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1
Peter Parker is acting weird.
Which in itself isn’t out of the ordinary, but it’s a different kind of weird lately.
On a normal day, Peter is the kind of weird that everyone can see. He disappears during lunch without reason, only to reappear halfway through final period out of breath and wearing a different shirt.
He’s incredibly smart and yet dangerously close to flunking out. He falls asleep in class and has wild excuses for not turning in his papers in time and MJ’s pretty sure she’s caught him arguing with himself once.
Peter Parker is weird on a normal day. But for the past few weeks MJ has felt his weirdness on a much more personal level. He keeps…looking at her. Those kinds of looks where he’ll avert his gaze just a millisecond too late after she turns around and catches him.
They’re not friends per se, though she sits with him and Ned at lunch and times her forays into detention with his—but that’s because she’s a little intrigued by him. She has a theory about him that she kind of wants to prove before the school year is up.
So they’re not really friends, but she likes him, and he’s kind of funny—only when he’s not trying to be—and they have good conversations sometimes.
But for the past couple of weeks he’s been a jittery, nervous mess around her in particular. Never holding her gaze for too long, ending his conversations with Ned by kicking him not-so-subtly beneath the table the second MJ turns up.
The other day, MJ is almost certain she caught him taking notes on her. He’d been scribbling something in the back of his physics notebook before looking up at the side of her face, squinting his eyes and shaking his head, then proceeding to erase and amend his note based on his findings.
Peter Parker is acting weird and he’s doing it right now, peering at her from behind the door of his locker as she unlocks her own, and she’s decided that it’s time to confront him about it.
She yanks her locker door open and opens up her book bag before pausing with a deep frown.
There’s something in here that wasn’t here before.
MJ lets her bag fall to the floor as she reaches into the locker for the square envelope that seems to have been slipped through the slits in the door. She picks it up cautiously and reads the messy, familiar handwriting on the front—
To MJ,
Hope you like it
From Peter x
MJ peers into the envelope before pulling out the CD. An actual CD—the ones that she’s only ever seen in use on TV and in movies. It’s silver, and blank, and MJ doesn’t have a clue what to do with it.
“What the…” she breathes, before snapping the door to her locker shut and glancing over towards Peter’s, only to see that he’s already left. Confused, she stuffs the CD into her bag and throws it over her shoulder before making for the exit.
MJ slips her phone out of her pocket as she walks out of the school gates.
“Hey, you okay honey?” her mom answers.
MJ nods. “I’m fine. Just finished school. Hey, er, do you or dad happen to have a CD player lying around? Or, like, anything that plays CDs?”
Her mom snorts out a laugh on the other side of the phone. “Not since before you were born. Why?”
“It’s…just something for class. Do you think Nana has one?”
“Probably. She still watches old episodes of Good Times on VHS.”
MJ grins, turning on her heel and walking in the opposite direction of her home. “Great. I’m gonna eat dinner at Nana’s today.”
“Oh—”
“I’ll be home later.”
“Okay. Well, make sure you—”
“I’ll get my homework done and I’ll be back before it’s dark.”
“Okay, honey, see you later.”
MJ spends the entire subway ride to her grandmother’s house inspecting the CD. Objectively, there’s absolutely nothing interesting about it. It gives nothing away—it’s not as if she can put it up to her ear and hear the sounds if she tries hard enough.
But MJ has always been a curious human being, and the thirty minute journey to her grandmother’s place is a painful, anticipatory block of time.
“So, this boy,” Lenora says as she carries a boxy CD player over to the kitchen table where MJ sits impatiently, “he cute?”
MJ rolls her eyes, feeling her cheeks heat at the sight of her grandmother’s menacing smirk. “It’s not like that,” she grumbles.
Lenora plugs the player into the socket on the counter before turning around with her hands on her hips and an eyebrow arched.
“Now, sweetpea, I assure you—if this boy is making you CDs? It’s definitely ‘like that’ for him.” She pulls back one of the oak chairs and takes a seat, her bright pink blouse billowing around her.
MJ squirms a little. “You think?” she asks tentatively.
“Oh, yes.” Lenora nods, resting her arm on the back of her chair. “When I was your age, my first boyfriend bought me a new record every month. Now, he had bad taste in music so naturally I used to trade ‘em for something better the next day, but it’s the thought that counts.”
MJ laughs, shaking her head at her grandmother and her endless stories. “Okay, can I play this now?” she asks, slipping the CD out of its envelope and placing it in the player.
“Be my guest.”
