Archive of Our Own ^beta

MJ had never thought this could happen to her.

She’d always been prepared; her mom had taught her from a young age what to do, how to protect herself, how to read a room, how to read people.

MJ’s mom had gotten pregnant with her in her teens, the result of a wild night, a careless mistake, and while MJ knew her mom loved her, she also knew that she was one pill away from never having existed.

But her mom always said that she’d never regretted having MJ, and MJ knew it was true.

They lived a good life, the two of them. They may not have had much money, and maybe MJ had to make do with second-hand clothing and cheap art supplies that she bought with the money she made helping elderly Mrs. Kepler with her gardening. And maybe she only got to see her mom for a couple of hours after school each day before mom had to rush out to her night job as a bartender, but they managed. MJ never really wanted anything different, even if it would have been nice to see her mom a little less stressed. And to be able to afford the high-quality paints she always saw through the display glass at the craft store.

MJ didn’t really fit in with the other kids at school, and it was hard for her to make friends; she couldn’t pretend that she wasn’t envious of the kids who seemed to manage it so effortlessly. It was okay, though, because her mom was her best friend. And sometimes she’d come into MJ’s room late at night when she came home from work, and she’d sit on MJ’s bed and stroke her hair and sing to her in her calming, steady contralto, and MJ would always smile, even though she was pretending to be asleep.

Her mom was always there for her, always ready to talk, to listen, or to sit in silence if that was what MJ needed. And more than that, mom had wanted nothing more than to protect MJ from making the same mistakes she had. So MJ had always been prepared. She knew about protection, about contraceptives, and about the dangers of leaving a drink unattended (as if she’d ever had a drink).

But nothing could have prepared her for That Day, the day she ran home from school, through screams and wails and clouds of dust, to find her mom’s ashes on the living room floor, amidst shards of her favorite coffee mug.

MJ’s whole body felt like it was encased in ice. She couldn’t breath, she couldn’t hear, she couldn’t speak. She could only see the mess on the floor, and she dropped to her knees right in the middle of it, broken ceramic shards cutting into her palms and pressing into the fabric of her jeans.

She stayed there all night, just sitting on the floor, wide-awake, her mind frightfully blank. A part of her hoped that if she stayed there long enough, she’d fade into dust like her mother.

Eventually, her thirst dragged her to the kitchen for a drink, and it was only when the water hit her throat that she broke.

She sobbed harder than she ever had in her life, almost screaming with it, her body trembling with it, and she pulled at her hair and pounded her fists against the wall and threw dish after dish across the room until she could barely see the floor for the glass covering it.

MJ stayed there, in her empty house, for days after that, moving only to take the occasional sip of water and eat from the dwindling food supply. She didn’t even look out the window, afraid that all she would see was a void, a landscape of grey nothingness. It was only when the water turned off that she finally ventured out the door. She didn’t know if it was because the bill hadn’t been paid, or because the entire water infrastructure had been shut down. But when she went outside, she just sort of...wandered...for what felt like hours, eventually sinking to the ground and leaning against the brick of her building, her mouth dry and vision blurry.

MJ sat there until a lone police car slowly drove up the deserted road and stopped right next to her. The defeated-looking officer who looked young enough to have just graduated from the police academy stepped out of the car and pulled her up gently by the arm. She offered no resistance.

And then she’d been sent to live with Skip, and she read the room.

MJ knew from day one that something wasn’t right. She could feel Skip’s eyes on her when he thought she didn’t notice. She felt the way Skip would touch her shoulder, her back, her arms, in a way that seemed...off.

But he didn’t really do anything, not for a while, and even if he did, who could she tell, in the post-apocalyptic world they now lived in?

But then things got worse. Skip would touch her when no one else was around, in the ways her mom had always warned her about. MJ would squirm away and glare, and Skip would stop for the moment, acting as though he didn’t understand why she was angry. But he’d always do it again the next day, or the day after, and MJ still couldn’t say anything. Eventually, she couldn’t even pull away, and stood frozen in place, as though if she remained still enough it wouldn’t be real. She wouldn’t be real.

One day, Peter noticed when he walked into the kitchen and saw Skip’s hand brushing her lower back. It wasn’t blatant, but Peter was smart. He knew something wasn’t right.

MJ couldn’t be sure, but she figured he must have confronted Skip, because when she saw Peter the next morning, he was holding himself stiffly and kept wincing and rubbing his arm. But he acted like nothing was wrong when MJ asked.

And on and on it went.

Skip kept touching her when no one was around. It was also sly, never obvious, and it could have easily been explained away as simple affection.

And he would hit Peter when no one was around. MJ never saw it happen, but she knew. She could see the way Peter had grown skittish and quiet, and how he’d tense up whenever Skip entered the room.

Both of them knew, but neither of them spoke.

