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The street is empty. No one is walking past the nice suburban homes, not even a lonely dog owner on a late-night stroll. In the distance, the Manhattan skyline is visible, the big buildings rising high into the night sky, a stark contrast to the small brick houses and fenced-in front yards in front of him.
Even if his supernatural abilities allow him to pick up the sound of the city even from this distance – huge amounts of traffic noise, sirens, the rattling of the subway’s steel wheels on the steel tracks – it is still mostly quiet.
It’s another reminder that this is not a typical night for Spider-Man. That Peter is not on patrol, even if he is wearing his suit.
He is on a mission.
From where he is crouching on a rooftop, hidden in the shadows of a chimney, Peter has a good view at the small house right at the end of the street. From the outside, nothing reveals what is happening inside of it. The clapboards are painted beige – an unobtrusive colour, as if the owners want the house to be looked over. The fenced-in front yard is well looked after, the lawn neatly trimmed, the hedge almost perfectly symmetrical. There is a rocking chair on the porch and flowers bloom next to the front door.
It’s the normalcy of it all that kept him from seeing the truth earlier. It’s the reason why Harry and May still don’t know what is going on.
And it’s not only the house. It’s them as well. Her as well.
Peter has always thought of MJ as someone who is in control. Even as a kid, she has been smart, courageous, strong. Someone who stands up for other people, who takes no nonsense. She had stopped his and Harry’s bullies from harassing them, had put them in their place even if she had been at least half a head smaller than them. Had started a petition to force their school to improve their restroom accessibility for disabled students. MJ has always fought for what is right.
No one would have thought that she needed someone to fight for her.
Thinking back, there have been signs. Sudden cases of illness that prevented MJ from going to school. A broken arm and a black eye because of silly accidents, even if she had never been clumsy or injury-prone before. Her being easily startled. But Peter had never thought much about it. Not until that day.
It was an accident. They were in the park together, him, Harry and MJ, when they got caught in the rain. Because the Osborn Penthouse was not far, they went there to change – and Peter unintentionally walked in on MJ. He was only able to see her for less than a second before he whirled around, flushing from embarrassment, but it was enough. Enough to see the bruises on her body, spreading from her arms towards her back and her stomach, some old enough to turn green and brown, some fresh and purple. A grotesque pattern of discoloration.
The sight is etched in his mind and it makes him sick to think of the countless marks. Fist-sized marks. And the black and blue handprint on the pale skin of her upper arm.
She refused to speak to him about it after. Refused to speak about what had happened to her. About who had done it.
But Peter knows. Knows because even if he didn’t realise that something was going on in the Watson family, some people did.
There are whispers among the former harbor workers of the downfall of Michael Watson. Of how his visits to the bars become more and more frequent with each week that passes. And longer. Apparently, someone even saw him passed out in an alleyway after an especially heavy drinking spree.
But that’s all the harbor workers talk about. It’s the neighbors that know about what he does to his family.
Hiding on their roofs, Peter heard them speaking about the screams that woke them up in the middle of the night. About the broken furniture that one of them saw stored in the garage. They curse him. Call him a violent asshole. Still, no one decides to help. It makes Peter’s blood boil in anger.
This is going to end. He is going to end this.
Peter knows that MJ does not want him to get involved, and to go against her wishes makes him feel bad. Like he is betraying her. But he is willing to do that. Willing to trade her trust for her safety. Even if the cost of helping her is their friendship, Peter would pay the price. Because yes, losing MJ as his best friend would hurt like hell. But even thinking about MJ being beaten by her abusive asshole of a father is way worse. Peter would rather die than let him touch her ever again.
A car turns into the street and Peter ducks behind the chimney as its headlights cut through the darkness. From the shadows, he watches as it pulls into the Watson’s driveway and the engine is shut off.
For a second he thinks that it’s MJ, even if he knows that she is spending the night at a friend’s house. But the woman is a little bit taller than her, even if there is a slump to her shoulders that make her look a lot smaller. It’s like she is being dragged down by invisible chains.
