Chapter Text
Peter Parker is no fool.
He knows he's lucky, as twisted as that might sound. He knows that, all things considered, he has a good life. He knows he isn't alone anymore; he knows Frank will stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him whenever things get rough, he knows Bruce will be waiting in his lab every Tuesday to talk science, he knows Yelena will keep meddling in his business just to make sure he's still breathing, he knows DeWolff will call him every morning just to know how he is, he knows Ned will never stop lighting up every time Peter shows up at his doorstep to build a new Lego set, he knows Jean will drop by twice a month just to eat pizza and watch Star Wars.
He also knows something is missing. And of course he knows that the hollow ache in his chest and in his life has a name, a last name, and the lines of a beautiful, irreplaceable face.
Michelle Jones.
Because, again, Peter is no fool. She is in his life, just as much as he is in hers. They text almost every day, swap endless memes, and MJ seems to get a kick out of sending him TikToks about fan theories people have about him. They see each other at least once a week when Peter visits her and Ned, and they really are good friends.
And... and that's the catch. They are just good friends.
It should be enough. He knows that, too. He should be grateful because, for the first time in five years, he isn't alone. He has friends—a tight-knit circle of people who look out for him and know exactly who he is. He should be grateful that Michelle Jones is back in his life. And he is. God, he is. MJ might not be his girlfriend anymore, but she's there, she's his friend, she knows him. It's far more than he ever thought he'd have. Far more than he ever believed he deserved.
So yes, he is grateful.
And yet.
There are days when gratitude isn't enough to crowd out the grief. Peter has learned that the two can coexist without canceling each other out. He can be immensely grateful for everything he has now while simultaneously aching, with an almost embarrassing intensity, for everything he lost. They aren't opposites. They’re neighbors. They share the same cramped space in his chest, constantly stepping on each other's toes.
There are nights when he comes back from patrol bone-tired, collapses onto his apartment couch, and thinks that, objectively, things are fine. People care about him. He has this strange, makeshift, wonderful family that built itself around him without him even noticing. And still, the silence in the apartment carries a very specific shape. The shape of someone who is no longer there to make fun of the hideous decor he never bothered to change.
Because the problem was never that Michelle vanished from his life. The problem is that she's still in it. And sure, that's great. Heaven knows how grateful Peter is to have her around. Truth be told, he would never ask for more. He would never ask her to leave her boyfriend for him. He would never ask her to stop being the person she is today just to be his again. He would never ask her to become someone she's not. He's clear on that, too.
But there are moments.
When she laughs so hard she ends up resting her head on his shoulder for just a split second before pulling away as if it meant nothing. When she absentmindedly fixes the collar of his jacket because it's folded over. When she remembers exactly how he takes his coffee without having to ask. When she texts a simple "you home yet?" after a patrol because, even though she doesn't know every detail of his life as Spider-Man, she knows Peter well enough to know when she needs to make sure he’s still breathing. They’re innocent gestures. Just a friend looking out for a friend. Nothing more.
The problem is, Peter's heart still remembers what those things used to mean.
And then he has to force himself to breathe, to smile as if nothing had happened, to respond with the same naturalness she does. Because she isn't doing anything wrong. She isn't giving him false hope. She simply loves him. In a different way. In a healthy way. And Peter hates himself a little every time a selfish part of him wishes, even for a second, that she would look at him the way she used to.
But of course, when does Peter Parker ever get what he wants?
It was a good day. Peter decisively does not say this out loud, because he knows some corner of the earth will combust if he does. But he thinks it, swinging through the bustling streets of New York after a grueling four-hour patrol. A successful one, at that. He caught every criminal, thwarted five robberies, kept a bridge from collapsing, and spent twenty minutes listening to a teenager vent about his anxiety over the future—and god knows the kid just needed someone to listen. So Peter did, because if he didn't, who else would?
Although it must be admitted; it was a strangely busy day for a Sunday.
He pulls into his apartment a little after nine, slipping off his mask as he locks the window behind him. His mind is already drifting toward brewing a cup of coffee, even though it's way too late for caffeine, and replying to the texts Ned has undoubtedly left about the new LEGO set they plan to tackle over the weekend. Or maybe checking Yelena's messages, complaining that Kate is ghosting her again, even though they both know Kate is far too soft-hearted to ever actually do that.
"You're a lot less subtle than I thought."
His heart hitches so violently that, for a split second, he's convinced his powers have short-circuited and he's about to peel right off the ceiling. Instead, his fingertips dig harder into the plaster, his pads gripping almost by reflex. He swallows hard. He takes a breath. Then another. He climbs down slowly, trying his best not to look as startled as he actually is, though he knows it's a lost cause. Mask still clutched in one hand and hair plastered to his forehead from the sweat of the patrol, he lands with a feline softness right in front of the woman sitting comfortably on his bed.
"MJ?"
She arches an eyebrow. "Were you expecting someone else?" She asks, her dry irony delivering its usual punch without her ever having to raise her voice.
