, imagining the day he could bring it home for her.

The store owner finally pulled it out of the display and tucked it into the vault. It sat there for nine months before Peter arrived with the cash.

Now his fingers clenched around the box until he heard it squeak in protest. He quickly loosened his grip, tracing the small diamond instead.

“I don’t want to wait anymore.”

“Good. Because the longer you wait, the lower the chance she’ll still be hanging around,” Tony replied, and there was a bitter undertone to his voice Peter never noticed before. Tony ducked over Miles’s glove, pressing the tip of the soldering iron to the metal on the fingers.

Peter swallowed. “She’s really mad at me right now, though. She thinks I blame my luck for everything.” That was the best he could gather from their conversation, now that he was thinking critically about it.

Now that his proposal hung in the balance.

Tony snorted. “What else is new?”

“I just—you can’t deny bad things happen around me.”

Finally, Tony abandoned his project to face Peter completely, eyes flashing. “Bad things happen around all of us, kid. But you have a habit of taking it personally.”

Peter gaped, offended. “Tell me how the death of my loved ones isn’t personal.”

“It’s only personal because you blame yourself for it.”

Peter pressed his lips into a thin line.

But he didn’t bother denying it.

Tony growled, running a hand through his gelled hair. It stood on end, making him look more like a mad scientist than ever. “Jesus, kid. She’s not mad because you blame luck. She’s pissed because your ‘luck’ has become synonymous with ‘you.’ You act like the Parker fortune is some infectious disease that spreads to anyone you touch.”

“It is,” Peter exclaimed, heat and indignation rising on his face, in his voice. “You know how many family members I have left? Zero.”

“Cry me a goddamn river.” Tony glowered, countering Peter’s fiery tone with one cold as ice. “Luck has nothing to do with the bad things that happen to us. And it doesn’t give you some fucked up excuse to blame yourself for every flap of a butterfly’s wings.”

Peter opened his mouth, but Tony cut him off with a hand.

“No, now is when you listen. Because your girlfriend’s right, Parker. Sometimes you screw up. But the other nine out of ten times, it’s someone else’s fault. And maybe people got hurt, and maybe they died, but that isn’t always on you, okay? Shift the blame to the assholes really responsible.”

Peter suddenly realized this wasn’t about him and MJ.

Not anymore.

In an instant, the haze of anger cleared. His hands stopped trembling, his skin cooled, his muscles unclenched. He swallowed and said, “Tony, I don’t blame you for leaving New York over a year ago. Y-You know that, right?”

Tony stilled. His eyes narrowed, and he pushed off the barstool, abrupt and angry. “Yeah, see? That’s your problem. You should blame me. I invited you into a team, promised we’d always be there, and then up and left you with a goddamn apocalypse. But I bet you’re still blaming yourself for the people who died during the Devil’s Breath attack.”

Peter floundered for a denial, but it died on his lips.

Tony scoffed, hollowly. “That’s what I thought. You want relationship advice, Parker? There it is. Take it or leave it.”

MJ and Miles were sitting in the kitchen when Peter tracked her down.

Well, one of the kitchens. Avengers Tower had like, sixteen. Thank god for FRIDAY, or Peter would never be able to find anyone in Tony’s guest quarters.

“—just so frustrated, Miles,” MJ said.

Peter paused around the corner, just out of sight, hands stilling on the metal wheels of his chair. He shouldn’t eavesdrop. Probably Miles already heard him coming. But—he couldn’t make himself enter the kitchen.

His brain rattled with everything Tony said. He wanted to apologize eloquently, profess his love, shoulder the blame, and push them forward. But that was exactly what MJ was angry about, wasn’t it? Him, shouldering blame?

Or was that Tony?

Peter was losing track.

Miles sounded tentative. Caught between a rock and a hard place. “I mean, I get it. But I don’t really know if Pete can help how he views the world.”

“What do you think therapy’s for?” MJ muttered. A glass clinked on the counter, and then she heaved a sigh. “Sorry. I love him, but… it’s exhausting. Whenever something happens, I feel like I have to be the rational one, the person who coaxes him out of his guilt trip. I know that’s just his personality, but Miles, I’m so tired.”

The blood drained from Peter’s face. For the first time all day, he was grateful for the wheelchair, because he probably would have sunk to the floor.

He had no idea he was such a burden on her.

Guilt roiled in his gut, and he swallowed past a suddenly dry mouth. All of his earlier determination vanished, and without even realizing it, he started wheeling the chair backwards. Away from the kitchen. Away from MJ.

And then FRIDAY interjected.

“Deepest apologies, Peter, but boss told me not to let you chicken out.”

She raised the volume loud enough Miles and MJ could hear from the kitchen. Or maybe she said it over those speakers, too. Either way, Peter barely had the chance to compose himself before MJ rounded the corner, eyes widening.

“Pete,” she breathed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice strangled. “I never—I didn’t mean to exhaust you. You shouldn’t have to coax me out of a guilt trip. I—I didn’t realize—”

Tears welled in her eyes. Miles appeared over her shoulder, but he winced when he saw their faces and casually stepped back into the kitchen. MJ, on the other hand, moved closer, dropping to her knees beside his wheelchair.