MJ hadn’t been quite sure what she’d been expecting, but nothing could have prepared her for what comes out of the speakers. It’s a jumbled mess of songs with no discernible vibe or relation, almost as if Peter has never listened to music in his life.
There’s old stuff, new stuff, really old stuff, all mashed together like a collection of jumpscares that she can’t prepare for because the one thing that the CD is lacking is a track list.
The experience of the CD as a whole can be summarised by an insane, neck-breaking run in the middle where it goes from David Bowie to Blackpink to The Police to Usher, all in the space of four songs, and MJ isn’t sure those four artists have any business being on the same playlist—let alone back to back.
She experiences the weird feeling of being both incredibly relieved and also slightly sad when it finally ends.
“That was…a wild ride,” MJ breathes as the CD whirs to a stop.
Lenora blinks, rubbing the tips of her perfectly manicured fingers in circles around her temples. “Dear Lord, I think trying to keep up with that just aged me five years.”
MJ laughs, shaking her head and scrunching up her nose a little. “Yeah.”
She looks down at her hand at the feeling of her grandmother's soft, warm, ring-clad fingers curling around hers.
“He likes you honey,” Lenora says, a soft smile gracing her face. “He’s confused as all hell, and he has the same music taste as your second grandaddy—God rest his soul—but he likes you. And if you don’t like him back, then send his ass packing but if you do? I’ve got a sneaky feeling he’ll treat you right.”
“Mmm…” MJ hums thoughtfully. “Maybe.”
She still isn’t sure to what extent she believes it—until he tells her himself the next day when he confronts him about the CD.
“I don’t know. It was stupid, right? Was it stupid?” he stammers. “It was stupid. I just…” Peter sighs, shifting on his feet, “you’re always listening to music, you know? Like, whenever I see you walking in to school or…or even when you’re reading, you have your earphones in and-and I wanted to give you something you could listen to. Something that…could join you in that little world you go to.”
Peter stops, looking up at her beneath his lashes before directing his gaze back down at his shoes. “And I know you’re probably thinking that it’s the 21st century and I should have just made you a playlist on Spotify or something but…I don’t know. I didn’t want to just press a button. I wanted it to be…intentional. You know, with a CD, you get like 74 minutes or something and I just thought that—”
Peter stills, holds his breath even, as MJ leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to his cheekbone. It’s awkward, and quick, and she has to bend down a little bit to do it, but the little gasp that Peter lets out is more than worth it.
His fingers find their way to his face, tracing the phantom touch of her lips after she pulls back. “You…um…”
“A track listing would be nice next time,” MJ says with a smile. “And…you know, maybe some kind of theme.”
Peter nods immediately, his fingers still lingering on his cheekbone. “A theme. Right. Got it,” he says seriously, as if he’s taking a mental note.
“Yeah, it…was a bit like musical whiplash,” MJ adds. “You know, like if an alien dropped down from Mars and was given a DJ set.”
Peter snorts out a laugh, dropping his gaze as his face blooms red. “You caught me.” He shakes his head, scratching at the back of his neck. “I don’t really listen to music. But…if you don’t mind me asking… What…what do you like?”
MJ smiles, shrugging her shoulders as she feels a warmth spread across her chest. “You, I think.”
2
Come down to the parking lot.
MJ frowns at her phone, one hand on her hip as she waits for another message.
Please
She snorts out a laugh at Peter’s predictability. “That’s what I thought,” she murmurs beneath her breath before typing out a quick On my way.
She turns to glance over at her roommate. “Um…Peter just arrived, so…”
Ola grins, shutting her book and hopping up from her bed. “Say no more, girl. I’ll get out of your hair as planned.”
MJ rolls her eyes as Ola stuffs her book into her backpack and throws it over her shoulder before wedging her feet into her shoes.
“There are condoms in my top drawer in case you nasty freaks run out. Oh, and there’s—”
“Get out before I smother you,” MJ threatens.
“Save that energy for Peter, boo.”
“Out!”
“Okay, okay, I’m gone.” Ola slips out of the door, not without peering through the crack one last time to throw MJ a wink. “Happy first time.”
MJ groans, swiping the pillow off of her bed and tossing it at the door just as it closes. She stands in silence for a few moments after Ola leaves, a nervous feeling twisting in her stomach as she bites her lip.
She’s not nervous, though. She’s ready. She’s prepared. They planned this weeks ago, and they’ve been dating for months now, and everything is in place. She trusts Peter, and she trusts herself, and everything is fine.