Peter feels something akin to relief mingle with an almost unbearable tenderness. Five years later, there are still things the spell couldn’t touch. There's still that uniquely MJ way of looking at him, as if she's always just a little disappointed in the universe. She probably is. Peter wouldn't blame her; he is too.
"Actually, I wasn't expecting anyone." He says, standing awkwardly before her as if he were the guest in his own house. His fingers fidget with the mask in his hands, and he glances at the black suitcase MJ has resting by the side of the bed. "Are you... moving here?"
"What?" She sounds genuinely bewildered. Then she follows his gaze, and her frown clears. "Oh. No. Actually, I need your help. I got the job, and I have absolutely no clue what to wear on my first day, so I was thinking you could..."
"Wait, you got the job?" Peter cuts in, a smile already beginning to break across his face.
"Yeah. And I took it." She replies, and he catches her matching his smile, though hers carries a rare touch of self-consciousness—which makes zero sense, because MJ is brilliant. "They want me to start tomorrow. Let's just say Stark Industries is the lesser of all evils."
"Definitely."
"Yeah."
They look at each other in silence for a moment, neither of them quite knowing what else to say.
"I like your decor." She says out of nowhere.
Peter lets out a breathy laugh. "You don't."
"No, I don't." MJ shoots back, a smile slipping through with something resembling relief. "It's actually hideous."
Peter lets out a low, tired chuckle—the kind that comes from the chest rather than the throat—and realizes, with a bitter-sweet pang, that he still recognizes the exact sound of the laughter only she can pull out of him.
"I know." He admits, setting his mask on the edge of the mattress to avoid messing up the sketches and pencils MJ has scattered across the bed. "I've been meaning to change a few things around."
It's a lie. He hasn't thought about changing a single thing.
Not because he doesn't appreciate nice things, but because, honestly, he never learned how to turn this apartment into a home. It's just a place where he sleeps, where he changes clothes, where he patches up his wounds. But a home is something else entirely. A home is something he just doesn't have.
"Oh, yeah?" MJ asks, and her tone makes it obvious she doesn't buy it for a second. Nothing new there. She always knows when he's lying. "Like what?"
"Well... the walls, and the couch, and... yeah." He crosses his arms, looking down at her. "I mean, you could help me with that."
"Me?" She arches both eyebrows. "What am I, an interior designer?"
"No, but you're good at everything you do." Peter says simply, shrugging his shoulders.
MJ stares at him a beat too long. The sarcastic comeback she undoubtedly had locked and loaded on the tip of her tongue completely unravels against Peter's sheer honesty. Her dark eyes study him, searching for the ulterior motive that they both know isn't there.
"Or not." Peter tacks on when the silence stretches. "You don't have to if you don't want to. Actually, it's probably better if you don't. This place is pretty..."
"I can do it." MJ cuts in suddenly. "Obviously I can. I will. But first, you have to help me with this." Her hand drops onto the suitcase beside her. "Because I seriously have zero clues on what to wear, and Ned has abysmal taste. Can you believe he told me pink and purple make a good combo? But..."
"...but they don't." He finishes for her. "And you hate pink, and purple never quite works for a workplace. It's gotta be black, white, red, or blue. Sometimes green, but only if it's emerald."
MJ freezes, her fingers hovering just over the zipper of the suitcase. At some point, her gaze shifted away from the bag to lock onto him with an intensity that feels like it’s cutting right through him. It doesn't make him uncomfortable, but it does bring that familiar ache back to his chest when he notices her eyes glistening, just a tiny hint of tears gathering at the rims.
"...exactly." She murmurs softly, barely above a whisper.
"You told me once." Peter adds, his throat tight, instantly regretting the words even as they leave his mouth. Still, he pushes through. "Back when we were planning on moving to Boston together."
MJ doesn't blink. A single tear, treacherous and tiny, escapes from the corner of her eye, tracing a line down her cheek before she reacts. She wipes her face with the back of her hand in a swift, almost furious motion, as if angry at her own body for reacting that way.
"Well, yes." MJ begins, but her voice sounds unusually raspy. She clears her throat, looking away from him to return to her sketches. "I was right."
"You're always right." He shrugs.
MJ lets out a sharp huff—a poor excuse for a laugh—and turns her attention back to the suitcase. She starts pulling out piece after piece while Peter gathers her sketches one by one, carefully stacking them on the nightstand. Within a few minutes, the pillows and blankets are relegated to the floor, and MJ's entire wardrobe is sprawled across the mattress.
It takes Peter a few seconds to process exactly what he's looking at.
Perfectly folded black button-downs, a navy blazer, two pairs of slacks, several solid-colored blouses, and a distressed denim jacket that Peter recognizes instantly. The left pocket has a slightly crooked seam where it caught on a stray nail once, back when they were trying to sneak onto the school roof for a meteor shower that ended up getting completely rained out by clouds.
He even remembers how MJ refused to throw it away, claiming that clothes with scars just had more character.
