Chapter Text
Peter Parker's latest hypothesis is that letting people back into his life is, in fact, a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad idea. He just can't help himself. Brand new person, same old mistakes. Or something along those lines.
His first piece of evidence is the following: the first thing Ned says when Peter shows both him and MJ his apartment being, “Jesus Christ dude, you live like this?”
His hypothesis (letting people into your life might be a bad idea) was correct. The conclusion of his short-lived study leaves Peter absolutely positive that letting people into his life was a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad idea.
“...Yes?” He would really like MJ and Ned to stop focusing on the cobwebs and the chipped Goodwill dishes and the underwear on his floor and start focusing on his Very Cool computer set-up. You know, the thing they’re ostensibly there to poke at.
But as the saying goes: with great PC setups come great responsibility. Sometimes you have to be the change. Peter, in his best attempt at nonchalance, waltzes over to his very, very cool set up.
“You know, the monitor’s got a really high-def graphics card. It runs like a console more or less. You can play anything on there.”
No dice. MJ is instead staring at his sink. “I should have never switched out of biochem. I could make so much money discovering the new forms of bacteria Peter’s growing in his sink.”
“You’re already going to make a lot of money,” Ned is poking at the treadmill he got for twenty bucks on Facebook Marketplace. “You have an aerospace engineering degree.”
“The only way to get money with my degree is to sell your soul to StaneTech and bomb Lebanese children,” she says like she’s talking about the weather. Peter, who sold his soul to a very similar company in exchange for about 40% of a father figure, is suddenly, for the first time, kind of grateful she doesn’t remember him.
“Doesn’t your boyfriend also work there?”
Peter interjects. “I mean, it’s not the worst place ever. It’s nice. It can be nice. It’s not like… other people’s places. My ancestors didn’t have air conditioning so neither should I.”
Ned turns to look at Peter. A full body turn. “That’s why your ancestors died at forty. Do you want to die at forty?” Peter is not going to answer that question.
“And if anyone was really roughing it back then,” MJ adds, “it was those poor, poor Europeans.”
“I didn’t say that,” Peter stammers. The words come out of him more like they’re being jackhammered out of his larynx. “I’m just saying that maybe we’re too comfortable these days.”
“There is a bar of dish soap from 1963 in here,” MJ is rummaging through the cupboard above his sink.
“Um, yeah, I think that’s from the previous owners? This place was storage before I started renting it. Something about asbestos in the ceiling that they never got rid of,” Peter says, cutting in front of MJ to close the cupboards. Briefly, he feels her warmth, but he turns before he can let himself bask in it, flipping on the computer. “Anyway, check this out. E.V., run vital diagnostics, please.”
“This is the saddest apartment I’ve ever seen,” Ned talks over E.V.’s very cool and awesome report, “And I used to stay at other comp sci people’s dorms for hack-a-thons.”
“E.V says your biological ages are 24 and 27. You both need to sleep better,” Peter mumbles.
“I also said that your biological age is 30,” E.V. chimes in. Which isn’t very helpful to Peter at all.
“You should stay with us.” Ned says eagerly. MJ turns from her close examination of the vaguely fist-shaped holes in the walls that were absolutely there before he got here.
“What? No, he’s/I’m fine,” MJ and Peter say at the exact same time. They very pointedly do not look at each other after.
“No, seriously man. You said asbestos? How are you going to keep saving New York if you get lung cancer?”
“Spiders actually can’t get lung cancer,” MJ is quick to respond. “Besides, he’s happy here. Right?”
Peter nods along. “Never been happier.”
“Peter, trends in your vitals, sleep and nutrition schedule, and speech patterns align with those seen in clinical depression.” E.V. is so bad at being a personal assistant. He surreptitiously turns the computer off.
“She’s just joking. That’s the um, sense of humor. That I programmed. For her.”
“I am not joking,” his mask announces from where it’s draped over his gamer chair very normal chair where he sits to do important business things.
“Does Lexapro work on spiders?” MJ wonders out loud. Peter shrugs.
“I wouldn’t know. Kind of hard to get a psych when you don’t have any insurance on account of having never existed. It’s fine, though! All good!” He kicks his underwear into a corner. “Do you guys wanna go get food? Or something?”
“The computer thing is pretty cool,” MJ says. (Finally! Some real recognition! Thank you!), “Where were you supposed to go to college before….”