Until one day, MJ saw it happen, She dashed up to Peter’s room upon hearing muffled shouts, and found Peter curled on the floor, his arms over his face while Skip hit him, over and over, with the buckle end of his belt.

MJ saw red.

In a burst of rage, she ran at Skip and jumped onto his back, her hands around his neck, screaming that she’d rip his throat out if he didn’t stop hurting Peter. Skip was startled into dropping the belt when she grabbed him, but he shook her off easily, stalking out of the room to leave MJ shaking with anger and Peter still curled on the ground with tear streaks on his face.

The next thing she knew, Peter was sent packing to God-knew-where, and two nights later, Skip came into her room, and-

MJ bit down on her forearm to muffle her cries, because her seven-year-old foster sister was asleep five feet away, and MJ didn’t want her to see this.

MJ’s mom had taught her well. She knew she needed the morning-after pill, but she had to be at least fifteen to get one without a prescription, and no pharmacy she knew of would give it to her even if she had any money. And it wasn’t as though the local Planned Parenthood was anyone’s first priority to reinstate after the world had fallen apart. All she could do was hope that, this time, luck would be on her side.

But then she skipped a period, which rarely happened, and she started puking spontaneously, which never happened. She managed to steal a bit of cash from Skip’s wallet the one, rare time he left it unattended and purchased a pregnancy test from the nearby drug store to confirm what she already knew.

It was a good thing most of MJ’s clothes were baggy, because although she wasn’t showing yet, she felt as though the pregnancy was written all over her, and it made her feel the slightest bit safer to hide. She avoided mirrors because all she could see was the life growing inside her because of Skip, and even though it wasn’t the baby’s fault, she hated it.

Skip left her alone after that night. He didn’t touch her at all, barely acknowledged her, even, but that didn’t stop MJ from lying awake every night, trembling under the covers, certain that, at any moment, Skip would walk in.

When Peter showed up in the school cafeteria, MJ wanted nothing more than to tell him. She almost did, it was at the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it down, because Peter looked so much better, so much happier, and how could she ruin that?

She knew Peter well enough to know that he’d do something stupid if he found out. He’d put himself in danger and jeopardize whatever happiness the world had given him. So she kept quiet and accepted the phone Peter gave her, feeling dangerously close to tears.

About a month later, she went into labor, or what she thought was labor, and something was wrong. it was too early, and she panicked and called Peter, because she needed help and he was the only person left.

MJ couldn’t remember much of what happened after that other than the horrible, searing pain, and the blood, so much blood soaking her jeans and pooling on the floor where she’d collapsed when her knees had given way.

The next thing she knew, she woke to find Tony Stark, of all people, standing in the doorway of her hospital room.

MJ pulled the trigger, feeling the familiar rush as the bullet flew towards the paper target. It landed off-center, as usual, but it was far better than her first attempt, weeks ago.

Every Saturday night, Natasha would pick up MJ from Stark Tower and drive her to an outdoor shooting range, in a large, sparse field that always seemed deserted. Despite her initial misgivings, MJ had come to enjoy shooting. There was something oddly calming about the feel of the trigger, taut beneath her fingertip. The sound the gun made when she pressed down on it. The faint scent of gunpowder on her hands. It wasn't even a good smell.

She wasn’t very skilled at it, but Natasha said she was improving, and the woman definitely wasn’t the type of person to lie just to make people feel good.

MJ lined up the shot and pulled the trigger again. The bullet landed further off-center than before.

“Focus,” said Natasha, reaching over to straighten MJ’s grip around the gun.

“Again.”

The shot was closer, this time.

“Better.”

MJ suppressed a smile, warmed by Natasha’s version of a compliment. She lowered the gun, flicked on the safety, and handed it to Natasha, handle first, as she’d been taught. Natasha took a turn, shooting several bullets in quick succession, each one hitting the bull’s eye.

MJ closed her eyes, trying to calm the thoughts racing through her mind, opening them when Natasha tapped her shoulder.

“You want another shot?”

MJ nodded, taking the gun and lining it up. The shot landed wildly off center. She handed back the gun and wiped her sweaty hands on her jeans.

Another shot rang out.

“How do you do it?” MJ asked suddenly.

Natasha turned her head. “Do what?”

MJ chewed her lip for a moment. “Act so...controlled, all the time. I always feel like I’m a second away from just- losing it.” She sucked in a breath. “Like I’m constantly fighting to just- just- be normal. Like I’m too-too weak to deal with life.”

It was easy to say these things to Natasha. Peter, the empath that he was, would always look so sad for her, and Tony would get anxious, panicked, even, and he’d try so, so hard to fix things that couldn’t be fixed. Natasha just listened.

And listen Natasha did. She looked at MJ for a long moment, her expression even and stance relaxed, stillness interrupted only by several loose strands of hair blowing across her face.

“Not having to fight isn’t what makes you strong,” said Natasha slowly.