MJ is not the kind of person who is hung up on something so arbitrary as virginity or the social construct surrounding it. So many people had scrambled to ‘lose it’ last summer like it was some sort of rite of passage before going off to college and MJ had never understood the reasoning.
It’s been six months of dating Peter, six months of falling slowly in love with him, of wanting him but not quite feeling ready to take the leap into something more physical and she’s been fine with that. He’s been fine with that. Which meant that instead of spending the summer cooped up in a bedroom, she spent that time getting to know him. Getting to know Spider-Man, and learning more about herself in the process.
And now she’s ready. And he’s here. And she’s prepared. And—
And maybe she’s a little nervous, if she can admit that to herself.
But maybe that’s okay.
Her nerves settle somewhat when she sees him, though. Down in the parking lot, pacing casually in front of a car that isn’t his, grinning at her like a cat who got the cream.
”Still weird to me that they let you have a licence,” she says with a smirk as she walks up to him.
“For now,” Peter says, “I give it about a year before it gets revoked.”
“I’ll never understand why the guy who refused to leave New York needed to learn to drive so badly.”
“Mmm…because his girlfriend moved four hours away for college?” he says with a casual shrug.
MJ grins, her stomach fluttering a little. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Peter grins back at her, leaning back against the car. “It’s good to see you.”
“We FaceTimed this morning.”
“It’s good to see you in person,” he amends, his hands slipping around her waist as she steps into his space.
MJ hums against his lips, leaning into the kiss and…she guesses it’s pretty damn good to see him too.
“You…” she takes a deep breath, “you wanna come up?”
Peter swallows hard, his grip tightening around her waist briefly. “Yes. Yes, I do.” He nods quickly, laughing nervously at himself. “Um, but first…there’s something I wanted to show you. Can you get in the car with me for a bit?”
MJ raises a brow as she leans backwards. “I am not having sex with you in this car, Peter.”
”No, no.” Peter laughs. “I made you a CD. The car has a CD jack in it.”
“Oh.” MJ flushes. “Then lead the way.”
They make their way to the back seat after Peter puts the CD in the player and turns up the volume. He offers her a can of beer that he sourced from Harry’s glove compartment, and though MJ’s not much of a drinker she says yes, even if only for the act of sharing it with him.
Peter definitely took her advice when she’d told him his mixtapes needed to have a theme, because by the time they’re five songs in, MJ realises that every single song is about sex. Let’s Get it On by Marvin Gaye, Get Lucky by Daft Punk, I Wanna Sex You Up by Color Me Badd, I’ll Make Love to You by Boys II Men, Positions by Ariana Grande—
She doesn’t have the heart to tell him that by theme she’d been referring to the vibe of the songs, rather than the subject matter.
She also doesn’t have the heart to tell him what Sex on Fire by Kings of Leon is really about.
It’s stupid, and it’s so Peter and it makes them both laugh as she stretches her legs over his lap in the back of the car and they pass the can of beer back and forth.
And Peter’s hand strokes back and forth over her thigh, seemingly without him even thinking about it, his fingers dipping between her knees every so often. And before long, something deep inside her reaches a fever pitch, and she stops resisting the urge to crawl into his lap and capture his lips with hers.
She hears the empty can tumble to the floor of the car as he wraps his arms around her and kisses her back, his tongue tasting like the beer they shared and his lips warm and soft.
And suddenly—with the racing of her heart and Peter panting beneath her—it feels like a lot more than just kissing.
A brief flash of panic flares in her chest, her fingers curling around Peter’s shoulders as she pulls back from the kiss.
MJ swallows, and sees Peter do the same. “Are we doing this?” she breathes.
She feels the warm pressure of Peter’s hands as they tense around her waist. He blinks up at her, and in the dim orange light of the disappearing sunset she can see the way his pupils are blown, the thin sheen of sweat that curls his hair up against his temples.
“Um…I don’t know?” Peter’s tongue darts out to lick his lip as his gaze bounces back and forth between her eyes. “Are you drunk?”
If this were any other time MJ would snort and call him a dork for thinking anyone could get drunk on half a can of beer, but right now she’s oddly touched by the fact that he’s checking in.
MJ shakes her head, her gaze dropping, following the path her hand takes as she rubs it from his shoulder to his chest. “No. You?”
Peter shakes his head quickly. “No, not at all.”
She can feel his heart racing beneath her hand and it calms her somewhat. He’s nervous and he’s human and he’s a goofball who drove four hours to play her a mixtape she’s never going to tell him is still pretty shit.
