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Jean hardly has the chance to stablize Peter before footsteps come pounding through entrance. She grits her teeth and tries to figure out how to fight while also keeping him safe, but the only face she sees when she turns around is Frank Castle's. There should probably be some hostility, considering she broke into his mind and he just tried to shoot her, but both of them are too preoccupied with the dying man on the floor.
"Move," he snarls, and Jean moves if only to concentrate on keeping Peter breathing. Frank scoops him up like he weighs nothing and shoots Jean a withered glare. Jean glares right back.
They stand off like that for a couple seconds before Frank turns to the entrance. "Get out of here," he says, forcing it out like it pains him to say. With his reputation of killing criminals like her by any means necessary, it probably does. But, and she can't imagine him saying it out loud, he cares more about Peter than whatever mission he originally set out to complete.
They have that in common.
It's why, even after his footsteps have long faded away, she ignores the unconscious man she wanted to kill and focuses on monitoring Peter's vitals on the way to the hospital. She even ignores him when he wakes up an hour later and stumbles out of the room to get as far away as possible.
More hours pass before she even thinks about leaving.
"Breathe."
Jean scowls. "Seriously? That's all you got?"
Sara raises an eyebrow at the younger girl and flicks her on the forehead. "You asked me for advice, I gave you some. Don't be ungrateful."
"I meant hopping into people. You know, controlling them. What you do." Jean rolls her eyes. Her voice has a childlike and unknowing pitch to it, and that's exactly why Sara doesn't tell her how to do it.
"You're not ready for that yet," Sara says.
"Yes I am!" Jean yells back, crossing her arms.
"The fact that you're yelling during a civil conversation tells me you're not."
"I'm not—!" Jean cuts herself off and takes a deep breath, calming down. "I'm not yelling."
Sara grins. "See? Took a breath just now, didn't you?" Jean remains entirely unamused. Sara sobers slightly, but keeps her tone light. "I'm serious. Our powers, what we can do… we could really fu— er, mess someone up. It's not something we can be careless about."
Jean pouts. "So?"
"So," Sara says, dragging the word out, "take a breath. Whenever you feel yourself freaking out or losing control, the most important thing you can do is breathe—in through the nose, out through the mouth." She smirks and nudges her sister's side. "You'd be surprised how much a breath can do."
Only time will tell.
After hours of operation by New York city's best doctors, the only thing that the news can mention about their most beloved superhero is that only time will tell whether he survives or not.
Jean is utterly frustrated.
Still, she has no choice but to keep breathing.
On the bus with her hood up, she breathes. On the bench in the park, she breathes. Even when she's sick and tired of not doing anything but breathing, she breathes. And she does it without a word of complaint because every time she does, it means Peter is too. But nothing can stop the antsy feeling in her skin, so she does something stupid.
She pays a visit to the hospital.
On the way there, all she sees is Spider-Man. On zip-ups and balloons and posters and walls, she sees the mask everywhere. He's been there for New York on its worst days, and it seems that New York has repaid the favor. It's sweet, and Jean has to swallow down the lump in her throat so she can still breathe properly.
After a moment's hesitation, she steps inside the fluorescent lit building. It takes her a second to infiltrate the guy in the front, because even though she can feel how much stronger her telepathy has gotten, she's still wary about sending a sliver of her mind to someone other than Peter. But she walks past without any questions, and Peter is still stable, so the tension bleeds out of her a little bit.
About twenty feet from his room, Jean sees the door open with a frantic energy. She slows and pulls her hood over her head until she's sure that MJ can't see her face.
The curly haired girl walks right by her, and Jean's not entirely sure she would've noticed her even if her hood is down. The psychic glimpses clenched fists, a tense jaw, and furrowed brows, and she's sure they're wondering the same thing.
What the hell are they doing here?
Objectively, neither of them know the guy that much. But they both felt the need to be here in the hero's most precarious hours. She's just not so sure if it's the Spider-Man effect or the Peter effect.
("So why don't you just be honest with yourself: Are you Peter Parker, or are you Spider-Man?"
"I'm both.")
After a glance to her right and left, she walks into the room. Frank is lounging on the chair next to the bed with a cup of coffee and a nondescript book in his hand. He looks up as she enters and she can't describe how she feels at the lack of surprise on his face. Still, his eyes are hard as she stands in the doorway, even if they now hold a little bit of weariness. Silently, he stands up and walks past her, closing the door and leaving her alone in the room.
