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The second she woke up at 2 p.m. with a splitting headache to a blaring alarm letting her know she was going to be late to work, Gwen had instinctively known that life had plans to beat her down that day. When a customer spilled their drink all over her shirt barely 5 minutes into her shift, that belief had only cemented.
And she was fucking right. It started with an alarm and ended with a knife in her gut.
This, Gwen thinks, stumbling into an alleyway with her fingers pressed against the wound, has really not been the best day for her.
Unfortunately, it seems like it’s only going to get worse. As she collapses against the wall, breathing hard, Gwen realizes that her vision is getting increasingly spotty and she’s nowhere near home. Goddamn it, what’s she going to do?
She lets her head rest back against the wall, eyes roaming around, trying to figure out why this place seems familiar. Maybe she’s been to a clinic here? Somewhere she can get help? What if—
Oh. Oh, god. Gwen knows why she recognizes this place. She’s leaning against MJ’s apartment building.
She’s bleeding out, a minute away from collapsing, and someone she knows (who hopefully has medical supplies) is just a couple floors away.
“On one hand,” Gwen mutters to herself, “I won’t die. On the other hand, MJ will know I’m Spider Woman.”
…fuck.
Maybe, just maybe, spending 10 minutes agonizing over whether or not she should get medical help from her crush wasn’t Gwen’s best move. Now she’s so weak from blood loss that she’s nearly passed out on the side of the building she’s slowly scaling. Twice.
Gwen’s vision blacks out, and her hand slips enough that she almost falls off. Make that three times.
…yeah, definitely not her best move.
“Fuck,” she mutters, and pulls herself over the side the fire escape she knows is right outside MJ’s window, tumbling unceremoniously onto it with a thud. Gwen pulls off her mask, panting as she stares at the sky, and takes a second to just lie there. Her hair tickles her face, and she spits some of the strands out of her mouth, and then giggles for no reason whatsoever. Maybe the blood loss is more serious than she thought.
Gwen feels like she should be getting up now—she isn’t sure how long she’s just been lying here, but it’s been anywhere between a minute and an hour, both of which are probably too long for someone who’s bleeding out.
“Ugh,” she groans, throwing out a hand and groping around for the windowsill. “I’m not obsessed with the current vibe of the night.”
Gwen giggles to herself again, even more delirious this time. Her thoughts are getting more disconnected, and shit, she really needs to get this window open before the black spots crowding her vision take over and she passes out—something that seems more likely with every passing second as she struggles with the window.
“Seriously,” she mutters to herself furiously, “why the hell…is it so…hard to open?”
(It probably has less to do with the window and more with the fact that her hands are very weak and shaky right now, but she ignores that.)
With a sharp, frustrated huff, Gwen yanks hard, and the latch falls apart in her blood-stained hands. It’s only now that she realizes she’s left bloody handprints all over MJ’s window—shit. She doesn’t have time to focus on that, too busy weakly tugging the window open and making an effort to crawl through.
This time, when Gwen tumbles to the floor, the pain is too much for her to get back up.
The sound she made must alert someone, though, because she can hear footsteps from the hallway. If she tried, Gwen could probably have matched them to MJ’s familiar gait, but instead she just focuses on trying to breathe through the piercing pain in her abdomen.
“Holy shit,” comes MJ’s voice, her face appearing over her, “Gwen? ”
It takes a couple of seconds for Gwen to process the words and the fact that yes, her good friend and crush is here and staring at her. She becomes acutely aware of the fact that she’s a sweaty, bleeding mess, and also unmasked while in her suit.
“Surprise,” Gwen says weakly, and promptly passes out.
When Gwen wakes up, she has no idea where she is. In fact, she’s pretty sure she’s been temporarily blinded by the light she opens her eyes. She’s lying on something soft, which…doesn’t seem right.
“Oh my god, Gwen?” says a very familiar voice that she can’t quite place. When Gwen’s vision finally clears, she sees red hair and pouty lips and sharp green eyes and thinks, oh shit.
Everything’s coming back to her. The mugging, the wound, MJ’s apartment, passing out. Passing out without her mask on.
“What the hell,” MJ mutters under her breath, pushing her hair back from her forehead. She looks like a bit of a mess—a really hot mess, but still. Gwen doesn’t think she’s ever seen her this frazzled, not even before their performances, which is kind of huge because she’s pretty sure the band is the thing MJ cares about the most in the world.
“Um,” Gwen says, because all of a sudden it’s really hard to talk, and not just because the way MJ’s biting her lip is distracting.
“How do you feel?” MJ asks, shaking out her hands. “I’m, you know, I’m not really a trained medical professional, so I’m really hoping the Wikihow page was accurate.”
That startles a laugh out of her, which also makes her wince and clutch her stomach. “Better,” she rasps, though the way her voice is tight with pain probably isn’t the most convincing thing ever. “Definitely better. Thirsty, too.”
“Right,” MJ says, getting up, “water. I’ll get that.” She points a threatening finger at Gwen, and yeah, there’s the girl who yells at her whenever she messes up the beat in the middle of their practices. “Don’t even think about moving.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Gwen replies with a salute. “Ow.”
