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Jean Grey had come to live with him after the events of.. everything. In his early days, Peter had needed help getting around and Jean had showed up one day with a backpack on her shoulders. “I knew you were still in pain,” she’d said, “don’t be a baby, Peter. I’ll help you.”
They both ignored the very obvious that she had nowhere else to go. Peter needed help anyway, and this worked better than admitting it.
After he healed up, she stayed. It’s been two weeks since he’s gone back to spider-ing and she was still here. Jean hadn’t said anything or tried to make up any other excuses. She slept on Peter’s couch with little complaint. She was a good kid, she was only fifteen. Peter came home late once and looked at her, really looked at her. Had he looked that young too? She was only a kid.
Peter had been dreaming of Tony again except this time around it wasn’t nightmares. It was rare he dreamt (he was usually too tired), and it was even rarer that the dreams were good. The dream was typical;
Peter was a kid again, and he was laying on Tony’s couch at his tower in Manhattan. He was drawing something but the lines weren’t clear. Tony was watching TV and it was a quiet hum. Unlike most of his dreams, it wasn’t so surreal. It was simple.
He doesn’t think he and Tony ever did domestic things like this. They’d hung out a few times out of costume and Tony had checked up on him a billion times in-it. But they never just sat around. Peter wanted to be his own man (boy), and he had no interest in a father. He would regret that but he always thought he would have more time. He never had enough time.
“Kid,” Tony would say (or something similar, something so silly that they’d probably argued about before), “you ever listen to The Beatles?”
And Peter would laugh. “Duh,” he said, “everyone’s listened to The Beatles. The Stones are better anyway.”
Tony would gasp then shake his head, turning back to the TV. “One day you’ll grow up, and you’ll see how terrible your opinions are,” he’d scoff.
Then, after Tony’s admonish about whatever they’d disagreed on, Peter would wake up.
Peter woke up late, he usually did. It came with the territory of staying up late. He didn’t have a shift at Del Mar’s today, so he was free. When Peter came into the kitchen, he could see Jean was already up; she was sitting on the couch with her back to the kitchen. She was using her newfound telekinesis to make toast, the bread floating above the toaster and gently plopping down before the lever was pulled down.
“I’ll never get used to that,” Peter admitted aloud. Jean didn’t jump from her spot on the couch, she looked like she was reading something. Peter tilted his head to get a better look. The Stranger by Albert Camus, Peter had read it in high school– or he had been told to and then never got around to it because of everything.
Peter opened the fridge and found it mostly empty, unsurprisingly. He hardly ever went grocery shopping besides when he decided, on the occasion, to cook. Then, he only went down and bought what he needed for the night. There was a pizza box so he took that out and ate a cold slice. The microwave was busted and Peter was in no hurry to buy a new one. “Is it hard?” he asked her because he’d never asked before though he thought about it a lot.
He could hear the shuffling of pages and looked at her closing the book to think. “A little bit,” she said, “It’s gotten easier. I think I need more practice. When I’m emotional, it’s way easier.” Jean got up from her spot on the couch. She was wearing pajama pants with one of his sweaters since she had such little clothes.
Jean sat on the counter. Her nose scrunched up when she realized what he was eating. “Are you serious?” she asked, a hint of disbelief in her voice. Peter looked at his pizza, ice cold, and then at his friend. “Sure,” he replied, grinning. “It’s good.”
“For breakfast?”
“Only the best for Spider-Man,” Peter replied. Jean shook her head and huffed. “You’re gross,” she decided. Her eyes moved over to the toaster. “Are you going out with MJ today?”
Peter’s heart still stuttered at the name, he imagined it always would. “No,” he answered; he and MJ, still, saw each other when he went over to Ned’s. Ned didn’t remember him either but it was always easy to hang out with Ned. MJ was still seeing her boyfriend. And more importantly, she didn’t love him.