He doesn't bring it up. Obviously. Instead, he just edges closer, moving with caution. He runs a piece of fabric between his fingers, checking the material more to give his hands something to do than out of any actual necessity. He knows how to sew, he can tell high-quality fabrics from the cheap stuff, and he knows exactly how long a garment will last if someone like MJ wears it every day. Focusing on all of that is a lot easier than dwelling on the fact that she’s actually here. In his apartment. Sitting on his bed. Asking him for help.
"This one." He lifts a white, high-neck blouse. "With the blue blazer and the blue slacks."
MJ blinks, taking a couple of steps forward until she's standing right beside him. "That fast?"
Peter catches himself smiling. "Well... it's Stark Industries. Half the people there are going to try to act smarter than they actually are. The other half genuinely will be. You don't need to impress anyone. You just need to look like someone who knows exactly what they're doing."
She holds the blouse up against herself, eyeing it with narrowed eyes. "And that's what this blouse says?" She asks, looking back up at him.
"No." Peter says, giving a soft shake of his head. "You say that. The blouse just keeps HR from being intimidated by you on day one."
This time, MJ's laugh is the real deal. Brief, dry, barely a amused snort—but authentic. She looks down as she smooths the fabric over her lap, hiding a smile she'd never admit to having. Peter feels a familiar warmth settle beneath his ribs. Making her laugh still feels like winning an impossible battle.
For the next few minutes, Peter goes on autopilot, folding the clothes she passes on. His hands move with an easy efficiency born from years of living entirely on his own. He tucks the sleeves in, aligns the seams, and smooths out the wrinkles with his palm before setting each piece down into a neat, orderly stack. He does it without thinking.
Yet, every single time he glances up to look at MJ, he finds that she's already staring at him.
He pretends not to notice and keeps his eyes fixed on the pants he's folding, concentrating too hard on straightening a seam that was already perfectly straight from the start. He feels the weight of those eyes on him with painful clarity. Before, when they were a couple, it would never have bothered him. He would have looked up just to smile at her, to ask what was wrong, to tease her for looking at him as if he were a museum exhibit. Now he can't. Now he's afraid of discovering something he's not prepared to find. Or worse: finding absolutely nothing.
"A picture lasts longer." He says finally, stupidly, because he's an idiot and some things never change.
"Sorry." She replies, but from her amused tone he knows she definitely isn't. "It's just that you look like a forty-year-old woman."
Peter blinks. "Thanks, I guess." He says, with a confused expression, raising his head briefly to give her a quick glance.
"It wasn't a compliment."
"Well, technically you're calling me tidy, so I'd say that's a compliment."
"It's cute."
Peter smiles. He doesn't say anything because he no longer knows what that word means when it comes from her. He doesn't know if it's the "cute" you say to a friend when they do something ridiculous, or the one that was once filled with an infinitely more intimate tenderness.
The worst part is that, deep down, Peter knows it's not the second option.
Peter clears his throat discreetly, looking to change the subject before getting too lost in his own thoughts.
"So... what exactly are you going to be doing at Stark?"
MJ looks up from a gray shirt she's been examining. "Research and development."
Peter whistles softly. "To be honest, I'm not surprised. You're amazing. Stark is so lucky to have you."
Just a fact. Peter's good at stating them.
If someone had asked him years ago who had the best chance of changing the world, he would never have answered with his own name. He would have said Michelle Jones with the same certainty with which he'd say the sky is blue. She had always seen connections where others only saw noise. She'd always had that almost irritating ability to look at a problem from a completely different angle and find the exact crack to break through.
Peter had admired that even before he fell in love with her.
Luckily, MJ doesn't get weird about it. Instead, she smiles and says: "It's cute when you say nice things as if they were statistics."
"I'll assume everything about me is cute, then." He shrugs.
"And what do you do?" MJ asks, nodding her head as if briefly pointing at him with her chin. "You've never told me what you do for a living."
"Spider-Man is my job." He replies, finishing folding another shirt.
"Spider-Man is a job?"
"Full-time."
"And you get paid?" She sounds confused. When she looks up, she realizes she is indeed confused. "I thought only the New Avengers got paid."
"That's right." He says with a small, almost shy smile. "Or sort of. Since I was pretty, uh, tied to the old lineup and... you know, Thanos, the government decided it was a good idea to put me on the payroll."
Tony had a lot to do with that, obviously. Peter knows this because Happy told him before the spell. It's not like Sam or Bucky or Scott got the same treatment.
Peter glances down at the T-shirt still clutched in his hands, smoothing a nonexistent crease with his thumb. There's a part of him that wants to tell her Tony insisted. He wants to tell her how Happy fought for months with lawyers and politicians to get Spider-Man's name on a list officially recognizing everything he'd done during the war. He wants to talk about the arguments, the absurd conditions, and how much Tony would have enjoyed mocking all that red tape.
But those stories aren't entirely his anymore. Not because they're a secret, but because, without the right context, they'd just be empty names. People who, to MJ, are little more than photographs in old newspapers and documentaries about the Battle of Earth.
"I admit they pay pretty well." He concedes with a half-smile. "At least it saves me from having to sell awful pictures of myself."
MJ snorts with a low laugh. "Now that would have been an interesting twist."
"Spider-Man, Spider-Man's paparazzi?"
