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Frank’s Diner sat on the corner of Austin and Continental in Queens, NY. Michaela Jane—better known as MJ—had been working the closing shift since the start of summer and conveniently enough, Francesca frequented the diner shortly thereafter.
MJ was sort of a friend of hers. Last school year, she decided to sit on the opposite end of the lunch table Francesca shared with her best friend John. Then, she kept coming back. MJ didn’t talk much either. If she wasn’t offering unsolicited opinions or nods of disapproval from time to time, she picked over her lunch in complete and utter silence.
Eventually, junior year came to a close, summer break started, and that’s when it happened.
Francesca fell for her.
—And hard.
She didn't know how it happened exactly. She was mostly just hungry—as she always was after a day of swinging around all five buroughs—and when she stopped to grab a bite to eat, she found her new friend working behind the lunch counter.
Francesca ended up staying until closing and the two talked more than they had that entire school year. She realized, MJ wasn’t just snarky. She was observant, sharp, authentic, and unbelievably beautiful.
She had never noticed the last detail before summer came. Maybe it was finally getting to see beneath a lighting less painful than the one at school. Or maybe it was the pastel blue, 50’s styled uniform MJ so obviously hated.
Whatever it was, Francesca felt like she might have been struck with some kind of love gun.
Seriously.
Although she couldn't think of a reason as to why anyone would do such a thing, she sent her DNA to Tony for further analysis.
Nothing came up.
No anomalies, no mutations—nothing outside of the half-human and half-spider DNA strands.
The feelings had simply struck like a bolt of lighting and now, she stood outside of Frank’s Diner, fiddling with the string of web drawn between her fingers, rehearsing her confession for the seventeenth time today.
“MJ,” she whispered to herself, now pacing outside the front door, “I–I think you’re really smart and super funny and . . . insanely gorgeous and . . . I just came by because—Well, I come by everyday—I—”
Francesca cupped a hand over her mouth, then dragged it down her face disgruntledly. She ran into a row of bikes parked along the sidewalk after. The last one tipped over in slow motion and with the flick of the wrist, she caught it with a web and placed it back in line with the rest.
Francesca held her breath as she looked over her shoulder.Thankfully, the city's patrons had been too invested in their phones or their detention to notice.
“Jesus,” she sighed.
Francesca thought this was ridiculous. She could climb the World Trade Center, take on the Sandman, and fight alongside The-Freaking-Avengers and yet, when it came to MJ, she was absolutely helpless.
She glanced down at her watch:
Thursday, August 28th — 7:17 PM
Ironically enough, the day she chose to confess was also the two year anniversary of being bitten by the radioactive spider that turned her into Spider-Woman.
Her whole life had changed since then and yet, this somehow felt bigger.
The bells over the door chimed as it opened and closed around Francesca. Her spidey senses detected things she hadn’t even laid eyes on yet. Eight booths, twelve stools, sixteen patrons, three fruit flies, and all Francesca truly noticed was MJ. The way her smile lit up the lunch counter, the way her eyes practically closed when she laughed at the truckers jokes, the way her curls bounced as she swiftly moved along the counter.
She adored it all.
“Francesca,” MJ called from behind the counter top. She glanced up at the clock behind her, then looked straight ahead again, “You’re earlier than usual.”
Francesca pushed her wobbly legs forward, wiped her sticky hands against her jeans, and sat down.
“Am I?” she chuckled awkwardly, “I hadn’t noticed”
MJ leaned against the counter, narrowing her eyes, “Why were you pacing?”
“What?” Francesca refuted the idea quickly, “When? I wasn’t pacing.”
“I saw you,” MJ said, then pointed to the diner’s entrance.
The front wall was entirely composed of windows. Even the door was made of glass. Which meant, she might’ve seen everything.
The bike.
The webs.
Francesca’s chest tightened and her mouth came open before she could even think of a good lie.
“I–I um, Well, I—”
“You don’t have to tell me,” MJ interrupted, “It’s no big deal.”
She shrank, lifting her eyes to try and see if MJ really meant it. Of course, she did and the knot inside was alleviated soon after.
“The usual then?”
“Yep,” Francesca nodded.
“Are you ever going to try anything else?” MJ asked as she poured water into a cup of ice.
“I am particular.”
“Oh I know.” MJ trailed off, “You come to talk with me everyday and sit in the same spot, eating the same thing, at the same time. That’s the textbook definition of particular,”
Did she know I was coming for her?
“I—” Francesca hesitated, “I wouldn’t say I’m coming to talk to you per se. I just—”
“So you don’t like talking to me?”
“No! I mean—Yes! Of course, I do. I—I come for you and the. . . “
“The donuts?” Michaela finished.
“Mmhmm” she nodded, “The donuts. I like . . . donuts.”
MJ narrowed her eyes, examining every inch of Francesca's face until her own expression softened through laughter.
“Relax, I’m onlyjoking.” she added.
MJ spun on her heels,reaching into the pantry to plate the vanilla glazed donut. Francesca grabbed it, taking three bites all at once before she could set it down fully.
“Hungry?” Michaela asked.
“You bet,” Francesca replied, giving the thumbs up.
What am I doing?
“Mmmm,” MJ said, “Then . . . I guess I have some good news to share.”
Francesca paused to wipe her mouth with a napkin. She took a big chug of water after.
“What is it?”
“I sort of got into this art show,” MJ explained lightly.
Though she'd never seen any of MJ’s work, she knew she was an artist. She learned a bit about it this summer. MJ had disclosed that her parents were artists–her mother, a painter, and her father, a journalist—and so she picked it up naturally.
But Francesca had known long before she told her.
MJ would sometimes sit at their table with her left hand sketching away into a sketchbook and the right working to feed herself. Then, when lunch was over, Francesca would watch as she rushd into the bathroom to clean the dark pencil from her hands before next period.
“Seriously?” Francesca asked, astonished, “I didn’t know you were submitting your work.”
“I did once. In June. Mr. Gru basically threatened to fail me if I didn’t,” she answered, rolling her eyes with a fond smile.
“I’m glad he did!” Francesca exclaimed, “That’s amazing!”
“It’s pretty cool,” she shrugged.
Classic MJ.
“When’s the show?” Francesca wondered.
“Next Friday.”
Francesca had been leaning forward so hard that the chair nearly came out from under her. Michaela giggled as her chin nearly collided with the top of the counter. Once all four legs rested against the floor, she let out a relieved sigh and stared at MJ again.
“The end of this week?” Francesca repeated.
To which, MJ nodded.
“Wow . . . Congratulations MJ.” she said, pursing her lips together and smiling.
“Thank you,” hummed MJ. Then, she stared down at the counter, fiddling with the skin around her thumbs fingernail before continuing, “I was actually wondering if maybe you wanted to come?”
“Really?”
“Unless you don't want to.”
“No! No! I do! I'm just surprised you're inviting me.”
“Surprised?”
“Yeah, you know, the one and only Michaela Jane Stirling letting someone else celebrate her . . .”