“No. No, no. Peter, I didn’t mean that.” She stopped, huffed in frustration, and scrubbed her face. “I mean, I did. But it’s nothing we can’t fix.”

His mind spun, and he suddenly felt very confused about everything. This morning, things had been fine. They were injured and technically “dead,” but still laughing and joking like normal. And now he felt like they were on the verge of a breakup, just because of how he handled problems.

In that moment, vividly, he flashed back to the hours after she’d been stabbed, when he was certain she’d die for real.

He’d been so angry. So miserable.

If MJ was fielding all those emotions on a day-to-day basis, balancing Peter out, no wonder she was tired.

He took her hand, squeezed as hard as he could without hurting her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, MJ. I didn’t know.”

“Well, I didn’t tell you,” she replied, swallowing hard.

He bent closer, resting his forehead against hers. “I’ll do better. I’ll go to therapy. Try not to blame myself for everything. I read an article that talked about the health benefits of gratitude—maybe I’ll try some of those techniques.”

“Maybe I should too.” MJ swallowed.

They sat in silence for a long moment, just appreciating the proximity. Peter decided there was no reason to wait for a therapist to give him homework—he could start right now. Frankly, he was tired of waiting.

“I’m grateful for you,” he said, soft and sure.

She smiled a little, pressed her lips to his. “Me too.”

“I’m grateful for your warmth. Your bright eyes. Your excellent wit. I’m grateful that you notice the little things. I’m grateful for your compliments after a hard day patrolling, and especially that you agreed to give me another chance last year.”

MJ’s eyes were shining with tears again, but this time her smile lit up the hallway.

Peter kissed her, fingers tangling in that red hair he loved so much, smiled against her lips when she laughed a bit. “I’m grateful for all your support. Physical and emotional. You’re amazing, MJ.”

“Jesus, Pete, you’re making me blush,” she replied. It was true; her cheeks were flushed, but it was the prettiest pink he’d ever seen. “Is it cheesy if I list all the things I love about you? Cause that might take all day.”

Peter grinned.

“Boss says to get on with it,” FRIDAY said. “Frankly, I’m inclined to agree.”

Now Peter flushed too, glaring at the ceiling. “Dude, this is a moment. Leave us alone.”

“Get on with what? Your proposal?” MJ snickered.

“You knew?”

“You’re about as subtle as a drone to the face, Pete.”

Peter groaned. “That was one time.” Overheating with embarrassment, he plucked out the ring box, then pushed from the wheelchair. His feet still weren’t working, but his knees were fine.

“Ah, I don’t think that’s a good idea—” MJ moved to block him.

“You have to give me this,” Peter said, swallowing a gasp of pain as he slid to the floor. It wasn’t elegant, but he managed to prop himself upright. The back of his neck tingled, well aware they had an audience of at least Tony, probably Miles, but he couldn’t look anywhere but MJ.

She was eye-level with him, still on the floor herself. He groaned and lifted his head. “You’re supposed to stand.”

“I don’t really want to,” she replied. “Equal opportunity and all that.”

He snorted, but it was so MJ that he couldn’t complain. He opened the ring box, finally revealing the thin white gold band, the glimmering diamond, pressed between two sharp emeralds. The exact shade of her eyes, if he was being romantic.

Well, okay. He was always romantic.

She sucked in a breath. “W-Wow. Who knew you had such great taste in jewelry?”

“Great taste in women, too,” Peter replied, dead-serious.

MJ rolled her eyes, but he could tell she kind of loved it.

He held the box towards her. “Mary Jane Watson, you’re the light of my life, the love of my heart. The most amazing person I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. Getting smacked with your locker was definitely a fantastic stroke of Parker luck. I’m done arguing it.”

MJ held her breath.

Peter’s heart fluttered, chest twisting as he finally asked, “Will you marry me?”

“Boss says to say yes, Mary Jane.”

“Thanks, FRIDAY. I was waffling on that one,” MJ drawled. But she held out her left hand and added, “It’s about damn time, Peter Parker.”

He grinned and slid the ring onto her finger.

A perfect fit. He made sure of it.

Applause echoed behind him, and they spun to see Miles positively giddy. “Oh my god, Peter, am I your best man? I feel like I should be your best man. Unless—Is Mr. Stark is your best man? That’s not really fair.”

“Boss says he’s best man, but he’s graciously offered you position of flower boy,” FRIDAY replied.

“What? Come on!”

“I’m not getting in the middle of that one,” MJ said.  

Peter sighed. “We might have a battle royale on our hands.”

“I’ll win,” Miles said, glaring stubbornly at the ceiling.

“In your dreams, Spider-Two.” Tony’s voice said over the loudspeakers.

Later, in Tony’s lavish guest suite, pressed side-by-side on the couch while a B-rated movie rolled on his ridiculously big screen, MJ poked Peter’s side and whispered, “I dunno about you, Parker, but this feels like a pretty lucky day.”

Peter grinned.

“Couldn’t agree with you more.”