Peter still missed talking to her but MJ was avoiding him and he was avoiding her. “No, probably not. Maybe with Ned if he’s around,” he answered. “Why?”
Jean froze for a split second– a normal person wouldn’t notice it. “No– no, no reason,” she said, crossing her arms. “Just curious.” Peter scrunched his eyebrows. Something was up. He looked at her, trying to read the body language of it. Jean was always hard to read, she was like him. They kept their guards up.
Or they tried to, at least. Jean slipped up as often as Peter did.
Looking at Jean, Peter thought, teenagers are always up to something and Jean deserves to be a normal teenager. Peter hummed, shrugging and swallowing down his slice. He thought of what Aunt May would say. “Keep your secrets, my friend,” he said. “I think I’ll go out anyway. We need groceries.”
Jean exhaled but protested, “I have no secrets.”
The toaster popped out with her newly toasted bread. Peter laughed. “Sure you don’t,” he said.
…
Peter brought a whole day’s paycheque worth of food. He thought if he had a kid in the house then he should have food for the kid to eat, that was logical. He ended up losing half of it because a robbery took place at the bodega on Astoria Avenue and Spider-Man had to step in, abandoning his bags in the back of his building. Just his luck.
Jean was sitting at Peter’s desk when he got home with something green in her lap. She jumped when the door closed.
“You’re late,” she told Peter, getting up as inconspicuously as possible to help him put the groceries away; Peter noticed how she moved the green fabric onto the couch with her mind. “You said you’d be back at 5:30. It’s 7,” she said and she sounded a little worried or like she had been. Peter didn’t like the thought of her worrying about him. “There was a robbery in Astoria. I had to take care of it,” he explained, throwing out the pizza box to make room for the gallon of milk. “Nothing too serious,” he added in an effort to soothe her worries, awkwardly.
There was a loud silence. Jean frowned and turned away, opening one of the bags. Mentally, Peter cursed himself. How was he still so freakin’ bad at social situations? Jesus Christ!
“Coco pops?” she said, changing the subject (Peter was thankful), slipping the box into a dusty cabinet. Peter didn’t realize how empty his kitchen really was. “I thought you’d like them,” Peter said, a little embarrassed. Jean’s eyebrows furrowed.
“What were you doing while I was gone?” he asked. His fridge was a bit of a mess but he had to go out soon, to patrol, so he had no interest in cleaning it. He, instead, just pushed things against each other and prayed nothing fell.
Jean was more cool this time, shrugging her shoulders lazily. “Nothing,” she said, “did a bit of reading and searched the web on your computer.”
“Find anything interesting?”
“People really like to imagine The Punisher and The Spider-Man making out,” Jean replied.
Peter scrunched his nose up. “Really?” he said. “I think I could do better than that.” He had decided to not push her on what she’d actually been up to. It wasn’t anything serious, if it was.. she would tell him. Peter was sure.
Jean laughed, so Peter smiled too. She had a good laugh.
Things ran smoothly on patrol. He turned in early because not much was happening and Peter had promised Ned that he would help him put together some furniture tomorrow. Peter creeped in through the window, stared at Jean’s sleeping form and hoped he was doing good by her. He was careful not to wake her up. Jean barely slept as it was. Peter could hear her, her small gasps of fear during the night. Her own mind, her strong mind, taunting her. Peter had been there.
He had tried comforting her before but it hadn’t been well received. Jean had glared at him, her blue eyes cold with tears trailing down his face. “Don’t treat me like a kid, Peter,” she’d said, voice low. “You’ve seen what I’ve done. I don’t need to be coddled.” He hadn’t had a response for that.
He stretched then thoroughly passed out.
He dreamt of Tony again.
This time, they were outside. They were sitting at a bench and eating hot dogs. Peter wasn’t a kid, he was his current age. Tony looked older.
Words came out of his mouth without really thinking like his mind had a script set out for him, “How’s Morgan?”