MJ rolls her eyes and walks aways, Gwen watching her go. When she comes back, it’s with a glass of freezing water she shoves into her hands.
“Drink,” she orders, and Gwen does, feeling much better afterwards. “Okay, how do you really feel?”
“Like I said, better,” Gwen insists, because it’s true. Despite feeling like she’s been run over by multiple trucks, her condition is substantially better than before. At the very least, she doesn’t nearly pass out when she stretches, and her body is aching much less, which is a total win in her book. “Really.”
MJ breathes out, tension leaving her shoulders all of a sudden. “Okay. Okay, good. Now, what the fuck.”
Gwen winces.
“You—you’re—”
“Okay, I know this isn’t the most ideal way to find out—”
“—you showed up at my apartment bleeding out—”
“—and I totally was going to tell you, and I’m sorry I didn’t already, please don’t be mad—”
“WHAT THE FUCK,” MJ yells, and Gwen cuts herself off. “Do you have any idea what I was thinking when Spider Woman showed up in my apartment bleeding out from a stab wound?”
“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” she mutters, “I—I know it might be hard to believe, but, um, yeah I do all the web-slinging and stuff. I’m…I’m Spider Woman.”
MJ stares at her with a strange look on her face for a very, very long time. With each passing second, Gwen is more and more tempted to throw herself out of the window. She’d prefer yelling over this—at least she’s used to that, thanks to her chronic lateness when it comes to band practices.
“You’re Spider Woman,” MJ says.
“Yeah.”
“And you think I’m mad you didn’t tell me.”
Gwen blinks. “…yeah?”
She breathes out, very slowly. “You dumbass,” MJ mutters, pinching her nose, “you idiot—I’m mad because apparently, you’d rather bleed out than come to me for help when I was right there! ”
Gwen stares, stunned.
“Is your secret identity that important?” MJ says, voice getting louder now, and yup, there’s that temper. She was wondering where it went. “That you’d fucking die before coming to one of us for help?”
“No—no, I came to you!” she protests.
“And look at the state you were in when you did!” she exclaims, gesturing at Gwen’s—well, everything, really. She wants to be offended, but finds that she can’t. For the first time, she thinks about how scared MJ must’ve been to find her passed out in a pool of her own blood. “Even if I didn’t already know, I’d be so mad—”
Wait. Pause. What?
“What?” Gwen says out loud. “Wait, wait wait, you knew? You knew this entire time?”
MJ groans, slapping her forehead. “ Yes , I knew, I’m not an idiot, I figured it out awhile ago, that’s not important—”
“It is to me, what the fuck,” Gwen says, but MJ cuts her off.
“That’s not the point, idiot! Why didn’t you come to me for help?” She isn’t sure if MJ sounds more hurt or angry. “I could’ve helped, I did help, but no, apparently you can’t accept that I care about you and didn’t want you to bleed out—”
“I…” Gwen trails off, because she isn’t sure what to say. She settles for the easiest option, the one thing she can say with 100% certainty is true. “I know you care about me. Believe me, I know. I care about you too.”
MJ huffs and looks away. “Yeah, well, it hasn’t felt like that for a while.”
What?
“What? Wait, what—” Gwen splutters, because she never thought that her love for MJ was ever in doubt. How could it ever be? “You’re my best friend, I don’t—there’s nobody I trust more than you, what are you talking about?”
“You never talk to me anymore, you’re always skipping band, which you know is important to me, you don’t trust me with things like the fact that you’re an illegal vigilante,” MJ lists, “you’ve been ignoring my texts—”
“My phone broke,” she blurts out. “A month or so ago, I don’t know. In a fight, it fell out of my pocket and got crushed, and I can’t replace it right now. So.”
“And the other stuff?” MJ demands, eyes flaring. Shit, she’s only made her even more angry. “Huh? What am I supposed to think, Gwen?”
Snatches of a song she once saw scribbled in the margins of MJ’s notes flash into her mind.
“That you don’t care about me,” (You say you got responsibilities,) “that you’ve moved on to other, bigger things,” (That means you just can’t run around with me,) “that you don’t have time for your friends anymore,” (Baby, baby, I say that you better slow down,) “that we’re not important to you,” (Stop swinging your way all over town,) “that I’m nothing to you—”
(This is not a call you can refuse, )
“MJ,” Gwen fumbles, “MJ, MJ, MJ,” and when she finally looks at her with a glare and a snappy, “What?” Gwen does the one thing she can think of.
(Pick me, pick me or you’re going to lose.)
She grabs MJ’s face and kisses her hard.
The first thing that Gwen’s hazy mind notices is that MJ’s lips are really, really soft.
The second thing she notices is that besides a startled noise that gets muffled against her lips, MJ hasn’t reacted. In fact, she’s gone completely rigid.
Oh, god.
Gwen starts to pull away, sure she’s misread the situation, and god , she just made everything so much worse, she’s such an idiot, now MJ’s going to hate her forever—and of course it’s at that moment that MJ decides to fist a hand in her shirt and drag her closer. When she kisses back, it’s just as fierce and angry and passionate as MJ is.