"That sounds pretty narcissistic."
"But I would have done a great job."
She slowly shakes her head, hiding another smile as she goes back to checking a dark blue blouse. Peter takes advantage of that moment to watch her without feeling guilty. Just a few seconds. Then he returns his attention to the clothes.
"And they never offered you a place on the new team?"
"Oh, they did." Peter replies, nodding wearily. "Three times, actually. I turned them all down."
"Why?"
"It wasn't for me." He says simply, shrugging. "The Avengers are... something else. There are always meetings, conferences, joint training, politics, people making huge decisions for me." A small, wistful smile escapes him. "And the magic of Spider-Man lies in his independence. Was it nice being a part of it? Yes, definitely. Will I do it again? I hope not."
Peter glances down at the T-shirt he's still holding, finishing folding it with almost excessive care before placing it on the perfectly aligned stack.
"That makes sense." MJ's voice is soft, less mocking than usual.
Peter looks up. She's still holding the white blouse, but she no longer seems to be examining the fabric. She's looking at it without really seeing it, as if she's organizing some thought before speaking.
"I never pictured you... institutionalized."
Peter lets out a short laugh at her choice of words. "That sounds like they tried to lock me up."
"They tried?"
He hesitates for a moment, but finally nods. "Yes, actually.
MJ doesn't interrupt him. She simply waits, resting a hand on the back of the chair by the bed, watching him intently. Peter remembers that, years ago, it was precisely that patience that eventually got him to talk. With MJ, silence never feels like pressure. It feels like an invitation.
Peter exhales slowly.
"After the war... there was a lot of discussion about what to do with heroes. Some governments wanted more oversight. Others wanted less. There were people convinced that someone with powers shouldn't be able to act without being accountable to anyone." He pauses. "And... well, Spider-Man has never exactly been good at following orders."
The corner of MJ's lips moves slightly. "I can believe that."
Peter smiles wearily. "I know."
He bends down to pick up another shirt, though there's practically no clothing left to fold. His fingers find a sleeve, arranging it with almost absurd precision.
"It wasn't anything dramatic. Well... by superhero standards."
That's a lie, and they both know it.
There were endless interrogations. Lawyers. Officials talking about public responsibility. People who had never saved a life explaining to him how he should do it. Entire months where he felt like every decision was being analyzed by someone who had never set foot on a street during an alien invasion.
"So how did you get out of that?" MJ asks with genuine curiosity.
Peter takes a few seconds to answer.
The real answer is obvious and very simple.
Tony.
Tony had planned too many things. He had left lawyers. He had left funds. He had left people capable of pulling strings even after his death. Happy had spent months fighting with officials who barely understood what it meant to be a neighborhood hero. Pepper had signed documents that Peter never saw. Bruce had shown up at meetings just to explain, with infinite patience, why trying to control Spider-Man was a monumental mistake.
But none of those people remember doing it for Peter Parker. Only for Spider-Man. And isn't that weird? Pretty crazy.
"I guess... there were people who were pretty insistent on letting me keep doing my thing."
"And do you like doing that?" MJ's question comes immediately, almost interrupting him.
When he looks at her, she's very serious. A steady, almost defiant gaze.
"I love being Spider-Man." He replies, looking at her intently. Not defiantly, but honestly. "It's who I am. That's not going to change."
MJ holds his gaze for a few more seconds. Then, she slowly lowers her eyes to the shirt she's still holding in her hands.
"You did the right thing, you know?"
He almost frowns. "What?"
"The spell." She answers, looking back at him. Her expression has softened now. "You did it... your sacrifice, you did it to protect me. And it worked. You did the right thing, Peter."
Peter feels something loosen inside his chest. He glances down at the shirt he's still holding, noticing he's been folding a sleeve for several seconds that was already perfectly tucked in. His fingers slowly stop moving, as if they've suddenly forgotten what they were doing.
He swallows.
"Yes, no, I..." His voice comes out much lower than he expected, raspy with a weariness that has nothing to do with the four-hour patrol. "I'll always protect you."
MJ blinks. She doesn't seem surprised, but Peter can see her expression fall to pity. Pity for him.
She opens her mouth to speak, but he speaks first.
"No, really." He says, looking at her intently. "I... I don't want you to think I'm saying this because I have feelings for you. No... it's not because of that. It's, well, a fact. You... you are important to me. I care for you, so I don't want you to be scared, okay? Because you won't ever be alone."
MJ looks at him for a moment, almost as if she's debating something internally, before letting out a sigh. A tiny smile plays on her lips.
"I know."
Peter nods a couple of times, looking away from her. He lowers his gaze.
His hands are empty.
Sometimes it's a little surprising how different Spider-Man and Peter Parker are, especially since they're the same person. Crazy, right? Because Spider-Man never hesitates.
Spider-Man hears a scream and he's already moving before he's even decided to. He leaps from buildings without thinking about the distance, catches cars with his bare hands, and faces monsters with a joke ready before he even lands. Spider-Man knows exactly where he belongs in the world. People need help; he helps. It's simple.
