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could it be enough to just float in your orbit
can we watch our phantoms like watching wild horses
cooler in theory but not if you force it to be,
it just didn’t happen.
—
MJ’s only ever gotten blackout drunk once, at a party sophomore year. She’d gone with Ned and her roommate at the time, a chem major named Claire, and she was fresh off a break up — her first college boyfriend, who she thought at the time was her first boyfriend— and she made some bad decisions that involved shots and jungle juice.
She remembers her second shot of tequila, how it burned her throat, how the lime juice on her hand stung a paper cut she didn’t realize she had — and then she remembers waking up in Ned’s room, still in her clothes, a foul taste in her mouth and head pounding.
He helped her piece it together later — beer pong and more shots, how she got cornered by a senior from one of her physics seminars who seemed a little too friendly for Ned’s liking, how her roommate disappeared with some of her own friends and MJ threw up in the bushes on the walk back to Ned’s, because Ned is a good friend who wanted to make sure she stayed safe given how drunk she was.
There was something like embarrassment, a sense of who am I that came from it. MJ went to parties sometimes, sure, and she’d made out with people a few times, and she drank on occasion, but she couldn’t recognize the version of her that could let herself go to a place where she could’ve been in real danger. On top of the killer hangover, she decided then and there that she was never going to let herself go that far, heartbroken or not. It wasn’t worth the loss of control, the feeling of not knowing what she did, said, thought. She trusts Ned completely, but it’s still uncomfortable to have to rely on someone else to tell her what happened to her. The loss of control, of knowledge, grates at her in a way that makes her twitch, and she never wants to feel that way again.
Which is why it’s so fucking terrifying when she finds herself in a goddamn pile on some random street, with Spider-Man, holding her like something terrible just happened, and she has no idea what. Her heart is still racing, her body aware of what happened even if her mind wasn’t, and suddenly she’s being swept off her feet — literally— by a superhero that Ned thinks they either went to high school with or was an old teacher, whisked away to a secure location because someone took over her mind and body and might do it again and he — Spider-Man — is apparently hell bent on keeping her safe.
Why she’s even in danger in the first place is still a mystery, but all she knows as the wind whips through her hair, as she tries not to vomit or panic, tries to focus on the warmth of this man who has her literal life in his hands, is that he’s not Mr Harrington, and she doesn’t think he’s Flash Thompson either.
And she hates not knowing.
—-
But there’s something about him, this boy — because he definitely seems more boy than man, feels like a peer with the way he talks with her and banters with her — something that feels familiar, almost.
Which makes sense, right? Since he’s saved them in the past?
But there’s a moment, a split second as she’s holding his face in her hands, studying the goggles of his mask, that she thinks, I’ve done this before, haven’t I?
Which is a stupid thought, and an easy one to brush aside with the everything else of it all.
She’s sure she imagined his intake of breath at the touch.
—-
Hi. My name is Peter Parker, and you don’t remember me, but I have something to tell you that’s going to sound crazy.
—
In the aftermath of it all — the swing home, the time hanging out with Ned, whatever the fuck happened with Jean Grey, yet another instance of MJ having her mind taken over and losing time — after Peter is out of the hospital and recovering somewhere, wherever he lives, doing whatever he does — Ned remembers.
She hadn’t told him about what happened at Frank’s, about the letter she found and the conversation she had. She didn’t tell him that the guy who hung out with them for a few hours wasn’t just Spider-Man but his best friend. It wasn’t her place to reveal that, not when she had no idea what Peter planned on doing next. For all she knew, he was going to ghost them.
Instead, as she turns over the days in her mind, tries to think about high school and tries to find the gaps where Peter should be, Ned bursts into the apartment and tells her everything.
—-
And it’s true what she told him, she can’t remember him, doesn’t know him. He looked at her with those sad eyes and this — this look like he could see into her, a look that said he knew her favorite color and most embarrassing moment, but she looked at him and saw nothing. Just a boy with messy curls and sad eyes. She doesn’t know him, can’t remember him, this boy she apparently dated, apparently loved. It makes her skin itch, feel too tight, claustrophobic in her own body, the knowledge that there are things about her that he knows and she doesn’t, that there’s an entire history between them that she can’t access. She’s spent the last four years living her life and now she’s found out that the foundation of it all is a lie, or at least, built on air. How can she be the person Peter Parker knew when she doesn’t know who that person was? How much of her was lost when her memories were erased? What else did she lose?
And she can appreciate that he told her about the kiss, doesn’t blame him for it since she’d literally been taken over by someone else, and she could tell in the way he said it, in the fact that he admitted to it at all, that Peter Parker cares about her. That he wouldn’t have crossed that line if he’d known the truth.