Hazily, Gwen notices that she can taste strawberry on MJ’s lips. It must be the lip gloss she always refuses to go out without wearing.
She pulls away even though part of her is begging to just keep kissing MJ, because who knows if she’ll ever get the chance again? But this is more important, so Gwen reluctantly puts some distance back between them. Distantly, she realizes that her stomach is hurting a lot again—maybe it hadn’t been the best idea for MJ to yank her forward like that.
Despite the pain, Gwen’s lips tingle at the thought.
She focuses herself to focus on MJ, who’s breathing heavily—they both are, really—and staring at her with a look she can’t quite understand.
“Mary Jane Watson,” Gwen breathes, licking strawberry off her lips, “I’ve had a crush on you since eighth grade.”
MJ’s eyes go wide, then narrow again. “If you’re just trying to distract me—”
“I’m not, I promise,” she interrupts, wrapping a hand around MJ’s wrist. “Just listen to me, okay?” She waits until she gets a nod before continuing. “I’ve known you for nine years, and I’ve loved you for all of them, and I’ve been in love with you for seven of them. I need you to know that there is no way in hell that I have ever not cared about you, okay?”
MJ stares at where Gwen’s holding her arm. “I was waiting,” she says, voice sounding very small, “for you to tell me.” She swallows, and Gwen can’t help but think that she’s never looked more vulnerable. “And you never did.”
That—that makes her feel like her chest is being torn apart. “I wanted to,” she says, the words ragged at the end, “I wanted to tell you. So badly.”
And with a bit of surprise, Gwen realizes it’s true. She’d never let herself consider it before, but now she’s suddenly and deeply aware of just how many times she’d had the confession on the tip of her tongue.
“Then why didn’t you?” MJ asks, very softly. Gwen swallows, surprised by the sudden burning in her eyes.
“I couldn’t,” she says, voice hoarse, which just earns her a scoff. MJ doesn’t look nearly as exposed now, back to being angry.
“Couldn’t, my ass, you had so many opportunities and you just sat there and lied—”
“MJ, the last time someone found out they died,” Gwen interrupts, voice threatening to break on the last word. Even now, she can’t bear to think of it.
Peter, one of her best friends, dead. Just because he wanted to be like her.
Even the thought of something like that happening to MJ makes her heart seize in a way that’s physically painful.
MJ’s face does this thing where it softens and hardens at the same time, eyes losing their cool gaze but lips going thin. “I can take care of myself,” she replies, just the slightest bit harsh. “You know I can.”
“I know, I know, but I can’t—” Gwen lets go of MJ’s wrist in favour of grabbing her hands, squeezing her fingers as she says, “You’re not Peter, but I care about you just as much as I cared about him, and it would kill me if anything happened to you.” She swallows. “I can’t do that again, MJ. Call me selfish, but I can’t.”
MJ stares at their linked hands, lips pursed, but doesn’t let go. Something in Gwen’s chest eases the slightest bit, dulling the ache Peter’s memory always leaves her with.
“Okay,” she finally says, flipping her hand over so that they’re holding hands properly. The relief that floods Gwen’s body makes her go nearly limp. “I understand.”
She brings their hands up and rests her forehead on them. “Thanks, Em,” Gwen breathes. When she remembers herself and pulls away, MJ’s ears are red.
She clears her throat before saying, “I still fully reserve the right to be mad.”
“Yeah,” Gwen replies, almost giddy, “yeah, that’s fair.”
“In fact, I’m very mad,” MJ continues, sounding not at all mad.
“Mhm.”
“Extremely so.”
“Yup.”
“I’m kind of tempted to kick you out of this apartment, actually.”
Gwen isn’t really paying too much attention to their conversation anymore, far too focused on the fact that they’re holding hands now that their serious conversation is over. “No, don’t do that, I’m injured,” she says absently. When she looks up, MJ is grinning at her in a way that makes her cheeks feel aflame. “What?”
“Seven years, huh?”
Gwen’s eyes widen—holy shit, fuck, she confessed, she kissed MJ, how the hell did she forget about the kiss in favour of holding hands.
Maybe talking about her dead best friend and once-crush might’ve contributed to that. But still. After seven whole years of yearning. How.
“Um,” she says, laughing nervously, “we can, like, totally forget about that. If you want.”
Gwen moves to let go of her hand, even though her traitorous heart is screaming at her not to, but MJ just tangles their fingers together even more tightly, something sweet melting into her smile.
“No, I don’t think I do,” she replies, gently pulling her closer. Gwen’s pretty sure she’s about to explode—their faces are so close. “That’s an awfully long time, you know.”
She gulps. “Yeah,” she agrees, and wow, she probably shouldn’t be looking at MJ’s lips, but she continues to stare anyways. “Kind of.”
“Just so you know,” MJ whispers, the words brushing her cheeks, eyelashes close enough to count, “I waited longer.”
(Afterwards, when MJ’s reapplying the lip gloss Gwen helped smear off her lips, she thinks she’d happily wait through another seven years of pining if it meant seeing MJ smile like this.)