While wearing the mask, everything seems to follow a logic that Peter can never find anywhere else. Pain always has a direction. Fear always has a purpose. Even losing hurts less when it happens because someone else got to go home.
Peter Parker, on the other hand, has spent almost his entire life improvising.
He doesn't know what to do when the person he loves most is sitting less than a meter away and looks at him with a tenderness that no longer belongs to him. There's no training for that. Nothing can tell him the right answer when MJ smiles that way, so gentle, so full of affection, yet so different from how she smiled five years ago. No supervillain had ever taught him how to accept that someone can still care for him deeply without loving him in the same way.
Because MJ doesn't love him anymore. She has no memory of everything they went through together, so she doesn't love him. So she isn't his. So maybe she never was. So maybe, just maybe, he's only clinging to the ruins of a broken home. A past only he remembers.
Maybe.
"Or maybe I'm just a good friend." He says to himself, adjusting the collar of the brown leather jacket he's wearing over his black T-shirt.
"You're a good friend." Eve tells him, from... everywhere. The AI isn't just in his computer or his phone or his suit anymore. Now it's all over his apartment, which is amazing. Though sometimes it's a pain. "Intense and obsessive and very weird, but a good friend."
Peter lets out a tired sigh. "I'm not obsessed." He says, spraying himself with cologne.
"Last week you spent forty minutes trying to figure out if the I'm home message had a period at the end because she was tired or because she was annoyed."
"Damn witch." He grumbles, sitting down on the sofa to tie his shoelaces.
Peter finishes tying the knot with a slightly harsher tug than necessary. He remains leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees, staring at the floor.
"I wasn't analyzing the period." He mutters after a few seconds, without much conviction.
"You also made a comparative chart of her punctuation use in her last two hundred and thirty-four messages."
Peter frowns and lifts his head. "Did you really need to mention the number? It's so annoying and depressing."
"I thought it added drama."
He lets out a short, defeated laugh and rubs his face with both hands until his skin burns beneath his palms. Sometimes he's grateful Eve exists. Other times he seriously considers throwing all his devices out the window.
"I'm just trying... to understand her." He defends himself. Or tries to.
"No." Eve's voice sounds unexpectedly soft, almost human. "You're trying to find proof that she still loves you."
Peter slowly lowers his hands. His eyes remain lost somewhere in front of him, unable to focus on anything specific.
Because that's the truth, isn't it?
It doesn't matter how many times he tells himself he's already let her go. It doesn't matter how many times he forces himself to smile when she casually mentions her boyfriend, or how many times he reminds himself that winning her back was never the goal behind the spell. He always ends up doing the same thing; Counting seconds, interpreting silences, convincing herself that maybe that gaze lasted half a second longer than usual, that maybe that smile was different, that maybe the touch of her hand wasn't entirely accidental.
She never does anything with those hopes. Never. She lets them die where they're born.
But they keep being born.
Peter slowly gets up from the armchair, takes his apartment keys, and picks up the bouquet he bought that morning when he went to buy flowers for May, because without thinking, he ended up buying flowers for the two most important women in his life.
How depressing.
It's Monday, and it's almost five o'clock. MJ told him last night that today would be her first day, so Peter, like the lovesick, obsessive, and probably depressed boyfriend he definitely isn't, decided that maybe it would be a good idea to pick her up from work and take her out to lunch. Just to celebrate her first day.
Because that's what good friends do.
Obviously, it's also something he would do if he were still her boyfriend, but, hey, it's just a nice gesture, who cares?
Friends give flowers too. Of course they do. People give flowers for graduations, promotions, birthdays, funerals, anniversaries, reconciliations, first theater performances, first art exhibitions. Flowers aren't exclusively for romance. Peter repeats that to himself almost like a mantra as he descends the building's stairs, the bouquet in one hand and the keys twirling between the fingers of the other.
"Yeah, keep lying to yourself." Eve's voice reaches the earpiece in his right ear.
"What, now you're reading minds?" He asks, annoyed, stepping out of his building.
"You said it out loud."
Peter rolls his eyes. "Eve, take a break, okay? Go get some piña coladas, I know you love them."
"Okay." And just like that, the line goes silent.
"Alcoholic." He mutters.
This time, there's no reply.
He arrives at Stark Industries just three minutes before MJ's scheduled departure time, and he's not sure whether to feel worried or proud to say how easy it is to get in, especially since nobody knows him. If it had been eleven years ago, everyone would know his name and would ask him directly How is Mr. Stark? because apparently he was one of the privileged few who knew how Tony was doing.
But now we're eleven years in the future, and, let's face it, it's worrying. Isn't Happy a security freak?
Peter stops in the lobby, the bouquet still clutched in his hands, watching the steady stream of employees. Some are laughing amongst themselves, others are already on their phones, a few are absentmindedly checking emails on their tablets as they walk by without looking ahead. It's a perfectly normal scene.
Still, Peter feels the same kind of nervousness he felt before facing a villain for the first time. He finds it pathetic. He's fought lunatics, titans, aliens, and creatures capable of splitting buildings in two. He's died, he's come back. He's seen the multiverse collapse and he's seen the end of the world more times than he can count, but apparently waiting for a woman with a bouquet of flowers makes his palms sweat far more than any of those things.