But she can’t stop turning it over in her mind, the previous days and her memories of high school, trying to find a piece of her mind that can remember it, anything. Ned said he remembered suddenly, as they did their secret handshake — like the muscles memory of it all had unlocked something. But if that was the case, why hadn’t the kiss done anything for MJ?
And the more she thinks about it, the more she just — it almost feels like a betrayal. All these things her body knows that her mind doesn’t. The way he felt familiar, that feeling as she held his face, the realization that she — who has never been a very tactile person, especially with strangers — hadn’t felt any sense of unease when he held her as they swung through the city, the moments he grabbed her or shielded her with his body from Frank’s house of horrors. Like her body knew he was safe when her mind didn’t know him at all.
He told her he loved her. He’s carried a torch for her for four years. They dated in high school. But what else is there? What else is she missing? The questions are all consuming, until finally she cracks and gets his number from Ned’s phone and calls him.
“Hello?”
His voice is rough with sleep and MJ realizes then that it’s after midnight. Oops.
“Hello?” He repeats, more alert now.
“It’s MJ,” she says. Silence. “I got your number from —“
“Yeah, no, I figured. That’s — hi.”
She tries to imagine him, wherever he is, feels her face warm at the realization that she’s actually called him.
“Hi.”
She bites her lip, listening to his breathing and wondering how often they did this — talk on the phone late into the night. Did they text? FaceTime? Has he had her number all these years?
“Is everything ok?”
Yes. No. Her life has turned upside down, how can it be?
“When we were — together,” she starts, feeling like a teenager again in the awkwardness of it. “Did we — how long did we even date?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and she hears rustling, like he’s moving around now.
“About six months?” He says finally. “We were friends before.”
Six months. A lifetime in high school. She lets that sit before her next question, the real reason for her call.
“And did we —“ she pauses, embarrassed. Huffs out a breath, annoyed at herself for her nerves. “Did we have sex?”
She hears him suck in a breath.
“Ah, we, uh. No.” He clears his throat. This was not, apparently, what he’d expected. “No, we didn’t — we fooled around. But we never really had the time or — opportunity.”
She feels her cheeks flush, is sure that he’s probably blushing wherever he is (probably in bed, don’t go there), and it’s the way he says it, the words he uses, that seals it for her. She may not have had sex with Peter Parker when she was 17, but she’d wanted to.
She closes her eyes, wills herself to just remember, begs her body to give her something.
“MJ? I’m sorry, I—“
“No, don’t apologize. I asked.” She takes a breath. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Of course,” he says softly.
“I don’t — I don’t need details but — you said fooled around?”
She paused. Waits for him to fill in the blanks.
“I’m sorry, I know this is awkward but —“
“No, you — you should know. I mean, it happened to you.”
She feels a sort of relief flood through her. Because he gets it, he doesn’t need her to explain, to vocalize the jumbled mess in her chest and her brain.
“Yeah.”
He clears his throat.
“Um. Third base.” He pauses. “But it was recent, uh. Not — only like. Twice?”
Part of her has trouble believing that he doesn’t remember it all in explicit detail, but then another part of her thinks those likely aren’t the memories he’d want to dwell on.
She can feel herself flushing all the same. She can’t remember this boy, can’t remember kissing him ever, and yet she’s apparently done more than just kiss. She’s seen his dick, has — and he’s seen her, all of her. They were close.
“Ok,” she says. “So. Oral sex.”
“Oh. Right. Uh, so I guess — but not —“
“No, I — I’m not trying to correct you.”
“Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“It was consensual,” he says softly.
Her chest tightens.
“I know,” she says, matching his tone. “I wasn’t worried about that.”
“I just — you don’t remember me, and I know I’m still asking you to take my word for it, but.”
He doesn’t say more, just lets it all hang in the air between them.
It’s true, she does have to take his word for it. Has no choice but to trust him. But somehow she knows he wouldn’t lie about this. Ever since she confronted him with the truth, he’s answered her questions. He’s told her, even when it cost him, would’ve been easier to not.
“Is there anything else?”
It’s not unkind, and she knows they’ve both been silent for several minutes. She remembers suddenly how late it is.
“Not at the moment. Sorry, I know it’s —”
“You don’t have to apologize,” he says. “I’m — if you wanna know anything else, I’m — I’m here.”
She nods.
“Good night, Peter.”
“Good night, MJ.”
She hangs up first, his words and his voice echoing in her head. She feels warm and sad and, inexplicably, horny.
