Chapter Text
Three days had passed since she last had to hold onto the shape of his lungs and breathe for him.
Three days since she had squeezed his heart, beat by beat, feeling each pump get weaker and weaker as the brutal crimson of his blood seeped into the red of his suit, dripped onto the ground, and stained the skin on her hands.
Three days since she’d felt the hollow thump of a bullet enter his back and his breathing stutter as he told her to just go, Jean, go.
She hadn’t gone.
She’d stayed because she’d begged him to stay with her as he bled out on the floor of Damage Control and he had been in no state to acquiesce – so she did the staying for both of them.
And three days later, she was sitting in a private room at Bellevue Hospital with a napping Frank Castle, the man responsible for putting Peter in the hospital bed in front of them in the first place.
(“I’m only gonna say this once,” he’d rasped, in that blunt voice of his. “I don’t regret taking the shot in the moment, because for all I knew you were going to destroy a full square mile of the city. But I know the kid decided to take the bullet for you because he saw something in you that only he could’ve seen. And I trust the kid, enough to owe it to him to also believe in you for now. And you kept him alive, so I owe you myself. When this is all over, if you ever need something, you tell me, and I’ll make it happen. Square?”
And Jean, too exhausted to respond properly with of course we aren’t square, you asshole, you shot a sniper rifle at me and almost killed the one person who was willing to see any good in me, had simply nodded and accepted that for a man like Frank, that was the closest she was ever going to get to an apology.)
Her back ached from sleeping in a hospital chair two nights in a row, but she ignored the soreness in favour of watching the monitoring machines track every single vital the doctors (who had all sworn themselves to secrecy about the boy they operated on, even going as far as to write ‘Spider-man’ on every chart) thought might be important for a person with superhuman, irradiated biology and an unbelievable healing factor.
Eventually, though, the monotonous, quiet beeping of the heart monitor grew to be boring, so Jean found her eyes falling upon Peter’s face, still a little bruised from the beating she’d inflicted on him with the Hand.
She tried to ignore the guilt slowly burrowing towards her heart – god, she’d hurt this boy – and instead admired the peace on his features. Every time she’d ever glanced upon him before this, he’d been angry, burdened, lonely, or grieving. He’d looked older, uncaring, and ruthless, just like every other authority figure trying to stop her on her quest to find Sara. But now, close to death, features smoothed out by unconsciousness and an oxygen mask, Peter just looked young. Properly young, barely passing for the 22 she knew he was from his memories, just three years older than she was. He was just a boy, really, trying his best to do the right thing while being manipulated by people all around him.
Including me, she thought bitterly.
Then, movement.
A finger twitched.
Peter Parker stirred for the first time in three days, and as his eyes cracked open, he shot up in panic. The machines all immediately started blaring – Frank startled awake by the noise - as Peter scrambled to remove his mask, and Jean shot up from her own seat to help him. As soon as her hands were on him and she came into view, though, the dazed panic left his eyes and his hands fell back to the bed.
“Jean,” he whispered, barely audible. His voice was cracked and dry, but something about the way he said her name, eyes softening, split something warm open in her chest. “Jean, are you safe?”
She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she nodded fervently. She grabbed one of his hands, letting the warmth convince her body that Peter, the last person she knew she could trust, was in fact real and awake and alive.
As if at her touch, Peter visibly relaxed and laid back down. His eyes scanned the rest of the room – the collage of Spider-man cards all urging him to get well soon, the sterile hospital room and the uncountable machines strapped to him, and Frank Castle, who had joined Jean next to Peter’s bed.
“Hey, Frank.”
“Kid.” The Punisher’s gruff voice was tight with relief.
“Good shot.”
Frank relaxed slightly and laughed in disbelief. “Fuck you. Don’t joke about that.”
But Peter just smiled and shook softly in his own humour. “Oh, I’ll be holding this over your head forever, just like Staten Island.”
“I paid you back for Staten Island by looking after that college chick of yours.”
“I know.” Peter’s eyes shifted back over to Jean, who was trying not to cry and succeeding only because of the ridiculousness of the conversation (Frank had been protecting that college girl from her, fuck), and back to Frank. “Can you pay me back for this thing and keep an eye on another girl? Same deal. Just until I’m good to go again.”
Jean felt Frank’s hand come to rest gently on her shoulder.
“Ah kid, I’ll let you have this one for free. And the secret identity shit – I’ll zip, and make sure all the doctors keep it mum too.”