MJ smiles, tracing gentle fingers around his chest, unconsciously mapping out the shape of his heart. “Do you have…”
Peter sucks in a quiet breath, so quiet she wouldn’t have noticed it over the sound of the music if it weren’t for the twitch of his chest beneath her hand.
“Yes,” he breathes, his lashes fluttering as he looks up at her, earnest. “I do, yeah.”
And then she’s kissing him again, and he’s kissing her back, and it feels different again, like it’s going somewhere. And she feels Peter’s strong grip shifting her, cradling her back as he carefully lays her down across the backseat.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” he breathes, pressing his hand to the crown of her head when it knocks against the door.
MJ lets out a sound that can only be described as a giggle and she’s ready to deny it came from her if he ever asks about it.
“It’s okay,” she breathes, reaching up to cradle his face. “Come here.”
Kissing, more kissing, and the feeling of Peter carving out a space for himself between her knees, and the rough brush of his jeans against her sweatpants, and the hammering of his heart against her chest.
And maybe he’s nervous, and she’s nervous, and this isn’t how they planned it. Maybe they’ve each drunk half a can of beer and he has condoms and they’re still in a deserted corner of a parking lot. Maybe she’s about to lose her virginity to Peter Parker in the back of his roommate's car and maybe that’s fine. Maybe that’s perfect. Maybe—
“If you’re horny, let’s do it… Ride it, my pony—”
The way Peter’s face blooms red is almost comical.
MJ narrows her gaze at him as the universal anthem for fucking rings out throughout the car. “Seriously?”
“I’m sorry—”
“You put Pony on this playlist?”
Peter runs his hands through his hair as they untangle themselves from one another and sit up. His head bumps against the roof of the car as MJ’s leg gets briefly jammed beneath the front seat.
“Okay, in my defence, I put that on there as a joke,” Peter says. “I didn’t think we’d actually be…you know, when the CD was playing. I’m…” he trails off, eyes sparkling and cheeks still deep crimson as he watches MJ dissolve into laughter beside him.
MJ curls over, laughing so hard her stomach starts to hurt because she can’t take any explanation Peter gives seriously while Ginuwine is still serenading them in the background.
“I’m stupid,” Peter laughs, flopping his head back against the seat. “My own worst enemy,” he mutters.
MJ brushes the tears away from her eyes and scoots closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder as her laughter settles, and breathes, “I love you.”
The way Peter’s body tenses up beneath hers makes MJ fight the extreme urge to tack on a ‘haha, just kidding’. He’s quiet, and the song has finished, the CD whirring to a stop, and it kind of seems like the world has stopped spinning around them in tandem.
“You don’t need to be weird about it or anything,” MJ mutters, looking up at him but not quite meeting his eye. “It’s not like I asked you to say it back.”
Peter shifts towards her quickly, his fingers finding her chin and lifting her head up so they’re face to face.
“No.” Peter shakes his head. “No, I’m not…being weird about it. It’s just…I thought for sure I’d be the first one to say that.”
MJ snorts out a laugh, dropping her gaze briefly. “Beat you to it, I guess.” She sucks in a breath when Peter’s soft, firm kiss takes her by surprise.
“I love you,” he breathes, lips skimming hers.
“I love you too,” MJ murmurs. “Which is why I have to be completely honest…your mixtape skills still need some work.”
3
MJ closes her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose as she fights the nausea. Her body tilts, and she still can’t tell whether she’s falling or not when that happens.
Her hands fly out to steady herself, her body tensed, until she feels pretty certain that it’s the floor beneath her that’s moving and she’s not losing consciousness.
“Okay,” she murmurs, taking in a long breath of salty air and letting it out through parted lips. “Okay.”
It’s been forty-eight hours and she’s only just managed to stop throwing up every hour. Life at sea is not what she was built for—perhaps she should have reevaluated that when she chose a career in marine biology, but luckily, she spends 90% of her time on dry and stable land.
Sample collection on location is the most taxing part of the job. MJ had had dreams of what life on a boat might look like, but she hadn’t been prepared for how cold, damp and hollow it all feels. How much she misses it when the ground beneath her feet isn’t constantly moving.
But it’s been forty-eight hours, and she’s not throwing up anymore, so maybe things are looking up.
She takes in a deep breath and lets it out again before bending over to finally start unpacking her small suitcase. She takes out her pile of clothes to transfer them over to the little chest of drawers in the corner of her cabin, but pauses when her hand skims something cold and hard beneath them.
MJ frows, setting the clothes to the side and reaching for the package wrapped haphazardly in a thin piece of rope. A CD, a note, and one of those old portable CD players with corded earphones wrapped around it.
She huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Dork,” she whispers softly, affectionately, as she sits on the edge of her bed and unwraps the package, opening up the letter first and reading it—
MJ,
Whenever you’re reading this, wherever you are when reading this, I miss you already.
I’m not good at writing letters. Not very good with words (as you probably know by now), but anyway, here it goes.
I found May’s old discman thingy, and if you’re reading this then I managed to sneak it into your bag successfully before your ride arrived.
I made you a CD. And I know you’re gonna be busy out there, but I also think it might be a little hard so I wanted to give you something that might keep your spirits up.
I know we have a lot to work out. Actually, scratch that—you’re perfect. I know I have a lot to work out. And I know a stupid CD doesn’t fix everything. But I just—
The knocking on the other side of the wooden door of her cabin echoes around the room and interrupts her reading.
“Come in,” MJ says, folding the note in half and laying it beside her on the bed. She chuckles, rolling her eyes when her colleague Lara peeks through the side of the door before stepping into the cabin.
“Brought you some food.”
MJ groans, her face crumpling. “Please, no.”
“Dry food only, don’t worry,” Lara says with a smirk, placing the tray down on the small wooden desk in the corner. “Still working on your sea legs, huh?”
“Mmm,” MJ moans, nodding as the boat rocks and her stomach twists again. “City girl.”
Lara snorts out a laugh. “The less glamorous side of marine biology.”
MJ sighs, rubbing her fingertips across her brow. “Is there a glamorous side?”
“You make a good point.” Lara’s brows draw together as she glances down at the CD and discman on the bed. “Remind me, what decade are we in again?”
“Oh,” MJ smiles, shaking her head as she reaches for the CD and hands it over, “um, you know that guy I told you about?”
“Messy Peter? The sort of ex?”
“Yeah, him. He, er, he does this thing…” MJ trails off, her mind flickering through a montage of moments set to disjointed and yet harmonious music, “…this thing with mixtapes. He makes them. For me. It’s…stupid but—”
“The Ocean by Led Zeppelin?” Lara scoffs, squinting at Peter’s terrible handwriting on top of the CD. “Ocean Eyes by Billie Eilish. Yellow Submarine by The Beatles—” she pauses, looking up with an amused expression. “I’m sensing a theme here.”
MJ laughs, feeling her cheeks heat a little, because of course Peter sat down and made her a mixtape full of ocean-themed music.
“Surfin’ USA by The Beach Boys,” Lara continues, “Oceans by Pearl Jam. Waves by Miguel—ooo, the Tame Impala remix, that’s a bop. How Deep is the Ocean by Bob Dylan.” She pauses, looking up at MJ beneath her lashes, a grin on her face. “Under the Sea, from the live action Little Mermaid movie?”
MJ covers her face with her hands and shakes her head. “Yeah, he’s…something else.”
“Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay, by Otis Redding— I can go on.”
“No, I get the gist,” MJ laughs, “thanks.”
Lara smiles softly, handing back the CD and crossing her arms. “It’s…not my place to say, but…I think he really cares about you.”
MJ runs her fingers across the CD case softly. “Mmm.”
“Anyway,” Lara says gently, “I’ll leave you to listen to your sea songs. Make sure you eat something. Even if it’s just a roll of bread.”
“Yeah,” MJ says quietly, nodding her head, “thanks, L.”
The door closes behind Lara, the cutlery on the tray she left on the dresser clinking together quietly. MJ sits in silence for a moment, hearing the boat creak and whine beneath the floorboards.
She reaches for the letter again, taking a deep breath before unfolding it and picking up where she left off.
— want to let you know that I’m trying. I want to try. I want to work this out if you want to work this out. And if you don’t, that’s okay. But I really hope you do.
Anyway, stay safe out there, MJ. I’ll see you in a month.
I love you. And I can’t wait for you to get back.
P.S., I hope you like the mixtape.
P.P.S., can you please bring me back a really weird fish? Thanks.
MJ laughs softly, and this time the pang in her stomach has less to do with the motion of the boat and more to do with the way her heart seems to suddenly get heavier in her chest.
She swallows, folding up the letter and putting it to the side before reaching for the discman and unravelling the earphones wrapped around it. She slips the CD inside and presses play, scooting backwards to lie down in the middle of the twin bed.
And as Peter’s music plays, for the first time in 48 hours, MJ feels settled by the waves beneath her.
4
“Stop that,” MJ tuts, nudging Peter’s arm away with her elbow as he tries to reach around her and steal from the pile of cheese she’s just spent the last ten minutes grating.