“Shut up,” she laughed, “I mean, we're sort of . . . friends now, right?”
For a moment, Francesca pondered over the word friend. She couldn't shake the feeling that there was something beneath it. There was hesitation around it and when MJ got the word out, her face cringed, like there was something wrong with the term.
Hearing her call them friends was nice, but Francesca couldn't help but feel the same cringe.
“Yeah. Friends.”
Francesca regretted it the moment it came out her mouth. Of course, they were friends, but that wasn’t all she wanted. She wanted to be close to MJ. She wanted more.
So much more.
Her eyes combed over every detail as if she hadn’t already memorized them. For a while, she hadn’t even blinked.
“Francesca,” MJ said, “You’re staring.”
“I’m not,” Francesca replied, darting her gaze to her hands.
“You were,”
“I’m just . . . thinking.”
“About?”
Francesca’s mouth fell open before she knew what to say. She thought now was her chance. MJ had already opened the window by inviting her to the show, now all she had to do was swing through it, and say something that could solidify things.
“Well, I was actually think . . . maybe we could—”
“Holy shit!” a patron shouted, pointing upwards.
All eyes shifted to the television mounted beside the clock. The moving image depicted live helicopter footage from the Fox News Station. According to the reporter, the conductor suffered a seizure a few minutes ago and the train had now reached over 110mph.
“We have reports that the conductor is still unconscious and no one from the MTA can get a hold of anyone else on the train. They’re saying the line of connection to the train is completely scrambled. No one can make out what’s being said, but they have told us that the train is approaching a curve and if it doesn’t slow down, it will derail, likely resulting in the injury of dozens of passengers and maybe even some mortalities." the news reporter said.
The diner hushed into gasps and panicked whispers. Without thought, Francesca rose from the stool, hand already reaching for the button that’d deploy her suit on her watch.
She had to stop it.
Her gaze fell from the screen and onto MJ’s backside. She’d been completely engulfed in the television. She started to reach out—to try and explain her sudden absence to MJ. But that would mean lying and she didn't want to lie to her.
Not ever.
Francesca squeezed her backpack strap and rushed out of the diner without looking back.
By the time she was dressed and in the air, she was certain she’d screwed things up.
The night did not slow after Spider-Woman stopped the train. If it had, Francesca may have tried to return to the diner, but instead, it would seem that every criminal in New York City decided tonight was their night to act.
She took down five midnight burglars, prevented a kidnapping, and swiftly knocked out a drunken creeper who’d been inappropriate with a woman waiting for entry to a nightclub. Of course, her first instinct was never to just walk up and punch someone, but he wouldn’t shut his big fat mouth.
Finally, Francesca returned to her apartment with aching feet and heavy limbs. She moved around the house quietly, removing her coat and shoes before webbing an apple from the fridge. Her clothes came off the moment she stepped foot into her bedroom. Then, she slipped into an oversized t-shirt and plopped down onto the mattress.
Face first.
Francesca managed to lay still for five seconds.
Then . . . MJ.
Their conversation from the diner seemed to pop back into her head in every idle moment. Not only was it unfinished, but abruptly so.Despite not having stuck around, she couldn’t help but already feel she needed to make up for it.
An idea struck faster than the cages of the web she’d used to immobilize criminals.
Francesca and MJ had exchanged numbers earlier this summer. They texted on occasion but they’d never spoken on the phone before. Let alone on Facetime. Her thumb bounced between the phone and video call buttons, hovering indecisively until finally, she pressed the bright blue icon.
It rang a few times before MJ appeared on the screen. She was in bed, bonnet over her head, body tucked under the blue sheets, eyes squinting at the light bouncing off illuminating beautiful brown skin.
“Francesca?” MJ uttered.
“Were you asleep?”
“Yes. It’s—” MJ paused, eyes flickering to the top of the screen, “2:30. Of course, I was.”
Francesca glanced at the clock in her room. Though, she didn’t know how late it truly was, she should’ve known something was off when she first read the time.
It’d been stuck at 9:48 pm for the past five minutes now.
She groaned, tossing around in the bed unsettledly.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how late it was.” she apologized, “I’ll just—Go back to sleep. Sorry again.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m awake now,” MJ replied, sounding more alert the more she spoke, “What’s up?”
“Nothing.” Francesca replied a bit too quickly.
“You facetimed me for no reason?”
“No. I have a reason I just–” she said, hitting a dead end.
I’m failing at this.
“I wanted to apologize—For leaving so suddenly earlier, I—” she confessed, “My mother—She needed my help and I had to . . . help her.”
For a moment, she regretted choosing to Facetime. She would have been able to kick herself had she not.
“Oh.” MJ said softly, “It’s fine. Is she okay?”
“Yeah, she’s totally fine,” Francesca answered, “Just . . . needed help.”
“Okay. Well, It’s cool. I’m glad everything’s okay.”
Neither of them were quite sure what to say next. The “reason” for the call had served its purpose and now, there was nothing but silence and slow blinks.
“How’d the rest of your shift go?” Francesca inquired next.
“Good. Boring, No assholes which, I guess is something to be grateful for,” she shrugged.
“Do you have to deal with assholes often?” Francesca asked.
“Most of the time, it’s just unsatisfied Karens” she answered, “Every so often, it's the truckers. Some are pretty impatient and just rude.”
“Does your manager usually step in at that point?”
“No. He sucks. But it only got scary once or twice. We got Greg to scare them off.”
Francesca knew Greg to be the line cook. He was a friendly giant who never seemed to have a day off. You had to actually speak with him to know he was friendly though, otherwise, he was downright terrifying.
“You could also call me, you know?” Francesca offered, “If there was ever a problem.”
MJ cheesed into the camera, “Are you saying you’ll rough up some customers for me?”
“No,” Francesca smiled back, rolling her eyes, leaning into the banter, “But, I would give them a stern talking to.”
MJ laughed—hard—and the sound was literal music to her ears.
“I'm serious!” she continued, “I know I don’t look it, but I’ve been told I can be very intimidating. ”
“Yeah. Right.” MJ nodded, clearly still in doubt, “I'll take you up on it.”
Francesa thought MJ truly didn’t know the half of it. She may have had long, scrawny arms, but her enhanced senses made her damn good at kicking ass. If Michaela did ever call, she probably would try to talk some sense into them and when that didn’t work, she’d string them up in an alley way, leaving them to think about their actions until someone came to cut them down.
The next hour passed slowly. Francesca and MJ spoke about any and everything. First it was music, then it was the subway system, then Mayor Mamdani, and finally, what to expect of their final year at Middleton High School.
Francesca’s eyelids grew heavier with every word she spoke. At some point, she’d even dozed off, but thankfully, MJ hadn’t noticed.
Eventually, their conversation slowed and the quiet grew louder.
“Francesca?”
“Yeah?”
“You were going to ask me something at the diner . . . before you left.” MJ voiced quietly.
Francesca’s eyes shot open as if a bucket of cold water was just dumped on her face.
“Right . . . um . . .” she paused, clearing her throat.