Peter smiled wider, tired under his mask. “Cool. See you guys once I wake up.” And Peter Parker promptly went back to sleep.
Jean collapsed back into her chair and quietly wept into the sheets, still holding gently onto Peter’s hand, unwilling to part with the evidence of his existence.
She almost didn’t notice the warm little connection that had bloomed in her mind as soon as Peter had woken.
A few hours later, Jean awoke to the sound of Peter and Frank quietly conversing over her head. Peter’s hand was still in hers.
“… gonna need bigger connections than the ones I have, bud. I can keep her at the shipyard for a few days, but if the Avengers or whatever is left of Damage Control come knocking, I don’t have the guns to stop ‘em.”
“I know, Frank – it’s just… agh, there’s just no good way to guarantee any of this.”
Jean slowly lifted her head and felt Peter’s hand tighten around hers.
“Jean. You awake?”
She hmmed groggily. “Am now. What were you guys talking about?”
“Well, we got a plan for the kid to leave the hospital without exposing the fact that he’s not old enough to have a beer yet-” grunted Frank.
“Frank, I’m literally 22.”
“Don’t matter. You don’t look a day over 18.”
Peter scoffed, but Jean saw the small smirk on his face. “Whatever. Regardless, we were trying to figure out where you can go.”
Jean, all of sudden, was much more awake. “What do you mean? I’m just going to hop on the first bus out and run as far as I can from New York.”
Peter stiffened as she spoke. “You can’t just run without a plan. Damage Control has agents and facilities across the country. If you get into trouble, there would be no way for us to help you.”
“I don’t need your help, Peter. I was on the run for months by myself just fine.” A trickle of defiance creeped into her voice.
Frank interjected. “That was before every D.C. agent knew you were capable of freezing an entire island of people, Red. They’re gonna want you as a weapon more than ever.”
Peter winced at the bluntness, but nodded, nonetheless. “Look, Jean, when I said that you have me, I mean that you have me. I’m going to help you, and I think the best way to do that is not to let you run off into the waiting arms of people who want to experiment on you like you aren’t human.”
Jean sighed and looked down at the tear-stained sheets of the hospital bed. “I know- I just- I don’t want to burden your life any more than I already have. I’ve already almost gotten you killed. If Damage Control is going to get me, I want them to only get me, and not have you in the crossfire too.”
A gentle hand came under her chin and forced her to make eye contact with Peter. “Jean. They are never going to get their hands on you again. I promise you, okay?” The vehemence with which he said it scared her a little – he cared so damn much, it almost hurt.
She wasn’t used to people caring about her anymore.
“Okay.” Jean swallowed down a sob – she had already cried too much today – and simply nodded.
Peter’s eyes hardened with a new resolve. “Look, I have an idea, but I’m going to need to make a call. Private one. Can both of you leave the room really quick?”
Frank nodded, and the two of them went outside. Frank immediately began walking up and down the hallway, like the soldier in him refused to let him do anything but patrol. Jean, instead, just slid down to the floor against the door, and gently pressed the back of her head to the wood. She closed her eyes and was silently thankful for the unfathomable kindness of the boy, who still in a hospital bed, was trying his best to keep her safe.
Strangely, she swore she could hear Peter’s side of the conversation through the door. Not his thoughts, she swore then to never dive into his head without his permission, but the barest echo of some sound and the minutest of impressions from the warm psychic connection that had opened with his return to consciousness just a few hours ago.
“Hello? Yelena?”
A pause.
“Yep, I’m fine, I promise. Listen, I need a favour.”
He sighed in response to something said on the line. Fond exasperation pulsed quietly through him.
“This is small potato stuff. It’s the same small potatoes that put me into the hospital in the first place, actually. Look, I need you to stop the government – any part of the government – from being able to get to Jean Grey.”
Black Widow said something, and a spike of alarm passed through Peter’s spine. Jean kept her eyes closed shut, trying not to react.
“What do you mean you can’t? Val’s heard about her?”
A vice gripped around Jean’s chest. The tightness of shackles around her wrists and knees returned, and again, she felt the fear of Damage Control, of dying, of losing herself to her own powers, twisted against her and out of her control.
“Fuck, Yelena, please, you owe me.”
As if bracing himself, Peter took a deep breath and winced, and amidst her own panic, Jean could imagine the searing pain that must have run up his torso as he shifted in bed.