“Just like…a pinch,” Peter bargains.
“Are you a mouse?” MJ snorts. “Why have you spent the last five minutes trying to barter for cheese?” She laughs at the pouty face he makes, taking a small ungrated triangle of cheddar and popping it into his mouth.
“Mmm, ‘hankyoo!”
“You’re welcome,” MJ says, shaking her head as she grins at him. “How’s the chicken coming along?”
“Oh shit,” Peter whips the dishcloth off the counter and makes his way to the oven, “knew I forgot something.”
MJ rolls her eyes as she stirs the macaroni elbows to stop them from sticking to the bottom of the pot. “You literally had one job.”
She leans back against the counter, watching as he crouches in front of the oven and sticks a thermometer in the chicken. She can tell by the colour of it that it’s not quite done yet but she decides to let him figure that out himself.
This is nice. They don’t do this often. MJ’s job keeps her busy, and saving the city does the same for Peter. Cooking is less of a luxury and more of an inconvenient necessity for them.
But it’s their anniversary today. Well, the newest version of it, anyway. Three years—the longest they’ve made it without breaking up, without the relationship blowing up or simmering out and at 28 years old, MJ thinks that maybe, just maybe, the two of them might just have matured enough for this to finally be the real deal.
Peter had made extravagant plans for tonight—dinner reservations, a concert, the works. But part of growing up, for MJ, has been learning that the place she loves to be most in the world is in their shitty little apartment, just her and Peter, with the rest of the world locked outside their door.
So they’re at home, making dinner together. And MJ is in charge of mac ‘n’ cheese, using Nana Jones’s recipe, while Peter is in charge of roasting the chicken and while she doesn’t quite trust him to season it right, as long as he doesn’t have plans to try and serve it medium rare, she thinks they’ll be fine.
Peter bought a bottle of her favourite wine—the only one she actually seems to like—and candles, and flowers, and, of course, he’d made her a CD that rings out through the player that her grandmother had gifted them when they’d moved into this apartment together.
“Do you, er, like the CD?” Peter asks tentatively after shutting the oven and standing to his feet. For some reason he’s avoiding her gaze, almost as if he’s nervous about something.
MJ chuckles as she moves the roux off the heat. “It’s…good. Still a lot of genre jumping, but you’re getting better at this.”
Peter looks at her briefly, his gaze bouncing between her eyes before he smiles, laughing gently. “Good. Okay.” He clears his throat, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek before pulling away. “Um, I’m just gonna go get something.”
“If you need to go poop just say that!” MJ calls over her shoulder as Peter disappears from the room.
She tips the macaroni elbows into the sauce and mixes as the next song on the CD starts.
And something makes her pause.
With Peter in the kitchen it's been hard to fully pay attention to the music—between succumbing to his insistent kisses and fighting him away from the cheese. But now that he’s gone, there’s something nagging at her brain that she just can’t shift. Something about the music that feels…strange.
She drops the wooden spoon and reaches for the player, stopping the music and opening it up. She lifts the CD out carefully and glances over the track listing—
- Snow Patrol, Just Say Yes
- Train, Marry Me
- John Lennon, Grow Old With Me
- Bruno Mars, Marry You
- Taylor Swift, Love Story
- Christina Perri, A Thousand Years
- Al Green, Let’s Get Married
- Luke Combs, Better Together
- Dave Barnes, Good Day for Marrying You
- Dolly Parton, Marry Me
- The Five Satins, To The Aisle
- Jagged Edge, Let’s Get Married
- Jason Derulo, Marry Me
- Bob Dylan, Wedding Song
- ABBA, I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do
MJ blinks, her brow scrunching tightly as she goes over the song names for the second and third time, each time causing an uptick in the beating rhythm of her heart. “Um…Peter?” she calls over her shoulder.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to notice.”
She jumps when she hears his voice just a few steps behind her, having not heard him trail back into the room. MJ spins around quickly, still frowning as she sees him shifting awkwardly on his socked feet, a small black box clutched between his fingers.
“Um…” she glances down at the CD in her hands before looking back up at him, “what…?”
Peter swallows, running his fingers through his slightly overgrown hair. “I really feel like I should get down on one knee but I remember you saying once how much you hated that, so—”
“Please don’t get down on one knee,” MJ breathes.
“Okay.” Peter nods, taking a deep breath and letting it out between parted lips. “Okay. Michelle Jones-Watson—”
“Yes.”