This is your chance. Just . . . ask her out.
“You know, since you invited me to your show. I was wondering if maybe you wanted to . . . I don’t know, go . . . togeth—”
A notification dropped down from the top of her screen before she could finish. One with three bright red exclamation points. Francesca flipped the phone face down before tapping into her watch. More details on the situation appeared as a hologram. She zeroed in on the live camera footage, finding three masked burglars sitting in a car outside of the same nightclub from earlier.
Crap.
“Hello?” she heard muffled MJ’s voice,
Francesca picked up the phone and hopped out of bed simultaneously. She set it down on her dresser, pointing the camera to the ceiling, dipping in and out the frame as she tried to change into her suit in stealth.
“MJ . . . I—um, I have to go,” she said, panting.
“Oh! Uh . . . is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” she said, hopping on one foot, “Everything's . . . totally fine!”
Her watch pinged again.
“Can I tex–Can I call you back in the morning?” she asked.
“Sure,” MJ nodded, then she joked, “Booty call?”
“Something like that,” Francesca chuckled nervously.
She watched something in MJ’s face change. First, it stilled, then, the smile faded. Francesca froze. Crap. She’d been rushing, trying to keep things light and fun and now . . . she’d basically stepped in dog poop.
“Oh, I didn’t know you were seeing anyones,” MJ added.
The silence in the room was ear piercing.
“I—”
Her watch pinged again, then the hologram displayed all on its own. Francesca launched the phone across the room so hard, it hit her headboard with a loud bang. She could hear MJ’s voice but she couldn’t make out what had been said.
There were more guys, and now, they were moving in on the nightclub.
Francesca clenched the mask in her hand and webbed her bedroom window open.
And by the time she reached for her phone, Michaela had already hung up.
Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday hadn’t allowed her to visit Frank’s Diner. Not for a single second. Somehow, she managed to go the entire summer without crime’s interruption. Now, on the most important week of her life, she couldn't even step foot inside.
If there truly was a God or multiple, they were certainly cruel.
Francesca spent those days fighting crime in misery—and there was nothing more thrilling than defending the city from bad guys.
But, when Thursday evening rolled around, she found herself back outside of the diner with her eyes glued to the watch. Nothing had come through. Francesca stood on the sidewalk for fifteen minutes waiting and still, nothing.
So, she entered the diner and took her usual seat.
MJ hadn’t seen her immediately. She’d been too busy brewing a fresh batch of coffee to notice, but when she did finally turn around, she didn’t smile.
Francesca’s heart sank, shattering the moment it sank into her stomach.
“What can I get you?” MJ asked dryly.
“Uh . . . the usual?” Francesca uttered, “Please?”
“Weird,” MJ tilted her head, “I only ever hear that from customers who actually come by enough to have one.”
Francesca blinked, jaw creaking open to reply. But nothing came out. Eventually, MJ turned towards the pantry and roughly dropped the plated donut down on the table. She did the same with her glass of water and didn’t even budge when some of it spilled over.
Her hand began to shake as she reached for a napkin.
“Um, did I do something?” she asked.
“I think I should be the one asking you that,” MJ snarked.
Crap. It’s worse than I thought.
“I—I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want you to be sorry,” MJ huffed, “I want to know what’s going on.”
For a moment, Francesca thought about telling her the truth. Not just that she liked her. The full truth. Yet, like a shadow, past conversations hung over the idea. Every super would suggest against it. Jessica, Luke, Steve, Thor, Matt—they’d all lost people who knew the truth. Or came pretty close to.
And she couldn’t lose MJ.
She wouldn’t.
“It kinda feels like you’ve been avoiding me,” MJ said, softer this time.
Her eyes glimmered with a hurt strong enough to pierce right through Francesca.
“MJ, I’m not avoiding you.” Francesca confessed, “ I’ve just been . . . busy.”
“Right,” MJ nodded with her lips pursed together, “Look, I don’t care if you have a girlfriend. But if you’re just going to get all secretive and abandon me then—”
“Wh— I don’t have a girlfriend!”
The words flew out of Francesca’s mouth far louder than she had intended. Her tone was desperate enough to turn a few heads at the counter. She shrank immediately, shoulders rising toward her ears as the diner seemed to settle around tension between them.
MJ stared fiercely.
The anger on her face subsided into something smaller. Something Francesca wasn’t quite sure how to read. Her brows drew together like she was trying to decide whether to believe her or not and her mouth parted slightly, as if she felt stupid for wanting to.
“But . . . you said you were answering a booty call.”
“I—I lied.” Francesca admitted.
“Why?”
The diner’s soft chatter rose again and beneath it swelled a song from the jukebox:
I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend by the Ramones.
Aside from always having been a fan of the band that grew up in the exact same neighborhood as herself, the song had been playing the first time she ever set foot in the diner. If she closed her eyes for long enough, she could still smell the fresh burgers, taste the salted chili cheese fries, and feel the palpitations of her heart when she finally spotted MJ behind the counter.
Francesca didn’t need the entire summer to know for sure.
“Because I like you.” she confessed, “I wanted to ask if you wanted to go to the gallery together—as like a date. I only said it was something else because I got nervous . . . because . . . you make me really nervous, MJ.”
MJ didn’t answer immediately. For several terrible seconds, Francesca thought she might laugh and not because she was cruel, but because Francesca had said it like a person falling down a flight of stairs. Every syllable was breathless, bumpy, and absolutely without grace.
But MJ only stared.
A few police cars came rolling by. Judging by their speed, there was no emergency and so, Francesca could breathe. But, for a moment, they flicked their lights on, washing the sides of Michaela’s face in red, then blue, then red again.
The world narrowed to the space between them.
“You like me?” MJ asked.
Francesca swallowed, “Yeah.”
“As in . . . “
“As in I don't even like the donuts that much,” Francesca rushed out before she could lose her nerve, “As in I’ve come here everyday for the entire summer solely for you—because I think about you all the time.”
The corner of MJ’s mouth twitched as if she was holding something back.
“I’ve been trying to ask you out for a week but I . . . ” Francesca trailed off.
“Kept disappearing,” MJ finished.
“Yes.”
“And you were acting weird on the phone.”
“Yes,”
“After you called me at two in the morning, then made it sound like you were leaving me to go hook up with someone.”
Francesca’s smile fell, then she winced.
“Yes.”
MJ looked down at the counter, drawing shapes into the small puddle of water she'd left behind earlier with her pointer finger. The sharpness in her shoulders and voice had vanished completely now. The anger she wore as armor had dissolved into hurt.
Yet still, she smiled.
“Do you know any other words?”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s two.”
“I’m really really sorry,”
MJ huffed out a laugh so small it barely escaped her mouth, “That’s three. Repeating words is cheating.”
Francesca gripped the glass until her palm was as cold as the water. A small crack formed in the glass, to which she quickly let go, pressing her palms flat against her thighs instead.
“I don’t mean to disappear, I just—” she stopped before another lie could come out, “I have some things going on,”
“Like?”