Before some disgruntled StarkTech employee decided to ruin your life for forever just because he could? “MIT.” He watches their faces change into awful, guilty grimaces. “But, you know, think about all the lives I’ve been able to save by Spidering full-time!”
“You know what, pizza sounds great!” Ned exclaims far too loudly. “I think I saw a place down on the corner.”
This is all so sad. So sad that even MJ can’t deny that this guy needs something decent going on in his life. She can’t help but momentarily think back to the letter as they troupe into the rickety elevator. To some past that did and didn’t happen. The concept of going to MIT with her high school boyfriend Peter Parker, who now lives in this asbestos riddled apartment and probably has clinical depression, flashes through her mind. Quick like a heartbeat. It feels weird, but unfortunately for her current life plans, not unwelcome.
There’s a blonde in the elevator. Peter smiles tightly at her. She is far more excited to see him than he is to see her. Her smile is wide as she waves, all cutesy with just her fingers pressing against her palm. “Hey neighbor.”
“Heyyy,” he sounds like he’s been caught doing something he knows he shouldn’t. “Sorry about, um, the other week. Stuff happened. I left your clothes back in the laundry room, though. Washed, I promise.” MJ is not thinking about it. She is not. She has no questions about this.
It’s nice that he’s so neighborly, really. Like. Really cool of him, actually. MJ does not care. She celebrates this woman and her very blonde hair and the stick-and-poke of a dreamcatcher (very charming and not culturally appropriative whatsoever) on the inside of her forearm. Good for you, Peter Parker!
“Thank you so much!” Her smile gets even wider. Somehow. Does her mouth hurt? “I think you looked better in that top than I do. The sleeveless look suits you.”
Is he blushing? It’s fine if he is. He’s on the market. A Mrs. Spider-Man would be great for him. They can live in total bliss in that asbestos-riddled apartment and hold each other as they die of lung cancer. At least, until she dies of lung cancer. She suddenly realizes that she doesn’t actually know if spiders can get lung cancer or not. She just assumed.
“Too bad he’s moving out,” MJ blurts out. What the fuck is wrong with her?, “Because of the asbestos in his ceiling. Lung cancer is real. And very dangerous.”
“Really?” Both Peter and Ned say.
“Yep. Super scary. You should probably look at getting a new place too. I heard it can get into the vents.” She is almost certain that is not true. Why is she still talking? “Besides, you were just going on and on about how much you hate it here.”
Peter nods, very much rolling with the punches, “Oh yeah. Have never been worse. Not because of you or anything. It’s just. Asbestos.”
She nods slowly. “Right.” The elevator dings, the doors open, and she’s out of there faster than you can say “Juicy Couture”. Peter and Ned are staring at her like she has two heads. She blows a piece of hair out of her face and feigns nonchalance as hard as possible.
“You can crash on the couch for now. Ned, we were looking to move out anyway. We get a bigger place, Peter here contributes his fair share of the rent, everybody’s happy and Spider-Man doesn’t have to testify in a class action lawsuit.”
Ned turns to Peter. “We can do Lego night every night,” he whispers in awe.
Peter tactfully does not mention that being Spider-Man is partly a nighttime gig, and as such Lego nights are probably going to be closer to a weekly thing. “You guys don’t have to do that,” he laughs awkwardly. “It’s fine.”
“Nope. Too late. You can pack your shit after we eat.” Peter opens his mouth to argue, but thinks better of it. He knows it’s already too late. Once MJ makes up her mind about something, it’s over. Instead, he nods.
“I will pack my shit after we eat.”
The pizza is good, way better than the Little Caesar's he’s used to. He missed many things from before he was totally broke, but one he especially missed was real-deal New York pizza. It’s only later, shoving his dozen-odd pieces of civilian clothing into a duffle bag, that he realizes.
I have to get a job.
Aunt May had once told him that with great power comes great responsibility. She also once told him that if he ever needed anything, he could always ask Happy Hogan. Which he thought was a little bit bullshit, since he told her the same thing when he introduced him, but he gets it. The “if you need anything, ask this super rich guy who’s bankrolling my superhero career” vibe is kind of different from the “if you need anything, ask my boyfriend vibe”. The point is that she would absolutely encourage what he’s doing right now. This is the May Parker way.
