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At this current moment, there were only two certainties in Peter’s mind.
One, that he was so fucking screwed. And two, that MJ was going to break the door down.
Peter knew it was a bad idea to be neighbors with Ned and MJ. Peter knew he should just keep his distance, let them be happy and oblivious to the boy who used to be part of their universe. But he was weak, so damn weak. He wanted to see their faces. He wanted to be able to see specks of their new mundane lives without him, see them living in freedom and not having to constantly be afraid that their friend was dead.
And some deep part of him, something that was ugly and wretched, wanted Peter to watch how much better off they were without him. He wanted to stand on the sidelines as they moved on, went to college, dated, lived. Peter knew living so close to them would prevent him from ever telling them the truth, because he couldn’t bear to drag them back into his mess.
And what fucking good that did.
Peter didn’t think he was that loud climbing into his apartment, but considering there was a blank spot in his memory between when he climbed through his window and to where he was now, sprawled on his floor, he doesn’t think his version of events is the most reliable thing right now.
Peter’s head throbbed in time to the sound of the fist beating against his door. He knew it was MJ the second her presence appeared behind it. He’s not sure if it’s because his body still remembers her heartbeat, her breathing, the smell of her shampoo, or if it’s his brain torturing him and confusing the landlord with the love of his life.
Either way, he’s not opening it. Well, he couldn’t even if he wanted to, but still.
Blood gushed through the gaps between his fingers, which were pressed up against the wound on his abdomen. Peter groaned, pressing his face further into the vinyl wood floor. Gunshot wounds sucked. They burned worse than knife wounds, and made Peter feel queasy when he saw the sheer amount of blood pooling around him. He could feel the bullet still inside him, ripping the breath from his lungs every time he moved.
He knew he had to take it out. He knew he should shoo MJ away, say everything’s fine, crawl his way to the bathroom and haphazardly patch himself up. He knew the faster he healed himself, the faster he could save more people.
But Peter didn’t want to. He wanted to lay on the ground, let his blood cling to his skin and floor until it became cold. He wanted to let his bones rot in the suit that made him important, let MJ and Ned gasp at the thought of their nameless neighbor dying in the middle of the night. He didn’t want to fight anymore.
And that thought terrified him. Because Spider-Man wasn’t supposed to die, and he sure as hell wasn’t supposed to want to. He was supposed to always get back up.
But lying there in his empty apartment, he couldn’t find a single reason to keep going. The voice in the back of his head told him he was being stupid, that the blood loss was messing with his brain. That he didn’t actually want to die, he was just in pain and wanted a nap. Peter wasn’t sure if that was just his spider-sense sending one last desperate attempt to save his life, to push him to call for help, for anything.
His vision began getting fuzzy. Darkness creeped around the edges of his eyes, and it felt like he was floating above his body. Dying is way less cool than the movies make it, Peter thought deliriously. His eyes fluttered closed. He just felt so exhausted all of a sudden. His limbs were like lead, even moving his fingers feeling like incredibly too much work. Distantly, he heard several bangs against his door, causing the frame to vibrate.
Different faces appeared behind his eyelids. His mom and dad. Ben. May. Tony. Even MJ and Ned. He felt his heart stuttering, salty tracks leaking out his eyes and dripping near his ears. He failed them. He fucked up. And now, he’s failing all of New York. Countless others will die due to Peter’s weakness, due to his inability to stop being so goddamn selfish.
His chest began getting tight, breathing shallow. His spider-sense was pulsing weakly, as if knowing it was the end but unable to stop it. Peter released his breath, feeling the strange sensation of his heart stopping, and welcomed the pull of nothingness enveloping him.
MJ didn’t know what the fuck she was doing.
She didn’t know why she needed to make sure her neighbor was alright. She didn’t know what it was about this man—Peter, she thinks his name was?—that compelled her to start breaking his door down to get to him. She just moved the second she heard the very loud and very obvious thud of a head hitting the floor.
“Hello? Is—are you okay?” She started, banging her fist on the door so hard it was sure to cause bruises. She has no idea why she’s so on edge. She knows she’s being weird, and that she’ll probably freak out her neighbor with her frantic knocking, and that Ned is going to chew her out for running out the door so quickly without telling him where she’s going, and that this will all probably blow up in her face—
Her thoughts skid to a stop when she hears a pained groan coming from inside the apartment.