“Nothing suspicious.”
MJ blinked, clearly leaning more towards suspicion than away from it.
“I swear!” fracnesca’s eyes widened, “I’m not like in a cult or selling drugs or anything. It just sounds suspicious because I’m being suspicious, but it's nothing . . . suspicious.”
Stupid.
MJ blinked again. This time, until the song ended. The pause between the end of the Ramones and the start of whatever came next was long. Then, somehow, Michaela cracked right on beat, laughing gently.
“Because that’s not suspicious.” she remarked.
“I want to tell you. I do. I just . . . I can’t right now.”
She waited for MJ to say something else, but nothing came.
Francesca dropped her face into her palms, “This is going badly.”
“It’s going weirdly,” MJ corrected.
“That’s not much better”
“But, I like weird,
She peeked through her fingers, finding that MJ was smiling again. It was the same smile that lit up the diner. Francesca felt her heart kick against her ribs.
Hard.
“So . . . the gallery.” MJ mentioned.
“Right,” Francesca sat up immediately, “Would you like to go with me?”
“As a date?”
“Yes.”
MJ nodded slowly, squinting as if she were weighing something grand.
“Okay.” MJ agreed, “Meet me there tomorrow?”
Francesca’s eyes widened. She couldn’t believe how easily she’d gotten her to agree.
“Yeah, I’ll swing by at seven?” she asked, eyes only widening only she realized what she said, Well, not swing. But you know, walk. Or take the train. Whatever’s—you know—better?”
Mj squinted again, “You’re really strange, Francesca Bridgerton.”
Another customer, somewhere down the bar, had been waving for MJ’s attention. She glanced at them, then back at Francesca.
“Don’t mind me,” she said, getting up from the stool, reaching into her back pocket to tip “I’m going to walk into traffic now.”
“Dont’ you still owe me a date,” MJ giggled.
MJ was already halfway down the counter, then she called out.
“Oh and Francesca,” she said, “You better not pull any suspicious crap tomorrow” then she said something softer, “It’s important to me.”
And as happy as she was, Francesca couldn't help but leave the diner with a looming fear.
New York City would not rest simply because of her date with MJ.
Francesca rode the I train for about fifteen minutes before getting off at Jamaica Center and Parsons/Archer. MJ’s art was being shown at the Jamaica Center for Arts and Learning (JCAL) which was about a two minute walk from the stop. She walked up the block briskly, Ramones playing softly in her ears as she turned left, then right, spotting the building in the short distance.
The sandy-stoned structure was back lit by the warm sun, decorated by the assortment of pale blue, tangerine orange, and blush pink that sat in the sky. She didn’t know anything about art, in fact, she preferred science, but she could admit seeing how this could be someone’s happy place.
A small line formed outside the tall wooden doors. Francesca approached it, flowers clenching in hand, neck extended to look out in the distance. She checked the time again, confirming that she’d arrived at seven. Just as she said she would. Still, there was no sign of MJ.
Francesca settled near the curb and soon after, she felt a tap on her right shoulder. MJ stood on in a pair of rundown converse and a pale blue dress that stopped just before her knees. The sky behind her burst into powdery waves of color and the vanilla smell coming off her skin was enough to overpower the grime of the city..
“Hi,” MJ said gently.
Francesca felt like she’d been punched in the chest. In the best way possible. The only downside was, she couldn’t breathe—and if she couldn’t breathe, she certainly couldn’t talk. So, she did the next best thing and shoved the flowers in MJ’s face.
MJ giggled, peering out from behind them as her hand wrapped around the stems. She had to apply a bit of force to get the flowers free. Francesca blamed it on the nervous grip, but it was really her webs.
They poured out her palms like sweat whenever she was nervous.
Still, MJ laughed, as if she thought Francesca was the cutest thing in the world.
“Hello,” Francesca choked out.
She darted her eyes to the ground, rocking from heel to toe with her hands now behind her back, “You look . . . really pretty tonight.”
“Thank you,” MJ hummed, “You do too.”
Francesca looked down at the clothes her mother helped pick out. A white button down, black slacks, and the same converse as MJ—only in red.
“Thanks,” she murmured, shoving her hands into her pockets.
There was an awkward silence between them.
“Is this weird?” Francesca wondered.
“No, it’s . . . ” MJ shook her head, “Perfectly you.”
Francesca could hardly hear MJ over the fireworks. Not literally, but metaphorically. She watched her gorgeous lips move and yet, the colors hadn't stopped exploding.
“Francesca?” she called, tugging on her wrist.
She glanced down at the point of contact before settling back onto MJ. She looked like a deer in head lights.
“Come on,” MJ chuckled, “You’re gonna make me late.”
She didn’t let go of Francesca's wrist. Not until they got to the front of the line. Then, she took her by the hand. The building was composed of several long white rooms with patterned tile floors that made each footstep click sharply. No matter the shoe.
The art lived alongside them: paintings hung unevenly against the walls, sculptures crouched low to the floor, and ceramics posted perfectly on different sized podiums. Visitors leaned in close, examining the different textures and fine details. Artists—former, current, old and new—mixed and mingled over cocktails.
MJ was almost instantly engulfed. Her eyes lit up, pupils shaped like stars as they bounced from piece to piece. She watched the art—the people—and Francesca simply watched her.
“Are we going to see your piece already?” Francesca asked , still following.
“No,” MJ shook her head, “I heard there was an installation just over here. I wanna see it.”
Francesca followed willfully. She’d go anywhere with her—as long as she promised to never let go. MJ led them to a corner with a black box near the far wall. Francesca squinted at it, head tilting curiously.
“Uh . . . it’s nice?” she suggested.
“This isn't the piece,” MJ concluded with a laugh, “It’s inside,”
Once they moved inside of the box, they found a low hanging, UV light and a painting that practically ran from the ceiling to the floor.
“What do you think?” MJ asked.
Francesca examined the painting closely. It was a close up of a young girl with a huge afro, done only in hues of red and blue.
“Wow,” Francesca said, aweing at the glow bouncing off her retinas, “I like it, especially the eyes,”
“I do too, it feels like they’re meant to be the focus of the painting.”
They stared at the image for a while. Together. MJ stood with her shoulders squared to it and Francesca stood right beside her, hands brushing against one another in every exhale.
“They’re so delicate and tired—almost too tired for a child." Francesca said, leaning in a bit closer.
MJ watched as Francesca was nearly swallowed whole.
“I think maybe . . . “ MJ suggested, trailing off in thought, “Maybe that's the point.”
Francesca blinked, “Elaborate,”
“Red, to me, kind of reads like danger. Notice how it’s in her clothing, in parts of her skin,, even in bits of her hair,” MJ explained. She pointed out every detail she mentioned and Francesca tried to open her mind to it. “It’s all related to identity and expression, but the blue . . .”
As MJ trailed off, Francesca already began searching for the areas painted in blue, finding them in the waterlines of her eyes, at the center of her chest, and at the bottom of her throat. She didn’t have to think long before an answer came to mind.
