Archive of Our Own

Peter landed with a harsh thud on the roof of the building, wincing slightly as the concrete shuddered beneath his weight. He was getting better at controlling his arachnid side in the year that followed the Department of Damage Control debacle with Jean Grey. Still, he wasn’t always perfect, especially when he was in fight mode and his arachnid hormones were at their peak. A loud creak to his side drew his attention—a metallic groan from a swaying flagpole, a red-and-white-striped flag fluttering jerkily in the wind.

Ah shit. This was New York City Hall.

Maybe the mayor would finally rescind his key to the city. He probably deserved it, if he were being honest with himself. God knows how much property damage he had caused fighting crime as Spider-Man. Just two weeks ago he had tumbled through the atrium of the Museum of Modern Art chasing some white-haired cat burglar, shattering the glass entrance doors in the process. Black Cat had gotten away too. Detective DeWolff had not been pleased at all.

He could see her down on the ground now through his mask. His lenses didn’t need to narrow anymore—he could see her from this distance, megaphone clasped in her left hand, right hand fingering her handgun, coordinating her squadron of police officers. Government officials streamed out of the City Hall in a panicked horde, ducking under thick yellow tape stretched along the building’s perimeter. He shut out the noise—blaring sirens, the crowd’s panicked cries, DeWolff’s barked orders. His senses narrowed to the man springing through the air towards him.

“Spider-Man!” Kangaroo snarled. Clad in dull yellow armour, his tail flicked venomously in the air. Peter rolled to avoid the impact of his boots, groaning. This time, cracks spider-webbed from the point of impact.

It was a nice change, he supposed. Certainly better than purple aliens genocidal on a universal scale. Or green humans genocidal on a multiversal scale. He would much rather fight bad guys cosplaying as kangaroos.

“Crikey, mate,” Peter laughed, shooting a web at Kangaroo’s feet. It caught his shin and the man stumbled. “Where’d you get the costume?”

Kangaroo roared. His tail lashed, snapping the flagpole clean at the base. The American flag fell.

“No, no, no,” Peter lamented, ducking away from a punch, “you’ve just set back US-Australia relations by decades, man.”

“Stupid Americans,” Kangaroo growled, lunging forward again. Peter caught his fist and twisted. “Idolising someone in a bug-themed onesie.”

“Well, I’ll give you that.” Peter leapt over the spinning tail and fired off more webs. “Not sure how the idiots at the White House keep getting voted in. First the Red Hulk stuff, then the parliamentary bills about mutants. I agree with you, dude.”

“I will squish you!” Kangaroo said, “I will make you—”

“Incoming call from Jean Grey,” E.V’s smooth voice interrupted. “Would you like—”

“Answer, E.V.” Peter cut her off.

Kangaroo struggled. His tail had been webbed thoroughly. He glared at Peter through mutinous eyes. “Are you seriously calling your girlfriend now?”

Peter shut him up with a web to the face.

“Hey Jean, what’s up?”

“Hi Peter.” Jean’s voice was soft, almost uncertain. “Er—is this a bad time? I can call you back later.”

“No, no, I’ll always have time for you, Jean.” Peter groaned under the exertion of webbing Kangaroo’s tail. “I’ve got this almost all wrapped up. Most exciting thing I’ve done all week, honestly. I’m fighting a kangaroo.”

“A what?”

“It’s probably on the news by now. I bet the Spidey Tracker has live reporting or something.”

A moment of silence, then—

“Oh, my god. That is so ridiculous.”

Peter’s lips pulled into a grin. Jean’s laugh echoed through his audio feed.

He jerked back suddenly as Kangaroo’s tail tore through some of the webbing. Peter cursed under his breath, firing another web at the offending appendage.

“I really gotta know where you got that tail from,” Peter remarked. “Thing’s pretty damn strong.”

Another violent swish, and Kangaroo stumbled forward.

“Alright, you’re pissing me off now, you marsupial.” Peter yanked hard with both arms, twin lines of spider silk pulled taut. Kangaroo skidded across the roof, eyes wide, debris spraying as his armor plate cut a groove along the concrete.

Peter punched him in the face, and he went slack.

“Jeez, that was violent,” Jean said on the other end.

“He’s alive. And he was interrupting us.” Peter heaved a breath and strode over to where the man lay, picking apart his armour plates. They were pockmarked with scratches—definitely not very high-quality stuff.

With a sudden realisation, Peter looked up, his head swivelling. “Wait, how are you seeing all of this?”

“Someone’s recording you live. From the building across, I think.”

“Huh.” There was, indeed, a woman standing at the window of the office building across from City Hall. She was holding a phone horizontally with trembling hands.

Peter threw up a hand in a jaunty wave and blew a kiss. The woman gasped and dropped the phone. Jean giggled again in his ear.

“Damn it, Peter. I can’t see you anymore.”

He sighed. “Switch to video, E.V.”

His internal visor console lit up and began broadcasting his first-person view.

“That guy was pretty small potatoes, huh,” Jean said as Peter began unclasping the mechanical tail. “Where do you think he would rank in your rogues’ gallery?”

Peter groaned. The Spidey Tracker (so, Ned) had been running a tier list of the villains he had faced for a while now, with Vulture and Mysterio duking it out for the top spot. He rather suspected Kangaroo would be nearer the big monkey man and grizzly bear man he had fought a while back, at the bottom of the list. Animal-themed villains tended to be pretty lame.

“Probably quite low, knowing Ned and whoever else runs the forum. But don’t worry, you’re still my favourite supervillain.”

“Aww, am I?” Jean sounded amused. “Not that—that trollop in the cat fetish outfit you chased through Manhattan last week? You looked like you had fun.”

“You did not just say trollop,” Peter laughed. “Are you studying Middle English at Xavier’s or something? I told you to come to Empire State.”

“I like to read,” Jean said crossly. “Plus, you know full well I can’t be at ESU. Not after what I did.”

In the aftermath of her psychic rampage, the DoDC had released an official statement that an unnamed mutant with telepathic and telekinetic powers had been the cause—of the tank, of the Hulk, of half of Manhattan being frozen. Sara and Jean’s records had both been expunged—probably because neither of them had been expected to live—and so Jean Grey had thankfully not become a public face. Which really was for the best, considering she was one of the X-Men now, and God knows they needed good publicity.

“Yeah, I know. I just wish I could see you more often,” Peter said.

“You’re sweet, Parker.”

He laughed, wrapping the unconscious man and his detached armour and tail in a thick cocoon of webs.

“I noticed you didn’t deny being a supervillain, though,” he teased.

“Yeah, well, after what I did, it’s pretty hard to argue otherwise,” Jean said. “I am really sorry, you know.”

“I know. And you know I’ve forgiven you ten times over for it. Wouldn’t be poking fun otherwise.”

“Well, I’ll be apologising to you until the end of time. So you better get used to it.”

Peter smiled as he lifted the bound man and hefted him over his shoulder.

“Although—supervillain does have a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” He could hear the smirk in her voice. “The good, friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man, seduced by the first female adversary he faces. Imagine the story in the Daily Bugle, imagine the media scandal.”

“That is not remotely how I remember things happening,” Peter sighed.

“I don’t know, the seduction part’s pretty accurate.”

“Well, you’re not the first female adversary I’ve faced then.”

“I’m not?” she said in a wounded voice.

“Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p’. “I caught this livestreaming supervillain called Screwball a while back, getting her accounts banned in the process. And no—there was no falling in love of any kind.”

“Well, I’m keeping a close eye on that cat burglar anyway,” Jean huffed.

“All the more reason to come back, then. I’m sure you could use your powers to catch her immediately. Make her turn herself in, give up on a life of crime, return the stolen paintings.”

“She’s too small potatoes, Peter,” Jean said. “Way below the X-Men’s pay grade.”

Peter rolled his eyes, firing a web to the side of the building and swinging down.

“Introducing you to Yelena was a bad idea,” he muttered.

Below, the huddle of officers had dispersed into a circle, giving him a wide berth. Peter landed, handing over the bound and unconscious Kangaroo to DeWolff. Four officers swarmed over, handcuffs at the ready, and loaded him unceremoniously into the back of a police van. Peter nodded at DeWolff’s thanks. One of the officers clapped him on the shoulder.

“Nice work as always, Spidey,” he exclaimed loudly. “It’s good to see this guy’s human, yeah? And not one of those mutie freaks causing trouble these days.”

Peter whirled on him, hands curled into fists. Something hot immediately thrummed in his veins. In his ear, Jean let out a sharp intake of breath.

“You do know who you’re talking to, right, officer?” He grabbed the front of his uniform, not caring about the rustle of nearby officers reaching for their firearms. He was also pretty sure Kangaroo was enhanced in some way—he had jumped really high. Not that racists were particularly smart, let alone know the nuances of different powers and mutations.

“You’re one of the good ones,” the officer stuttered out, eyes wide. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that, man.”

Darkness bled into his vision.

“All right, all right, break it up,” Detective DeWolff barked as she pushed through the crowd. “That language is not acceptable,” she reprimanded before turning to Peter. “And you—take a break, call your girlfriend. I’ll let his superiors know of this.”