(She wonders how he’s feeling, wherever he is.)
—
Ned has been talking to Peter more, and one day he asks if it’s ok to invite him over.
“Yeah, of course.”
Which starts the chapter of their lives where Peter Parker becomes something of a fixture in their apartment. He and Ned play with Legos or watch movies or play video games. Ned invites him to the bar with his new work friends and their MIT friends who moved to the city. She becomes accustomed to Peter’s presence, tries not to stare too much, tries not to notice him. But it’s like he’s a magnet, her eyes drawn to him.
She broke up with David weeks ago — not because of Peter or anything, but because it was just time — so she knows she shouldn’t feel guilty about letting herself stare. Because yes, okay, he’s hot. She can see how she would’ve fallen for him at 17. But she’s not 17 anymore, and she doesn’t remember him, and maybe there’s too much baggage between them for a fresh start to even be possible.
But she finds herself around him more and more, watches him awkwardly make small talk, nursing a single beer all night, catching her eye and looking away. She watches him get hit on at the bar, lose at darts, quote Lord of the Rings with Ned.
And she doesn’t remember, no matter how much she wants to.
—-
One night she and Peter have to carry Ned between them back to the apartment, Peter whispering to her that he can handle it on his own.
“Because that won’t look weird.”
“Maybe I work out, they don’t know.”
She snorts, looking at him and seeing the smile stretched across his face. He looks younger when he smiles. She can see why she liked him.
But they work together to get Ned upstairs, taking off his shoes and tucking him into bed. She hasn’t been this close to Peter since everything with Jean Grey, and that feeling like magnets is back, brushing against each other as they get Ned into bed, get Tylenol and water for him.
And then it’s just the two of them, Peter making a point of keeping his distance. She doesn’t know how to tell him that he doesn’t need to do that, that she isn’t afraid of him, that it’s not a big deal if he touches her on accident. That sometimes she wants him to touch her on purpose.
“You okay to go home?” She asks.
“Yeah, I barely had anything.”
She nods. Almost disappointed.
She doesn’t remember him, doesn’t know him.
(But maybe she wants to.)
“Okay,” she says. He nods. Neither of them move. The air between them practically crackling.
“Night, MJ.”
“Night, Peter.”
He looks at her in that way he does, and she wants to remember him so badly.
“Can you — this is gonna sound stupid.” He waits for her. “Can we — hug?”
Because she wants to touch him, wants to be close to him, wants to believe that maybe it would do something.
He nods but doesn’t move, so she does, taking a step toward him. He opens his arms and she presses herself against him, and it’s not familiar except that it almost is. But maybe that’s just from everything a few months ago.
She hugs him and he holds her loosely, and she inexplicably feels like crying. How can she miss something she can’t remember, doesn’t know? But he’s warm and solid against her, and there’s a wave of missingness that hits her and maybe it’s just because she’s single but maybe it’s not.
She’s not sure how long they stand there, just holding each other. It doesn’t unlock anything in her, doesn’t bring a rush of memories, but it’s — it’s comforting. Nice. She doesn’t know Peter, not really, but she wants to.
Eventually they pull apart, and she almost wishes he would kiss her. But she knows he won’t. Knows it’s a bad idea.
They say goodbye again and she goes to bed, still thinking of him and the things she can’t remember.
—-
MJ starts having dreams, waking up as the wisps of them start to disappear, slipping through her fingers no matter how much she tries to hold on. Flashes of light and sound, enough that after a few weeks she knows it’s something like memories. Peter’s laugh, the rough scratch of his suit under her hands, what she can recognize as the scent of him in an embrace.
Sometimes she wakes up wet, her face flushed, something like embarrassment or maybe shame. She wonders if he —
(Don’t go there.)
He’s still a fixture in their apartment, around enough to be familiar in his own right, and she doesn’t know what to make of the dream-memories that still don’t stick, confusing her more than anything.
—-
She remembers rushing to him on a bridge. Remembers him beside her on the roof at Midtown. Can hear him call her Em.
But it’s flashes, glimpses. Nothing fully formed, nothing that feels concrete. Just — just more sense memory. Her body remembering while her mind remains blank.
—
Ned still keeps up the Spidey Tracker, and MJ tries not to pay too much attention, tries not to get caught up in it all — the fights and the bruises, the way Peter limps some days, the exhaustion in his eyes. He tells Ned he’s taking care of himself, he’s finding balance, but MJ worries.
Especially when Ned bursts into her room one night, asking — telling her to run out for bandages and peroxide.
“I’m fine,” she hears Peter call weakly and she’s up and in the living room without pausing to think, Ned hot on her heels.
