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Peter gets home and it’s like Narnia - he’s been gone for, what, fifteen minutes tops? He checks the date on his phone, just to make sure, but - nope, still December 18th, still 2018, still ratty apartment, still unmade bed, still…everything, really. Just as he’d left it.
Still completely empty, except for him. No blonde hair whipping around doorways. No loud drum music blasting through the kitchen speakers. Just him.
Just him.
I hadn’t even really let myself think about Gwen in months, Peter realizes as he strips off his sweaty, bloody, dirty suit and steps into a sorely-needed hot shower. Not like I used to. Not until the kid - me, I guess - needed to hear about it. He lost Aunt May, and we all lost Uncle Ben, and maybe that’s one of those multiverse constants that’ll never change, maybe that’s always, always the same. All the Spidermen (Spiderpeople? Spiderbeings?) lose someone they love and they just have to deal with it. It isn’t Superman. We can’t reverse the rotation of the Earth and bring back Lois Lane.
He did save MJ, though. The kid’s MJ, not his own - he hasn’t met his MJ yet, didn’t even know she existed, but maybe she does? The kid had one, and they were obviously all goo-goo for each other. And the older Peter - he’d said things were complicated, but he also said things were good. With MJ. With Mary Jane, Michelle Jones, whoever.
And, Jesus, saving MJ’s life had helped, it had helped more than Peter might fully understand, and he’s still trying to let it sink in, wrap his brain around all of it, but he’d saved her, and even now the tears well up in his eyes, his throat aches like someone is crushing it.
He’d had to ask - Do any of you know a Gwen Stacy? Or a Gwen…something? The kid had looked confused, but older Peter’s eyes had flickered. Yeah, once, he’d said bitterly, and Peter got the feeling the memory wasn’t much of a happy one.
But at least there was a memory to be had at all. At least there are other Gwens, and Peter isn’t crazy.
Or, you know, any crazier than he already was to begin with.
It had been the same with Harry Osborn, too; the kid had never heard of him and older Pete’s face had gone all dark, and Peter didn’t ask but he knew. He knew why.
Christ, he misses Harry. Sometimes he thinks he misses Harry more than anyone else. He hadn’t shown up, he hadn’t come through the rift; Peter wonders, if they’d waited long enough, would he have? Could Peter have saved him?
Peter’s home now, which is great. He’ll go to work at the Bugle in the morning and see if Scorpion or Kraven the Hunter is up to any of their old tricks in the night. He’ll go shopping, buy himself some more milk, and hope that he never needs to help out any other version of himself ever again. He’ll call Max Dillon, check up on Dr. Connors, and see how their blessedly normal lives are treating them - well, he hopes, well.
But - but MJ, where’s MJ? The others had had one, older Peter knew a Gwen and an MJ, and yeah, things aren’t gonna be the same across the verses, but Peter has this feeling, this gut feeling that MJ is like Uncle Ben, that MJ is like With great power comes great responsibility; that MJ is a constant presence in the life of one Peter Benjamin Parker.
And he doesn’t even know where to start in looking for her. Will she have red hair? Will she crack snarky, pessimistic jokes? Will she be some combination of the two? Will she be nothing like either of them? Peter doesn’t know. Peter just doesn’t know, and he recognizes that it isn’t the most important thing to be thinking of right now, but, like, what if it is? Because there’s been no one, no one since Gwen except for the odd one-night stand here and there, and Peter doesn’t want to admit it, but it hurts. It really, really hurts.
The water gets cold, so he shuts it off. He falls into bed and tries to sleep - by all accounts he should, he’s bone-fucking-tired - but sleep doesn’t come. His brain’s too busy racing a million miles a minute, he saved Electro, he saved the Lizard, and the other Peters saved their people, too.
He doesn’t know what to expect, when he steps into Dr. Connors’ laboratory the next day. Will he remember? Will he forget Peter’s name entirely? Will he snap, will it have all gone wrong, will the Lizard come back, and never, ever leave?
“Ah, Peter!” Dr. Connors says jovially, and - and he’s only got one arm again, and Peter swallows.
“How wonderful to see you again,” Connors continues, smiling a blinding smile. Does Peter say something? Does he bring up the elephant in the room, or even make Connors aware of the elephant at all?
But there’s this gleam, just around the pupils of Connors’ eyes, and, yes, yes, he must remember. He has to, Peter’s sure of it.
He finds his voice. “Glad to see you’re doing well,” Peter manages, almost sobbing with relief, at his old mentor, at his old friend being back again. “This look…suits you.”
Connors inclines his head. “I think so, as well,” he says, and beckons Peter forward. “Come. I’ve started to look into the field of cyber-prosthetics.”
He shows Peter his blueprints and sketch ideas for what he wants to create - fully-functioning nerve-systemized arms, legs with thrusters built into the soles of the feet. Peter’s glad to see it - he’s glad that Dr. Connors can do this, that he can move on. There’s no more Lizard serum. There’s no more pain. He’s better now, he’s better.
Max texts Peter a photo of him at a rescue shelter, surrounded by baby pitbulls. Peter has to physically restrain himself from texting back a long string of red and blue heart emojis.
It’s good, he realizes - things are good now. Gwen and Uncle Ben and Captain Stacy are still gone, but well-meaning men are still alive, well-meaning men haven’t died for nothing. Peter hopes the others feel the same, hopes that the kid is doing as well as he can, hopes that older Pete can talk to Norman Osborn, to Flint Marko, to Otto Octavius.
“You know, you should come to dinner sometime,” Peter says casually, tinkering with something he doesn’t really recognize and probably shouldn’t be fiddling with. “Aunt May would love to have you and Max over.”
“That would be lovely,” Dr. Connors says, and then his gaze shifts to the door to the lab and he says, “Ah, thank you very much, Watson.”
The new guy in the room is carrying two cups of Starbucks coffee and a grin on his face. “Don’t call me Watson, you’re not Sherlock Holmes,” he cracks, passing Connors his drink, and when he notices Peter, he says, “Oh, damn, my bad. If I had known other people would be here, I would have bought more coffee.”
“It’s fine,” Peter says. “Really. I’m perpetually on a caffeine rush.”
New Guy throws back his head and laughs, crinkled eyes and sparkling teeth. He’s got a glittering stud in his left ear, Peter notices, and his dress shirt is patterned with interlocking black dahlias, tracing across his broad chest, weaving up his muscled arms.
Ok, in short, the guy is hot, yeah? He is simply a very, very attractive man.
“Peter, this is my assistant, Michael James Watson,” Dr. Connors introduces, gesturing between the two of them with his good arm. “Michael, this is Peter Parker. He’s…an old friend of mine. Very intelligent.”
“Nice to meet you,” Peter says, shaking Michael’s outstretched hand. His palm is warm, his grip strong. “I like your shirt, Michael.”
Michael grins. “Hey, thanks, man. And you don’t have to call me Michael. Most people,” he casts a meaningful glance at Dr. Connors, who seems to have gone temporarily deaf. “Just call me by my first initials.”
Something in Peter’s brain goes click !
Michael James. Michael James Watson.
And for just a split second, Peter swears that Connors is giving him this Look, a Look that very plainly says, Well, well, well.
“So,” Peter croaks. “So you go by…”
“MJ,” MJ says, beaming wide, and oh.
Oh. All right then.