Tony hummed and chewed his dog. “She’s good. Misses her Peter. Pepper wishes you’d come around more often.”
Peter smiled. Tony-speak for I wish you came around more often.
“I’m just busy, you know how it is,” he said, "especially with Jean.”
Tony had laughed and the hot dogs had somehow disappeared into the dream realm. They both got up. “I still can’t believe you already managed to find a kid to mentor. Your heart’s too big, kid.”
“She’s not mine,” he protested. Tony ruffled his hair.
“I said the same thing too.”
…
“.. There’s a new superheroine to add to the growing roster of heroes in New York City,” Betty Brant said on the news, her voice preppy and a smile on her face. “They’re calling her Marvel Girl.”
A photo flashes on screen of a girl with red hair tied in a ponytail with a yellow domino mask across her eyes. She wore a black trenchcoat with a green dress beneath. She had, apparently, stopped Boomerang with her telekinesis while Peter slept. They showed the fight on the news, it didn’t look graphic. In fact, Marvel Girl looked like she had it handled. But she had bled. Peter saw.
Peter wasn’t stupid.
Jean had left to go on a walk before Peter woke up. She’d written a note; Needed fresh air. Be back soon.
All Peter could wonder is if she was hurt. She must be hurt and she must be nursing her wounds somewhere else so Peter doesn’t find out. The thought makes him irrationally irritated. She should come home so they can figure it out together. If Jean wants to be a superhero, fine, but she better know all that it comes with. And she needs to let her help him. Because she could get hurt.
Peter waited in the kitchen for 10 minutes before going out himself to go find her. His heart was beating rapidly. What if she was hurt? Or dead? Peter could never forgive himself. It would be all his fault because he had chosen to turn in early. What’s wrong with him? When did he become so selfish–
“Are you good, man?” a familiar voice rang out as Peter ran into him.
Ned grabbed Peter’s shoulders. “Ned?” Peter asked, his voice sounding panicked even to his own ears. “Hi,” he said. “What are you doing here? It’s only.. 10. I thought you said we would meet up at 3.”
Ned smiled widely. “I thought we could get breakfast together. I saw Jean on the stoop while I was heading over to Benny’s. She said you were probably up.”
Oh, Peter thought.
Jean was okay.
He exhaled.
“Oh,” he said, “okay. Yeah. Breakfast sounds alright. Did Jean look alright?”
Ned thought Jean was Peter’s cousin, only MJ and Frank knew the truth of the situation and it would stay that way for her safety.
Ned shrugged and his eyes looked Peter up and down. “She seemed fine,” he said, “are you gonna get dressed before we go?”
Peter blushed. He had come out in his pajamas, he hadn’t been thinking right. “Sure, yeah.”
Peter dressed quickly, they went downstairs and Jean wasn’t on the stoop any longer. She probably went in, Peter’s mind supplied. She’s fine. Ned said so and Ned never lied to him.
Still, Peter was hardly able to eat breakfast and he wasn’t good conversation. Ned said he could sort-of remember Peter, that it was all flash-in-the-pan stuff. Peter thought that made sense because Ned was magic, or he had used to be. Ned doesn’t believe Peter, always laughs in his face about it.
Peter and Ned hugged. Even though his mind is elsewhere, he hugged Ned tight. He doesn’t ever want Ned to forget him again. “Be safe, webhead,” Ned said, pushing him off with a laugh, “I’ll still see you later, yeah?”
Peter confirmed, “Yeah, man. See ya.”
Peter walked home, slowly.
Some part of him dreaded seeing Jean, dreaded the conversation they would have. The other part of him was just worried. Is this what Aunt May had felt like? What would Aunt May say to Jean? That was Peter’s go-to when it came to comfort, or to anything. What would Aunt May do?
The elevator felt too slow and too fast all at once. He leaned against the wall and groaned. Whenever things start to go easy for him, they start to get hard all over again. Nothing– nothing can ever just be easy and good. Things always have to be difficult, always have to find a new high for him to jump over.