“The same superiors turning a blind eye to cops beating up civilians, and accusing them of being mutants as an excuse?” Peter snarked, hand still fisted tightly into the officer’s uniform. He let out a choked gasp, flailing.

“Peter, it’s fine,” Jean said.

“Go home, Spider-Man.” DeWolff’s eyes bore into his. “I will personally handle it, I promise.”

“Please,” Jean begged.

Fine. Peter drew a deep breath, closed his eyes and let go. The officer crumpled to his knees and scrambled away. The darkness receded from the edge of his vision. He nodded jerkily at DeWolff and swung away. He only trusted himself to speak once he was several blocks away, crouching on top of another building.

“Sorry you had to hear that,” he said quietly.

“I’m used to it,” Jean said. “Thanks for sticking up for us.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” he said, pulling off his mask and running his fingers through his hair. “It’s gotten worse, Jean. The bills they’re trying to push through, the casual violence and bigotry on the streets. I just wish I could do more.”

She went quiet for a moment. “You’ve done so much already, okay? I know how hard you’ve been working to investigate the DoDC. Some of the mutant kids are here, safe, because of you. Plus it’s all my fault anyway, Peter. Because of what I did last year.”

“No, you don’t get to pin blame on yourself solely.” His words came out harsher than intended. “They’ve known about mutants for a long while before the events of last year. And if not you, someone else would have opened Pandora’s box.”

She went quiet again.

“Let’s not talk about this anymore,” Jean said in a tired tone that left room for no argument. “I called because I wanted you to come to Westchester. To Xavier’s. You know, meet the X-Men and everything.”

Peter blinked. In the months after the DoDC, and then after Doom and Battleworld, Jean had found a place to belong. People like her—mutants—learning to use and control their powers under the tutelage of one Professor Charles Xavier.

He had been a little suspicious at first, worried for Jean’s safety when she had told him excitedly one day over a phone call. It had almost sounded too good to be true, like a Hogwarts or Camp Half-Blood lying in plain sight. Jean was a much better judge of character than he was, though (see: Mysterio and Bill Metzger), and he had met some of the X-Men from a different universe during their fight against Doom. They were a little eccentric but mostly a sound bunch (except for one Scott Summers; his brain supplied unhelpfully). He had asked Jean if he could meet them too, at the beginning, concerned as he was. She had wanted her own space to navigate the relationships with her new compatriots, though, so he hadn’t pushed since.

“Will Cyclops be there?”

Peter mentally berated himself as soon as the words tumbled out. Jean snorted in a most unladylike manner.

“You are such an idiot,” she said fondly, “and yes, Scott will be here.”

“I’m just saying, you refer to Warren as Angel but Cyclops as Scott.”

“Fine, because I’m closer friends with Scott than Warren,” Jean corrected, “plus Warren’s kind of snobbish. His dad’s a billionaire or something.”

Peter only hummed in response.

“All the more reason for you to visit, then?” she continued. “Scare off the boys.”

“Why now, though?” Peter asked, “Why not sooner? You know I wanted to come.”

“We’re all pretty tight-knit now, I think. Especially after going on a couple of missions together.” She let out a breath. “At first I wanted a fresh start. I didn’t want to get treated differently because of what I had done. Or who I knew. You know I didn’t tell them at first. Not Scott, not Anna Marie, not Ororo. They just knew the broad strokes—that I lost my sister, that we had been experimented on, that I skipped town afterwards. It’s a pretty common backstory for us. I don’t think I even make the top half of the list of most tragic backstories at the school.”

“And I didn’t tell them about you. Not because I was ashamed or anything. But because I didn’t want people to try to befriend me just because I was saved by and then befriended the most popular superhero in the world.”

“Most popular?”

Jean paused. “Yes, you idiot, you’re ranked first on Time magazine’s list of active superheroes. Didn’t they contact you for an interview?”

“Shit,” Peter said, “I probably thought it was spam.”

“You have indeed received three calls from the same unknown number about one month ago, Peter,” said E.V. “My search results indicate they match up with—”

“Okay, okay,” Peter interjected, “let’s answer all the calls from now on, E.V.”

Jean laughed, clear and bright. “Yeah, so, Charles—er, Professor Xavier—was the only one who knew. About you and the whole truth. Partially because of his telepathy and all that. But I was very unstable and only a partially reformed villain at that point, so telling him was the right thing to do for the safety of the school.”

Peter nodded. He knew this, of course—Jean had blabbered away at him the moment she had been alone in her new room, the first night at Xavier’s. He knew she had been insecure about making friends—not that he had any room to judge whatsoever. After living as someone grief-stricken and hell-bent on revenge, and then a wanted fugitive, it was only natural to be cautious, suspicious, untrusting. So he had never pushed, as long as he was safe and happy. He had just been glad Jean had trusted him, that he had the chance to make good on the promise he had made her that day in the ruins of the DoDC. 1407 Graymalkin Lane, Salem Centre, Westchester County, had become a permanent pin in E.V’s surveillance map. He had honestly spent more time staring at the dot at night than he would like to admit.

She took a breath. “So recently I’ve been telling them about you. About how we’re—er—together.”

Peter blinked. “What? But I thought they knew. That you had—you know—a boyfriend.”

“Yes, well, but not that you were Spider-Man,” Jean said. “I left that part out when I was explaining to everyone why I’d lock myself in my room for hours most nights.”

“Oh, right.”

“Yeah. We’re all good at not prying, I guess. Everyone has their own tragedy—apart from Angel—so everyone just accepted that I had some unnamed boyfriend that I liked and trusted enough to talk to for hours.”

“I’m starting to detect an undercurrent of resentment directed at this Angel now.”

“He’ll live. He drives a Lamborghini to the institute.”

“And so you told everyone you were dating Spider-Man to one-up him.”

“Could I not just want my new family to meet the most important person in my life?”

Peter didn’t try to fight back a smile. He surveyed the sea of buildings around him and charted a course home in his head. He’d have to let DeWolff know, obviously, if he were going away to Xavier’s School. She would probably be very smug about it, since she was always telling him to take a break. Go visit your telepath girlfriend, she would always say. New York’s not going to fall apart without you for a couple of days.

“You know I’d love to come visit, Jean,” Peter said as he zipped between buildings. The rush of traffic thundered below him.

“Good. This is me granting official permission.”

“And you want me to come as Spider-Man, I presume.”

“Yeah,” Jean said, then a heartbeat later, in a softer tone, “but if that makes you uncomfortable, then you can just come as Peter, and I can backtrack. Say I lied. Or you don’t have to come at all. I can come over to yours this weekend instead.”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind.” He waved her off. “As long as you told Cyclops that.”

A groan. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I don’t see him anywhere near Time magazine’s list.”

“Probably because he hasn’t been active for a year yet. And we keep a low profile.”

“Shame. One day you’ll be number one. I believe in you.”

“You’re such an idiot,” she said affectionately.

“Anyways,” Peter said, waving at a group of middle schoolers in mid-air, “have you cleared it with the Professor? Where am I going to stay?”

“Considering he’s been begging for you to visit ever since I became a student, that definitely won’t be a problem. And you’ll stay in my room, obviously.”

“Oh,” he paused. “Is that allowed?”

“Allowed?” Jean said with a laugh. “This isn’t high school. You should see the things Angel gets up to in his room.”

“I really gotta meet this guy, man,” Peter muttered. He landed on his fire escape and teased open his window. He blinked, adjusting to the darkness. He would have to do laundry tonight. Extra, clean clothes were probably a necessity to bring to Xavier’s, considering people there could shoot fire and ice and all forms of strange matter. Extra masks too. And probably some web-shooters and gadgets for some of the younger kids to play with.

“They’ll love you,” she said quietly. “It’s hard not to.”

A beat.

“I hope so,” he replied just as quietly. “I got along with the other universe’s X-Men well enough.”

Jean groaned. “Please don’t bring that up. That is still so weird.”

“Maybe it could help Professor Xavier find more mutants. Aren’t you still missing a Mystique? She was very blue and liked to switch appearances. Yelena said she was a good fighter. There was a Magneto too. He was being very touchy with the other Charles Xavier, you know. Are you sure your teacher’s not hiding some kind of torrid affair from his students?”

“I am going to erase those thoughts from both your head and mine telepathically.”

“Okay, okay.” Peter grinned, rummaging around his fridge until he found a tub of pasta he had made yesterday. Thanks to Jean’s influence, his eating habits had upgraded from cold pizza and old Chinese takeout to actual balanced meals.

He hadn’t told her everything, though, not about the Jean Grey of the other universe—not the things that mattered, at least. He had told her the easy things, the things he could joke and make fun of. Things like her counterpart being in a relationship with Cyclops, and the slightly (actually, very) disturbing love triangle with Wolverine. But he hadn’t told her about the Phoenix Force, or about her sacrifice.

