Chapter Text
The baby still felt warm.
Peter held her tight in his arms; the tubes that criss-crossed her felt unnatural, while her skin was pale beyond measure and camouflaged her against the white swaddling cloth, and he wished that she would open her eyes just once. He needed to know their colour. There was so much potential in just a small frame, so that he could place his finger beneath her palm and almost envision how it would feel for her to hold him. A tear caught in his eye.
The room was cold. The sterile stench of cleaning products clung to the air, while the various machines had stopped their whirring noise long ago, and the silence was absolutely deafening with all that it brought into that brightly lit room. He could hear his heartbeat. He could hear the rustle of the nurse’s movements, as she sat across the room with a saddened expression. He could hear the swing of doors from the corridor. The only thing that he couldn’t hear were the soft breaths of his firstborn child; no cries or screams or laughter . . .
“Would you like for me to call someone?”
Peter nearly laughed in response. The nurse’s voice was soft and sincere, something that he could recognise from many medical dramas and documentaries, but he never expected to hear that tone for himself. He felt separated from his body; nothing felt real, as if he were watching the scene from somewhere beyond his mind, and his heart felt somehow numb to everything that had happened that day. The hospital gown – thrown over his work-clothes – rustled every time he adjusted his baby against his chest. It wasn’t real.
He knew that she would wake up soon . . . just so long as he was patient . . . babies needed warmth and affection, after all, and it was known – in rare cases – for them to wake up after being declared dead. ‘Dead’ was too final a word. He knew she would open her eyes . . . he wanted to know whether they were blue or green . . . his eyes or Mary Jane’s . . . the little girl was so absolutely beautiful that she would be a stunner when she grew up.
No parent was ever meant to outlive their child. He must have done something wrong; there was that incident during the pregnancy, after all, plus the delay in getting to the hospital during the birth, and he had been so upset about the pregnancy at first . . . we’re too young to start a family . . . no, I don’t think you should get an abortion, but . . . he knew he would love her from the moment he saw the ultrasound scan. Ten toes. Ten fingers. Why couldn’t she have the life he promised her? He had lied to her. She was gone.
“Is – Is MJ awake?” Peter asked.
He kept his eyes on his baby. He smiled when he thought he saw her smile, before he realised that he had moved her in the light and the harsh lighting had cast a cruel shadow, and suddenly – without any warning or control – he began to weep and buried his head against her body. There was no scent of baby shampoo or the softness of baby clothes or the gentle rhythmic movements that came with life . . . nothing. The tears stung his eyes.
The nurse placed a hand upon his shoulder, even though he hadn’t heard her move, and he felt a huge sense of revulsion and horror upon her touch. He wasn’t the one that deserved reassurance. He wasn’t the one that needed compassion. The baby was the only thing that mattered, but no one was giving her resuscitation or checking her vitals or -! The nurse squeezed his shoulder; he doubled over and began to retch, unable to hold back his emotions and unable to control himself any longer. He slid onto the floor and clutched his daughter.
“Mary Jane has expressed a wish not to see her,” whispered the nurse.
Peter could understand that, because he felt the same way. If he hadn’t seen his daughter, it would almost be as if she were still alive . . . the doctors could have been lying, the nurses could have been mistaken, his daughter may have just been sleeping . . . he dreaded MJ’s reaction when they returned back to the apartment. He would have to ask Tony or Aunt May to clear out the nursery. He would have to tell them . . . have to say the words aloud.
“It’s – it’s not ‘her’,” said Peter.
“I’m sorry.” The nurse knelt beside him. “What’s her name?”
They had discussed names at length. The baby couldn’t just be ‘daughter’ or ‘child’ or any other adjective . . . this was his world and his world needed acknowledgement . . . they needed a name to go with the beautiful brown hair and round face. He could already picture the perfect yellow baby-grow, which somehow seemed much better than the intricate and handmade christening-gown, because . . . because the baby-grow was what she would have worn every day . . . it would have been her. He wanted her to be herself, even in death.
“M-May Parker,” stuttered Peter. “May. My May.”
He reached up a shaking hand to her face. The cheeks were plump and soft, which were too cold to be natural and too pale to be normal, and he let his fingertip run over her cheek and lips, until memories of arguments about whether to bottle-feed or breast-feed echoed in his mind. Those discussions felt like acid in his mouth. They were memories of foolish and naïve dreams . . . dreams of a daughter . . . dreams of a future. He missed her.
“Mayday.”
* * *
“Yo, how are you feeling?”