A different tension replaces the previous one when she finally looks at Peter's prone body. She knows nothing was more lethal than the gunshot wound in his chest, but she still grimaces at the cuts and bruises decorating his face. Still in his head, Jean takes a deep breath and is reassured when she watches him do the same. She doesn't dare sit in the chair, knowing Frank would come back sometime soon and fearing that if she did, she'd be compelled to stay like she knows she shouldn't.
Instead, she examines the numerous gifts on his bedside. 'Get well' balloons float in the corner, guarded by a ridiculous amount of kids' drawings of the web-slinger. Flowers create a pleasant scent in the room, and she's glad he doesn't have to wake up to the smell of medicine.
In the middle, just a little different than the other drawings, is an impressive sketch of Ned and Peter playing with Legos in an apartment living room. She recalls MJ's hurried gait out of the room and exhales deeply. Peter's chest responds in kind.
Truthfully, when she took over MJ's mind, there were no thoughts to the curly haired boy and no vague feeling that she was missing something. But if she walked out of here with that expression on her face, Jean has a feeling she'd see something entirely different if she went in now. She smiles a little bit in Peter's stead, hope blooming across her ribs. And though her powers don't work both ways, she finds herself hoping that Peter can feel it. Those two still have a story together, Jean knows it.
She's been standing here for way longer than she intended. Antsy feeling sated and fear somewhat subsided, she allows herself one last look at Peter's body before turning to leave. Besides, the flowers in the corner serve as a reminder, and she exits the hospital and heads toward the bodega with the path from Peter's mind guiding the way.
"Do you want it?"
Sara's voice rips Jean's eyes away from the Skittles packet on the shelf. She scowls, embarrassed that she got caught, and stomps away from the aisle. The orphanage they're currently at lets them go out with a chaperone sometimes, and though Jean still has no idea how to control the buzzing in her head, Sara's got enough of a handle on it to trick the lady up front into thinking the sisters have found themselves a volunteer.
Said volunteer—who may as well be unconscious—currently sits at a table next to the window in the corner store they're at, staring into nothing. Sara says it's no big deal, but Jean can see the sweat perspiring at the back of her neck with the effort it takes to grip his mind.
(That's how Sara describes it, at least. Jean has no idea what it feels like to jump into someone, young as she is. She's kind of terrified of finding out.)
"Jean."
"We just came to get out of that building, didn't we?" Jean says, petulant and stubborn. "Not like we can pay, anyway."
Of course, even though Sara has a couple years on Jean, she's also still a child. So, instead of dropping it like Jean intended, Sara takes it as a challenge instead. No one can doubt the Grey sisters' determination, for better or for worse.
"You wanna bet?" Sara says, blinking hard.
"Sara—"
Too late. The air hums in that way only Jean seems to feel, like her ears are on the verge of turning inside out. The 'volunteer' stands up quickly out of his seat, she sound of it scraping against the linoleum floor making Jean wince. Next to her, Sara's expression is screwed in concentration while she takes deep and even breaths to focus.
The 'volunteer' bends down and grabs a Skittle packet where all the candy is located and plops it down on the front counter. "Evenin', just—"
"—this please," Sara mutters next to her.
Jean's jaw drops. Jean had seen her hop into people before and make them move, but she'd never been able to talk through them before. He talks when she does, nods when she does, and even lets out a loud laugh when Sara chuckles.
After Sara makes him pay, he comes over to them and holds the red package out to Jean. With nothing else to do, she takes it. He turns around and starts toward the entrance, Sara and Jean close behind him. As soon as the door closes, the buzzing in the air dims immediately as Sara slumps forward.
Jean grips her forearm before she eats the concrete. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Sara smiles, strained as it is.
"What the…?" The guy in front of them spins around, scratching his head in confusion.
"Shoot." Sara stares at him through her lashes, the buzzing in the air rising slightly, until the guy snaps back to her control and turns around wordlessly. Jean takes a moment to pity the guy. Sara's never controlled her, but she can't imagine what it must feel like to fall asleep one place only to wake up in another.
Sara softens like she can see exactly what Jean is thinking. "He's okay. It doesn't hurt. Not unless I want it to, I think."
"Still," Jean says, "It's probably scary. Plus, we also just took his money."
"We took two dollars. He volunteers at the orphanage anyway, so he'd be okay with it. Probably."
"I thought you hated when people treated us like we were charity cases."