The Scott Summers of the other universe had told him that, hands braced on his shoulders in the atrium of the New Avengers Tower, in a hushed, desperate voice. Peter understood why, of course. Scott had loved his Jean, and she had died. He didn’t want another Jean Grey out there to go down the same path. It was just a monumental burden for Peter to bear. (He really was glad they were back in their own universe.)

He would definitely have to talk to this universe’s Charles Xavier. Maybe he should cut this universe’s Cyclops some slack too.

“Okay,” Jean breathed. He could hear the spark of excitement in her voice. “When can you come?”

The microwave dinged. Peter glanced out of his window. The sun was dipping beneath the horizon, the last fingers of daylight painting the canopy of sky a warm mauve.

“Tomorrow morning? I can’t imagine Spider-Man showing up at night is any good for the kids’ sleeping schedules.”

“Probably not.”

They were both quiet for a moment. Then—

“I can’t wait to see you, Peter.”

“I can’t wait to see you too, Jean.”

Jean let out a pleased hum. “I should get back to my assignment.”

Peter grinned. “Well, I’ve got laundry to do. I need to let DeWolff know I’ll be away. Oh, and Ned and MJ too. I won’t be able to make lunch with them on Sunday.”

“You sure it’s okay to cancel on them?”

“They’ve been pushing me to come visit for a while.” Peter shrugged. “I’m pretty sure MJ’s a fan of Xavier too. She did study biochemical engineering at MIT before she switched majors to aerospace.”

“Odd thing to be a fan of. I find the telepathy much more interesting, personally.”

“Of course you’d say that,” Peter said fondly.

Jean laughed. “I’ll see you tomorrow, spider.”

“See you, Jean.” The line disconnected with a click. Peter leaned against the kitchen counter with a grin. He had about fourteen hours to prepare for meeting his girlfriend’s family.

The clock struck seven as Peter clambered out of bed. Manhattan, too, awoke from its slumber. The distant hum of vehicles and indistinct shouting became a soothing, familiar backdrop as he trudged blearily to the bathroom.

Morning, he texted, reaching for the tap. Jean probably wasn’t up yet. She didn’t have class until around noon.

He double-checked his map route. It wouldn’t take very long to get to North Salem, but he did want to be sure. He ran through what he had packed in his mind, striding back out to his workstation.

“Am I missing anything, E.V?”

His AI assistant’s monitors lit up in a hazy orange, and out came her smooth voice. “You have enough supplies for a stay of approximately one week. You have brought extra clothes, suits, and gadgets as discussed.”

“That’s good,” he muttered, moving to turn on the coffee machine. He squeezed his eyes shut at the familiar mechanical hum.

“Your heart rate is extremely elevated, Peter.”

“It’s just the caffeine, E.V.”

“That is inconsistent with the mechanism of caffeine. After oral intake, caffeine takes approximately 30 minutes to reach the central nervous system and bind to adenosine receptors. Besides, you have not yet ingested your coffee.”

Peter groaned as he cracked two eggs into the pan. He curled his hands around the coffee mug.

“Fine. I’m nervous. Maybe. I haven’t met these people before. And they’re important to her. I want to make a good impression. That’s understandable, right?”

“I am currently unable to provide emotional support, as I have recently been programmed to refer you to seeking real human connection. Would you like me to call Jean Grey?”

Peter choked out a laugh, cursing as he almost spilt the hot coffee.

“Please don’t wake her up.”

“Understood.” E.V’s panel went dark once more.

“Just great,” Peter muttered, slumping into a chair. “If anything was harder than meeting your girlfriend’s family for the first time, it’s if they were the mutant version of the Avengers, and their leader wanted to fry your brains for developing a weapon against them.”

Peter strode out of the Harlem Line and onto Purdy’s station to a crisp September morning, murmuring a quiet “sorry” as he bumped shoulders with an oncoming commuter. The man glared at him for a moment before rushing through the turnstiles, muttering something under his breath all the while. Peter sighed, adjusting the strap of his black backpack. He had chosen a pair of dark jeans and a faded grey hoodie, with the red of his Spider-Man suit peeking out from underneath. He would probably be in costume most of the time at the school, but he wanted to see Jean first as just Peter Parker.

“Peter!”

A blur of green, yellow, and red launched itself at him. Jean wrapped her arms around his waist, and he slid his arms over her shoulders, breathing in her coconut-and-vanilla scent and pressing a kiss to her tousled hair.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Jean blinked up at him with bleary green eyes. She was clad in her signature green-and-yellow ensemble, but her copper hair was longer than the last time he had seen her, cascading over her shoulders instead of being tied up in a bun. A small, spiderweb-shaped brooch nestled against the column of her pale throat. The harsh lines of grief and rage that had once defined her features had long been replaced by the freer, lighter expression that now adorned her face.

Peter held her gaze for a moment before kissing her, slow and sweet, not caring that they were in public.

“Hey yourself,” she whispered once they broke apart. Her cheeks were tinged a rosy pink, highlighting the faint dusting of freckles. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” Peter grinned. “Even though we saw each other two weeks ago.”

Jean smacked his chest playfully and linked her arm with his. “It’s different this time. You’re on my turf now.”

He let her lead him out of the station and into the parking area. Autumn had descended, rays of sunlight dyeing the canopy of leaves a burnished gold, the faint rustle of foliage crunching underneath their feet. Jean’s curtain of hair, too, was lit up, gossamer threads shimmering like liquid fire.

Peter’s heart gave a boyish stutter every time he stole a glance at her. Jean’s arm tightened around his, as if she had telepathically heard his thoughts.

“Here we are,” she said, stopping at a silver Volvo. “It’s only a ten-minute drive, so you should get changed soon.”

Peter nodded and clambered in alongside Jean. The engine flared to life, and the seatbelt wrapped itself psychically around Peter, fastening with a click.

“Show off,” he muttered.

Jean grinned and squeezed his thigh. The SUV pulled itself out of its parking spot, the wheel turning of its own accord. Outside, the low rumble of trains and distant murmur of commuters faded, giving way to a lush, forested landscape. The reservoir to his right glimmered like a blanket made of diamonds.

“This place is really beautiful, Jean,” Peter said, peering out of the window.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Much quieter than Manhattan. My head’s clearer here.”

Peter hummed in acknowledgement. He understood what she meant, of course. While he was no telepath, his arachnid mutation had considerably heightened his senses. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like for Jean—whose powers had expanded much more rapidly than his—to have to deal with the psychic noise of midtown Manhattan. She had learned to build psychic barriers in her time at Xavier’s, but they were by no means perfect. She would get headaches, sometimes, when she visited him, and crowds were still a place they tried to avoid.

They rolled into the gravel driveway of the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters just as Peter donned his mask and shrugged off his hoodie. He let out a low whistle at the sight before him.

“Damn,” he said, snapping a quick photo with his phone. He would have to send it to Ned later. “I know you’ve shown me pictures, but seeing the mansion in person is something else.”

A pair of thick, ornate, wrought-iron gates swung open with a dull metallic whine, and the car continued forward. On either side lay rows and rows of meticulously trimmed shrubs decorating well-manicured grass, leading up to a large marble fountain gurgling with jets of water. In the distance loomed the mansion, a behemoth of pale, gothic stone.

It would probably have been a more imposing sight if not for the cheering crowd gathered in front of the main entrance.

“That’s a lot of people, Jean,” Peter said, fidgeting with his web shooters.

“Word travels fast here, I guess.” Jean sighed. She killed the engine and the car came to a smooth halt.

“Cool, no pressure,” he muttered, reaching for his backpack.

“You’ll do great,” she said, flashing him a quick smile. “Oh—and be nice to Scott. He really idolises you.”

“Of all the people—seriously?”

“Yes,” she said with a laugh, clambering out of the car. “Be nice, Parker.”

The noise reached an almost deafening pitch once he was outside the vehicle. Up close, he could see the individuals in the crowd more clearly. Some of the faces were familiar to him—Jean had shown him some pictures with her new friends, and their tangle with Mr Sinister had made a few news stories.

He noticed Professor Charles Xavier first. He was at the back, seated in a wheelchair at the top of the entrance ramp, partially obscured by his horde of students. Younger, definitely, than Peter would have thought—mid-40s, if he had to guess. The other universe’s Charles Xavier had been much older (and without hair), looking every part the wise mentor. This Charles Xavier had a mop of curly black hair, occasionally streaked with white. There was a psychic pull, a gravity to his presence that made the fine hairs of his arms stand on end even at this distance. Meeting his eyes, Xavier gave a slight nod of acknowledgement that Peter returned.

“Jean!” a female voice cried.

A laugh bubbled out of Jean, vivacious and free, and she hurled herself into the arms of Ororo Munroe.

Peter’s hand raised in greeting as he approached, scanning the crowd. He recognised Rogue (or Anna, as Jean sometimes called her), standing next to Ororo, but with a certain guarded distance from the other students. There was a brilliant white streak in her hair, and she stared somewhat wistfully at her two hugging friends. Her touch saps powers and memories, Jean had said to him once, so you can imagine my sob story’s nothing compared to hers.