“Fine. Tell Val I’ll do it. Both things, the ones I refused last year in January – you know the ones. In return, she lets me have final say over anything that happens to Jean, who is now coming with me. No one, and I mean no one, gets to put their hands on her. Not Damage Control, not the New Avengers, and certainly not Val - literally no one.”
Another pause, and a feeling of success coupled with unfathomable resignation from Peter crashed into her mind. A pit of guilt dug itself in Jean’s chest even as she felt the relief of her imagined restraints coming undone.
“You have yourself a deal. Keep yourself safe.”
Jean stood and slammed the door open as soon as she heard the line go dead. “Peter.”
His smile was too easy for the anguish betrayed by his eyes. “Jean. Could you hear that? If it’s fine with you, it looks like you’re coming with me.”
Jean ignored the question. “You can’t do these things for me, Peter. What did you promise her? I swear to god, you better not have done something stupid that you can’t take back.” she said, vehement to the man who had already taken a bullet meant for her head, who had given her compassion and his aunt’s love, whom she couldn’t ask to sacrifice any more.
But of course, Peter simply put a hand on her shoulder and said, “it was nothing important. Trust me.” There was finality in his voice, the kind that implied that another push would come up against an utterly immovable wall of sheer Parker stubbornness.
There was relief thrumming through her from knowing she could finally stop running – that she might be able to find somewhere permanent for her, to finally stay.
Yet, that undercurrent of gratitude and acceptance was undercut by her wariness at the deal that Peter had to cut for her. Jean resisted the urge to just take the knowledge from his mind. She tried to trust him on this.
But even as she tried her absolute best to contain her powers, the impressions of emotions that had been brushing against her mind all day continued to press in, and Jean almost physically staggered when she felt the outline of Peter’s grief.
Just what had he bargained away for her safety?
Later, Peter, supported only by Jean’s slight frame, slowly hobbled out of the hospital into a parking lot filled with a crowd of fervent Spider-man supporters. Jean could feel the disbelief bubble up from inside Peter, and she had to resist her own disbelief. Did Peter really not know how much the city of New York loved their friendly neighbourhood Spider-man?
“How… how long have they been out here?” he asked as they cheered at Frank’s stupid miming from the window.
Clearly, Peter was an idiot.
They passed by a couple of teenage boys, all shirtless with painted letters on their chests that spelled out “WE <3 SPIDEY!”, all of whom were clearly a little drunk.
“They’ve been here since you were first injured. There’s more of them now, actually. I think word spread amongst your fans that you were checked into this hospital.”
Awe filled Peter’s expression. “I… I never knew.”
“Are you serious? Spider-man, over the last four years, has saved so many people that over 85% of New Yorkers personally know someone, whether themselves or someone close to them, that has personally been assisted by him.”
Peter’s head whipped towards her in disbelief.
Jean only shrugged. “The internet tells no lies.”
Feet slowing, Peter stopped them in the middle of the crowd, as though he was rooted in place by this revelation.
He looked around slowly, with wonder, as if only just realizing that he had done this much good in the world. Jean counted herself a saint for only being slightly impatient with the man who had only just barely sufficiently recovered from having a collapsed lung and a bullet wound stopping in the middle of a crowd who could jostle him and make his condition worse – although, even Jean couldn’t help but smile as a little kid sitting on his mom’s shoulders waved at Peter and made Spider-man’s signature web-slinging gesture. Peter just laughed and waved back, and then the two of them made their slow way to Peter’s apartment.
Jean tried not to let her mind linger on the way that wonder sat so tenderly on Peter’s face.
Evening crept up on them by the time they made it all the way up to the attic where Peter lived. He unlocked the door, and sheepishly, as though Jean had not already broken in and rifled through all his things (again, she tried to ignore the guilt that was now firmly nestled in her throat), said “Make yourself at home here. There’s not a lot, but what’s mine is yours, so just try to settle in as much as you can, yeah?”
Home. Something about that struck a chord inside her. Maybe that’s what this place could be.
“Peter. Welcome home. Unrecognized human presence recognized.”
Jean nearly jumped at the robotic voice.
“Hey. E.V. Jean, meet E.V., short for literally nothing in particular. E.V., this is Jean Grey. Please register her as an authorised individual.”
“Jean Grey confirmed as authorised individual. Possible threat status discontinued. Today, I recommend that E.V. stands for Emergency Vehicle, given your wound.”