Peter placed the tray upon MJ’s lap. It was filled with all her favourite foods, which included wheat-cakes made exactly according to his aunt’s recipe, and the scent of everything was pretty overwhelming, especially when he hadn’t eaten in days. The red of her hair stood out against her pale cheeks, and – for a brief moment – Peter thought he would be sick, as he saw their daughter in her appearance. He closed his eyes and drew in slow breaths.
There was no sound of movement from MJ, as she sat up against the plump cushions on their once shared bed, and Peter felt tears rise to his eyes yet again. The nursery was the worst place for him to sleep, not least because of the memories it brought, but he felt closer to their daughter when surrounded by her belongings, as if he could somehow keep a piece of her alive by keeping her room as a shrine to her potential life. MJ had said nothing about it, but she had not spoken at all since returning home. MJ only wanted him out of their room.
They could no longer share a room; MJ rejected all forms of affection or intimacy, while the sight of Peter reminded her too much of their lost child, and – so far – the grief weighed too heavily between them. It was almost like a visible and tangible thing. MJ wanted to destroy everything of Mayday’s, unwilling to even pass it on to another child, and wanted to ‘forget’ as if it never happened, while Peter wanted just the opposite. No compromise could be made.
They grieved differently, but mourned alone.
Peter stood beside the bed, as he waited for her to eat. The room began to smell stale, as it accumulated dust and the scent of sweat, and he realised that he would need to call her aunt and beg for her help. MJ wouldn’t let him touch her, but she would need someone to help her dress and eat and bathe, and he could think of no one better than his aunt. It was difficult to see it as ‘their’ bedroom any longer, as every personal item had been removed by MJ and placed into storage boxes, which Peter stored in the nursery, and he missed it being ‘theirs’.
“If you don’t eat, you’ll be back in hospital,” he pleaded.
He reached out and scooped up a spoonful of soup. It still steamed, so he blew it cool and held back tears at how their daughter would never have her first meal, and – as he tried to fight back that all too real ache in his heart – he raised the spoon to MJ’s lips. The young woman didn’t even look at him, not even to acknowledge the food, and he felt his heart begin to race in anxiety and desperation. He gently touched it to her lips.
“Here,” he said.
MJ smacked away the spoon with her hand. It landed quietly on the carpeted floor, while the soup stained the material and left a mark that would be hard to remove, and Peter – as he looked to her – saw that she was crying silent tears. He made to wipe them away, before he saw her flinch and realised that it was perhaps the worst thing that he could do, and so he slowly pulled his hand away in shame, as he removed the tray from her lap. MJ didn’t even look up as he walked away, but he could hear her sobbing from the kitchen.
* * *
The coffee tasted beyond delicious.
It was only the best at Stark Tower, which was reason enough to be back at work. Peter sat at his desk with his hands wrapped around the ‘best employee’ mug, a gift from Tony some years back, and he allowed the hot ceramic to heat his skin. The desk itself was covered with files and paperwork and leftovers of various lunches, and Peter couldn’t remember having left the Tower in some days, let alone the laboratory itself. He felt exhausted, but somehow sleep seemed to evade him. Every muscle ached. Every joint hurt.
The laboratory was filled with the scent of smoke, as one of Tony’s experiments went haywire and required a fire extinguisher to be brought into play, and Peter – as he took in the scent of coffee beans and cream – realised this was perhaps the worst place to hide. Tony was just as broken as Peter. Tony was also prone to staying awake for days on end, particularly around the anniversary of his parents’ death, and he also held an addiction to work.
Still, Peter wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Tony was his mentor and understood grief. There was no attempt to ‘fix’ things, just sympathy and quiet listening, and there was something beyond helpful about having someone just sit with him and not expect anything from him. He hadn’t heard any empty platitudes about how it would ‘get better with time’, or questions about whether he had ‘tried’ the latest kind of counselling or hobby or activity, and he could almost pretend like nothing had changed in the past three months. Tony even teased him and joked with him.
“I’m scared to go home,” admitted Peter.
He adjusted his white laboratory coat, which practically hung from him, and he realised that he had lost a considerable amount of weight. There were a few test-tubes on the desk, left by Bruce and in desperate need of consideration, while a stack of files labelled ‘Confidential’ sat not far to the side left by Tony, and he knew there was enough to keep him occupied for as long as he needed to be occupied. A small photograph of Mayday sat opposite him . . . something that Tony called ‘creepy’, while Bruce always made sure to pass compliments upon her . . . he found the image a comfort in his darker hours.