What he’s doing right now is sitting behind Happy Hogan’s desk, clacking the Newton’s Cradle on his desk in increasingly stupid ways while he waits for him to get back from lunch. He’s now just fully splitting the balls in half and releasing them at an angle, watching them crash into each other haphazardly. He has been here for a good while. It’s either a really great lunch or Happy does not want to be in here. Probably the latter more so than the former. He’s just about to move on to making the Avengers themed letter blocks spell dirty words when the door opens.
“Listen, kid, I’ve got fifteen minutes until my next meeting so whatever this is has to be,” Happy isn’t looking at him until right now. His expression changes. He recognizes him. “You’re the kid I saw at May’s gravestone. What was your name again?”
Something stings in Peter’s eyes. May is still a sore subject to him. How could it not be? There wasn’t anyone he could talk about it with. “Uh, Peter.”
“Right, okay. What can I do for you, Peter?” He’s painfully professional, the comically exasperated ‘chaperone’ he’d grown so used to disappeared into his three-piece suit. It’s not coming out ever again. Unless.
“It’s Peter Parker. Actually. My name is Peter Parker.”
“Oh. Okay, Peter Parker.”
“Like May. May Parker. It’s the same Parker.” Happy’s eyebrows shoot up. “We’re related. Sir.”
“Oh! Your, um-”
“Aunt.”
“-Aunt was a very special woman, Peter. She means a lot to a lot of people.”
“I know, sir. I’m one of them.” He shifts uncomfortably. “She said if I ever needed anything, I could come to you,” he says, staring directly at Happy’s eyebrow.
“Okay,” Happy’s voice is cautious. Drags on the y. “And what is it you need?”
“I need a job, sir.”
Happy sighs. “Look, kid, I wish I could help, I really do, but StarkTech’s hiring standards are insane. I can shove you into HR’s arms a million times, they aren’t going to hire you unless you’re something special.”
“I am, sir.”
“Really?” Peter nods. “Prove it.”
He throws a flash drive onto the desk. “That’s the blueprint for a fabricator made out of spare parts for less than a hundred dollars. I’m pretty sure StarkTech R&D hasn’t gotten manufacturing costs under three-fifty.”
“If that’s true, then I should know who you are.” You did, once. You thought I was pretty cool.
“I wanted to stay under the radar,” he shrugs. “Inflation’s a bitch, what can I say?”
Happy is stunned. It’s Tony. A five-foot-six omen of danger in front of him, swanning in with a chip on his shoulder and the answers to all his problems. It’s his boss, come back from the grave to gray his hairs once more. How come he’s never heard of a kid with this much skill? He can’t let this go. It would be irresponsible. What if he takes the rejection personally and then makes some killer robot that decimates New York City? He can’t let that happen. The Avengers are basically gone. He rubs his temples and contemplates how much more he can get his board to raise his salary by before the unions get pissy.
“There’s an internship spot open with R&D. It’s paid. Forty an hour. I can shoehorn you in, but if I ever hear anything about you that isn’t glowing praise, you’re done. I’m serious. If the sun doesn’t shine out of your asscrack by week two, you’re out. This is a gross display of nepotism that I’m doing for you.”
“Absolutely, sir. My resume is on the flash drive. I promise, sir, you won’t regret this.” He puts his hand out.
“I better not.” Happy shakes his hand and Peter leaves before Happy can ask any questions about how Peter got past security in the first place.
Peter spends a week crashing on Ned and MJ’s couch before they start looking for a new place in earnest, and it’s in this period of time that he finally meets Paul. (Later, he wonders if it should have been earlier, but then decides that he doesn't really care.)
He doesn’t have a key (no point if they’re moving soon) so he drops in through the window. MJ is there, drawing on the couch, so he tries to enter as smoothly as possible. Unfortunately, he picked the window that MJ lined with prickly, palm-sized cactuses.
They’re named after French philosophers and she introduced them all by name when he complimented them, which is how he knows that the barrel cactus he just put his whole weight on is named Sartre. He swears loudly and falls through the window like a sack of bricks. MJ looks up. He waves weakly at her. She raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.
“If Sartre is hurt, I’m evicting you,” she deadpans. He’s walking a lot of tight ropes these days.
Peter swallows. Considering that about half of the cactus is currently buried in his palm, Sartre is most likely dead. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
He hears the fridge open, with another voice, not Ned’s, saying, “Babe, did you get rid of my probiotic soda stash? I’m telling you, it’s way better than the diet stuff.”