Peter grinned shyly. “I programmed E.V. to have a bit of a talk-back function so I wouldn’t get lonely, but if you don’t want her to sass you around here, just let her know. She can help you with pretty much anything digital.”
“How did I miss her last time?” Jean asked, a little amazed at just how crazy smart Peter must be to have created a fully functional AI assistant in his home.
“Well, she’s not programmed for any home defense because I wasn’t going to install turrets in a small Queens apartment, so if any unauthorised individuals are present, she simply doesn’t activate and pretends not to exist.”
Jean looked around the barely furnished flat, with a small bedroom, a treadmill by the couch, and the tiniest little kitchenette that had far too many takeout boxes stacked next to the sink. Her eyes travelled over the monitors and fabricators that must have supported Peter’s hero work for the past few years. Eventually, her gaze landed on the empty coffee cup on his desk, where she had stolen his note to MJ – which had then led to her emotionally abusing him and threatening to kill the love of his life.
Fuck.
Peter’s eyes must have followed where she was looking, because she could literally feel him tense up beside her. Jean resisted the urge to run. Peter had been through all that and still chosen to save her.
She would get to apologizing for it later. Properly. But later.
Right now, her priority was to get Peter to his bed, and then-
“Ah. I’ve only got one bed,” he said.
Jean frowned. “That’s fine, I can take the couch.”
“But you’re the guest,” he protested.
“You have a bullet wound in you. You are taking the bed. The couch is miles better than the back of a bus, I’ll tell you that much.”
Peter looked uncomfortable but acquiesced eventually. “We’ll figure something out for you later, I promise.”
He pulled out two sets of sleep clothes from a dresser – loose t-shirts and shorts – and handed a set to her. She turned to go to the bathroom to change but whipped right back when she heard Peter let out a hiss. He was trying to get out of his Bellevue-branded clothes with little success – fuck, he must have been in agony, lifting up his arms like that.
“Here, let me help.” She slowly peeled the green sweater and t-shirt off of him, revealing the scarred, bandaged mess that was his torso. Across every single one of his defined muscles was a healed cut or burn or gunshot, marring his skin forever. Jean, fingers ghosting over his skin, tried not to think about how many times Peter had gotten close to fatally wounded over just a few years of being Spider-man as she helped him shimmy into the clean sleep shirt.
She must have been staring too hard, because Peter interrupted her thoughts with a wry, “I can take off my pants myself just fine, I promise.”
Jean blushed and retreated to her original destination in the bathroom and changed out of her bloodied clothes (she’d showered a few times in the hospital so at least she wasn’t so dirty, but her jacket and jeans were utterly filthy in ways that meant she’d probably have to toss them in the trash tomorrow). When she emerged, Peter was still standing, looking at his bed as though it had offended him with a particularly nasty insult about his parentage.
“It sounds stupid, but it fucking hurts to lie down. Can you help me out here?” His annoyance floated in that warm little psychic space, and although Jean felt mostly sympathy for him, she also couldn’t help but be a bit amused.
Spider-man, hero of New York, defeated by his own bed.
He smiled, as though he could feel her amusement. He probably could.
She slowly helped lower him over his bed and finally, he laid down and groaned as he twisted, his wound evidently flaring up again. “I’m sorry, Peter. It’ll be better in the morning.”
His laugh was a little bit wet. “Hah. It’ll probably be better tonight. Advanced healing factor does wonders for workaholic vigilantes.”
“Get some rest, and we’ll take a look at it tomorrow.” Jean tried not to think about how many times Peter had gone out onto the streets, half-dead and still bleeding, just because he was convinced that he would heal eventually, leading to a body that was a canvas of scars that had been torn open too often.
“Yes, mother.”
She rolled her eyes and made her way to the couch, where thankfully she found some cushions and a throw blanket, barely bothering to curl up before she shut her eyes. Given her exhaustion over the past week, it was no surprise that her body basically dragged Jean straight into unconsciousness.
Jean found herself in a bright room, floodlights suddenly banishing all traces of weariness from her mind.
The same bedroom that Metzger had put her in, in the basement of the Roosevelt Damage Control facility.
The same room Sara had died in.
The same fucking room.
How-
In her sudden panic, Jean tried to move her limbs, but she found that they were stuck in the chair’s restraints, just as they had been last time. She tried to free herself, breaking the metal clamps, but her powers weren’t working – she tried and she tried and she tried but it was like her telekinesis was entirely gone.