“I’m scared to close my eyes,” continued Peter. “I’m scared to open them. If I sleep, I get nightmares. If I stay awake, I get flashbacks. It’s at a point where work is all I have left, but I can’t just live for work, can I? I’m just so lost. I feel like nothing matters.”
“I kind of figured that,” said Tony. “You aren’t alone, trust me.”
“Then why do I feel alone?”
The older man came and perched on the edge of his desk. He was dressed in a tank top, with his arc reactor shining through the thin material, and an old pair of sweatpants that looked one size too big for him. The material hung low on his hips, in a way that Peter used to appreciate – albeit secretly – before everything that happened . . . happened. Tony looked pale, aside from arms covered in grease and oil, while his eyes wore huge bags beneath them and his body hunched over as if it carried a large load.
“How is MJ doing?” Tony asked.
“Emotionally? Better.” Peter said. “I don’t know whether we’ll be able to save our marriage, but I think we can salvage our friendship. I’m still staying with my aunt, just while we get things settled, but . . . I’m worried. MJ’s been sick lately, you know? The doctors are saying it could be radiation poisoning, which makes no sense!”
“Well, a certain someone was bitten by a radioactive spider, right? I’m just saying you should check out Bruce; if that guy wasn’t so celibate and stuff, I’d be worried for any guy or gal that hooks up with him on a regular basis. It’s one of those conditions where it’s better to ‘give’ than to ‘receive’, if you know what I mean? Like, can sperm even be radioactive? I’m just wondering if maybe we ought to run some tests, see whether it’s an issue.”
“It – It doesn’t matter now, anyway.” Peter ran a hand over his face. “We’re not intimate; just the idea of intimacy makes her feel sick, while I kind of haven’t been in the mood. Anyway, they say she has chronic poisoning, not acute . . . it’s fixable.”
“Yeah, chronic radiation poisoning,” muttered Tony.
Peter gave a sigh, as he took a sip of his coffee. The beverage spilled over the side of the ceramic, so that it dripped down his shirt and caused him to sit upright, and – as he gave a mild curse – he grabbed a napkin and patted down the mess over his clothes. He slid his chair back, before he felt tears start to rise at the corners of his blue eyes, and a part of him wanted to slam his hand against the table or break something against the wall. It was just one small mistake, yet it felt like the end of the world. Tony broke the awkward silence with:
“Remove the cause, remove the problem.”
“So if I’m the cause, there’s no problem so long as I’m gone.” Peter gave a dark laugh. “Do you think that’s why Mayday was stillborn? There’s this thing deep and dark inside me, which just kills everyone that it touches . . . I’m cursed, Tony. I’m broken.”
“Okay, kiddo, you listen to me.”
There was a sound of rustling fabric, as Tony jumped to his feet. Tony turned to face Peter, before he took the arms of the office chair and spun Peter around, and Peter – as he looked up – found his friend and mentor just inches from his face. They were close enough that he could practically smell the whiskey on Tony’s breath, as well as feel the warmth and moisture, and he was moments away from bursting into tears at the strange confrontation. Peter turned his head to look away, but his eyes only fell upon his daughter’s photograph.
“Peter, I need you to listen,” said Tony.
“I’m listening,” whispered Peter.
“Life is shit.” Tony gave him a stern look. “It’s so shit that every day is like waking up with a hangover, so your head’s like it’s been Hulk-Smashed through a Helicarrier, and it doesn’t matter how much you drink, because nothing can make that haze any clearer. You know what, though? It’s not your fault. You didn’t ask for MJ to get sick, just like you didn’t ask for the baby to die, and you didn’t ask to feel like shit. You’re blameless.”
“If I had just paid more attention, maybe it –”
“If I had any kind of social skills, maybe I’d have a fiancée that hadn’t just dumped me.” Tony gave a sad smile and pulled back. “You can spend your life thinking about what could have happened, but it doesn’t change what did happen, Peter. I’m coming up with a tool to be used in therapy, makes you see things differently, but even my tech can’t change the past.”
Peter felt the sting of a tear. It ran down his cheek and made him feel vulnerable, as he realised he was displaying a great deal of emotion before Tony, and it brought with it an intense stab of guilt and shame. He knew that Tony was dealing badly with the anniversary of his parents' death, while Pepper’s break-up weighed heavily on his mind, but somehow Tony still managed to find the strength to be there for him, even if he didn’t deserve it. Peter reached out for his coffee and took a sip, so that the bitter taste grounded him.
“So what do I do?”