Peter opened the front door, his mind still jumbled. Jean, he could hear, was messing with the TV. He looked over. Jean was sitting in front of the TV, looking perfectly healthy, with a bowl of Coco Pops in front of her. No milk, just plain Pops. Peter looked at her for a few long seconds before she looked at him.
He sat next to her. On the TV, Spongebob played.
“My mom,” Jean started then stopped before starting again, “My mom never let us watch this. She said it would melt our brains and make us even stupider.”
Peter looked at her for a few long seconds, pursed his lips as he thought. “I used to love Spongebob growing up,” he said, “My aunt thought it was annoying but she never cared as long as I kept it quiet.”
They both watched the TV, a silence in between the two of them.
“Peter–”
“Jean–”
They both stared at each other.
Jean went again, “Peter, I know you know what I did last night. I’m sure you do. I can feel that you know. But I need to. Maybe you don’t understand but I need to. You saw the hurt I brought on upon others, the people I..,” her voice hitched and she took a breath, “I need this. I need this to help me be a good person. And for my people too, for the mutants. I need to make a good impression, better than the first one.”
She was quiet for a moment and just as Peter was going to say his piece, she continued, “I have these great abilities and the only thing I’ve used them for is to hurt.” Her fists clenched. “I’m going to change. Why else would I have been born like this? I’m supposed to help them.”
Sometimes, with Jean, Peter felt like he was staring into a reflection.
He had thought the same thing a million times. He had to have been cursed, or blessed, with his skill for a reason. If there was no reason, then he would make one. He would be the hero, he would save the day.
And now Jean would too.
The thought of Jean going through what Peter did made him sick of going through any of it. But she had already gone through so much. She was a strong girl. She was reasonable.
“I know, Jean,” Peter murmured. He pulled his knees to his chest and sighed. “I know.”
He looked at her. “But you’ll always have me, alright? If it’s ever too much, if you ever get hurt, you’ll always have me.”
Jean tore her eyes away from the TV. Her eyes were wet and she exhaled with tears in her throat. “You too,” she said, her voice shaky. “You’ll always have me too.”
Peter reached out without thinking about it, pulling her into a hug. He held Jean like she was his own sister. He gently rubbed her back.
“Always,” he promised, “you’ll have me, Jean.”
…
That night they went out together. Jean seemed embarrassed by the prospect but they worked well as a team, better than Peter expected. Jean was in better spirits by the end of the night.
Peter came to the conclusion that Jean could handle herself after that. He didn’t need to hover over her shoulder; she was stronger than he was, really. Just younger. She had promised him about a thousand times that if she had trouble she would tell him. Peter believed her because he had to. Otherwise, his mind would give him a constant loop of Jean’s dead, Jean’s hurt, Jean’s dead.
That night, he dreamt of Tony one last time.
Tony, Peter and Jean were all dressed up in their costumes. They were on top of a building.
Jean was hanging upside down and Peter could hardly watch because of how nervous it made him. “Jean,” he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “you better stop before you fall.” His scolding fell on deaf ears.
Tony laughed, guffawed really and Peter huffed. “What’s so funny, old man?”
Coyly, Tony shrugged. His suit was loud as ever, Peter could remember that clear as day. “Just that you finally get it.”
Peter knew, instantly, what it meant. He glared at Tony behind the mask.
“I would never be so controlling–”
Tony gasped. “Controlling?”
Peter insisted, “Controlling!”
“Spoiled brat,” Tony said, smacking him upside the head.
Peter woke up early, because he had a shift at Del Mar’s. He made coffee quietly, watched the sun ppass through the windows. Jean softly snored. Peter thought that he really ought to get an apartment with two bedrooms. It can’t be good for her to be sleeping on the couch.
He drank his coffee, put on his uniform and thought that Jean would be alright.