Cyclops—Scott Summers—stood to the side, shoulders bumping with a boy with a pair of brilliant white wings protruding from his back, and another boy with indigo skin and glowing yellow eyes. Angel and Nightcrawler, Peter knew. Even with his red visor obscuring some of his face, Peter could see the excitement on Scott’s face as he whispered something to Nightcrawler, whose face split into a fanged grin. Angel stood with his hands in his pockets, a picture of nonchalance betrayed only by his wide eyes.

“Alright,” Jean shouted over the clamour, as she extricated herself from Ororo’s grip. “Pay up, bitches.”

A loud collective groan arose that was mirrored by Peter—then, the faint rustle of paper.

“Hey!” A girl pushed herself to the front. She was clad in a bright pink shirt and a large yellow overcoat, pink goggles perched in her dark hair. Jubilee, if Peter’s memory was accurate. “How do we know that’s not just a cosplay?”

“Er.” Peter began, as heads swivelled back to him. He looked up at the roof of the mansion, gauging the distance. In one fluid moment, he fired a web, swung upwards to perch on a spire, then somersaulted back down to earth.

Jubilee let out a low whistle as she handed a stack of notes to a grinning Jean.

“Now who’s the show-off?” she muttered, skipping back to his side and looping her arm through his again.

“Er—hey everyone, it’s nice to meet you all!” he said, waving. “I’m Jean’s boyfriend. And uh—Spider-Man, too.”

Ororo stepped forward slightly at that. Peter swore her eyes flashed against her dark skin as her gaze roved up and down his body, and something like ozone filled the air. He felt very much like a gazelle being stalked by a lion.

“Cut the tough act, Ro.” Jean rolled her eyes and tugged him forward.

Peter gave Ororo a tight smile as she moved aside. The crowd parted as Professor Xavier rolled forward. Pushing him was a large man covered in blue fur. Dr Henry McCoy—Beast.

“Welcome to my School for Gifted Youngsters, Spider-Man.” Professor Xavier’s voice was dark and rich. “We are so delighted to host you finally.”

Peter leaned down slightly and clasped his hand.

“Thank you for having me, Professor.”

He glanced up and offered his hand for Dr McCoy to shake as well.

“It’s lovely to meet you too, Dr McCoy,” Peter said, gripping his large, blue palm. “I loved your recent paper on the phylogenetics of the X-gene.”

“Spider-Man is a nerd?” An outraged voice cried from somewhere. Jean muffled a laugh into Peter’s shoulder.

“Call me Hank, please,” Dr McCoy said, but his eyes lit up in interest afterwards. “Jean has told me you have an interest and aptitude for genetics. It’s a real pity she doesn’t share your enthusiasm.”

“Yeah, I think it’s really interesting,” Peter said, suddenly self-aware. “I used to—well—I used to work in research labs. Not anymore.”

Dr McCoy nodded, as if sensing his awkwardness, and didn’t probe.

“We are happy to give you a tour of the school, Spider-Man,” Professor Xavier said, before glancing at Jean. “Feel free to bring him to my office at any time.”

“Call me Peter,” he said, shrugging. “It’s my real name.”

The Professor’s lip curled into a genuine smile.

“Very well, Peter.”

Dr McCoy wheeled him away then, and the crowd swallowed up Peter.

He made the rounds then, shaking hands and taking pictures, putting faces to both familiar and unfamiliar names. He even patted Scott on the shoulder, who then shyly asked him for a selfie together. Eventually, Jean had to drag him away from a chattering Kitty Pryde and Bobby Drake with a muttered “sorry”.

They were finally alone, then, as they wandered the corridors of the place Jean now called home.

“You okay?” Jean murmured. “I know that was a lot.”

“I’m fine,” Peter said after a pause. “They all seem nice. Storm’s pretty scary though.”

“It would be weird if someone who could literally control the weather wasn’t.” Jean hummed, squeezing his arm. “She likes you already. We’re just best friends—she likes to worry a lot.”

“Good. I’m glad you have someone like that here.”

The hallways were painted a deep chocolate, with warm, yellow fluorescent lights hanging from the domed ceilings. Beneath their feet lay a soft, padded carpet, adorned with whorls of rich red and brown. Children peeked out from behind every corner, turning away and giggling shyly when they were spotted. Peter and Jean eventually reached a sweeping spiral staircase, cast in shadow by a single crystalline chandelier.

“This place is so over the top,” Peter remarked, descending the steps. “Cosy, though. I can see why you like it here.”

“MJ would hate it,” she said.

“Probably. She would think that it’s too gaudy.”

“Beats sleeping in shitty motels or asbestos-ridden attics, though.”

“Yeah, okay, alright. I should definitely get a new apartment.”

“You think, Parker?” Jean snorted. “I can’t believe I’m going to survive the collapse of the multiverse but then lose to lung cancer. That’s so embarrassing.”

Peter gave a short laugh as they rounded a corner and were met with a tall wooden door.

“Professor Charles Xavier”, the gold-lined nameplate read. Jean curled her telekinetic tendrils around the brass knocker and rapped against the door.

The door swung open on its own, giving way to a large study room. Shards of warm daylight filtered in through a pale sheet of curtains. Tall, wood-panelled bookshelves stretched along the sides of the room, each packed to the brim with worn books, and a grandfather clock ticked gently. A large, mahogany desk filled the centre of the room, bare except for a single potted plant and a stack of papers. At its helm sat Professor Charles Xavier, who glanced up from a book as the two approached.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” he said warmly, gesturing at two chairs.

Peter and Jean shuffled into their seats. Her hand reached for his.

The Professor was quiet for a moment, looking at Peter contemplatively before sliding his gaze to their joined hands.

“I hope you had a pleasant journey here, Peter. Westchester County is truly beautiful at this time of the year.”

“It really is,” he replied. “I’ve never been this far upstate, actually. Friendly neighbourhood and all that.”

Professor Xavier nodded sagely. “Well, you are always welcome to visit.”

Peter nodded tightly. Charles Xavier studied him with dark eyes, his expression unreadable.

“Right,” he said eventually, hands clasped. He cocked his head thoughtfully. “The X-Men and mutantkind owe you a great debt, Peter. You cannot imagine how much you have done for our cause.”

Peter blinked. That hadn’t been the reaction he had anticipated. Xavier smiled knowingly.

“I know you feel guilt, Peter, but it is sorely misplaced,” he continued. “I know about the inhibitor that you developed, and I do not need a shred of telepathy to know you feel ample guilt over what you made.”

“You don’t understand, Professor.” His hand tightened around Jean’s.

“Oh?”

“The tech is mine, Professor. All of it. Every single inhibitor, every collar, every muzzle we recover from the DoDC black sites.” He closed his eyes and blew out a shaky breath. Jean made a comforting noise beside him. “I gave them the means, the blueprint. I stuck one of them on Jean once, and delivered her to Metzger. Every mutant, every kid we’ve found since—they’ve been subjected to the same torture device that I left on the floor that day on Roosevelt Island.”

A beat of silence passed.

“Tell me again, Peter,” Xavier said eventually, quirking an eyebrow, “What is the genetic logic of your inhibitor?”

“What?”

“How it works, Peter.”

“Er—it uses small interfering RNA to knock down the expression of mRNA. Specifically, the mRNA transcribed from mutated or mutant genes,” Peter explained slowly. “There’s a response element that makes up the feedback logic of the circuit. It detects the precise base pairs of the gene to produce siRNA complementary to the mRNA.”

“Very good.” Xavier smiled. “I dare say, if you had been properly affiliated with a university or research institute, this would have been grounds for a paper in Nature or Science.”

“How—how can you be so casual about this? Most of your students here have been hurt because of me!”

“Because, frankly, you think too highly of yourself, Peter,” Xavier retorted bluntly. “siRNA technology has been well-established for three decades now. That part is not remotely novel, and has been a cornerstone of other reversible inhibition devices in the past. The response element is ingenious, I must admit. But if you seriously believe that none of the elite research institutions in our country—MIT, Harvard, ESU, let alone the ones located outside of the States—could have engineered such a device using their limitless government funding, then you are sorely mistaken. You have accelerated anti-mutant research by several months at best.”

“Still, that’s several months too many,” he said, half rising out of his seat. “Far too much damage has been done in that time. We’ve seen rising mutantphobia, kids being kidnapped to government black sites, and now the legislation being discussed in the White House!”

Xavier held his gaze evenly for a moment.

“None of which are a direct consequence of you and your actions alone,” Xavier insisted serenely. “If not you, then it would have been someone else. Men like William Metzger simply do not lack for excuses. This was a powder keg bound to explode at any point.”

“What you have actually done,” he continued, “is provide us with a valuable ally in yourself. Multiple allies, in fact, if I am to be right about the involvement of Yelena Belova and her Avengers.”

Peter nodded.

“You also saved Jean,” Xavier said, glancing over at her. “I dare say the X-Men would not be complete without her talent or her empathy. You pulled her from plunging into a dark abyss that many a mutant have not been able to save themselves from. We do not have happy childhoods, Peter. Our powers manifest at inopportune times, often in destructive ways. We hurt people around us, we hurt those we love, and we hurt ourselves. And still, you put your life on the line for a mutant girl who had, up until that point, treated you as nothing more than an enemy. You showed empathy, compassion, and understanding. That in itself outweighs any inhibitor you have made in my eyes.”