He glances down at the daisies mixed with white lilies he picked that morning almost without thinking, wondering for the tenth time if this is stupid. Too romantic. Too obvious. Too... him. For a second, he seriously considers hiding them behind a trash can and pretending they never existed. Friends don't show up with flowers on a Monday afternoon. Or do they? Of course they do. Sometimes they do. Probably they do.
"You've already hidden the bouquet behind your back four times in the last thirty seconds." Eve's voice returns to the receiver with irritating calmness.
Peter jumps slightly. "I thought you were drinking piña coladas."
"I came back early. I was worried you might do something embarrassing unsupervised."
He sighs wearily. He's too old for this.
"Hello!"
Peter jumps again. He turns his head quickly, blinking, and his expression of surprise—and slight alarm—vanishes almost instantly.
"Oh." He says, relaxing. For a moment he thought it was MJ. "Hi, Morgan."
"You look really young." The kid says, tilting her head like a curious puppy. "Do you work here?"
"No, I'm waiting for someone." He replies, looking ahead again to see MJ when she approaches.
"Girlfriend or boyfriend?"
Peter sighs wearily again. He's too old for this.
"Friend." He answers distractedly, scanning the crowd for MJ. "And yeah, friends give flowers too. No, it's not romantic at all. In fact, it's super normal among friends."
"Oh, yeah, super normal."
Peter stands still for a moment. He looks up at the ceiling. Then at Morgan. "And your mom?"
"Working." The little girl replies, shrugging with a smile. She moves closer to him. Peter takes a step back. Morgan moves closer again. "I wanted to see where she works, so I came with her today. I regret it. It's boring."
"Yeah, well, this isn't a place for a child."
She frowns. "I'm nine."
"A child." Peter repeats, still looking at her.
Morgan stares at him for a moment, his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed. Then he blinks, and his expression changes.
"You look like the man in my drawings." He says, looking at him curiously. "His name is Peter. I don't even know who he is, but he's in all my drawings."
Peter just wants the earth to swallow him whole. He's too old, too depressed, and too nervous to deal with a mini-clone of Tony.
He definitely doesn't respond to that. He just stares at the sea of people, hoping to see a familiar face. Well, MJ's face. Knowing his luck, if he just says he wants to see a familiar face, Happy is going to appear right in front of him.
"Do you like the Avengers?"
He blinks. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, who doesn't?"
Peter knows who doesn't. But he doesn't say so.
"Do you have a favorite Avenger?"
"Iron Man." He answers easily.
"Yeah, that makes sense." The little girl tells him. Though, from what he can hear, it sounds more like a murmur to herself. Then she speaks again, this time louder. "Mine's Spider-Man."
Peter stands still for a moment. Then he turns his head to look at her, expressionless. "Isn't your dad your favorite Avenger?" He asks in a flat voice.
Morgan frowns, slightly offended. "Spider-Man was my dad's favorite Avenger, too. He never stopped talking about him. Spider-Man this, Spider-Man that." She says, crossing her arms with a small grimace of resignation. "Sometimes I think he was in love with him."
Peter chokes on his own saliva.
He coughs once. Twice. Three times. He bends slightly forward, his fist pressed to his chest as he tries to catch his breath, and Morgan watches him with a mixture of concern and utter lack of sympathy—exactly the same expression Tony would have had before he started teasing him.
"Are you okay?" The little girl asks, though she's already smiling.
Peter raises a finger, unable to answer immediately.
"God..." He finally murmurs, still clearing his throat. "No. No, definitely not."
Morgan tilts her head. "How do you know?"
"Your dad loved your mom. And Spider-Man has a girlfriend."
Morgan's eyes widen, fascinated. "There's a Spider-Woman?"
"...sort of, yeah." He replies, shrugging.
Morgan watches him for a few more seconds, with that expression Tony had when he was convinced he'd discovered something interesting.
"So how do you know so much about Spider-Man?" the little girl asks suddenly.
Peter just shrugs. "I guess... I admire him."
Morgan nods matter-of-factly. "My dad does too."
He smiles gently at her, affectionately.
"Peter?"
Peter raises his head, alarmed. But everything vanishes the moment he sees MJ, walking toward him in slow motion. She's wearing the outfit Peter chose; it fits her perfectly, paired with black stilettos. Her hair is perfectly styled, not a single strand out of place, and her makeup is flawless.
"Wow..." He hears Morgan whisper beside him.
"Yeah..." He whispers back.
"Peter?" MJ repeats, reaching him. She looks confused. God, of course she's confused. "What are you doing here?"
"He brought you flowers!" Morgan says, with a big, excited smile.
He blinks, looks at Morgan, then at MJ.
He holds out the bouquet.
"For... you." He says, a little shyly. "For your first day."
MJ looks down at the daisies and lilies. She doesn't speak right away. Her fingers remain still beside the purse hanging from her shoulder as she gazes at the bouquet with an expression so hard to read that Peter feels his stomach begin to tighten little by little.