“The blue is emotion,” Francesca finished.
“That’s my interpretation too,” hummed MJ, “I think she’s meant to be tired.”
“I wonder why.”
A fraction of silence passed.
“What’s the name of the piece?” she asked.
“I—I actually have no clue,” MJ laughed.
She stepped in front of Francesca, trying to get a peak at the label outside of the box. But Francesca stepped forward too. They stopped before they could collide and her gaze fell, flickering between MJ’s eyes and lips.
The pounding in her chest had spread to her ears.
“Will you look down for a second?” MJ suddenly asked.
Francesca’s heart sank, “Oh . . . um—”
MJ grabbed her by the forearms, rising to her toes as Francesca bent down slightly, and pressed their lips together. Naturally, Francesca’s spine stiffened. She’d never been kissed before and so, with wide eyes, she sat there like the frog from the fairytale.
Then, she melted into it.
Her hands settled on MJ’s waist as she found her rhythm, deepening the kiss. Fire spread across her lips like wildfire. Then to her face and finally, to the rest of her body.
MJ pulled back first. She settled into the heels of her feet, eyes gently lifting with a smile.
“I wanted to kiss you first,” she whispered.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, you made me wait all summer,” she chuckled.
“I’m sorry you had to wait so long,” Francesca uttered.
“Don’t be.”
They kissed again. Harder. Deeper. Longer. Francesca thought it would last forever. Until Mr. Gru suddenly yanked the curtain back. He jumped backward and yanked it closed before either could say anything in their defense.
They heard his voice from the other side shortly after.
“Ladies, I know it's dark in there but this is an art piece, not a closet,” Mr. Gru said, “Find somewhere else to make out please.”
MJ giggled, hand brushing against Francesca's chest. She was in pure heaven. They stepped back out, pupils shrinking as they adjusted to the light. Mr. Gru disappeared inside the box when they came out. They found him again a bit later in the evening, still looking over his shoulder, lifting two fingers to his eyes before painting in their direction.
“Do you think we’ll lose points for that when school starts next week?” Francesca asked, face warming all over again.
“For kissing in an art installation during summer break,” MJ said, “No. He’s more likely to give me extra credit for interacting with the art.”
“That is not what that means.”
“What do you know about art anyway?”
“I know lots,” Francesca argued.
“Yeah? Like what?”
Francesca opened her mouth, then closed it. Her eyes combed the gallery for an answer both applicable and intelligent, “Paintings can be done with paint, spray, and . . . brushes and things,”
MJ stared, then she laughed loud and bright enough to make an older lesbain couple glance over and smile.
“Come on, there’s more," MJ said, slipping her hand back into Francesa’s.
She noticed it more this time around—the callouses on her hands, the grooves of her fingerprint. The first time had been quick—pratical, even. MJ simply needed a way of pulling her through the line and into the building.
But this felt different.
It was intentional, romantic, and sweet enough to rot her teeth.
They continued to move through the gallery, putting one foot in front of the other easily. MJ led the way and Francesca continued to follow as if it were the easiest thing in the world.
It wasn’t.
Not before becoming Spider-Woman and certainly not after.
Some of the pieces they passed were beautiful in ways she figured a child could understand: oil-painted portraits with simple backgrounds, photographs of civilians and corner stores, life-sized clay sculptures—some of people who’d even been in attendance.
Others she found to be a bit more . . . complex. Particularly the sculpture of chopsticks and the circle of broken glass scattered across a white sheet on the floor.
She lingered near those long enough to really search for interpretation—and for MJ to giggle with fond appreciation. Still, she liked looking at them.
Francesca would absolutely say she was having a good time. The best, in fact. She’d stop trying to hide the smile that came from watching MJ change in the gallery. The introverted MJ she knew had completely come to life. The difference of who she was at school and the diner was profound compared to the gallery. It was clear that this was MJ’s home away from home and Francesca was glad to be a part of it.
She’d come to see MJ’s art, but somewhere between the third and fourth room, she realized she was also getting to see MJ herself.
The real MJ.
Eventually, they stopped in front of a large photograph of a couple at a graffiti riddle skatepark.The colors had been striped, desaturated into hues of black and grey.
MJ tilted her head beside her. “I think I’ve been here before.”
“You skateboard too?” Francesca asked.
“Sort of, I’m just getting into it.” she admitted.
“You’re so cool,” Francesca gushed.
“Thanks,” she muttered bashfully, then more confidently, she added, “You’re pretty cool, too.”
“I’m so not.”
“You are!”
“How so?”
“You just . . . there’s something different about you,” MJ started, “Like, you’re on the debate team and in the science club but . . . you're different from everyone else. You’re more . . . charming.”
Francesca Bridgerton grinned harder than she had all night, “Charming? Who says charming anymore?”
“Shut up,” MJ laughed, bumping her, “I’m giving you a compliment. Take it.”
Francesca sighed happily, “Thank you.”
They continued on, hand in hand, until the crowd thinned near the back of the gallery. MJ’s steps slowed then. Her fingers tightened around Francesca’s, and the shift was felt immediately.
“My piece is just over there,” MJ said.
Everything in Francesca went still.
“Can I run to the bathroom first?” MJ turned head on, asking, “ People are gonna be like—talking to me and stuff.”
“Yeah, yeah. Go,” Francesca nodded.
She shoved her hands into her pockets, watching MJ walk away shamelessly. The night couldn’t have been going any better.
Then, her watch pinged.
Oh no.
Francesca pulled her sleeve back and saw three red glowing exclamation points.
No! No! No! No!
For a moment, she thought to let the cops handle it. Sure, they were slow but that’s what they were for. Weren’t they? Surely they didn’t expect her to show up every time. But the longer Francesca sat with the thought, the more dislodged it became.
Inevitably, she tapped the screen for more information.
Something she regretted almost immediately.
An alien—one with sharp teeth and red horns had struck Time Square.
The police couldn’t handle it.
Sweat dripped down her face immediately. Her breaths came in short. The room began to spin. Images flashed through her mind. First MJ, then the alien, then the city, then MJ again. Francesca waited as long as she could, legs bouncing, words slipping from beneath her breath.
She couldn’t wait any longer.
Francesca looked into the crowd one last time before turning towards the door, tears swelling in her waterline. She kept her head down as she barreled towards the front of the building.
MJ will never forgive me.
Francesca reached the outside world in no time. The noise of the city returned and it was far different than inside. Far less comforting.
Before she could step any further she heard her name.
—coming from a voice too heavy to face.
“Francesca?” MJ called.
She turned slowly, finding MJ’s face pinched together so tightly, Francesca felt the pain in her own cheeks.
“You’re leaving?”
“MJ . . . I–I have to go,” she started, “I’m so sorry.”
“You didn’t even get to see my piece.” MJ whispered.
Francesca didn’t know what to say. On instinct, she looked at her watch and MJ’s face soured even further. The live footage showed the alien tossing cars into skyscrapers.
She had to go.