"Since when do you pay attention to what I say?" Sara grumbles. "Look, if it bothers you that much, next time I'll jump into a cat to see if I can help it down from a tree or something."
Jean's eyes shine with excitement. "You think we could jump into animals?"
Sara shrugs. "Worth a shot. Besides—" she grabs the Skittles packet and tears it open, popping one in her mouth before giving it back to Jean—"you're right. The least I can do after someone helps us is pay it forward, I guess."
The bus comes to a rattling stop. Clutching the cheap bouquet in her hand, she steps off and makes the short trek to the infamous iron-wrought gate. The clouds in the sky, the fog in the air, and the general somber mood of the city make it all very fitting for a cemetery.
Jean's never been to a cemetery before. The only person she would visit was never granted a final resting place, and even if she was, she'd have no way of finding it.
Jean has the map in Peter's brain to show her the way, but she also thinks that she doesn't need it. There's a desire path starting all the way back at the entrance—a trail of slightly flattened and slightly yellowed grass—that leads all the way to the grave of May Parker.
The grave itself is plain. According to the engraved years, she lived a decent life. But, with a sharp pang to her chest, there's no family on the tombstone. No 'survived by' section. She takes a moment to be grateful that she at least got to die knowing her nephew was right next to her.
Jean brings her eyes up a little bit, reading the quote.
When you help someone, you help everyone.
She allows herself a tiny smile. So it's not just Peter, she thinks. It's the entire goddamn Parker line. She expects nothing less from the woman who made sure Peter Parker was just as loved as Spider-Man.
It hasn't been long since Peter's last been here. If she stays out of it, he'll probably wake up in time to replace the slightly wilted flowers himself. Still, she kneels down and gently takes the flowers out, unwraps the new ones she just bought from the bodega, and places them in the vase. She knows nothing about flower arrangements and next-to-nothing about Peter and May, but she still fiddles with the way they push up against each other until she lands on something she thinks would satisfy them both.
She stands up and brushes herself off. "You raised a good guy," she whispers to the breeze. "And I wish I could've met you when you were still here."
("I'm sorry about your aunt."
"You would've loved her.")
"Peter thinks I would've liked you."
Jean takes a deep breath, knowing Peter will copy the motion even blocks away from her. She follows the desire path back out towards the entrance to find a place to sleep for the night.
Jean shoots up, gulping in air greedily as she feels the last of the dream ebb away. Her dreams have always been memorable, but they've gotten even more vivid with her powers. Half the time, she can't tell what's real and what's conjured in the depths of her mind.
"Jean?" Sara calls, voice laced with sleep. Their arms brush in the small double sized bed. Their foster parents only expected to take one kid, but after the vehement fighting about keeping Sara and Jean together, they took both.
She should've known it was too good to be true.
"Sara," Jean squeaks.
Sara's alert immediately. "What? What is it?" She grabs Jean's face and turns it around, letting her eyes adjust to the dark as she scans for any discrepancies. When she finds none, she relaxes slightly. "Nightmare?"
Jean trembles under the sheets. "I don't know."
"Wanna tell me about it?"
The thing is, sometimes the reason her dreams are so vivid is because they're not dreams at all. Sometimes, her powers will send her into other people's heads while they're asleep. And when people are asleep, their minds are at their most vulnerable. Their memories, thoughts, dreams—fantasies—all flood into her brain like they're her own. Hence the inability to distinguish what's real and what's not.
So when she tells Sara about her dream, about their foster father barging into their room in the dead of night and satisfying his urges with wandering hands, she desperately hopes it's just a nightmare.
But that kind of hope is a luxury they can't afford. Sara knows this, and so she tells Jean to pack her stuff in place of the usual assurances a sister might offer. Her face is contorting with a mixture of anger and disgust as she shoves her stuff into her bag.
When they leave the room, they go in opposite directions—Jean for the door, Sara for the master bedroom.
"Sara!" Jean hisses. Sara ignores her. She stomps down the hallway and tries to open the door, only to find it locked. Undeterred, she starts banging on the door.
"Hey!" she yells.
The door opens, their foster father's hair disheveled from sleep. He barely gets a word out before Jean feels the air shift, the man snapping under Sara's control instantly. Where his mind is dulled by sleep, Sara's is sharpened by anger.
"Jean," she says lowly. "Wait outside."