MJ furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”

Natasha let out a slow breath. “I mean that fighting to keep it together isn’t indicative of weakness. It’s the opposite.”

MJ lowered her eyes, and Natasha was quiet for a few beats before speaking again.

“When a person always wins and never has to put up a fight, it just means the opponent isn’t very strong.” Natasha fingered the gun in her hand. “It isn’t the win that makes you strong. It’s the fight, even if you lose.”

“Have you?” MJ asked carefully. “Lost, I mean?”

Natasha looked back at her steadily. “I have. Of course I have.”

“But you kept going.”

“Eventually, yes.”

“What if I can’t keep going?” MJ asked, her voice cracking slightly.

Natasha tilted her head. “What makes you think you aren't already?”

MJ frowned at her. “I wake up almost every night. I freeze up and freak everyone out.”

“That’s not losing, MJ,” said Natasha. “That’s just being human.”

“But you don’t do those things,” MJ snapped.

“Maybe not.” Natasha let out a breath. “But I do different things.”

“Like what?” asked MJ, staring at Natasha.

The woman closed her eyes for a moment.

“I can’t sleep when there are other people in the room,” she began. “The sound of glass breaking always makes me reach for my gun. Sometimes, the simplest word or sound will take me right out of a moment, back to places I thought I’d left behind.”

“Bad places?” MJ asked.

“Definitely not good ones.”

Natasha appeared so calm when she said it, but maybe it was true. Maybe everyone, even Natasha, had experiences they wished they could erase. Just because Natasha was better at hiding it, it didn’t mean she never felt it.

“I don’t think I’ll ever want to, you know, be with someone. Have- have sex." MJ was almost startled at what she'd just said. Where had that come from?

“That’s logical, after what happened to you,” said Natasha, her tone even.

MJ didn’t bother masking her flinch. “I didn’t even want it before, though,” she said slowly, unsure of the direction of her thoughts. “All the other kids at school were always talking about crushes and stuff like that, and I didn’t really...get it. Still don’t.”

MJ expected Natasha to say that she was still young, that there was time, that she’d feel differently when she got older, but Natasha didn’t say any of those things.

“You can’t force yourself to want things,” she said. “Just because most people want it, or because the world says you should.”

MJ scowled. “I don’t care what other people say.”

“Then why does it bother you?”

MJ closed her mouth, frowning. Why did she care? She’d always taken pride in doing her own thing and decidedly not blending in with the crowd.

“Maybe-” she started. “Maybe I feel like I might miss out on- on something. That maybe I really am supposed to want it, but there’s something wrong with me that I don’t.”

Natasha tilted her head, her cropped red hair following the motion. “There’s a difference between wanting to want, and not wanting at all,” she said.

MJ considered that. “I don’t really know which one it is.”

“And that’s fine.” Natasha started reloading the gun without looking at it. “There’s nothing wrong with not wanting something.”

They were both quiet for a moment, and Natasha spoke again, more gently than MJ had ever heard her speak.

“The problems start when people want things they shouldn’t want.”

MJ felt her throat close up, her eyes watering traitorously. “I’m never going to get him out of my head,” she said, her voice cracking. “He’s always- always there, still taking things from me even after-after-”

MJ covered her face with her hands, hating herself for falling apart again. She felt cool fingers touch hers and carefully pry her hands away from her face.

“Don’t do that, don’t hide,” said Natasha quietly. “It doesn’t help you.”

MJ turned her face away. “Yes it does,” she said thickly.

“How?”

“I can pretend I’m not as pathetic as I am.”

“You’re not pathetic.”

MJ huffed. “As if you’ve ever cried in your life.”

“I don’t cry,” Natasha said, after a pause, “because it was trained out of me. Doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing, or that you shouldn’t do it.”

MJ shrugged jerkily, wiping her eyes. “Are you telling me not to be like you?”

“I’m telling you to be like you.”

“Being me kind of sucks right now.” MJ hated how whiny the words sounded. But it was true. It sucked.

“That’s an unavoidable part of life, unfortunately,” said Natasha, sounding unruffled. “Only way out is death.”

“Sometimes I feel like it would be easier to be dust,” said MJ, averting her eyes.

“But you’re not,” Natasha said firmly. “And I’m not, either.”

MJ smiled wryly. “Lucky us, right?”

“Sometimes, yes,” Natasha replied. “You can’t have any of the good things, when you’re dust.”

Maybe that was true, but MJ’s chest still ached when she thought of her mother, who would never be able to enjoy anything again. Why had such a kind, genuinely good person like her mom turned to ash while awful people like Skip got to live?

“You know,” Natasha said with an odd lilt to her voice, rolling the handle of the gun between her palms. “I often picture the targets as the faces of people I hate when I shoot.”

MJ gave a watery laugh, took the gun from Natasha’s outstretched hand, and let the bullet fly.