“What the hell?” She says, Peter laying on the floor but pulling himself up to sit and taking the mask off. His face is a bloody mess and she can see the slashes on his suit.
“We don’t have much but—“ Ned starts but Peter waves him off.
“I’m good, just need to — to sleep it off,” he says. “Be out of your hair soon.”
MJ turns to Ned, who looks as panicked as she feels.
“Bandages, peroxide, we have ice, towels —“
“Think he needs stitches?”
“No,” Peter interjects. He tries to stand up and wobbles, Ned rushing to steady him.
“Sit your ass down, Parker,” she snaps. Ned helps him settle on the couch. “Ned, there’s a 24 hour pharmacy on 10th, I’ll see what we have in the meantime.”
Ned nods and grabs his keys and MJ approaches Peter, kneeling beside him and running her fingers over the slashes across his chest, looking for more.
“You know, red makes it hard to tell where you’re bleeding,” she tells him.
“That’s sorta the point.”
She looks up to glare at him and realizes how close they are. He tries to smile, wincing a little.
“I’m —“
“If you say fine one more time —“
“MJ.” His voice is gentle, and he takes her hand in his gloved one. “I’ll be okay. I heal fast, just need to rest a little.”
She nods, swallowing the lump in her throat.
“Why’d you come here?” It’s not an accusation and she hopes he doesn’t take it as one. He shrugs.
“Was closer. Was tired.”
He can barely keep his eyes open. She brushes her hand against his cheek, across the dried blood and blooming bruise, and he sighs.
“Sleep. We’ve got you,” she says softly. He nods.
“Thanks, Em.”
It hits a part of her, the nickname, and she can feel her eyes welling up.
By the time Ned is back she’s soaked a few hand towels in hot water and cleaned off his face. Ned helps her pull his suit down to the waist, helps her clean and bandage the gashes there. She tries not to focus on the collection of scars littered across his chest and torso, wonders if they ever did this, before.
“This is new,” Ned says quietly. “He didn’t come to us after fights like this.”
Of course. Ned would know.
“Then who —“
“May. His aunt.”
There’s so much about him that she doesn’t know. That she used to know.
And what about now? She looks at him, the rise and fall of his chest. Thinks of those days he was in the hospital and they didn’t know if he’d make it.
Who helps him? Before he came back into their lives? Who did Peter have?
She watches him sleep, heart aching.
The her he knew, the one he loved, would probably be devastated to know how alone he was, after.
(Or maybe it’s just her, no need for the qualifier.)
—-
She goes out with her work friends one Friday, gets a little carried away or maybe the drinks were just strong. Sylvie is telling them about her latest tinder date and Marie is asking MJ about her dating life and Greta thinks she should hook up with one of the guys at the bar.
“Ew, no finance bros for me.”
“How can you tell?”
“You can always tell.”
But she has a little too much to drink and she’s thinking about calling a ride or something when she thinks of Peter.
Can you help me home?
He doesn’t text back, he calls.
“You okay?”
“Just a lil buzzed,” she says. Greta tries to grab her phone.
“Is that a boy?”
“Tell me where you are and I’ll be there,” he says, and she can hear the smile in his voice.
Sylvie waits with her and gives MJ a look when Peter walks up.
“Hey,” he says. He nods to Sylvie. “Nice to meet you.”
“Uh huh.” She gives him a once over and MJ rolls her eyes.
“Let’s go,” MJ says, grabbing his arm and pulling him away, stumbling a little as she does. His hands reach out to steady her and she’s tired and lonely and horny and he looks less sad than he used to, but still —
“How about I lead?” He jokes, and she rolls her eyes and keeps walking, but she’s smiling too.
He offers to swing them back to her place but she’s afraid she might throw up if he did so they walk, MJ in less of a straight line than Peter, his arm reaching to steady her the second before she stumbles.
“Hope I didn’t interrupt your hot date,” she says to break the silence. He snorts.
“What hot date?”
“Pretty boy like you, alone on a Friday night?”
“You think I’m pretty?” He teases, and she bumps his shoulder. “I’m usually too busy for dates.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“I guess.”
“Are you a virgin?”
His face contorts into a grimace or maybe just shock, and she can’t help but laugh.
“I’m sorry but I just had to ask,” she says.
“Do I really seem that pathetic?” But he’s smiling.
“No, I’ve seen how girls look at you when we’re out.”
“Oh yeah?”
And it’s dangerous, what they’re doing, but she’s just buzzed enough to not care.
“You still haven’t answered me.”