“No one else drinks Poppi besides you.” MJ calls out, “And I like Diet Coke for the taste.”
“You’re probably the only one who does.” Paul brings back a root beer (definitely Peter’s from the ‘Welcome Interns!’ bash at StarkTech) and a Diet Coke. He blinks at the pile of Parker on his floor. “Who is that?”
“I’m Peter,” he weakly stretches his hand outward for Paul to shake.
Paul looks at his outstretched hand like it’s one of the quarter-sized roaches Peter roomed with in the old apartment. Peter pulls back, using his hand instead to right himself. He slings his backpack off to its new designated spot and toes his shoes off next to the others.
“He’s Ned’s friend,” MJ is quick to tell Paul.
“I’m MJ’s friend,” Peter says at the same time.
“He’s both of our friends,” MJ settles on. “He’s rooming with us once we get the new place, and until then he’s couching with us.”
“Oh.” Paul is confused. It’s an expression that looks frighteningly natural on him. “I thought the plan was for us to move in together once the lease was up.” MJ shrugs. The room is nauseated from the sudden tension. Peter wishes he was anywhere else.
“Are we gonna do this in front of Peter?”
“Maybe we should,” Paul snaps, “Since you’re apparently so close you’d rather move in with him than your boyfriend.”
“Okay, fine. I never agreed to move in together. That was all you. And, for your information, Ned also wanted him to move in. Peter was living in an apartment with asbestos. Is that what you want? You want Peter to die of lung cancer?”
She’s gesturing towards Peter as though he’s expected to respond. He really, really does not want to. He makes eye contact with MJ and he’s met with a plea in her eyes that insists that he really, really should. Back then, and even now, he finds it very hard to say no to her.
“I’m hardly in the apartment. I’ve got work. And uh,” you absolutely can not tell MJ’s boyfriend that you’re Spider-Man, “I do deliveries. On the side. And MJ is a great person and a dedicated partner,” oh my god don’t leave it at that!, “if I had to guess. I think you guys should just talk it out. Seems like you’re not on the same page.”
Paul scoffs, “Wow. That’s cute. If you’re looking for a third job, you should take up freelance work for Hallmark.”
“Actually, the writing industry is really difficult to break into, so I appreciate that. Not that that’s what I’m trying to get into. Just, you know,” stop talking. oh my god stop talking. “That’s a nice thing to say. You seem like a nice guy. Not like, a nice guy. A cool guy. And, I mean, you know how close she is with Ned, and since I’ve been here it seems like they live together really well, and I’m sure MJ will take that next step with you whenever she’s ready, so, um, live long and prosper?”
He shoots Paul a Vulcan salute and runs into Ned’s room. It’s more so of a trudge-then-sprint. He’s still kind of snagged on the laundry pile. He collapses onto Ned’s bed facedown.
Wow. Holy shit. He’s never fucked anything up that bad before. His hand is full of cactus needles, his veins are filled with adrenaline, and his head is full of fucking rocks. Big, bulky boulders that have conveniently replaced any social ability he might have possessed.
And he’s honestly a bit pissed. Not to be That Guy, but he’d never speak to anyone that way. Especially not his partner. Especially, especially not MJ.
“You good, man?” Fuck. He thought Ned was at work. Instead, he’s sitting at his desk working on a side project. From what Peter can see, it looks like the override on the Spidey-Tracker Ned offered to give him in case of emergency. He blinks at him.
“How much of that did you hear?” he whispers. One of the first things Peter learned about Ned and MJ’s apartment is that the walls are exactly as thin as you would expect of a New York college apartment. Even now, he’s having to actively focus to avoid eavesdropping on Paul and MJ’s continued argument. He’s not great at it. He catches snippets: so avoidant… pushiest man alive… what if he’s (Paul is for sure talking about Peter) a drug dealer or something?..
“That was really bad. Like, wow. I thought you’d have superhero interrogation skills, or something.”
“Yeah, well, they don’t have superhero school so. That’s beyond me.”
Ned frowns. “Wouldn’t it be more of an apprenticing thing? It’s basically a trade, isn’t it?”
“My teacher was pretty hands off.” The nice way to say, dead before he really taught me anything.