Fuck. Fuck.
Jean tried to breathe, but she could feel the panic attack constricting her throat, almost as if Metzger had a hand on her throat, choking her out.
Then, the sharp whining sound of the machine came on. She could feel the low hum of the device that they had mentally flogged her with, the one that terrified her because it turned her own powers against her while she was reduced to a helpless test subject. The agony of the forcible activation of her telepathy, like having her brain bashed against concrete, still rattled in her skull. Jean felt tears prick at the corner of her eyes.
Not again. Not again. Please, not again.
She would die here this time, she was sure of it. They’d use her until they broke her and then they’d toss her body away like a forgotten doll, just like they’d done to Sara.
Oh, Sara.
What would they take from her? A scrunchie? An eye?
The V-max sticker burned in her pocket, and she knew. They’d take everything.
How had they gotten her from Peter’s apartment? Where was he?
Then, her stomach dropped further amidst the fear.
Peter-
“No! No, no, no! Peter! Peter, please! Peter!” she screamed, her throat raw as she tried to scream but failed to put the air behind it to properly make a sound as she cried for help.
She knew Spider-man couldn’t save her this time – if she was here, they’d probably killed him in his sleep, because he’d promised she’d never be back here again. They’d slit his throat in his sleep and let him die just because he’d cared for her. Her hands were dripping, slick, crimson red – did they make her do it? Peter was dead. She cried for him anyways. She kept trying, because she didn’t know anyone else to scream for.
“Peter! Sara- anyone- please help me! I don’t- I don’t want to die! Peter!”
Suddenly, the bright lights went dark, and Jean gasped and found herself in a warm embrace on a scratchy little couch. She could move again, the restraints gone, and she found her arms scrambling until she could dig her fingers into the shirt of the person holding her.
Peter’s voice was gentle in her ear. “Shh, shh. You’re alright. You’re safe. I’m here. I’ve got you. Come on, Jean, breathe for me. Match me, okay?”
In.
Out.
She was safe. Peter had her. Peter wasn’t dead.
In.
Out.
For minutes, the only sound Jean could hear was her own gasping sobs and underneath that, quietly, a steadily pumping heart. Peter’s heart.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Her breathing evened out, Jean crashed from her sheer panic, and found that her relief had her almost shaking. It had just been a nightmare. Peter was alive. Metzger didn’t have her. She relaxed slightly and then flinched from the resounding crash of several items in the kitchen shattering.
“Fuck, I’m sorry- I must have been levitating them in my sleep-” she tried to apologize, but her voice was muffled by Peter’s chest, he hadn’t let go of her.
“It’s okay, Jean. I promise, it’s no biggie.” He said all of this into her hair, like he was confessing something. “Plates are just plates – they were probably dirty ones too, so you’ve saved me the problem of having to wash them.”
Of course he was trying to make her laugh. She swallowed hard instead, and curled her fingers tighter into the fabric of his shirt. “I’m sorry for waking you up. Did you get any sleep?”
“Hey, I’m telling you, it’s fine. E.V., what time is it?”
The AI’s friendly tone reported, “It is currently 1:26 am, Peter.”
Jean could feel his smile in her hair. “See. I got hours of sleep.”
“Peter. Go back to bed,” she groaned. “I’ll be fine.”
“E.V.?”
“Jean Grey’s elevated heartrate, acute spike in relevant hormones, and unfamiliarity with environment all point to increased chance of repeated night terrors, possibly inhibiting subject’s sleep significantly.”
“E.V., I want you to know that I think you suck.” Jean’s exhaustion meant her voice carried very little venom, but every bit she could muster was aimed at her new robotic nemesis.
“I appreciate the sentiment, but I currently lack any vacuuming capabilities.”
Jean and Peter laughed, and Jean finally trusted her surroundings enough to finally let go of Peter’s t-shirt. He lifted his head, and even in the reduced lighting of E.V.’s monitor glow, Jean could see that Peter still looked like shit.
As with almost everything Peter had done for her, this added only more guilt to her pile.
“You’ve got to go back to bed. I’ll put up a sound block or something. I promise I won’t wake you again.”
He brushed away the remains of her tears with a gentle thumb and then ran a hand through his messy hair, disbelief coming through the bond. “Yeah right. I’m not gonna let you suffer more nightmares by yourself.”