“I—” Peter cuts himself off, looking at her with wide eyes. “Was that you responding to your name or you saying—”
The corner of MJ’s mouth pulls up into a smirk. “Yes,” she reiterates, taking a few slow steps closer to him.
“Okay, but is that a yes to— mmph!”
She swallows the rest of his sentence as their lips crash together, her arms thrown around his shoulders as he stumbles backwards half a step before locking his own arms around her waist.
Peter’s lips chase hers when she finally pulls back from the kiss, his mouth grazing the side of her jaw as he speaks.
“I…had a whole speech planned,” he says.
MJ grins, shrugging her shoulders. “Okay, yeah, sure. Go ahead.”
Peter tightens his grip on her before she can step back. He looks into her eyes for a long moment, as if trying to decipher something, trying to be certain of something. “Yes?” he checks.
“Yes,” MJ breathes, nodding.
“Fuck the speech then.”
MJ tips her head back and laughs, a grin taking over her face as Peter takes half a step back and suddenly seems to remember the box in his hand.
“Um…I should probably…” he stammers, reaching inside to slip the ring out before stuffing the box into his pocket.
He’s not smooth about it, reaching for her hand with sweaty fingers, and MJ tries her hardest not to laugh at him but it’s damn near impossible—especially since he’s already laughing at himself.
“Hey, you know what?” MJ says. “The mixtape wasn’t bad.”
Peter looks up at her with a grin. “Yeah?”
“I mean, not your worst work, at all. Still a bit on the nose but…you’re getting better.”
“I think I’m happier about that than I am about you accepting the proposal,” Peter breathes, laughing as she pushes him in the chest. He reaches for her hand and holds it there, just above his heart, the cool metal of her ring pressing against his warm palm.
5
MJ breathes deeply, one hand clutching her stomach and the other squeezing Peter’s fingers as the pain finally starts to subside.
“You okay?” Peter asks softly, kissing the side of her shoulder as he massages her lower back.
“Mmm,” she hums, nodding her head as her face begins to relax and the tightness in her stomach dissipates. “Is the Uber almost here? Because I would really like to not give birth in the hall of our apartment.”
“Um…” Peter trails off, keeping one hand on her back and reaching for his phone with the other. For a brief moment MJ feels bad when she sees the redness of his fingers that she’s spent the past minute or so squeezing the life out of.
But then she quickly remembers he’s superhuman and the guilt dissolves. And then she swiftly remembers that he’s the reason why she’s gearing up to push a bowling ball out of her body in the first place and it doesn’t take long for her to turn bitter.
“Okay, looks like it’s one minute away.” He tucks his phone back into his pocket and kisses her shoulder again. “You need anything before we go?”
MJ shakes her head. “No, but are you sure we packed everything?”
“Yeah. I checked the list three times. We’ve got everything.” He places his hands on her shoulders, turning her body towards his.
MJ leans into him, bending as best she can to settle her forehead on his shoulder. They stay like that for a moment, in the quiet of the apartment until Peter’s phone buzzes in his pocket.
He slips it out and glances at the screen before turning it to her. “Our Uber driver has arrived. Samuel. 4.9 stars.”
“Thank you for that crucial information.”
Peter laughs softly as he grabs the bags in one hand and her hand in the other. “Baby time?”
“Baby time.”
Peter helps her into the car before climbing in himself, setting the bags on the floor between his legs as he confirms the destination with the driver.
When he finally looks up, his gaze catches something in the front of the car and his face immediately lights up. Before MJ can ask what the deal is, he’s reaching for one of the bags again and pulling it into his lap, unzipping it with all the excitement of a child on Christmas morning.
“S’cuse me,” Peter says to the driver as he roots around in the carry bag. He huffs quietly before making a little aha sound as he locates what he’s looking for. “Would you be able to play this, please?”
MJ’s eyes widen when she sees him holding up one of his homemade CDs. “Oh, you’re joking, right? Tell me this is a joke,” she mutters.
Peter shakes his head, grinning as the driver takes the CD from him and opens up the case sceptically.
“No, no, don’t worry, it’s good. I’ve been working on this for the past month. I read somewhere that music can be relaxing during labour.” He reaches over and rubs her belly gently. “For both of you.”
MJ relents, smiling a little as she places her hand on top of his. “That’s actually really swe—”
“Ahh! Push it! Ahh…push it!”
MJ’s lips part as the music booms through the car. She blinks at Peter, dropping her hand from his, flabbergasted at just how proud of himself he looks.