"But—"
"Now, Jean." With the certainty that she's fighting a losing battle, she exits the house and sits on the front porch. It doesn't take long for Sara to meet her and lead her away, stormy expression still on her face. Jean never confirms what she did, but the police cars that ride past them as they put distance between them and the house gives her a good idea.
"I'm never gonna let anything happen to you," Sara declares, still staring ahead. All Jean can do is grab her hand and squeeze, the air cold against her cheeks.
After that, Sara never lets an adult talk to Jean without jumping into their head first.
She can hear the cheers a mile away.
Word travels fast. The second Spider-Man showed himself in the window of his room, news channels and social media live streams all show the masked man standing, alive and well. Jean doesn't have a phone to watch, but there are plenty of people within range that do. She jumps into one of them and stares at the screen until she gets off at the stop closest to the hospital.
It's a difficult task, getting there. Everyone wants a glimpse of their hero with their own eyes, unsatisfied unless they see it for themselves. Jean gets some practice with her precision as she jumps into multiple people for a couple seconds, just enough time to clear a path where she isn't getting an elbow to the face.
When she does finally reach the damn place, she's almost overwhelmed by the joy on people's faces. They cheer and shout for a kid they had condemned just four years ago, if Peter's memory was anything to go by. She has to step aside and lean against a brick wall so she can catch her breath.
(And just for herself this time. The moment she felt Peter stirring, she let go of the grip on his mind, leaving his body with one last exhale that she hoped conveyed the depth of her gratitude.)
When she does, she spots Spider-Man pumping his arms in the air to the rhythm of their yells. Immediately, and she doesn't like that she knows it immediately, she knows it's Frank. Peter wouldn't draw attention that blatantly.
She jumps into a kid sitting on their dad's shoulders for a better vantage point, scanning the crowd for familiar curls and a hesitant stance. It doesn't take her long—the guy sticks out like a sore thumb by being the only one not wearing Spider-Man merch. The injuries don't help either, but Jean is too fascinated with the look on his face to register them much anyway.
She's seen into his mind. The past weeks, months, years, really, have all been hard for him. Loneliness is a soul-sucking friend, and Peter Parker treats all his friends with the utmost love and care.
Jean knows—she knows—how that friend can rot you from the inside out. How it can steal the warmth from sunshine and the joy in a child's laugh. How it can make them consider jumping into someone's mind and never jumping out, or jumping off a rooftop and not shooting a web to catch themselves. She knows all too well what loneliness can do to a person.
There's none of it in Peter's face now. Sure, it might creep back in as the day fades away and the posters crumble and the balloons lose their helium. But in this moment, it's as if Peter's rediscovered why he started this whole Spider-Man gig in the first place.
He spins around slowly, categorizing all the different reactions to Frank in the window. There's a wondrous sparkle in his eye as he smiles at the New Yorkers he works so hard to protect, and he lets out an incredulous laugh that makes him look a litte unsteady. Jean smiles, resting her head back against the wall. The kid smiles in tandem.
Suddenly, Peter catches her eye. Not hers, but the kid's. She knows he can't sense her anymore, but she swears she catches a twinkle of recognition in the stare. Playfully, she presses her middle and ring finger to her palm in his signature move and points it at him. He does it back with a smile before turning his face to the sky like he's trying to stop the water behind his eyes.
Jean swallows harshly. She's done her job—he's alive and walking and he'll be back to swinging around in no time. She's already put herself in danger by staying in this city after wreaking havoc for so long. She needs to leave.
Yet it takes everything in her just to walk away from the hospital, pointedly going in the opposite direction as Peter.
"She's too far," Sara says, tying up her hair. "You'd have to hop."
"Hop?"
"First, pick someone close. And then…" Sara trails off as a look of concentration takes over her expression. Indecipherable to others, Jean can almost feel the vibrations in the air as the people in the park stumble in a chain-like pattern.
The girl with the headphones and purple jacket looks straight at them, cocking out a hip and sending an enthusiastic wave their way. Jean giggles in awe.
"Each hop has a limit. But you can stream them together, go as far as you want. And when you let go…" The girl startles, looking around in bewilderment as she lowers her hand. "You're right back where you started." Sara looks at Jean, a smile slowly growing.
Jean is enraptured. "Can you do that to everyone in this park? At once?"
Sara sits back, amusement written plainly on her face. "Yeah, maybe one day. If you get really good." Jean smiles and studies the people in the park, wondering what kind of stories she'd see if she popped into their heads.