Too much.
The flowers are too much. Too big. Too beautiful. Too much like the ones she once gave him back when they were still us. It should have been some chocolates. Or a coffee. Or nothing. Definitely nothing was a much safer option. In fact, he shouldn’t have come at all.
But then MJ hugs him.
And Peter is afraid.
Afraid of hugging her too tightly. Afraid of lingering a second longer. Afraid she'll notice the trembling in his hands and understand that, for him, this isn't just a friendly gesture.
He ends up hugging her. Not tightly. He just places one hand between her shoulder blades and the other carefully around her waist, leaving enough room for her to pull away at any moment if she wants.
It breaks his heart. Even so, he closes his eyes and savors it.
Whatever she gives him. Whatever she wants to give him. He'll take it.
Just like in all his happy memories, the moment ends far too soon.
MJ steps back first. Just enough to look at him again. She keeps one hand resting on his forearm for another second before letting it fall slowly, as if she, too, hadn't wanted to break the contact so quickly. Her eyes return to the bouquet, and Peter notices she's still holding it very carefully.
"Thank you." Her voice barely rises above a whisper.
"It wasn't... a big deal." He replies, unable to hold her gaze for long. He absentmindedly scratches the back of his neck, feeling an embarrassing heat rise to his ears. "I just thought... well... it was your first day."
MJ looks at the daisies again. "No one's ever given me flowers for my first day of work."
Peter smiles slightly. "Well... there's a first time for everything, right?"
She slowly raises her head. "Yeah." She says, and smiles again.
"Just get married already."
...sure.
Peter had completely forgotten that Morgan Stark was sticking her nose where it didn't belong.
"Um..." Peter clears his throat, his cheeks burning from Morgan's comment. "Wanna...? Can I take you out to eat? To celebrate. Like... as friends."
MJ doesn't even consider it. She just nods with a shy smile, holding the bouquet to her chest.
"Can I come with you?" Morgan asks.
"Absolutely not." Peter replies immediately. "You're going back to your mom."
She groans. "But it's boring."
"Didn't they teach you not to talk to strangers?" MJ asks, raising an eyebrow at the girl.
"You're not strangers. You're MJ, and he's Peter." Morgan stops abruptly and is silent for a moment before looking back at him. "Wait, Peter?"
"Bye, Morgan." He says, starting to walk away from the girl. MJ waves goodbye and starts walking with him. "Go back to your mom, don't get lost, be a good daughter."
The drive to the restaurant is short, barely six minutes, and Peter listens to every word MJ has to say about her first day, but what captures almost all his attention is the way she holds the bouquet with both hands, with a care that seems disproportionate to simple flowers. The lilies rest against the crook of her arm, and the daisies sway gently in the warm breeze that drifts in through the window.
Peter soon discovers that listening to MJ talk remains one of his favorite pastimes.
It doesn't matter how much time passes or how many times he tries to convince himself that this belongs to a different life. She starts talking about a tiny detail—the way a lab is laid out, the absurd number of forms HR requires, the fact that Stark Industries' coffee tastes suspiciously good for office coffee—and, without realizing it, ends up connecting it to scientific ethics, corporate bureaucracy, and a rather convincing theory about why tech companies always choose uncomfortable furniture for their boardrooms.
Peter just listens and listens, thinking, not for the first time, that the universe did an extraordinary job creating her.
The restaurant they arrive at is small. Nothing fancy. An Italian café tucked between two office buildings, with wooden tables, plants by the windows, and warm lighting that turns everything it touches golden. Peter chose it precisely for that reason. He knows MJ hates fancy places; not because of the price, but because of how superficial they are.
Peter thinks she's right. But, then again, she's always right.
As soon as they step inside, a waitress smiles with professional weariness and leads them to a table by the window. MJ places the bouquet very carefully on the empty seat next to her before even taking off her blazer.
They order food almost instinctively. Peter chooses ravioli because he remembers they're good, although he barely pays attention to the menu. MJ orders pesto pasta after spending almost three minutes studying all the options. When the waitress walks away, a moment of silence falls between them.
Peter absentmindedly plays with the sugar packet someone left on the table. He folds it. Unfolds it. Folds it again. He looks up and sees MJ watching him.
"You always do that when you're nervous," she says, looking at him curiously. "Why?"
Peter looks at her for a moment. And for a moment, nothing more.
"Boh." He replies finally, shrugging.
Michelle stares at him for several seconds, and Peter can practically see the gears turning inside her head, her mind replaying images of a ruined vacation where no Peter Parker was.
Or maybe he was. Maybe he just has to try to remember.
"You were always there, weren't you?" She asks after a long silence, and Peter can see that she doesn't remember him, but she knows that someone was there, with her.
"I'm still here."
And I still exist.
MJ says nothing. Her fingers remain around the glass of water, even though she stopped drinking several seconds ago. She barely moves them, tracing the rim with her thumb while keeping her eyes fixed on Peter. She seems focused.
Then Peter watches as her slender fingers move away from the glass to take hold of the necklace she's wearing.