“Ooo baby babyyy, baby babyyyy—”
“I…” MJ trails off, shaking her head. “This isn’t possible. There is no way I am listening to Salt-N-Pepa while I’m in freakin’ labour. There’s no way…”
Peter’s face drops, wincing a little as he turns to catch the gaze of the driver through the rearview mirror. “Not good?” he asks quietly.
Samuel shakes his head. “Very very not good. Bad, in fact.”
”Shit,” Peter breathes, looking back over at MJ with an apologetic smile. “Okay, don’t worry I have four more—”
“Oh my God,” MJ groans as Peter roots around in the bag again and produces four more CDs.
“Okay,” he says, sifting through his collection, “do you wanna start with Baby Love by The Supremes, Baby by Justin Bieber, … Baby One More Time by Britney Spears or Baby Got Back by Sir-Mix-A-Lot?” He pauses, squinting down at that last disc before humming. “Actually, I’m not sure I thought that one through properly.”
“That’s the only one you didn’t think through?” MJ yells. “If you don’t put those CDs away I’m gonna make you eat them!”
“Maybe we should just drive then?” Peter cowers.
MJ nods aggressively. “I think that’s a good idea!”
They drive to the hospital in silence, but the labour room they are assigned to has a CD player and it almost seems like a sign.
The pain of Peter’s music choices puts up a decent fight against labour, and by the time MJ has to suffer through (You’re) Having My Baby by Paul Anka she almost throws in the towel.
But at 5:15am, Benjamin Michael Watson-Parker is born to the sound of Your Song by Elton John. And maybe sometimes Peter gets it right.
+1
MJ smiles, pushing her glasses further up on her nose as she ejects the CD from her laptop. She reaches for the sharpie on the table and pulls the lid off with her teeth, scribbling on the surface of the disc.
“You ready to go see dad, mom?” the sound of Benny’s voice rings out from the hallway as he trails into the living room.
MJ nods her head, finishing off writing the titles of the last few songs on the tracklist. “Almost, Bennyboo,” she says around the pen in her mouth.
“Ma…” Benny groans in protest of the nickname he’s long grown out of.
MJ snickers. At 17, Benjamin Michael Watson-Parker is every bit the stubborn, independent teenager that his mother was. She and Peter often joked that if it weren’t for the fact that he was the splitting image of Peter, one would think that MJ was his only parent.
He talks like her, has the same dry humour that she has, thinks he knows better than everyone else—and often does, actually, though MJ will never let him know that.
He didn’t inherit Peter’s powers, which was a bittersweet feeling—because as much as they’d fretted about how much it would affect his life, the relief of him being a regular child was coloured a little with the knowledge and acceptance that Peter’s legacy as Spider-Man would die with him.
But Benny looks like Peter. He looks just like his father—with his dark curly hair, and his bright brown eyes, and the perpetual expression of wonder on his face. He looks so much like Peter that it stops MJ’s breath sometimes, even more so recently.
“Okay,” MJ pulls the pen lid out of her mouth and snaps it back on before blowing softly on the CD, “ready.”
Benny smiles at her, shaking his head as he breathes out a laugh. “Another one?”
MJ grins as she reaches for the disc man and stands to her feet. She takes hold of Benny’s chin between her fingers and presses a kiss to his cheek as she walks by. “Always.”
They pick up flowers on the way to the cemetery as they always do. And Benny replaces the old ones with the new ones as he always does.
It’s been three years since Spider-Man died in battle. Three years since Peter kissed MJ on the forehead and didn’t keep his promise to be back home before she knew it.
The grief and pain were intense. Are still intense. And MJ feels the pain of his absence every night she lays her head down to sleep and every morning she wakes up to his empty side of the bed.
But at 46, he’d lived more life than most, seen more than most people see, experienced so much. And MJ knows by now that whether someone leaves at 99 or 19 it’s always, always too soon. But she also knows that there’s no such thing as an incomplete life. Just that some stories are shorter than others.
And Peter’s story had many more pages than either of them had ever expected it to.
She also knows that he’s not fully gone. That he still lingers here—in Benny, in her memories, in every burst of 74 minutes of confused and chaotic music that he’d made just for her.
In every burst of 74 minutes of confused and chaotic music that she’s made just for him.
“Lemme see,” Benny says, holding out his hand and nodding down at the CD in MJ’s grasp as they sit together, cross-legged on the grass in front of Peter’s stone. He takes the CD from her, tracing his fingers across it as he reads the tracklist and smiles.
“He’s gonna love this one,” Benny says softly.
MJ grins, wiping a tear from her eye as she leans her head back on the stone.
“Then what are you waiting for?” She holds the discman out for her son to take. “Press play.”