Both sisters turn at the sound of a giggle. There, about fifty feet away from them, a little girl and her mom plays together on a picnic blanket and laugh loud enough to reach their ears. Both of their smiles fall away as they're reminded of their own memories, and they can't just hop out of their own minds when it gets to be too much. Jean rolls her eyes when Sara glances at her, but Sara knows her sister well enough to spot the feigned nonchalance.
"How could she just send us away?" It's not the first time either of them have wondered it, but it's the first time it's been spoken aloud.
"She wasn't really a mom." Sara stares into the distance. "Not like that, anyway."
"She was," Jean disagrees, almost cutting her sister off. "Before we changed."
"Yeah, well, if that's all it takes for you to stop being a mom, you're not a mom," Sara says, frustration lacing her words.
"What would you do if you had daughters like us?" Jean asks. She's not defending their mom, but she's not not defending her. No matter what Sara or the world says, she knows that most people are just going to think of her as a freak. She doesn't blame her mom for realizing the same thing.
Sara, on the other hand, just furrows her brows. "I'd love them," she says, certainty expressed plainly on her face as if she hadn't even thought of any other outcome. Then she smiles and twirls a lock of Jean's hair in her finger, lightening her tone. "Especially the redhead."
Jean smacks her hand away good naturedly. "Shut up." The wind blows through the leaves above them, almost like a laugh.
"We have each other," Sara assures. And considering that's all they've ever had for the past couple of years, and they're still alive, she accepts the end of the conversation with a small smile and a nod.
They spot the truck on the other side of the park, people lining up quickly after being in the hot sun. "And we have ice cream," Sara says, smirking to Jean. "One mint chip, one chocolate?"
"Yeah," Jean smiles. She watches the shrinking back of Sara's corduroy jacket until the little girl laughs to her left again, falling over in the strength of her joy. Even despite the conversation they just had, Jean can't stop the desire banging on the sides of her heart, wishing for something she doesn't have anymore.
She'll blame herself for this later, because it's in the middle of wanting something she can't have that she lets the only thing she does have slip through her fingers. The squeal of tires finally catches her attention, and Sara is on the ground before Jean can even stand up.
"Sara!" She sprints across the park, eyes trained on the fear and desperation on Sara's face.
Except Sara doesn't look scared or desperate. Instead, there's a grim look of determination as her face is pressed into the grass.
'I'm sorry, Jean. I have to keep you safe.'
It's the last thing she hears, the last thing her sister ever says to her, before she wakes up against the side of a tree.
And as she staggers through the now empty park for any sign of her sister, Jean Grey comes to a conclusion that is only strengthened when Peter Parker takes a bullet to the chest:
Nothing good ever happens to people who try to save her.
This is a bad idea.
She should've been on the first bus out of the city as soon as Peter woke up, but instead she stayed for another two weeks just to celebrate Spider-Man returning to work.
Except he hasn't returned. And while a part of her is grateful he's finally taking a break, another part wants to curse him for not letting her leave. It's the same part that brings her to his door tonight, knocking like a madwoman.
The door swings open, Peter's curls flopping into his face with the motion. His eyes widen.
"Jean?"
For a second, she just studies his face. It looks much better than the last time she saw him, all his cuts and bruises faded away. It looks like nothing had ever happened in the first place. And for another second, it makes her unbelievably mad. How else would anyone see how much he needs help? If he goes out tomorrow, will they condemn him for not returning sooner, since he looks fine already?
Will they always have to bleed in a place that people can see just to be given some grace?
"Hello…?" He trails off. Startled out of her reverie, she lets out a pathetic choking sound.
She'd been practicing what to say the whole way here, but now she's rendered uncharacteristically speechless. What is she supposed to say?
But, as if Peter's the one with telepathy, he softens and just steps aside, gesturing behind him. Jean clenches her fists and walks into the apartment without another word.
"How are you doing?" he asks, door clicking closed behind them. It surprises her that his first question isn't what are you doing here, like a normal person, but the bitter feeling rising up inside her quickly becomes consuming.
"I'm not the one that was shot," she snarks. The apartment looks cleaner than the last time she was here, but it still looks like it belongs to a broke twenty-something. Which is exactly what it is, she guesses.
He shrugs bashfully. "Comes with the job."
"You almost died," she says, willing him to get it. Willing him to understand that despite everything she did, what haunts her in her most recent dreams are his knees buckling from under him and the truth that she might've taken away the only person that cares about her.