She begins slamming her shoulder against the door.
There was no way in hell that she was going to leave Peter (why did that name sound so familiar?) in this apartment, probably bleeding and with a concussion. The mere thought of him being hurt raises goosebumps all down her arms. Once again, MJ slammed her shoulder against the door, thinking what is wrong with me?
The door wasn’t budging, and MJ was beginning to panic. Maybe she should’ve just called the police, let them handle it. It was never her business in the first place, and if Peter was seriously hurt behind this door, he would need medical attention. He wouldn’t need a random girl he doesn’t know freaking out and panicking.
Suddenly, MJ felt like a train slammed into her head. Her vision went white, and she gripped onto the door frame, both hands clenching, to keep herself from keeling over. Memories flooded in, feeling like they were splitting her head in two.
Rooftops. A kiss. Drawings of Peter’s face in her notebook. Decathlon practice. The broken black dahlia necklace that she couldn’t ever quite take off. The goodbye, Peter beginning to say “I love you” before MJ stopped him, making him wait until they found each other again.
MJ’s breathing increases, lungs pumping faster and faster, heartbeat racing.
Peter.
Her Peter. He kept his identity secret for four years. Four years of birthdays, college lectures, parties where she never quite felt like she fit in.
And her fucking idiot stood by and watched it all, despite promising her he would come back. MJ was absolutely furious.
But that fury gave way into desperation. She frantically slammed her palms on the door, begging it to open, to crack, something. It wasn’t budging, and Peter was in there, and she hadn’t seen him in four years, and he fell—
She heard gasping breaths turn the corner. She felt tears pouring down her face but didn’t even make a move to wipe them, or turn to look at the person running toward her. She focused all her energy on getting his shitty apartment door open.
Ned appeared beside her, and without a word, joined her in trying to force the door open. They were so scared. They didn’t have to say anything, because they knew their best friend, their favorite person, was on the other side of that door and wasn’t responding.
“Peter! Please Peter— open the door.” MJ begged, trying to turn the door handle once more. It didn’t budge, of course.
MJ was sobbing now. He wasn’t answering the door. Why wasn’t he answering the door? Was he dead? He can’t fucking die on her. She was way too pissed at him for Peter to just leave.
Ned fumbled with his pocket, eyes wide, tears clinging to his eyelashes, as he pulled out a plastic shopping membership card. MJ almost asked him why the fuck that was the most important thing to grab in this situation, before Ned shoved it into the latch. He wiggled it around, squinting, focusing, until the handle twisted fully and the door swung open.
There, lying on the floor, still as a stone, was Peter Parker.
He was still in his spider-suit, but his mask was loosely gripped in his hand. Tears and gashes littered his body, scattered across his shoulders, his legs, and his chest. And, a large tear in his suit on his stomach revealed the source of the blood drenching his body. A large wound, circular, and extremely deep. He was pale, brown lashes kissing his skin and his face void of any reaction. It was almost peaceful, as if he was sleeping, except for the blood beginning to oxidize and turn maroon.
MJ wrenched herself forward. Her knees slammed onto the floor, sending jolts up her legs that she couldn’t focus on. Her hands hovered over his body, unsure of what to do. He was so still. MJ had never seen him this still before. Peter Parker was always bouncing around, fingers tapping on surfaces when he was thinking, leg bouncing under tables. Even when he was hurt, there was something. A twitch of his foot, his hand squeezing around MJ’s. Even just a ghost of an expression on his face.
But now, nothing.
MJ pressed her thumb onto his wrist, trying to follow what people seemed to do in all those medical dramas she watched. She couldn’t feel anything. She was hyperventilating now, feeling Peter’s blood seeping into the fabric of her pants. He’s dead. He’s dead and I wasn’t quick enough— he’s been on his own for four years and I couldn’t remember him, and now he’s gone—
A desperate hand gripped hers. She startled out of her thoughts, forcing her head up. She forgot about Ned. One of his hands was pressed hard onto Peter’s wound, the other, sticky with blood, clutching onto MJ’s. She could tell he was trying to be brave, but his eyes were wide, and he looked about two seconds from full out bawling.