Peter swallowed thickly.

“I think the bullet was a fair price to pay for Jean, Professor.”

Jean gave a muffled gasp and turned to him with red-rimmed eyes. She clutched his hand even tighter.

Xavier smiled.

“Then let us cast the thoughts of those devices aside. Our focus should perhaps shift to the more radical forms of genetic engineering,” Xavier said. “Our recent experiences with Nathaniel Essex have shown us that the extremes of mutant research have edged into the realm of both creating and eliminating mutants. Neither of which would be difficult with the government’s and other covert organisations’ current biotechnological capabilities.”

Peter shivered. That was undeniably true. The singular presence of the X-gene made it a beacon for any kind of mad experiment.

“Dr McCoy and I would like to discuss that with you at another time, if you are willing. But for now, you are here to enjoy our hospitality, and we are here to extend our gratitude to you.”

“I’m always happy to help, Professor,” Peter said. “As long as you swear you’ll keep Jean safe.”

Xavier met his gaze for a moment before nodding solemnly. “You have my word.”

“And we are happy to have you too,” Xavier repeated. “I’d like to show you to Cerebro now. Jean, if you don’t mind?”

Peter mourned the loss of contact immediately as Jean stood and shuffled over to Xavier, wheeling him from behind the desk. They exited the study, and Jean led the way into yet another hallway, before stopping before a lift.

“Cerebro, huh,” he said, nudging her. “Is that the fancy telepathy device you keep wanting to try?”

“Charles says I’m not ready,” she pouted, pressing the ‘B’ on the lift panel.

Xavier chuckled. “Cerebro requires an extremely well-disciplined and well-trained mind. Jean’s telepathy is extraordinarily powerful, but when the adverse effects of the device are either insanity, brain damage, or death, you’ll forgive me for being extra cautious.”

“You still sure you don’t want to come to ESU?” Peter said, brushing shoulders with Jean. “The only brain damage you might get there is from enduring group projects.”

“It’s not all danger here, Peter. Usually it’s classes and assignments and the occasional mission.” Jean paused. “Plus, you get hurt far more often than I do anyway.”

Peter shrugged. That he couldn’t refute; he had spent years without anybody—suddenly, people were waiting for him to come home. It was still a change he wasn’t entirely sure how to manage, even though Jean reminded him time and time again.

“This is some creepy basement.” He observed as he moved along the dimly lit hallway. At the end of the corridor’s yawning maw lay a lone metallic door.

“Cerebro’s interface requires a great deal of space,” Xavier explained. “An underground location also provides some protection from unwanted external forces, if such a time comes.”

They reached the door. The doorknob turned psychically again, and Peter followed the two telepaths in. He was greeted by a spherical metallic chamber lined with what seemed to be electronic panels, and a small station sat at its centre, housing a snake-like nest of silver wires.

“This is Cerebro,” Xavier announced, as Jean wheeled him towards the mesh of wires.

“Cool,” Peter breathed, swivelling around in amazement.

“It amplifies brainwaves, which is what makes it dangerous,” Jean supplied, as Xavier busied himself with gathering wires and attaching what looked like a metallic shell to his head. “It lets us telepaths detect the presence of mutants around the globe by detecting the specific power signature associated with the activation of the X-gene.”

“Which makes it a far more dangerous device to fall into the wrong hands,” Xavier added. “I trust that you will keep this place a secret, Peter?”

“Of course, Professor. You have my word as well.”

Hundreds of electronic panels lit up with a kaleidoscope of images as soon as Xavier was wired into the device. Images of people being scanned all across the globe.

“A little creepy,” Peter said. “I guess I can’t judge, though.”

“Perhaps,” Xavier replied. “Coupled with your intel, however, we have been able to help uncover and save many mutants, many of whom are children. It is currently our best line of defence against rising anti-mutant sentiment.”

“It was how Charles found me,” Jean said quietly. “The surge at Roosevelt Island damn near fried the machine.”

Xavier hummed. The images on the panels shifted, coalescing into a soccer field. There, on the grass, was the silhouette of a kneeling boy.

“Roberto da Costa,” Xavier whispered. “Brazilian teenager. We detected a surge consistent with X-gene activation several hours ago.”

“Who’s going, then?” Jean asked.

A click, and the images shifted. A feral snarl on the boy’s face, then something in him seemed to explode outwards, a supernova of absolute darkness, before the feed cut.

Xavier disconnected the headset, suddenly looking more tired than he had a moment ago.

“Danielle and Rahne volunteered, given their close ages to Roberto. I thought it would be appropriate. Emma will be supervising. They’re currently en route.”

“Frost? Really, Charles, she’s—”

“I trust Emma.” Xavier interrupted, gesturing for Jean to wheel him, who sidled over with a huff.

Peter chose not to disturb that hornet’s nest. He knew Jean didn’t like the other telepath, but she had never given him a straight answer as to why. Telepathy must be a competitive field or something.

They left the cavernous room and went back out the way they came, chatting about the mundane in the meantime. Xavier asked him about the source of his mutation, and he asked the two telepaths about what missions usually entailed.

“Usually rescue and recruitment,” Jean explained while gesticulating. “Explaining about mutations and powers, that sort of thing. Letting people know they’re not alone. It’s—it’s usually quite bittersweet. People get hurt, a lot of the time, when mutant powers manifest. Oftentimes people die. Close friends, close family. I’ve only been out on two or three, though, considering I’m still the most wanted mutant currently.”

“Yes,” Xavier said gravely. “It is still a preferable alternative to exploitation, however.”

On that sombre note, they arrived back at Xavier’s study and bid him farewell. “Drop in at any time, Peter,” he had said, before wheeling himself back to his desk.

They were alone again, and Peter let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

“He does have a presence, doesn’t he?” Jean said with a teasing lilt to her voice, tugging him along. “But you’ll get used to it. He took us all in and has been nothing but kind.”

“As long as you’re sure, Jean. We both know you’re a better judge of character than I am.”

“Obviously. Come on, I’ll show you my room, and you can leave your stuff. Our class is in less than an hour.”

“Our?”

“Hank’s teaching genetic engineering today. Some crispy thing. You’ll want to sit in, naturally.”

“CRISPR?”

“Yeah, that. Always makes me hungry.”

Peter snorted.

“I’ve got telepathy tutoring with Charles after lunch, though, so feel free to roam around then,” she continued.

“Telepathy tutoring,” he mimicked with a smirk. “Jean, that sounds so weird.”

“Oh hush, he’s helped me a lot. I’ve been learning to build psychic barriers, mostly. And—er—about control and consent too. I know I need to work on that. Definitely better him than Emma Frost, in any case. If you thought I was a supervillain, you haven’t seen her on a bad day.”

“Will I finally get to meet the wicked White Queen?”

“No,” she growled, pushing him into a vacant lift, “and you never will.”

Peter grinned, pulling up his mask to meet her lips with his.

The doors opened to another plush, carpeted hallway, lined with cream-coloured Victorian-style windows, opening up to the sprawling, verdant expanse of the mansion’s gardens. Peter could see a trio of children chasing each other across the grass, one of them intermittently shooting out sparks from what seemed to be his ears. Along the hall were rows upon rows of wooden doors, each adorned with a brass nameplate. They stopped at a door that read “Jean Grey”, in between “Ororo Munroe (Storm)” and “Anna Marie (Rogue)”.

“Where’s the Marvel Girl?” Peter teased, tracing her nameplate.

“Don’t you start with that,” Jean groaned. “I have no idea how that name has stuck.”

“We’ll workshop you something better.”

“Come in,” she said softly, as the door swung open. Peter padded in behind her.

The carpet was still a luxurious red, but the walls gave way to a rich emerald that basked in the pale, hazy sunlight. The bedspread on her four-poster was a soft daisy yellow and still rumpled with sleep. Plush pillows, still slightly indented, sat atop the covers, and a string of blinking fairy lights entwined with the canopy frame. A stack of textbooks perched precariously on a nearby bookshelf as if their owner had not cared enough to sort them. One of Peter’s old ESU hoodies was slung over her chair. He breathed in the scent of coconut and vanilla.

“Nice place,” he remarked. “You’re really serious about this green and yellow stuff, huh?”

“It’s my superhero brand now, Parker. I’m gunning for your top spot.”

Peter grinned, unslinging his backpack. Jean had disappeared into the bathroom, so he walked slowly along the perimeter of her bedroom. It was nice, seeing her in a space that belonged to her and her alone, without the threat of having to pack up and leave at any moment’s notice. He knew she had long lived a life on the move, glancing over her shoulder. Flitting from foster home to foster home with her sister, carving her way through New York City, and then going on the run again in the aftermath. She had left personal effects in his apartment—a hairbrush here, a jar of nail polish there—but it wasn’t really her space.

He knew the ghosts of what Jean Grey had done in Manhattan had meant Peter’s home could never truly be hers, too. He wouldn’t push, of course, but he wanted a home that could be just theirs someday.