“You keep moving forward,” said Tony. “You take that pain and you make it into something that you can use . . . something to make the world a better place. I used it for renewable energy and suits that can be used for defence, but you’re not me . . . heck, only one of us can be a billionaire, playboy philanthropist. So tell me: what are you going to do?”
The words lingered in the air. He looked up to see a flickering of the overheard lights, which he took almost as a sign from his daughter, and gave a small smile when he saw – despite everything – how the light seemed to fix itself and continued to shine brightly upon them. He saw how it reflected off the coffee in his cup, how it sparkled in Tony’s eyes, and even how it bounced from the tiles on the floor. It was everywhere, just like Mayday was everywhere.
“I’ll keep going,” promised Peter.
* * *
“I can’t believe it’s been a year.”
Peter looked down at the gravestone. It was beautifully engraved, with a photograph of his daughter taking centre-stage, and he reached out to trace over her name with his bare hand, even as his numb fingers felt strange upon cold stone. There were no weeds anywhere over her grave, as Peter made sure to tend to it personally every week or so, and the flowers were collected in various bouquets, whether in vases or just strategically laid on the grass.
He stood up and wiped a tear from his eye, as he gave a sad smile. MJ stood next to him looking as beautiful as ever, with her winter coat reaching her knees and hugging her figure, and a part of him longed to reach out and hold her. There was still a part of him that missed the taste of her lip-gloss . . . the pet names and nicknames that broke the silence . . . the passionate nights that led into passionate days . . . the shared jokes and shared laughter . . . it was as if none of it had ever existed. It was all wiped out overnight.
“Thank you for being here,” he whispered.
MJ gave a smile almost like the ones he remembered. He missed having her in his life, especially when he felt so alone without her, and the past year had moved by in an absolute whirlwind of events. The divorce had only been finalised just a few days before, which weighed heavily on his mind, but there was no way he would disrespect his daughter’s grave by bringing it up, especially when MJ finally seemed to be back on her feet.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Tiger,” she said.
He watched as MJ wrapped her arms around herself. The nails were a result of a manicure, while the blush on her cheeks was from make-up, and he realised – just through the little signs – that she was moving on with her life and wanted to look as professional as she did before the grief took over their lives. This was a woman that wanted to get back into modelling, maybe – due to her age – finding a career someplace else, and she was also a woman that wanted to forget the pain of the past and forge a new future.
“It gets lonely without you,” whispered Peter.
“A twenty-eight year old man living with his aunt,” MJ teased with a wink. “I can see why you would feel lonely. Look, I won’t lie, Petey-O: I miss you. It’s just not enough, you know? It just isn’t the same as it was before . . . I don’t want to resent you, because it’s not your fault . . . it’s not anyone’s fault, but the more you keep insisting on acting like she’s still alive -? It’s like I’m living it all over again. I just – I just want to move on.”
“I – I can get that.” Peter sighed and watched the cloud of breath. “I love you so much, but I would get so angry when you wouldn’t want to talk about Mayday . . . can’t even say her name . . . I just don’t get it, but – at the same time – I do get it. It feels like you don’t care, even though I know you care more than anyone, and –”
“– that’s why it just won’t work between us. We both need different things right now, while I don’t think we’ll ever see each other in the same way again, and we both deserve to find some happiness. We could both still be happy.”
Peter brought his hands to his mouth. He blew warm air upon his fingers, before he rubbed them together and cast his eyes about the cemetery. The sky was downcast, filled with grey clouds that threatened snow, and the breeze that blew across them was enough to add to the chill and make him worry for his daughter. It nearly broke him to remember that she would never need an extra coat or blanket, because she would never feel the cold.
“My aunt used to sing me a nursery rhyme,” said Peter.
They stood in silence for a long moment. He let his eyes look over the way to Gwen’s grave, where she lay not too far from her father, and then realised that his uncle’s grave would not be too far from that same spot. The only ones missing were Harry and his parents, who were buried in another cemetery not too far away, and he felt close to breaking point at the realisation that everyone he loved and touched had died because of him.
It was enough to make him laugh, as the tears fell afresh, because – like so many nursery rhymes – he remembered the tragic meaning behind his aunt’s words, which once seemed so innocent and meaningless. He would never tell them to Mayday, at least not in a way that she would hear and repeat, and she would never tell them to her children in turn, but he knew that to be the best, so that the curse would at least die with him. He had failed Mary Jane as a husband, just as he failed Mayday as a father. Peter said with a choke breath:
“With silver bells and cockle shells . . .”
“And pretty maids all in a row.”
A tear fell from MJ’s eye.