“MJ, you need to start chest compressions.” his voice left no room for complaint or rejection, but his hand shook, along with MJs. “If we wait any longer, we could lose him.” Words hung unspoken in the air, that it was possible he was already gone. MJ nodded, placing her hands on Peter’s chest. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She just got him back.
She began pushing down, using her body weight to make sure the compressions were deep enough. She sobbed, feeling his ribs beneath her fingers and hoping, praying to whatever was out there that he would make it. With each thrust she felt her hope slipping, blood cooling around her knees.
“Come on, Pete.” She begged. “You can’t leave me again. You—Peter, you promised.” Her hands didn’t stop, stuck in a loop. “You promised you’d come back. Peter, please.” She began slamming her fist into his chest, begging for any reaction. She was getting desperate. Come on, come on come on—
Peter gasped, eyes flying open.
MJ’s lungs shook as she tried to breathe. He’s okay, he’s okay, he made it. She felt like she had just run a marathon and had a bucket of ice water poured on her. Her entire body was shaking so hard her teeth chattered, and by the looks of Ned, he wasn’t faring much better.
Peter was gasping, eyes locked on the ceiling and mouth open, trying to force more air in his lungs. His eyes slowly moved, sticking to both Ned and MJ before crinkling in confusion. He tried to sit up, but MJ pushed his shoulder back down with slightly more force than what was necessary. Yeah, he was hurt, but MJ was still so incredibly angry at him for being so reckless, for lying straight to their faces. But, despite her urge to chew him out, she smashed her lips against his.
The kiss wasn’t rooted in sensuality, or gentleness. It was desperate. It felt like coming up for air after drowning. MJ gripped his face between her palms, ignoring the tacky blood on her fingers. She didn’t care one bit, because Peter was back. After four long years, he was here. Peter melted, hand coming up slightly to graze her arm, before she pulled back from him.
Her hands were still on his face as she looked into his eyes. MJ could see the cogs in his head turning, trying to figure out what the fuck was happening. He looked almost wary, eyes clouded over, but simultaneously relieved, like his brain was telling him to be careful but his body couldn’t stop leaning into both Ned and MJ’s touches. He once again started to sit up, gingerly scooting himself to lean against the wall, but MJ and Ned immediately grabbed his arms to support him.
When he was properly oriented, Ned stood. “Stay here, I’m going to find a first aid kit. There should be one around here somewhere.”
“Under the bathroom sink.” Peter grunted out. “I’ve started healing around the bullet, so I’m going to have to dig it out.” Peter paused, seeming to notice his friend’s sudden silence. He looked up, finding them both staring at him. He clenched his jaw, shame consuming him. It was no wonder they were pissed at him. He did technically lie to them for four years, and almost bleed out in their arms.
Ned squeezed his hands into fists, but still turned away and went to Peter’s bathroom.
It was silent for a moment, save the faint sound of Ned’s rustling and rearranging of materials in the bathroom. The bloodstain stared back at Peter mockingly. You should’ve never let this happen.
MJ’s hands were in her lap. She was staring at them, turning them back and forth, studying the crimson drying on them. Despite her apparent lack of reaction, Peter could see the tremble in her fingers. He could see the way she was chewing on her lip, stairing but not actually looking, breathing slightly heavily. She was panicking. Peter knew the feeling all too well.
“Are you—“ he winced, the words catching on his throat as said them, wound pulling as he shifted. “Are you okay?”
“No, Peter, I’m not fucking okay.” She said, practically spitting the words out. Her nails were biting into her palms, digging little crescent moons into her skin. “You lied. Peter, you were alone for four years. I made you promise. Did you really not care about us that much?” She hears Peter wince again, nothing to do with his wound. She doesn’t give him a chance to speak.
“So no, Peter. I’m not okay. I’m so incredibly angry at you. But, more than that, I’m scared. You almost died. You didn’t—your heart wasn’t beating. You didn’t have a pulse.” MJ’s breath shuttered as she let out a weak sob. “You almost died in my arms Peter. I’m so mad at you.” She scrubbed at her eyes angrily, covering them with one hand as more liquid leaked from them. Her other hand hung limply on her knees.