But she thinks of i'm okay, i'm okay, i'm okay and Jean, you gotta get out of here and you're gonna be okay, just go, and she realizes that he won't get it at all.
This realization is only reinforced when he looks at her with something close to pity, like she's the one that's fragile, and repeats, "Comes with the job."
She scoffs and glances away from him. "It never should've happened in the first place."
Peter sighs. "Jean—"
"We should've left before he ever got the chance. Or I should've sensed it, or—"
"You have some impressive powers, but I'm pretty sure I'm the one with a sixth sense, so…"
"Peter!" Jean shouts. Peter looks slightly taken aback, but Jean just runs her hand through her hair, pulling her hoodie off in the process. "You almost died, okay? And you know what would've happened if you did? You would've been just another person that tried to save me when I didn't do anything to deserve it!"
Jean pants raggedly, eyes blazing. Peter opens his mouth like he wants to interject, but Jean doesn't give him the chance. "I wanted to kill him. I— God, I wanted him dead, Peter, so I tried to kill him and instead I almost killed you. That's what I do. Every time I try to do the right thing, I fuck it up. I make the wrong choice every time, and I— I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
Her voice breaks on the last word. She planned to come here to check if he was okay, but the words come rushing out of her without her permission. The urge to apologize over and over again claws up her throat like the action of begging for forgiveness is all she's good for. She presses the butt of her palms into her eyes to stop the tears from overflowing, and she makes a noise she hasn't made since the day her sister vanished. Peter's hand rests on her shoulder, but she shrugs it off like it's made of fire.
"Don't," she barks. Her breath hitches and she falls to the ground, burying her head into her knees like she's five-years-old and waiting for her sister to pick her up. She hears Peter patter away to his kitchen area, open the fridge, and walk back to her pitiful ball. Both him and the wood groan as he lowers himself across from her and waits.
When her curiosity gets the better of her, she lifts her head to find him crossing his legs like a child in a kindergarten class, two bottles of water next to him. He grabs one and and holds it out to her wordlessly.
Awkward and actually somewhat thirsty, she takes it and unscrews the cap to pour it roughly down her throat. Too roughly, it seems, because she chokes in the first two seconds.
"Shoot," he whispers, and it reminds her so much of Sara that she feels like crying all over again. "Arms up."
Hesitantly, he leans over and grabs her wrists. When she makes no protest, he lifts her arms over her head to help her cough through it. She notices that he's breathing deeply and exaggeratedly, and she can't ignore the irony of him trying to breathe for her. When she can breathe like a normal person again, he gently lowers her arms and lets go, bringing his hands back to his lap.
"I don't know if that actually medically helps with choking, but May always did it for me," Peter says. Jean laughs if only because she doesn't know what else to do. They just sit there for a while, basking in the silence while Jean figures out how to leave without making an even bigger fool of herself.
"I owe you a thank you."
Jean flinches so badly she embarrases herself. Peter must see the look of shock on her face, but all he does is chuckle. "What are you talking about?" she asks.
Peter fiddles with the hem of his sweater. "Frank said you used your powers to save my life. I owe you a thank you for that, so"—Peter looks up—"thank you."
"It was my fault you got shot in the first place!" She yells, incredulous.
Peter raises an eyebrow. "Why? Because Frank aimed at you?"
"Yes!"
"Okay. Why did you use your powers to save my life?"
Jean feels like she's getting whiplash. She also feels like she's being led into a trap, but she can't quite see the teeth that's bound to close on her.
"You would've died if I hadn't," she replies after a while.
Jean can feel it before she sees it—the trap closes as Peter smiles, victorious. "That why I did it."
Jean shakes her head. "Huh?"
"You would've died if I didn't take that bullet. That's why I did it. Jean," Peter leans forward, "I jumped in front of you because I wanted to save you. You didn't hold me in front of you. You didn't ask to be shot at. This"—he gestured around his chest area—"is not your fault."
It feels like being torn apart and put back together again. To be told it's not your fault after so long of feeling like there's something wrong with her is as much of a gut punch as Peter saying I'm sorry about your sister, because no one ever offered an apology for that either.
Jean grits her teeth and scrunches the bottom of her jeans. "That doesn't change anything. It never would have happened if I wasn't— if I hadn't—"
"If you hadn't tried to kill Metzger?" Peter asks, unfolding his legs and stretching them out like the gymnast he kind of is.