"I always wear it." She says softly, looking at him as if she wants to peer into his mind. "And I know I've had it since Europe... but I can't remember how."
Peter feels his eyes fill with tears. He can't help it. And he knows that's the answer MJ was looking for, because he sees her expression soften with understanding and her eyes well up, just like his.
But it's different, isn't it? MJ cries because she can't remember. Peter cries because he does.
Peter feels such an intense tightness in his chest that for a moment he forgets how to breathe.
His gaze remains fixed on the small pendant resting between MJ's fingers. He recognizes every curve. He bought it, he gave it to her. The Black Dahlia. Proof that his life with MJ was real.
He slowly lowers his gaze to his own hands. He breathes in through his nose. He exhales slowly.
"The murderer." His voice is barely louder than a whisper. Then he clears his throat and looks back at her, his eyes still teary. "I know you liked it. It broke during Mysterio's attacks, and when I apologized for giving you a broken necklace, you told me you liked it better that way."
MJ laughs. It's a low, tearful laugh, full of tenderness, and Peter clasps his hands together to keep from wiping away the tears that trickle down her sacred skin.
"It sounds like me."
"It was you." He tells her. "It's still you."
It's always been you.
She watches him for a long moment. Then, very slowly, she places a hand on the table.
It takes Peter barely a second to understand. Then he lets her take his. He doesn't interlace their fingers, he just lets MJ's palm rest on the back of his hand; a warm, light gesture, like the good friends they are.
Then MJ starts talking about some theories she saw online about people shipping him and Mysterio, and suddenly she's laughing while Peter just feels like he's dying.
They leave the restaurant almost two hours later, their stomachs full. It's seven o'clock, the sun has already set, and MJ suggests they walk to digest their meal. Of course, Peter doesn't need to do that, but he nods anyway, and they stroll together through the city streets, now illuminated by streetlights, billboards, and building lights.
Oh, and MJ is still clutching her flowers.
It's starting to get funny, if he's honest. But it's sweet. Peter doesn't say it out loud because that will only end with MJ hitting him over the head with the flowers.
"So how true was it?"
He blinks. "What?"
"This whole Spideystery thing."
Peter feels a very specific part of his dignity leave his body. He's aware of this whole Spideystery thing, thanks to Yelena, but it still feels weird. And a little offensive, considering Beck literally ruined his life.
Although he admits he was a good looking guy.
"Well..." He begins, a little confused. "Not really. We were... I thought we were friends. And while I admit he was an attractive man, I wasn't... Well, I was in love with someone else."
MJ knows he's talking about her. He knows she knows.
"And he tried to kill me." He adds, not wanting to make things awkward.
She nods with a snort of laughter. "Yeah, that takes away some of the romance."
"Exactly. I mean, kill for me? I can tolerate that. But try to kill me? Not my type."
"So we can officially rule Mysterio out as a candidate." MJ says with feigned seriousness. "A shame for the internet."
They walk in silence for a few more seconds, saying nothing, glancing at each other occasionally and looking away again when their eyes meet.
Then MJ stops, wincing, looking around with an uncomfortable expression.
"What is it?" He asks, concerned. He moves closer to her, placing a hand on her arm. "Are you okay? What hurts?"
"My heels." She says, stepping back to sit on the bench behind her. "Jesus. They're killing me."
He stands in front of her, his hands in his jacket pockets to stop himself from doing anything impulsive. MJ sighs as she leans forward and slips off one shoe, then the other, with a gesture of utter relief, carefully placing them next to the bench. She flexes her toes on the cold pavement and lets out a satisfied sound that brings an involuntary smile to his face.
"That sounded happy." He remarks, amused.
He watches as she slowly massages the arch of one of her feet with both hands. There's a small reddish mark on her left heel. It's barely noticeable, but it's enough to make his chest sink in a completely ridiculous way.
"Come on." He says. "Stand up."
MJ blinks, but doesn't ask anything, even though Peter knows she wants to. She stands up, facing him. Carefully, almost slowly to let her know what he's about to do, he slips a hand under her legs. She lets out a sound of surprise, but wraps her arms around his neck as Peter gently lifts her, his hand still under her legs, where her knees and calves meet.
In one hand, he grabs the flowers and the heels, and starts walking without saying a word.
"...I didn't know this kind of transportation existed." MJ says; she doesn't sound awkward, just clumsy.
Adorable. She weighs no more than a feather in his finger.
"And I don't charge." He replies with a small smile.
"How can you carry me with just one arm?"
"In case you've never stepped on a scale, you weigh next to nothing." He says. "And in case you've forgotten, I'm Spider-Man. Though I doubt you've forgotten. You know the spider better than the man."
"Well, I think I'm starting to get to know the man."
Peter looks away from the road, ignoring all the people who stop, charmed by the "romantic" scene, and looks at MJ. She's so close.
He wishes he could have her closer.
"And do you like what little you know about him?"
MJ shrugs, resting her head on his shoulder. "I always liked him."
And that sentence, so simple, so innocent, finds every crack Peter has spent years trying to seal.