“You’re also not going to hover by the couch all night when you need to be resting to heal, you moron.”
“That’s right. So just come share the bed.”
Jean felt her cheeks warm.
“C’mon, we can be adults about this. You need sleep, I need sleep. If you have another nightmare, I can help you more easily if you’re beside me. I promise not to be weird about it – scout’s honour. On Captain America’s good name and delightful ass.”
Jean bit her lip in the dark. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Peter – if there was anyone she trusted, it was him – she just didn’t want to wake him again. But she could tell that he was going to stubborn about this in the annoying Parker way, so she slowly nodded. “Fine.”
And then she yelped in surprise as Peter picked her up, princess carry, and dropped her on the bed. In the process, however, Jean felt a wet bit of fabric press up against her arm. She waited until Peter had settled onto the bed himself before crawling over to him and laying a hand over his injury.
He was bleeding again, through his t-shirt. Peter’s wince at the light pressure she put on it only confirmed it.
“Peter Parker, did you tear your wound?” She tried not to snarl. She failed. Her hands were red red red redredredred-
Exasperation bled into his voice. “Jean, it’s fine. I just tore it a little when I was coming to help you, alright? It’s not a big deal.” What he left unsaid was: Of course I came. You were screaming my name.
Do you know that part of my nightmare was of you dying? Please, stop dying.
“I know you’re lying to me.”
“Alright, fine, it just hurts a little. I’m not going to bleed out, though. I have experience with these things.”
“Again, I can feel you lying to me. I bet it hurts like shit.”
“Nuh-uh.” He had the audacity, nearly mortally wounded, to stick his tongue out her. Like a five-year-old. Jean refused the urge to respond in kind, because she was not silly, thanks very much. “What is up with that, by the way? I woke up and I suddenly had this gorgeous, comforting little thread I follow in my head and I’m pretty sure it helps me feel what you feel, but the last time I checked, I definitely wasn’t a telepath.”
She hummed softly in the dark, ignoring the blooming feeling in her chest that came with his description of her just as she was ignoring the little red spots on her fingertips. “If I had to guess? I slipped deeper into your nervous system than anyone else I’d ever inhabited before to keep you breathing, and I bet I left a little bit of me behind permanently. Hence, a connection, if a bit unpolished. Probably only works for emotional responses and basic impressions.”
“Ah.”
Peter was uncharacteristically quiet, presumably as he contemplated the idea of being connected to her. Permanently.
She wouldn’t want to be permanently connected to her either.
“If you want, we can try and get rid of it,” she said, the words coming out of her mouth small, like they were shy.
“No, I kind of like it. If you’re fine with it, I’d like to keep it. I wanna know if you’re happy and safe.”
Jean had nothing to say to that – she refused to engage with how his capacity to care made her feel. At all. It wouldn’t be smart to.
Thankfully, Peter was a natural at bridging awkward silences. “Think of it as a way to pay you back for saving my life. A Peter Parker helpline that you can pull whenever you want.”
“You saved me first.” In that quiet little bedroom, where in the face of all her anger and sorrow and all the other worst parts of herself, he had offered the greatest compassion he had known how to give. He’d saved her from herself. “There’s nothing to pay back,” she whispered.
You have me, he’d promised.
She believed him. She had him. Now she wanted to keep him.
“You’re still bleeding.” Jean tried to sit up and find him new bandages, but was immediately pulled down by an arm wrapping around her shoulders, trapping her against his pleasantly warm body.
“Peter.” Jean tried not to struggle too hard, so as to not jostle his wound worse, but she was going to lose it at this relentlessly stupid boy soon.
“I will be fine. Go to sleep.”
She realized she was not winning, not when Peter was like this, so gave up for now and settled for promising herself that she would absolutely be yelling at him in the morning. She ruminated extensively on exactly how she would let him have a piece of her mind (next time I’ll just let you bleed out, you idiot), until eventually her eyes drooped and finally shut.
When she was woken up by the late morning sun shining across her eyes through the bedroom window, Jean contemplated the fact she could still hear Peter’s slow heartbeat from where her head was resting on his chest.
Alive.
Her legs were tangled with his. One of his hands was where he had left it last night, right between her shoulder blades. The other was on her waist, right underneath her shirt, where an inch or two of skin had gotten exposed during the night, his warmth seeping right into her.
She didn’t linger on the thought that it was the best sleep she’d gotten in years.