Jean stiffens. Partially because of Peter's staunch no-kill rule and partially because she didn't know if she was going to say if I hadn't tried to kill him or if I wasn't so slow to kill him.
But instead of the judgment she expects, Peter gets a faraway look on his face. He slumps forward a little bit like the weight that usually rests on his shoulders feels even heavier in this moment.
"I tried to kill someone too," Peter says. "For taking away my aunt." Jean slumps forward with him, recognizing the weight for what it is: regret. Peter drags a hand down his face tiredly. "He was an old man with a personality disorder. One second he was this sweet, intelligent guy, and the next he was the violent, dangerous Green Goblin. It was that side of him that killed May." Peter looks Jean in the eye, and she doesn't need telepathy to see the ghosts inside his head. "I wanted to kill him, and I wanted to make it hurt. Even if we had a plan to make them better, I wanted to do to him the same thing he did to me."
"I know the anger that comes with that kind of stuff, Jean. I know how it feels to think that the only thing that will satisfy it is tearing down the whole world," he says. The guilt that Jean had been pressing down rises against her will, making her see the faces of all the civilians she put in harm's way for her vendetta.
She also experiences somewhat of a revelation: Peter knows anger the same way she knows loneliness. They both know the impulse to give into the worst parts of themselves and how much chaos they can cause if they do. Except, when push came to shove, Peter turned away from that and Jean let herself be consumed by the darkness.
"And that kind of anger?" Peter continues, "It blinds you. We can't see it, so we need someone else to. My friend stopped me before I could land a lethal hit, and it almost got him killed too." His face flashes with pain as if he's reliving something that happened yeseterday. He shakes his head to dismiss it and sends her a small smile. "I don't care that I got hurt. I'm just glad that you're safe, and that I got to you before you did something you'd regret."
"How do you know I would've regretted it?" Jean challenges. It's a bold thing to say, but it's much easier than addressing that first part. She's not sure how to react to being so blatantly cared for again.
Peter looks down. "Because it wouldn't have given you what you wanted."
Jean rests her cheek against her knees and stares at the wall, biting her lip. Peter goes on.
"Killing Metzger won't bring Sara back, just like killing Osborn wouldn't have brought May back. All it would've given us were bloody hands and a face in our nightmares, and I think we've both had enough of blood and nightmares."
Jean chuckles bitterly. She thinks of all the time she had to pierce Metzger's head with the glass, to break his brain the same way he broke Sara's. She could've done it before Peter even had a chance to engage with the Red Hand. She tried to convince herself that she didn't because she wanted him to look into her eyes and know that he would die by her hand, and because she wanted him to fear for his life the same way Sara had.
But the longer she looked into his eyes, the harder it became to do. Not because she felt bad for the asshole, but because Peter's right. Even if she had killed him, it wouldn't have brought Sara back. And with him dead and Sara still gone, what else would she have to live for?
"I think," Jean says, "I owe you a thank you."
Peter's lips quirk up. "Don't mention it."
The outside world is filled with sound and color, including the scream of police sirens. Jean half expects Peter to jump up with his suit already on, but he stays peacefully rooted to his place on the floor. It all feels incredibly domestic in a way that terrifies her.
Jean grabs her water bottle and raises it in a cheers motion. "To blood and nightmares?"
Peter grabs his and raises it in a similar fashion. "To scars and dreams."
Both of them take a slow sip. Jean swirls it around in her hand, contemplating something. She shouldn't be entertaining this astronomically bad idea, but the question comes out on its own.
Kind of.
"I don't have anywhere to go," she comments, wondering how good Peter is at wordless conversations.
I know they're looking for me right now and I know this would put both of us in danger, but I'm so, so tired of doing this alone.
"You got any pizza toppings you like?" Peter stands up and heads for his phone, fluent in the art of wordless conversations.
Stay as long as you like. I'm tired of doing this alone, too.
("I have no one."
"You have me.")
Jean wakes up to the sun.
The couch she slept on—and will be sleeping on for an indefinite amount of time—faces the curtainless windows of Peter's shoddy apartment, letting in the first rays of sun when dawn breaks. It took a lot of convincing for Peter to let Jean have the couch, but she refused any other arrangement with the argument that she wasn't the one with a recent bullet wound.
(And honestly, the quality between the two isn't that different.)
Jean sits up and rubs the sleep away from her eyes. She takes a deep breath—in through the nose, out through the mouth—and watches the sun rise on a brand new day.