“I know and I’m really sorry. I’ll explain later.”
“Will you?” she asked, “Or will it just be more secrets?”
Francesca was choking on her own tongue.
“I'm really trying here but you're giving me nothing.” MJ continued.
“MJ, I want to tell you but—”
“You can't,” she finished, crossing her arms, “I know.”
Francesca fell silent again.
“I told you this was important to me,” she huffed, eyes watering, “I took a chance and let you in. . . and you can’t even be honest with me.”
“MJ—”
“Save it.” she interrupted again, “I have to get back. Go do . . . whatever it is you’re doing.”
MJ turned and rushed back into the building before Francesca could get another word out. Francesca simply stood there, staring at the door as it felt like it swung shut directly in her face. She wanted to follow her and explain. Perhaps even beg.
But her watch wouldn’t stop flashing.
The people in Times Square needed her.
So, she wiped her face and disappeared into the alley to suit up.
The alien in Times Square had been no match for Spider-Woman. The victory didn’t come easy and the damage to the city had already been done but those involved would live to see another day.
Two days passed and the next current event had yet to pull the city's attention. All five boroughs seemed to spend the weekend celebrating her. Normally, she’d be mortified, but honored.
Yet now, she felt nothing.
She’d saved the city—yet again—and still, she felt empty.
Nothing seemed to fill the hole in her chess.
And nothing could.
Only MJ.
Francesca found herself at the diner Saturday morning. Although she knew MJ only closed, she decided she would sit and wait all day. Her face lit up the moment MJ walked in. She knew she’d likely be ignored at first, which is why she showed up to the diner in the first place. She figured MJ couldn’t ignore her if she had to serve her.
But she’d been outsmarted.
When MJ punched in, she put on her apron and sent someone else to her usual section. An older woman named Stephanie. Francesca ate the crappy donut, paid, and decided not to come back after that.
If MJ didn’t want to talk, then she couldn’t force it.
Sunday inevitably came and Francesca found herself kicking pebbles around the city with her hands shoved into her pockets and music vibrating in her ears.
She had no destination. She was simply walking, trying to clear her mind.
Francesca passed food carts, merchants, street performers, and all the life she appreciated about the city. Yet, in this moment, it all felt so small. So insignificant.
Just as she was about to pass the JCAL, her phone began to ring.
Her heart skipped a beat, then fell back into its normal rhythm when she realized it was only John.
“Hey,” she answered glumly.
“Hey!” he sounded, “Where you been?”
“Nowhere, just . . .” she trailed off, “Around.”
“Dude, I’ve been trying to call you for days. Everytime I go to your house, your mom tells me you’re out. I wanna hear about that fricking alien. You were awesome!”
“John, I can’t talk right now.” she huffed.
He paused for several seconds and looked at his friend.
This time, he really saw her.
“Whoa, what’s wrong?”
“I—” she stopped, “That alien screwed my date with MJ. She won’t even talk to me now!”
“Shit, I forgot that was the same night,” he replied.
Francesca glanced at the JCAL as it fell behind her. The night was utterly perfect up until she had to leave. Forever embedded into the walls were the sounds of their conversations. Of their laughter. Of their kiss.
“Have you tried texting?” he inquired.
“Yes. No reply.”
“What about calling?”
“No answer.”
“The diner?”
“Yes, John! What part of ‘she won't talk to me’ don't you get?” she shouted.
“Hey! Don't be mean to me! I didn't do anything.”
“Sorry,” Francesca groaned, then she sighed, “I’m sorry, I'm just . . . I don't know what to do. If I tell her about Spider-Woman, I’ll be putting her in danger. I know it.”
“You had no problem putting me in danger,” John argued quickly.
“You're a nosey little mole,” she remarked, “Besides, you told me you could handle anything.”
“I can,” he remarked, “I think MJ can too. I mean, she seems pretty capable of handling herself.”
“Yeah,” she sighed.
Francesca hated how simple he made things sound. John had never had a girlfriend of his own and still, he acted as if it were the easiest thing in the world. But the worst part was, he wasn’t exactly wrong. MJ was capable. Sure she couldn’t physically fight off aliens and psychopaths, but she was the sharpest person Francesca knew.
Maybe if she hadn't been so busy trying to protect MJ . . .
Her phone started to buzz again.
It was Tony Stark.
“John, I gotta go, Mr. Stark’s calling.”
She said her goodbye quickly, then answered the next call.
“Hey, Mr. Stark.”
“Kid, I’ve told you a hundred times before, call me Tony,” he replied.
She couldn't see his face. Only his eyebrows, forehead, and hair.
“Sorry,” she muttered.
“I just wanted to know if you received your invite to my luncheon.”
“No?” she answered, “What luncheon?”
He paused, bringing his entire face into the frame now, “First of all, why do you sound like someone ran over your cat?”
“Nothing. I’m fine,” she lied.
“No, no, no.” He shook his head, “I can't talk to you when you sound like that,”
“I said I’m fine.”
“I physically cannot continue this conversation until you sound happier.”
“Why?” she huffed, exacerbated.
“Because you’re making me feel sad,” he replied, “And I don’t like being sad. So just tell me so we can fix it and get back to talking about my part.”
Francesca nearly rolled her eyes out her head. Leave it to Tony Stark to make her heartbreak about him. She dragged her feet into an alley to speak freely in. One time, she’d been walking down the street when someone noticed she was on FaceTime with Tony Stark. A crowd came to surround her faster than airbags were deployed after an accident.
“I was on a date before I fought that alien,” she huffed.
“You went on a date?” He exclaimed, “I didn’t know you had it in you, Kid. That’s amazing.”
“Except she’s mad now because I left at the most important part of the night.”
“Women get mad all the time,” he remarked, rolling his eyes, “Just say you’re sorry.”
“I tried,” Francesca explained again, “She won’t talk to me,”
“Did you try buying her a dozen bouquets of roses?”
Her face drew in tightly, “No?”
“You should. Works like a charm.” he said easily, “Need money?”
“No!” Francesca huffed, “I need her to talk to me.”
“So make her,”
“Tony, I can’t make her talk if she doesn't wanna—”
“Sure you can,” he said, “Go to her house and tell her you’re Spider-Woman.”
Francesca opened her mouth to argue. The suggestion was so absurd, so useless, so entirely Tony Stark that it almost made her angry. Of course someone with billions of dollars would think everything was that simple.
“I can't just—” she paused, “Wait, you think I should tell her?”
“Yeah why not?” he asked.
“Do you not remember the forty minute speech you gave me on the do’s and dont’s of being a superhero?”
“Oh god, that crap? It’s just a precaution. I’m legally obligated to say all that shit,” he huffed.
Francesca rolled her eyes again.
“I say, if you really like this girl, you tell her the truth. Let her decide what she can’t handle because if you decide for her, you’ll always end up choosing against yourself.”
The words turned in Francesca’s stomach. In a way, he’d sounded a lot like John. Sure, there were different words and certainly different levels of arrogance, but the point was still the same. She told herself she was keeping MJ safe.