In the corner of the room sat a small corkboard decorated with Polaroids—a young Sara and Jean leaning against each other on a park bench; Ororo’s arms around a laughing Jean; Scott, Bobby, Anna Marie, and Jean posing in matching yellow uniforms emblazoned with a red ‘X’. Something in Peter’s gut tightened.

Jean’s arms slid around his waist as she rested her head on his shoulder.

“You know I can’t put your face up there,” she said quietly. “Ro and Anna are in here a lot. Kitty and Jubilee too, sometimes.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“We can take one of us swinging next time. Especially now that the Spider-Man secret’s out.”

“Okay.” Peter turned around to face her.

Jean smiled softly at him and reached up to tug off his mask. He let her, and he let her tug him towards the bed.

“We have about half an hour until we’re late for Hank’s class,” she said, pushing him onto the sheets. “Why don’t you make it worth my while?”

Dr McCoy’s classroom was nostalgic to say the least. Wooden desks and chairs were arrayed in neat rows; half of them were already occupied by the time Peter and Jean slid in through the door. Heads swivelled in unison at their entrance, whispers breaking out. Hank gave them a nod as they found their seats, glancing at his watch.

“I assume no one is interested in today’s planned second-part lecture on gene editing?”

Silence. Some of the mutants in the classroom had the decency to look cowed, at least.

Hank sighed, looking again at Peter with an assessing gaze.

“Would you like to give today’s lecture, Peter?” he asked after a pause. “It would be good to learn about exogenous mutations and how they differ from our endogenous ones.”

Someone let out a cheer, prompting a smattering of giggles.

Peter sighed internally, although he already had an inkling of what Dr McCoy would request of him. Jean gave his hand an encouraging squeeze as he rose from his chair and strode to the front of the classroom, where Hank unfurled a projection board. E.V activated with a whispered command, and students gasped collectively as his AI assistant projected an image of a double helix on the board.

It was nice, Peter thought, as he began speaking about the source of his powers. The spider that bit him at fourteen, the interlacing of an arachnid genome with his, the recent expansion of his powers almost like a secondary mutation. Ned was the only one who would truly listen and engage when he spoke about science. Jean would always listen, sure, but Peter knew it was mostly because she liked hearing him talk. The mutant students seemed engaged enough, although he did have to steer the conversation away from his superhero and occasional Avengers duties several times.

“What was Thanos like?”

“Er—big, purple, and scary. We lost, but then we won after.”

“What about Doom?”

“Big, green, and scary. We also lost that one at first. Uh—ask Jean; she was there. She’s an Avenger too, technically.”

“Who would win between you and the Hulk?”

“Well, technically I won the last time we fought.”

“Is it true you took a bullet for Jean?”

Peter blinked, a little thrown. He hadn’t expected that one at all. “I did.”

A loud chorus of giggles and “awws” arose from a group of girls at the front. Bobby Drake gave a cheer from somewhere in the back. Kitty Pryde gasped loudly, swooning dramatically off her chair to be caught by Jubilee. Even Ororo’s lips twitched into a smile.

“Okay, let’s end it there.” Hank clapped his hands together, patting Peter’s shoulders in thanks. He returned to his seat, and Jean laced her fingers with his.

They broke for lunch after. Peter was the last to leave, Jean on one side and a still-chattering Kitty on the other. A few more hallways, turns, and a winding staircase later, they came upon a set of double doors that opened onto a large cafeteria. Students milled around carrying trays of steaming food before settling into plush, brown banquettes. Peter closed his eyes at the oncoming wave of nostalgia at the sounds of scraping metal trays and the warm scent of cooked food.

“Should be mac and cheese today, I think,” Kitty said, craning her neck to look at the serving counter. She waved at a table occupied by Ororo, Anna Marie, and Jubilee, who beckoned them over. Kitty bounded over and whispered something in Jubilee’s ear, eliciting a giggle.

“They’ll interrogate you,” Jean said. “You’ll do great.”

Peter shivered. That was probably the scariest thing he had ever heard. Jean slid into the booth next to Ororo, and Peter followed.

“Get your food,” Anna Marie said in her Southern drawl. “Then you’ll spill.”

Jean laughed and dragged him back out. They waited in line, Kitty a few spaces behind. Jean wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

“They’re even more nervous than you, you know,” she whispered.

“Doesn’t seem like it, Jean,” Peter said, grabbing a plastic tray and plate for both of them.

“Trust me, they are,” Jean said, holding a scoop. “Mac and cheese?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Jean ladled a heap of macaroni onto his plate, and then a scoop of salad before he could say a word.

“I know you don’t take care of your diet when I’m not around.”

“I object,” Peter protested, picking at some ribs with a pair of tongs. “I made pasta the other day. With fresh tomatoes, mind you. There was basil too.”

“Such astounding character development,” she snarked, sliding him a piece of cake. “The chocolate cake here is the best.”

They walked back to their table, where Anna Marie and Jubilee seemed to be arguing heatedly over the authenticity of the mac and cheese. Kitty rolled her eyes as she joined, slipping in next to Jubilee.

“Every week,” she muttered, plopping down her tray.

“I take it very seriously, you know.” Anna Marie pinned Kitty with a glare before turning to Peter. “You are from New York City, yes? You agree the sanctity of pizza must be upheld?”

“Oh please,” Jean snorted, spearing a piece of lettuce. “When I first met him, he only ate Little Caesars. You won’t find an ally in him, Anna.”

Four scandalised gasps.

“That can’t be,” Ororo said for the first time. “I was raised in Egypt, and even I know there must be better pizza than that.”

Peter shrugged, chewing. “Was a dark time, I guess.”

“Okay,” Anna Marie said, smacking the table with her gloved palms. “You will tell us now about how you met, how you saved her, and how you fell in looove.”

Peter turned to Jean, who had turned a dusty shade of pink. “Er—how much have you told them? How much can I say?”

“I have nothing to hide, not from them, not anymore,” she murmured. “I didn’t tell them about the rooftop, though. About—about MJ, I mean. They know everything else from my perspective. But if you’re not comfortable, then we don’t—”

“It’s okay,” Peter said, rubbing soothing circles on her thigh. He took a deep breath.

He began with the fateful spell five years ago. How it had gone horribly wrong, and how villains from every corner of the multiverse had come to wreak havoc. How Aunt May had paid for her kindness with her life. How it had erased everyone’s memories of Peter. Ned’s memories and MJ’s love. Jean clutched his hand tightly throughout his narration.

Four years later—the isolation, the grief, the anger. The tank, the body-hopping, the collateral damage. His misplaced trust in the DoDC. Ned and MJ’s house party, and MJ’s kiss with her boyfriend. Free-falling, spiralling, and waking up in a cocoon. His powers going haywire. He remembered surrendering to the darkness, the yawning, ravenous hunger inside him. The inhibitor he built to leash himself. Then—

Jean Grey taunting him. Jean Grey in his apartment. Jean Grey reading the letter in his coffee cup.

Jean Grey on the roof in MJ’s body. A kiss—of hope and lies and everything in between.

You’re a monster.

Who’s the monster now, Peter?

MJ’s body falling, plummeting. His heart, shattered into a million pieces.

I don’t love you.

Somewhere along his narration, Jean had started crying. She swiped furiously at her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie. Ororo stared, stone-faced.

“Holy shit,” Jubilee whispered, breaking the silence.

“I thought this would be a romantic story,” Kitty said, pushing a piece of cake around. She looked nauseous suddenly.

“That’s so fucked up,” Anna Marie breathed. “And I killed the first boy I kissed.”

Ororo let out a low whistle, looking at Peter with something like awe. “I’m not sure how you forgave her after that, honestly,” she said, “because I’m not sure I would have.”

Peter shrugged. He tugged Jean towards him, trapping her with an arm around her shoulders when she tried to move away. She buried her face against his shoulder, shaking.

It had hurt, of course. It still did when he thought about the phantom feeling of MJ’s lips on his. Her expression in mid-air as her arms windmilled. The little spark of hope, quashed as soon as it had ignited. But he had understood Jean. Not immediately, of course. But somewhere along the way, in their cat-and-mouse game, he had pieced together the puzzle. Her sister—the yawning chasm of her grief and loss and despair. The desire to burn, to raze, to take from a world that had taken so much from her. He understood, then, that good people could be made to do monstrous things because of circumstance. It was what came after that was important.

Once, he had been there too, peering down from the ledge above that same abyss. He didn’t need his arachnid mutation to imagine how much he would have savoured sliding the glider into Norman Osborn’s neck.

“It took time.” His words were simple, careful.

And it had. The whispered, tearful but sincere apologies—to him, to MJ, to Frank, to Bruce. He had taken a bullet for Jean Grey even after all that she had done. The most important repayment she had given him was not keeping him alive, but her remorse.

Jean’s breathing evened out on his shoulder, and Peter pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.

He picked up the story again.

Realising that Metzger had lied. Sara’s kidnapping. Roosevelt Island. The psionic freeze. Getting past the Hand. Giving in to his power. Letting Jean into his mind. Aunt May.