Now, Peter’s got more of a shadowing thing going on. Following around vigilantes (real superheroes are a bit out of his pay grade at the moment) and learning great, valuable life lessons. How to sneak around. How to make decisions in high-stress situations. Exactly how much it hurts to be shot in the back. How to make really great chili. That the ingredient that takes a hoagie from good to great is garlic aioli. (Wow. Frank has taught him a lot of useless shit.)
“Oh,” Ned looks crestfallen, “that sucks. What about your guy in the chair?”
Peter stares at him. He doesn’t say anything. Just waits for Ned to get it, which he does pretty quickly.
“No way,” Ned’s quick to awe.
“Yes way. That’s why I invented E.V.” Because I missed you.
“You know, I’d say that I’ve got more value for the position than E.V. I have a lot to offer. I bet E.V doesn’t have a C-3PO set. Or like, a really great pancit bihon recipe. Or my overall incredible vibe.” Peter sits up, wide-eyed.
“You’d do that?” It’s been so long. Years and years swinging around the city in silence punctuated only by a robotic voice. He’s had a TikTok voiceover as his only companion, and he was ready to do it forever. He thought for sure Ned would be too busy or too skeptical or just that he wouldn’t like him enough to do it again.
“That's why I invented the Spidey-Tracker.” Because I missed you.
They’re going over logistics, gear that they’ll need, that Ned’ll need, when they hear the front door slam. They stare at each other meaningfully.
(Do you usually go out there?
Not really, but that was pretty bad.
Should I come too?
If you want.)
Slowly, they edge open the door. The sun is set, and MJ’s sitting on the couch with her knees pulled into her chest, staring blankly at the dark TV. The apartment is illuminated only by the warm lighting of the kitchen, the shadows deepened in contrast. He thinks she looks like the paintings she used to stare at the longest when they went to the museum, the planes of her face split harshly between light and dark. Chiaroscuro, she called it.
“Heyyy girl,” Ned approaches her like she’s a too-skinny street cat. Peter is close behind him, “How’s it hangin’?”
“I really don’t wanna talk about it.”
“That’s cool, that’s your right,” Ned continues, “Is there anything I—,” a nudge from Peter, “—we can do? Get you something? Run him over?”
“I know a guy,” Peter supplies.
“I know him too, if you remember,” MJ retorts, voice hoarse, “and I’m pretty sure he likes me more than you.”
Peter is a little offended by this. Of course, it’s as easy to like MJ as it is for the sun to rise and set, but he saved the guy’s life. Once, but still. They have a rapport. He didn’t take MJ to the hospital after she got shot in the back. But then again. He probably wouldn’t have shot her in the first place.
“Okay, that’s. That works out, if you think about it. He’ll be more likely to run him over than if I asked. You’re proving my point.” He gets a nose exhale at that. Progress! He is not sure what to do about Ned, who looks very confused about the subject of this (very, very friendly) bonding moment they’re having. A problem for future-Peter.
“No, no one needs to run Paul over,” she looks down. “I’m the one who fucked up.”
Peter wants to say something that is out of bounds for their friendship. Did you actually or is he making you think you did? But he’s not stupid. So he abstains.
“Do you want to watch something on the TV? Ned found a cool show earlier. It’s about three guys building a two-story house with a functional pool in Indonesia. Or, um,” he’s flailing.
How well is he allowed to know her? Is he allowed to offer her hot chocolate with vanilla extract like her grandmother used to make? Is he allowed to know that she watches Grey’s Anatomy when she’s sad just to make fun of it? Is he allowed to sit next to her, just close enough for her to put her head on her shoulder?
“Or,” Ned steps in, “That Youtube channel we like just put up a compilation of ‘epic skating fails’. And it’s twenty minutes long.”
“I make good hot chocolate,” Peter adds. Real smooth, Peter. Make it a general thing. “If you like that kind of thing.”
She does. He knows she does. But does she like it from a Peter who’s never sat with her after a hard day? One who never traced the length of her fingers with his own as she told him the recipe? Who knows?
It’s cold. She is tired. The light from the kitchen is warm. Ned sits next to her, trying to sync up Youtube to the T.V. She registers him saying, epiphany-like, we can get a pizza! Peter nods in agreement, looking at Ned before his eyes flicker to her. There’s a softness that MJ just can’t quite place. That, if she could, she probably wouldn’t. Not right now, anyway. This goes on for a little too long.
“I’ll get started on that hot chocolate,” Peter excuses himself to the kitchen. Who knows if he’ll get it right?
Who cares?