But perhaps, that was simply the easiest choice.
Tony was unfortunate right and so was John.
MJ should choose.
“Besides . . . you're a good kid.” he added, “You deserve it,”
Francesca beamed into the phone.
“Thanks Mr. Stark!” she chirped, “I mean, Tony. I gotta go!”
“Wait! What about my party?!” he shouted.
“Text me the invitation," she rushed off, “Got to go!!”
Francesca slid the phone into her pocket and started walking. Then, she started running and after about a block, she dipped into an alleyway and then zipped into the sky. Up here, she didn’t have to wear a mask and hopefully, she wouldn’t have to wear one down there either.
By the time she returned to Forest Hills, she’d broken out into a complete sweat. She rushed towards building 110-27 on Seventy-First and knocked hard against the door. For a moment, she imagined what would happen if her mother answered the door. Or even worse her father.
But, no one answered.
Francesca stepped back from the food with an idea twisting in her brain. She could always use the tech Tony had given her. Although he had specifically advised against using it for non-threatening emergencies, she figured, there'd been a lot Tony suggested blindly.
Without giving it another thought, she reached into her backpack and slipped on the glasses he’d gifted her.
“Jarvis,” she called.
“Yes, Francesca?” the system responded.
“I need you to find someone for me.”
“Who can I help you locate?”
“Her name is Michaela Jane Stirling. She—”
“Locating,” the system interrupted. It computed for less than thirty seconds, then sounded off again, “I have located Michaela Jane Stirling, would you like me to send the exact location to your watch,”
“Yes please,” she agreed.
“Sending now.”
J.A.R.V.I.S had the location sent to her watch instantly.
68th Street.
Francesca took off down the block, converse pounding into the pavement like a stampede. She didn’t stop once. Not to catch her breath. Not to think through her plan. She simply ran, and kept running until she found something in an alley way.
Francesca held her breath as she approached what appeared to be a bookbag—a blue bookbag—which just so happened to be the same shade as MJ’s. Francesca picked it up by the strap and found the familiar Motley Crue patch on the front pocket almost instantly.
There was no way MJ left her bag in a random alleyway intentionally.
Which could only mean one thing—
MJ was in trouble.
The thought filled her chest with air. Not the feel-good kind of air, but one with immense dread. She swallowed hard and yet the lump in her throat hadn’t budged. She looked at her hand when she raised her left wrist. It shook violently, like leaves in the breeze before a thunderstorm.
With the click of a button, the red and blue Spider-Woman suit replaced her ordinary clothing.
“MJ?” she called, venturing further down the alley “MJ, where are you?”
There was no answer back. In fact, there was nothing. Nothing apart from the buzz of traffic. She took wider steps and heavier breaths as she continued to check every corner, cut, and crevice. Some of the places she’d searched were ridiculous, but Francesca would leave no stone unturned.
That was when she heard something.
The further she walked towards the end of the alleyway, the louder it grew. Eventually, she was able to determine that it was music.
Loud rock music.
Her mind immediately jumped to the worst, figuring whoever'd taken her was using it to drown out her cries—or worse, her screams. Francesca burst through the steel grey door the very next second, thoughts of the worst spinning fast enough to make her feel dizzy.
MJ let out an earpiecing shriek as she jumped.
Francesca blinked beneath the eyes of the Spider-Woman gaze. The room had not been cold, sterile place for torture, but a run-down art studio. One full of paint buckets, spray cans, both used and unused canvases, and dozens of other materials she couldn't name.
She sighed.
MJ scrambled to find the remote to the stereo. The music cut the very next second and the two rose like statues. She stood, with her hair pulled back, her jeans covered by a paint-smudged and a thick, yellow-handled paint brush in her left hand.
Beside the canvas she’d clearly been working on was another.
Cloaked by a white sheet.
MJ tilted her head, “Um, hi?”
Crap.
“Hey uhm . . . I–I was jus—I—”
Francesca paused, clenching her hands, rolling her shoulders back.
She tried again, “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Me?” MJ replied, clearly dumbfounded, “I’m just painting.”
She gestured to the canvas with the brush. Francesca couldn’t make out what it was going to be fully. Not yet. There was obviously a sun and a beautiful blue sky, but the rest of it was empty
“Well, I—” Francesca paused, clearing her throat, “I found your bookbag in the alleyway.”
She held the bag out with her arm fully extended and MJ’s eyes widened. She searched behind her, then behind some of the blank canvases nearby. Finally, she accepted that it was hers.
Francesca moved closer now catching a whiff of the dragon blood scented incense burning next to a slop sink.
“I didn’t even realize,” she uttered, reaching out to take it quickly, “I must’ve dropped it on my way in.”
“You didn’t notice you dropped your bookbag?” Francesca repeated.
“I was carrying a lot of stuff!” MJ argued, then she scoffed, “Besides, what do you care? And how did you know it was mine?”
Double Crap.
Francesca stammered, “I–I just . . . I know things. I have the technology.”
“Right,” MJ nodded suspiciously, “Well, thanks.”
“No problem,” Francesca nodded.
MJ faced the canvas and stared at it in complete silence for what felt like the next five minutes. Meanwhile, Francesca simply watched, unsure of how to go about the precarious situation she’d walked herself right into.
Eventually, MJ turned back around, “You can go now.”
She turned back towards the canvas again, but Francesca still hadn't budged. In fact, she watched the frustration build in MJ’s shoulders almost shamelessly.
“I’m about to call the cops.”
“No!” Francesca rushed out, raising her hands, “Don’t!”
MJ narrowed her eyes, “Why are you still standing there?”
Francesca had every instinct to just take off the mask. It would certainly spare her the pain of the constant word vomiting that happened whenever MJ was near, but she was terrified. Not of the truth being out, but of many things. Most of all, of it not being enough.
Her gaze flickered towards the covered up canvas.
“What’s behind the sheet?” she inquired, clearly redirecting the focus.
MJ frowned harder, glancing at it for a brief second, “A painting . . . why?”
“I don’t know. I’m curious, I guess,” she lied, kicking her feet, twiddling her thumbs, “What’s it of?”
“No one.” she snipped.
“So it’s of a person,” Francesca pried, “Is it someone you're close with?”
MJ’s eyes softened, not completely, but enough to let Francesca know she was opening up.
“Yeah,” MJ admitted, “Not anymore though, I guess. Not really.”
Francesca felt the sting in her chest.
“You seem upset,” Francesca noted.
“Are you a counselor too?” MJ snipped again.
“No,” she chuckled, astonished by how relentless MJ could be. Francesca—the real Francesca—had never gotten this treatment before, “You just look like you could use someone to talk to.”
It took a while for MJ to answer. At a certain point, Francesca thought maybe MJ hadn't planned to give a response at all. But eventually, she glanced at the canvas one last time, then dropped her shoulders.
“It’s from my art show.” she explained, “Someone bought it.”
Francesca’s smile stretched from ear to ear, “That doesn’t sound like something to be upset about.”