Jean nuzzled further into his shoulder at this point, but Jubilee nudged Kitty, smirking. Ororo groaned.

“Not now,” she said.

“What?” Peter asked.

“Nothing,” Kitty replied too quickly.

“Uh,” Jubilee began tentatively, “Jean told us about this part.”

“What?”

“So we may have prepared a dramatic reenactment,” Jubilee continued, slightly abashed. “But we didn’t know. About the other stuff. Sorry. We won’t do it.”

“Did you know about this, Jean?”

“...maybe?”

Peter sighed in fond exasperation.

“Maybe it’ll bring up the mood,” Anna Marie suggested. “You forgave her, right? That’s what’s important.”

“I did, but—”

Jubilee nudged Kitty again, and something unspoken passed between them.

“Okay,” Kitty said, voice brighter than before. She and Jubilee rose. “Since embarrassing our friends is our job after all.”

Ororo let out another groan, but Jean’s expression turned from sorrowful to embarrassed.

“Fuck you,” she whispered. Anna Marie let out a cackle.

Nothing could have prepared Peter for the incoming sight as Kitty Pryde threw herself dramatically to the floor. Jubilee knelt, cupping her face tenderly.

“Let him go,” Jubilee intoned in a deep, gruff voice. “You’re not a killer, Jean.”

Kitty let out a fake sob, curling in on herself.

“With great power,” Jubilee continued gravely, “comes great responsibility.”

Kitty let out another wail, and Jean buried her head in her hands, stifling something between a laugh and a sob.

“You didn’t sound like that,” Peter consoled, patting her shoulder.

“Trust me, we can’t do things alone.” Jubilee kept going. “The loneliness swallows us. It’s a darkness you can never return from.”

“Even so,” Kitty said, twisting to face her, “I have no one.”

A beat, then—

“You have me,” Jubilee declared, with a deep, cosmic gravity to her voice. Damn it, Peter thought; she might have said it better than he had.

Jubilee leaned in.

“Hey! I didn’t—” Peter protested.

“BANG!” Peter and Jean both jumped. Ororo and Anna Marie had risen in unison, giggling, pointing finger guns at Jubilee.

“Seriously?” Jean moaned. “Not you too, Ro.”

Jubilee collapsed like a puppet with their strings cut. Kitty scrambled after her, cradling her gently, mournfully.

“I’m okay,” Jubilee rasped. “I’m fine.”

“No, no, no.” Kitty pressed her forehead against Jubilee’s, shaking.

“I’m fine,” Jubilee repeated, head lolling.

“Stay with me,” Kitty whispered. “Please don’t go.”

“You’ll be alright,” Jubilee croaked out. “You need to go now.”

“No,” Kitty said, squeezing her eyes shut. “I’m not leaving you.”

“Just go,” Jubilee repeated. Her eyelids began to flutter. “They’ll be looking for you.”

“No,” Kitty begged. “I’ll keep you breathing until help comes.”

They stayed like that for a moment, folded over each other. Then they stood, bowing with an exaggerated flourish. Raucous applause and cheers rang out through the cafeteria. Even Charles Xavier was bringing his hands together from where he was eating with Hank.

Jean sank even deeper into her seat. Peter gaped.

“I—I mean,” he began, “that was actually mostly accurate. There was no attempted kissing of any kind, though, for the record.”

“No,” Jean agreed. “Absolutely not.”

Kitty laughed, high-fiving Jubilee as they returned to their seats.

“Not bad, right? We’ve been practising in the drama room for a few weeks.”

“It’s so romantic,” Anna Marie sighed dreamily.

“May we all find a love like this one day,” Kitty cried, sprawled in her seat.

“Not bad,” Ororo said with a smirk.

Jean rolled her eyes but shared a smile with him. He would take that as approval from Storm.

“I’m glad my second deepest trauma is funny to you guys,” Jean huffed.

“Doesn’t bother me,” Peter said, shrugging. “It doesn’t even make my top five, personally.”

That earned him a smack from Jean but a laugh from the others.

“So,” Jubilee said, swirling her cup around, “what happened next?”

Peter blinked. His train of thought had been thoroughly derailed.

“I skipped town,” Jean prompted, shrugging.

Oh, right.

Jean Grey had left New York City in the aftermath. Travelling from bus to bus, state to state. Adrift once more, but no longer alone.

It had taken her two weeks to muster up the courage to call him.

They had been tentative at first. After all, their only previous interactions had been her threatening to burn everything he loved, and then him baring his soul to her. But the magnetism of that promise had kept them in each other’s orbit. Gradually, awkwardness had faded into familiarity and then intimacy.

Fighting Doom and waking up on the ruins of Battleworld. They had found each other when their own two worlds were crumbling. They would find each other when the whole universe was, too.

Xavier’s recruitment, when the dust had settled. Her nightly calls to him at the start, when he was still all she had, and everything was uncertain at the school. Her shy can I come see you and the unspoken I miss you.

Then—

Jean Grey in his apartment. Except this time, there was no taunting, no letter, no MJ.

Just Jean Grey, tearfully apologising to him over and over.

Just Jean Grey, barefoot in his kitchen and wearing his sweater. Hair down, eyes bright.

Just Jean Grey, as he kissed her, his senses narrowing down to just the softness of her lips and her gasp of relief and joy and want.

He had been drowning for so long that he hadn’t remembered what breathing felt like.

Jean blinked up at him as he finished recounting, something fragile and delicate within her emerald gaze. Peter kissed her then, not caring that she was surrounded by her friends, family, and teachers.

Kitty gave another exaggerated swoon, knocking over her cup of water in the process. Ororo cursed as it splashed over her jacket, but she too was smiling.

“You two are so cute,” she said, mopping up the spill. “We’re all very happy for you.”

Later, after they returned their trays, Jean wrapped her arms around Peter at the cafeteria’s entrance. She stayed like that for a moment, savouring his heartbeat.

“I have my telepathy tutoring with Charles now,” she said mournfully, pulling away.

“Still sounds weird.”

“You should go exploring,” Jean said, rolling her eyes. “There are a few floors you haven’t seen yet. There’s the Danger Room—”

“Danger Room, seriously—”

“It’s just holographic projections, but I heard it used to have live traps and flamethrowers and things like that.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” she said, laughing. “Yelena would love it.”

“She would make them reinstall the live weapons, you mean.”

Jean grinned. “Hank has a few labs you’ll probably find interesting. Courts for basketball and other sports are outside too.”

“Sounds fun.” He smiled. “I’ll be okay, Jean, I promise. I’ll see you later.”

“Okay,” she breathed, kissing him again.

They broke apart after a moment. Jean’s expression turned shy.

“Thank you for meeting my friends,” she said simply.

“They’re great. The reenactment was a bit much, though.”

“I know. I wanted the sofa to swallow me up.”

“Same here.”

Later, Peter found himself wandering the halls of the mansion alone. He found Hank first, rinsing glassware in a laboratory. The scientist perked up as Peter approached.

“Great lecture today,” he said, turning off the tap.

“Thanks,” Peter replied, leaning against the wall. He surveyed the laboratory. It was very advanced-looking, he had to admit. Bottles of every kind of media and solutions lined every shelf, and large machines—most of which he could not name—were dotted around the space. “I had a feeling you’d be asking me to do something like that.”

Hank shrugged, placing an empty flask on a rack with a clink. “Jean speaks highly of your scientific mind. Most of the mutants here prefer fighting to understanding their own genetic background.”

He beckoned Peter, and he followed, trailing after the scientist. Hank pointed out each piece of equipment as they passed, chatting about their recent research.

“Jean told me you didn’t attend college,” Hank said, powering on a centrifuge.

“No, I didn’t,” Peter said, after a brief pause.

Hank peered at him behind his glasses. “I won’t pry, Peter. But know that your talents are always welcome here.”

He thought of the inhibitor he had stuck on Jean’s neck, and the nauseating horror at discovering kids leashed with devices of his design.

“I’d love to, Hank,” Peter said, shaking his hand. “Get back into the rhythm of things.”

Hank smiled, then turned as Peter shuffled away. Peter lingered in the doorway, fidgeting, drawing a questioning glance from Hank.

“Something else on your mind?”

He thought of another Scott Summers, a girl walking into a flood, and a phoenix rising into the skies. He could ask for a private audience with Xavier—the words were right on the tip of his tongue. But he also thought of a different girl, safe and free and unburdened. Fairy lights, daisy yellow sheets, and a wall of Polaroids. A home, a family. He would cling to that fragile peace for as long as he could.

Worrying about cosmic destinies could wait another day.

“No,” he said, finally. “Thanks.”

Peter found Scott Summers in the Danger Room. He was hitting a black punching bag hanging from a chain on the ceiling, ducking to avoid holographic projectiles intermittently fired from the wall. Scott glanced up, noticed Peter was standing in the hallway, and was promptly whacked off his feet by the punching bag. A blue holographic arrow shot through his body with a loud buzz, and the room's fluorescent panels lit up red.