Peter wonders if that is what MJ looks like whenever she returns home from school or from wherever she went with him and Harry. She had never brought them here. Had insisted that there are way more movies to watch at the Osborn Penthouse and that she would rather have dinner with May and Peter than eat whatever her mom was cooking. She had never once let slip that the real reason for it was the nightmare that awaited her at home.
Thinking about MJ standing in front of her parent’s house and knowing what stepping over the threshold would lead to makes Peter sick. Why wouldn’t she tell him about this? About her fears, her pain. The things she goes through every other night.
How could a father do this to his own daughter?
Below him, the woman eventually locks the car and walks over to the front door. He can hear the key turning and then she is gone. Peter waits.
At first, nothing happens. The light stays off but he can still make out Mrs Watson through the sidelights. Can see her take off her jacket before she disappears from his sight. Peter expects her to go bed – it’s one in the morning after all. He thinks about calling it a day and returning on another night. But then something clatters to the floor and not a second later, the screaming starts. And then he can hear a body hitting the wall with a loud thud.
He moves before he can even think about it.
Peter does not feel the glass of the window cutting through his suit and into his flesh when he crashes through it. Does not notice the empty bottles surrounding the worn-out couch in the living room or the sour smell of alcohol and sweat. The only thing he is aware of is the man in front of him.
The last time Peter had seen Mr Watson had been at the beginning of High School. Peter cannot remember much, but he knows that he had been a strong man back then, healthy and clean-cut. He is barely recognizable now.
Because the man in front of Peter has unkempt hair and a bloated face that is covered with a messy beard. His clothes look like haven’t been washed in month and his breath smells like cheep liquor. There is nothing strong or healthy about him.
Mr Watson’s eyes seem slightly unfocused, still he doesn’t seem to have problems holding his wife in a chokehold. Blood gushes from her nostrils and Peter thinks that her nose may be broken. A bruise starts to build on her cheek.
Peter can hear the blood roaring in his ears, but it is not injured the woman in front of him that he furious about, even if he wants to help her. It’s MJ.
MJ, who looks so much like her mother, who has the same red hair, the same slight build. Who has been beaten by her father since who knows when. Who must have been scared to come home every day because of it. It’s easy to imagine her in this situation, with her father’s arms wrapped around her neck and blood on her face.
It’s as if his body reacts on its own accord. Before he can think about it, he lunges forward and his fist connects with Michael Watson’s cheek. Then with his chin. All three of them stumble and Mrs Watson falls to the ground when her husband’s grip loosens, but Peter does not stop. Michael Watson hits the banisters with enough force to make the wood groan. His wife screams.
It’s enough. Peter knows that he should end this. That he should grab the man by the collar, tell him to never touch his family ever again or else, take care of the injured and frightened woman and leave. Instead, he grabs a fistful of Michael Watson’s shirt and slams him into the wall, enjoying the way the man groans in pain.
It’s not what Spider-Man does. Spider-Man disapproves of unnecessary violence and cares about helpless women. And Peter does too. But right now, he craves violence. And to be honest, he doesn’t feel sorry for Mrs Watson either. Because yes, he knows that she is as much of a victim as MJ is. But she still didn’t stand up for her daughter. Didn’t call for help to protect her. And it is something Peter can’t forget.
It is wrong. All of this is wrong. He knows that MJ would be furious if she ever finds out about this because she clearly doesn’t want him to interfere. Doesn’t even want him to know about this.
Still, he does not feel an ounce of remorse about any of it. Not about coming here tonight, not about the blood on his hand.
Maybe he should be worried about it, about this darkness inside of him. But he isn’t. Instead, he makes sure that Michael Watson learns his lesson, despite the drunken state he is in.
Because Peter cannot feel bad for keeping MJ safe.
And there is nothing that would stop him from protecting her.