But, MJ sighed again, “There’s only one person I wanted to see it . . . and now, she won’t ever get the chance to.”
The roof of Francesca's mouth went dry. There was no way to know if this would work. Not for sure. But, she had to try.
The painting was too important.
“Can I see it?” she asked softly.
MJ stood completely still for a long moment, suspicion sitting heavy behind her stare. Then, her fingers suddenly tightened around the edge of the sheet and with one swift tug, she pulled the curtain back.
Time came to a standstill the second the sunlight light hit the image.
It was of her.
Of Francesca at the dinner, sitting in the same spot she’d spend her entire summer in.
“Wow.”
It was all she could make out. The painting had captured her so well: From the long, reddish-brown strands of her hair, to the way her chin rested on her palm, to the periodic table t-shirt she loved to wear most.
“This is . . .”
Every word that came to mind felt far too inadequate to voice. The painting was simply beautiful and not just because it was of her, but because it was of how MJ saw her. In that moment at the diner, Francesca hadn't even been looking up. She’d been too busy burying her smile on the tabletop—and the fact that she could tell just from the image meant MJ had always seen it.
“It’s amazing, MJ,” Francesca sighed, “Really.”
She expected a thank you, or maybe even a smile. But, in no way shape or form did she expect a frown.
“How do you know my name?”
Francesca went completely cold beneath the suit. Of all the careless things she could have said, somehow, it was MJ’s name that betrayed her. For one terrible second, she thought about lying again. But the thought collapsed faster than a house of cards. Aside from the truth being the engine, MJ had painted her like she was someone worth remembering—someone worth holding onto.
And Francesca would be damned if she did another thing to imply that she wasn’t
She reached for the back of the mask, fingers slipping beneath the latex and pulled it over her head. Her hair fell out in strands that covered her face. She brushed them away, meeting MJ’s eyes somewhat reluctantly.
Francesca would not say she was particularly good at reading faces prior to this moment, but she could see every thought and emotion that passed through MJ’s mind. First, it was shock, then anger, then hurt, then a fraction of guilt, and finally, worry.
“I’m sorry for lying to you,” Francesca admitted, “Then and now,”
MJ blinked, then, she blinked again.
“I should have told you. I thought I’d be putting you in danger if I did and . . . we just started dating,” Francesca continued, pausing as she tripped over her words, “Not dating dating, but . . . well, you know what I mean,”
By now, MJ’s mouth had closed.
But her ears were still open.
“I wanted to keep you and that part of me separate because of how dangerous it can get. But I realize that was the wrong choice now. I shouldn’t have asked you out without telling you who I really was,” Francesca explained gently, “I lied and my lies hurt you and I’m sorry.”
Francesca had so much more she wanted to say, but she knew she’d never stop talking if she didn’t now. She waited for MJ to say something for what felt like an eternity. Just when she thought she might not get a reply, the girl spoke.
“You’re Spider-Woman,” MJ said plainly.
“Yes.”
“This is why you’ve been acting so weird for the past week?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t tell me because you were afraid of putting me at risk?”
“Yes.”
“You have to stop saying yes,” she remarked.
“You are asking me Yes or No questions.” Francesca stated plainly.
The faintest of smiles returned to MJ’s mouth.
“You’re sure it's not because you couldn’t trust me to keep your secret?”
“No. Not at all,” Francesca shook her head, “I hid the truth because I thought it would keep you safe—and it likely would—but I don’t get to make that choice for you.”
MJ stared at her as if she were a ghost—as if she were uncertain of whether or not Spider-Woman was truly standing before her
“You . . . you’re Spider-Woman,”
“Ye—I mean, I am,” she nodded.
MJ continued to stare in silence. Francesca watched the pieces fall together behind her eyes. By now, she assumed MJ was replaying the disappearances, the strange excuses, and the way Francesca always seemed to have one foot halfway out the door.
Then, something shifted.
“You . . .” She trailed off, “You have a good excuse.”
Francesca chuckled, “Hopefully the best one you’ve ever heard?”
“Don’t laugh” she warned, pointing the finger, “I’m still upset with you.”
But by now, the smile had spread wildly.
Franceda tucked her hands behind her back, biting back her own grin as she nodded, "Rightfully so.”
MJ took slow steps forward, closing the gap that remained between them. She picked at the skin around her thumb nail, saying, “I have a hard time opening up to people and then you wouldn’t stop coming to my job.”
Francesca’s face burned.
“You made it impossible for me to close myself off to you and then you started acting weird.”
“I know,” Francesca sighed, “I’m so—”
“I’m not telling you to punish you,” MJ interrupted, “I just want you to understand why I was so . . . mean to you.”
“I deserved it.”
“You were busy saving the city,” she softened, “you didn’t deserve it.”
They stood only a foot apart from one another.
“But you didn’t know that.”
MJ refused to meet her gaze and so, Francesca decided to be bold. She lifted MJ’s chin gently, making it impossible for her eyes to fall anywhere but on herself. It was risky, but MJ hadn’t pulled away.
She simply stared back, eyes heavy with the same gloss that coated Francesca’s.
“I would like to start over if that’s alright,” she hummed, “I want to take you on another date and I want to be the person from your painting when we go,”
MJ whispered shyly, “You really like it?”
“It’s eerily wonderful,” she chuckled.
Francesca pressed her hand into MJ’s cheek and glanced down at her lips. Once she found permission in the depths of MJ’s eyes, she leaned in and kissed her. Neither pressed too hard at first. Both moved carefully, as if they were afraid of ruining something recently mended. Then, MJ’s hands curled into the front of Francesca’s suit and suddenly, it turned into the kind of kiss that symbolized a new beginning rather than forgiveness.
“Can you stay?” she asked.
Francesca was afraid to answer truthfully, but she did.
“I’ll stay as long as I possibly can.”
“Good,” MJ hummed, “I have more that I’d like to show you.”
Francesca nodded, letting MJ take her by the hand. Her cheeks had started to hurt from smiling, but she didn’t care. There was nowhere else she’d rather be.
Francesca glanced back at the painting of herself one more time.
“You know, it’s kind of weird . . .” she stared, “My face will be in someone else's house,”
“I hope it makes Happy, happy,” MJ chuckled.
“Huh?” Francesca sounded.
“The guy who bought it,” she shrugged, “Apparently his name is Happy Hogan.”
Francesca’s limbs froze in response to the name.
Tony . . .
She started to keep it to herself, but she promised no more lies.
“So . . . I think Tony Stark may have had something to do with that,” she started,
MJ eyed her intensely, shocked at the casual mention of Tony Stark.
“But I swear I had nothing to do with it!” she continued, “I totally think you're good enough to get sales on your own. I—”
“Fran . . . it’s okay,” MJ chuckled, squeezing her hand. “Maybe . . . maybe I’ll just give it to you instead then.”
“I’d like that,” Francesca grinned, “Now, show me what else you have in this totally uncreepy studio.”
MJ giggled again.
And the sound was music to Francesca’s ears.