“No, I’m not,” he says with a sigh. “I may not — I don’t go out a lot but there have been people.”
Something about the way he says it makes her sad. Not jealous, just —
He really has lived a lonely existence since she knew him.
“I’m not either,” she tells him.
“I mean, I figured.”
“Oh?”
“You’ve had boyfriends.” He shrugs.
“Maybe I wanted to save myself for marriage.”
He snorts, and she laughs, too.
“Did you find god in Boston or something?”
“Nah, I’m just fucking with you.”
There’s a flash of something. I’m just messing with you. Opera glasses? It doesn’t make sense and yet —
“MJ?”
She shakes herself. Peter looks concerned.
“You know sometimes it’s like I almost have something. And then it’s gone,” she tells him, trying to sound casual.
He doesn’t say anything.
“Do you know how frustrating it is to know you don’t know something, and to want to, and you can’t?”
They’re not walking anymore.
“I’m sorry.”
She huffs out a breath.
“Ned does a fucking handshake and he gets it all back, but we kissed and nothing? What the fuck? Why aren’t my memories— where’s my muscle memory? Do I have to fuck you to—“
“MJ.”
He’s stern now, and she feels like she’s sobered up in the course of this conversation.
“Why can’t I remember?”
She wants to cry, because it’s the unfairness of it all — everything that was taken from her, the memories and the feelings and the way she’s stuck with this hollow shell of a past, knowing she can’t trust her own recollections, knowing that those moments between them — of friendship, of intimacy— some of her firsts — are gone. She can’t access them, can’t feel them. And how can she know who she is when she’s missing time? Missing pieces?
“I’m sorry,” he says again.
“I don’t need you to be sorry, I need to remember you and the — everything.”
“Maybe it’s better not to.”
“Oh fuck off with that.”
“You’ve been happy, right? You were fine until I —“
“I get to make my own choices now!” She snaps.
“And I don’t?”
“No one’s forcing you to be here,” she says. “If you think you’re that bad for me—“
“That’s not fair—“
“None of it is fair, Peter! That’s my fucking point!”
“I don’t know how to help you remember, okay! If I did I would’ve done it!”
Dimly she’s aware that she and Peter are yelling at each other on the sidewalk and other people could walk by and hear them but she finds she doesn’t really care.
“So we’re just fucked then, huh?”
He shrugs.
“I don’t know. I guess.”
“That’s all you have to say? I guess?”
“What do you want from me, MJ, because I’ve been trying to figure it out and you keep —“
He lets out a huff, taking a step back and running a hand through his hair.
“I what?”
“Calling me tonight?”
“First of all I text you.”
“The — asking about dating and if I’m a virgin? I mean, come on.”
She feels her cheeks warm but she refuses to admit he has a point. They’ve been playing with fire but she’s initiating it.
“We’re friends,” she argues. “I can’t ask you about your life?”
“I don’t know that we can be friends, MJ. Not when I remember everything and you —“
“So then we just ignore each other?” She asks, hearing her voice hitch even as she says it. He hears it, too, and his face drops.
“No, I — I don’t know.”
“I miss you,” she says, and it feels foreign and yet so true. She hadn’t meant to say it and she knows it doesn’t make sense because how can she miss what she can’t remember, but she does. She does.
He goes still, his eyes so soft on hers. So sad.
“I miss you, too,” he echoes.
“And I don’t know — I don’t know what to do. I want to remember.”
“I know.”
“It was really fucked, for you to do it, wasn’t it?”
He nods.
I loved you.
She can feel it in a way she couldn’t before, but the thoughts and the feelings still don’t feel like her own.
“So what now?”
Peter lets out a breath.
“Now, I take you home, and make sure you drink some water and have some Tylenol. And you go to bed, and tomorrow— tomorrow we’ll deal with tomorrow.”
She nods.
Because what else is there?
—-
He walks her up to her apartment, gets her a glass of water and painkillers while she gets ready for bed. She insists that she’s sobered up but Peter insists. And she’ll admit, she likes how it feels to be cared for.
And it’s awkward, saying goodnight after their — whatever that was. She doesn’t want him to go, but she knows that’s unfair.
So she walks him to the door, and before he leaves she hugs him, lets herself soak in the moment, the touch. Feels him squeeze her back, holding on like he might not have the chance again. She doesn’t know this man, doesn’t love him.
But she could have.
Before she lets go, she presses a kiss to his temple, and his breath hitches. She looks at him and his eyes are closed and this isn’t fair to him, she should walk away now. But before she does, she rests her forehead against his, her own eyes sliding closed.
And it’s like the world explodes.
“Peter?”