Peter slips his hand into hers, squeezing lightly. “I’m so sorry, MJ.” He says. “I’m so fucking sorry.” He says it almost breathlessly, like the words take all his energy. He feels his wound slowly stitching back together, blood sluggishly seeping out, but he can’t find it in himself to focus on it. He knows he screwed up. He just didn’t know that MJ would think he wanted to be away from her and Ned.
“I didn’t come back for a lot of reasons,” Peter starts slowly. “but mostly because I couldn’t stand the thought of you getting hurt again because of me.” He swipes his thumb back and forth against the skin on the back of MJ’s hand. “I remember, at the Statue of Liberty—“ Peter stops, trying to speak over the lump in his throat. “You fell, and I couldn’t save you. MJ, I thought you died.” Tears were freely flowing now. “And I was lucky, so fucking lucky, that someone else was there to save you. But I knew, in that moment, that you guys would never be safe around me again. I knew that even if you were angry at me, at least you’d be angry and alive.”
MJ was squeezing his hand so tightly, Peter thought she would leave a bruise. “It wasn’t that you guys didn’t matter to me, god no. It was the opposite.” Peter sobbed, grabbing his abdomen when it disturbed the bullet still inside him. MJ reached a hand out, hovering over him, panic clear on her face, before Peter grabbed both of her hands in his. “MJ, you have to understand—I’m cursed. Maybe not literally, but it sure feels like it. Everyone around me suffers. May, Ben, Tony—“
“And none of that was ever your fault.” MJ said fiercely. The look in her eyes seemed to challenge Peter to prove her wrong, but Peter was becoming desperate. She had to understand. “MJ, please. I’m dangerous, it’s not safe for you, or Ned, or anyone. I can’t have your blood on my hands too. I’ll move, and you can pretend I never existed.” Peter’s eyes looked pained, like it was physically hurting him to have this conversation. He squeezed MJ’s hands between his, like he was trying to press his words into her skin so they could stick.
MJ was silent for a second. She just looked into Peter’s puppy dog eyes, wet with unshed tears. His brown curls, mussed from his mask and crusted with blood in some sections. His chest heaving, panic clear. And as she looked at him, something in her chest unfurled. The anger, the fear, just melting at the sight of him. Despite everything, he was still here. He didn’t die. He was still hers.
“No.” She finally said. When she didn’t elaborate, Peter repeated the word. “no?” He seemed genuinely confused, like the idea of leaving MJ wasn’t the most preposterous and stupid thing he’s ever said. “I said no, Peter. I’m not leaving you, and you sure as hell are never leaving me. It’s not for you to decide what’s too dangerous for me, and you can’t just up and leave because things get scary. That’s not how this works.” She pauses, debating her next words carefully.
“You never were a curse to the people who loved you. You were their world. You, Peter Parker, are the most selfless person I know, almost to a fault. But it’s time for you to start allowing yourself to want things.” She paused. She looked directly into his eyes, much too sad for a twenty-two year old. “And you deserve happiness. I’m still pissed at you, but I’m here to stay, whether you like it or not, Parker.”
It was silent for a moment, a moment frozen in time. But Peter quickly crumbles.
MJ wraps her arms around him, and they embrace tightly. His head is buried in her shoulder, chest wracking from his cries, arms squeezing her back. MJ crushes him impossibly closer, gently threading her nails through the overgrown curls on the nape of his neck, and allows herself to enjoy this moment. She knows things will get bad. She doesn’t know what happened to Peter during these four years alone, but none of it can be good. But she’s willing to stay through it all.
Ned comes back with the first aid kit, but promptly drops it on the ground when he sees them embracing. He joins MJ in the crushing hug. And finally, after four long years, they’re crying, sobbing, and smiling at the fact that they are all together again. Finally, Peter has his friends back, and despite the pain, the heartbreak, and the voice that’s still telling him to leave before he hurts them, he thinks things might finally end up okay.
And when Peter whispers out a quiet “I love you,” neither friend hesitates to repeat it back.