“Mr—er—Spider—Peter, sir!” Scott scrambled to his feet.

Peter laughed, holding out his hand to help him up. “It’s just Peter, Scott. Nice to see you again.”

Scott grasped his hand. At his full height, he was taller than Peter, even though he was a little younger. Around the same age as Jean, if he remembered correctly. There was a slight nervous tension to the way he held himself, as if his brain was running faster than he could act. He shook strands of brown hair out of his face, readjusting his visor.

“Don’t let me bother you.” Peter tapped the panels on the wall lightly. “This is just my first time seeing the Danger Room.”

“I can show you around,” Scott said, pushing a button. The walls returned to their original silver. “I really liked your class, by the way. And thanks for sticking up for us yesterday too. I saw what you said to the police officer on the news.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Peter said, shrugging. “And I do what I can, too.”

Scott brought him to every corner of the room, pointing out the obstacle courses and various holographic traps and projectiles. There was a weapons rack too, filled with all kinds of medieval-looking equipment.

“I come here every day to train,” Scott said, hefting what looked like a sword in his hand. “I like the quiet and the routine.”

Peter could understand that. For him, his power was his escape, as he swung off buildings. Up high, the usual clamour of Manhattan was muted, the cacophony of sirens, horns, and engines reduced to background noise against the onrushing wind and force of gravity. Unleashing laser beams from your eyes was a pretty far cry from that, though, Peter could imagine.

“Routine is good.” He settled on.

Scott shuffled behind him. Peter shot him a glance as he examined a holographic projector. It really was an ingenious piece of equipment. He’d have to ask Xavier about it sometime. Yelena would love to have even one of them at the Watchtower. She would probably use it to shoot Walker at inopportune times, though.

“How do you like the school, then?” Peter asked, “Jean told me you joined soon after her. You must have been here for a while.”

Scott’s face lit up. “I love it here! Charles is a great teacher, and the other mutants are all nice. Mostly. I can’t complain about the accommodation either.”

“I bet,” Peter snorted, “I’m pretty jealous myself, and it’s only been half a day.”

Scott laughed, but his tone turned serious. “I was at an orphanage before, so it was certainly a change. Jean was one of the people who found and rescued me, actually.”

Peter remembered Jean telling him about that. He had thought it was a grand cosmic joke at the time. The first mutant that Jean had rescued on her first mission had turned out to be Scott Summers, of all people. Some battle with the deranged head of Scott’s orphanage had then ensued—at the time Jean had been very light on details to keep him from worrying—and by the end of it, the X-Men were on the front page of a few newspapers. There had been a bit of an outcry, mostly from mutant hate groups, but at least they hadn’t called themselves The Mutant Avengers or something stupid like that. That would have been the PR disaster of the century.

“I heard,” Peter said. “I’m glad she could help you.”

“She was very heroic. I’m not sure I was much help. I mostly had my eyes closed.”

“Wasn’t your fault. No one is in control of their powers at the start.”

Scott nodded jerkily, then looked at the floor, scuffing his feet. “Charles said I have what it takes to lead the X-Men. I’m not sure I have what it takes to be a superhero, though. I’m not like her, or you.”

“There’s no strict criteria or anything.” Peter walked up to Scott and clapped him on the shoulder. “Most days I don’t feel like one either.”

“No way.” Scott laughed, looking offended. “You took a bullet for Jean. You fought Thanos. You saved our universe from Doctor Doom.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I also gave Mysterio administrative access to Stark Industries’ entire satellite and defence network. I tore open the multiverse and got my only family killed. I spent four years pining after a girl and missing a guy while neither of them knew I existed. I ate leftover pizza, drank spoiled milk, and lived in an asbestos-ridden attic for those four years. I nearly killed men—twice—that were not in control of their actions. I stuck an inhibitor chip on Jean’s neck and personally delivered her to the Department of Damage Control to be tortured.”

Scott blinked at him, agape.

“We heroes suck, usually,” Peter said bitterly. “My mentor was Tony Stark, and he used to sell weapons of mass destruction, and then he made Ultron and got Sokovia levelled. Jean—well, you know her story. Drove a tank through Manhattan, pushed people in front of cars, froze half the city. The important thing is that when you inevitably fuck up, you make up for it. Once, Tony Stark told me to be better. He used the Infinity Gauntlet and saved the universe. Jean saved me, and then you.”

“If both Xavier and Jean say you’re a good leader, then I’m inclined to trust their judgement,” he continued, shrugging. “But you’re not alone. You have Jean, and Xavier, and the rest of the X-Men. You have me too, if you want. That’s already a hell of a lot more people than I had at your age.”

For a moment, Scott just stared at him. Then, a smile crept onto his face.

“I don’t know, that was a pretty heroic speech,” Scott said, grinning. “You even ended it with a you have me. I’m not into men, by the way.”

“Screw you, man.” Peter laughed. “I’ll take it back, you know.”

“Nah,” Scott said. “I have Spider-Man at my beck and call now.”

Peter punched him in the shoulder.

“I’m serious,” Peter said, after a beat of silence. “Believe in yourself. I know you’ll make a good leader. Just promise me you’ll look after Jean.”

Scott straightened and gazed at him for a moment.

“I swear.”

And because Scott Summers would do anything for Jean Grey was a cosmic certainty in every universe, Peter believed him.

“Want to spar?” Peter asked, ducking into a stance. “Let’s see how I match up against the leader of the X-Men.”

Scott grinned. “You’re on.”

Jean found them there several hours later, sweaty and bruised but laughing.

“Not the combination I was expecting.” She looked bemused as she arched an eyebrow, hands on her hips.

“Hey Jean.” Peter gasped from the floor. Scott wasn’t a match for him physically, of course, but pulling his punches still required a lot of restraint. Plus, they had run through the obstacle course a bunch of times.

Scott waved at her too. He lay face down on the mat.

“Sorry I took so long with Charles,” she said, crouching next to Peter.

“He must have thoroughly tutored your telepathy,” Scott said, drawing a snicker from Peter and a glare from Jean.

“Really?” Jean threw her hands up in the air. “You’ve known each other for what, three hours?”

“Less, I think.” Peter shrugged and got to his feet. He bumped fists with Scott, which drew another groan from Jean.

“Okay, that’s it.” She dragged him out of the room, Scott’s laughter ringing out after them.

They headed down another hallway. Outside, day had begun its slow surrender to night, dusk lighting up the clouds into a swirling inferno. Streetlamps flickered on lazily.

“You had fun with Scott,” Jean said with a sidelong glance at him.

Peter shrugged, nonchalant. “He’s cool.”

“Right,” she said disbelievingly. “You once said you wanted to web him and dangle him from the top of the Empire State Building.”

“That was once!”

“You named the top ten buildings in New York City in height order, Peter. You even included the Statue of Liberty.”

“Well, we hashed things out,” Peter said. “The son shall not bear the guilt of the multiversal counterpart. Or something.”

“Idiot.”

They fell into companionable silence after that, wandering through the myriad hallways. Eventually, they reached an exit that Peter pushed through.

“There’s one last place I wanted to show you before dinner,” Jean said, interlacing her fingers with his.

“Okay.”

He had an inkling of where they were going.

He breathed in the scent of fresh-cut grass as they walked, eventually making their way up a narrow path into a small clearing. A dozen rectangular slabs of stone stood embedded within the earth in a neat row, all of them decorated with multicoloured mosaics of flowers. Jean stopped at a single gravestone third in the row. In front of it lay a single wreath of chrysanthemums and roses. A red cardinal bird flew off from where it perched with a tweet as they approached.

Peter took off his mask and slid an arm around Jean’s waist as they sat. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Sara would have loved you,” Jean said quietly, reaching up to gently brush the headstone.

“I even got through to Ororo,” Peter said against her hair. “Your sister wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Jean gave a watery laugh at that. “That’s true.”

The sun was setting in earnest now. Jean’s hair was glowing in the devastating way that always made him feel like a lovesick teenager.

“Thank you for today,” she whispered, tracing lines on his arm.

“I like it here,” he said simply. “I’m so happy you found your way here.”

Jean gave a contented hum. “I never thought I would share a sunset with everyone I love again.”

Peter thought of the girl he once knew. He thought of coffee cups, rooftops, and not-kisses. He thought of monsters—one black-eyed, the other a faceless ghost. He thought of the canyon they had once nearly stepped over.

He thought of the same girl now. He thought of sweaters, late-night calls, and Polaroids. He thought of family—a man in a wheelchair, a boy from an orphanage, and a girl commanding the skies. A girl with the touch of death, a girl with fireworks in her eyes, and a girl as intangible as shadow. He thought of the void that they had clawed out of together, and the joy they had filled it with.

Above him, the sun peeked out from the horizon, casting thin wisps of clouds in a brilliant orange glow. They looked for a moment like a great pair of phoenix wings arching high above the land.

Maybe it wasn’t a curse, Peter thought. Maybe—in every universe—Jean Grey would simply be reborn, transcending the ashes of her past.

He tugged her around gently to face him.

“I love you too,” he whispered, because that was their simplest truth.

They were going to be okay.