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Peter knew the drill for keeping his insane sensory-overload thing in check. Get enough sleep, eat healthy, be organized and don't swallow all your emotions. Peter hated the drill.
He swore to Frank not to touch alcohol, and swore to Jean he would practice the breathing exercise thing. He couldn't believe that The Punisher had become, apparently, his AA sponsor and that the girl who had held the entire New York at telepathic gunpoint was his meditation guru.
He had even found some of old May's stuff—palo santo sticks and crystals in different colours and shapes whose meaning he'd never understood. However, it smelled good and added to the aesthetics of the apartment, despite how girly it looked.
Peter had been alright for exactly three weeks.
He had visited Ned and MJ on several occassions. Sometimes MJ's boyfriend was there, always giving Peter one of those bro fist-bumps and asking if he could fetch him a beer from the fridge or if he wanted to play a video game. Downright infuriating behaviour. Especially one Saturday night when MJ and him seperated themselves, sneaking off into the room while Ned and Peter watched the movie. Peter didn't remember a single thing from the movie plot because all he could hear were the noises from the room with his enhanced hearing.
He wished he was as close to Ned as before—at least then he could complain about it to a friend—now he just had to bottle it all up and pretend he was perfectly fine.
Not ready to tell them yet, Peter had kept his birthday this year a secret. He didn't want them asking what he liked to do for his birthday and his answer being the alone version of what he had like to do before. It was a tradition he had had with MJ in the years they were together.
His birthday came right around the annual Perseid meteor shower. Snuck onto the highest rooftop he had found, Peter and MJ counted the passing shooting stars, trying to top the last year's number. Every year, Peter telling MJ to make a wish and her always killing the romance. "Sure, I totally believe that a meteor burning in the mesosphere has magical properties."
In hindsight, Peter found that the headaches started coming back around that birthday.
Every night after patrolling, like clockwork. It was not a good blend with his recovering gunshot wound and the usual Spider-Man consequences of fighting people with guns and knives and sometimes superpowers.
The worst thing about the headaches? Sometimes they would persist and shapeshift into a vile mix of symptoms—flashing dots across his vision field, pulsing pain that would travel into his stomach and twist it with nausea, the inability to sleep through it because even the pillow hurt. A migraine.
So, one Saturday morning, Peter did something that had never occured to him ever in his life on a Saturday morning (even when he was recovering from injuries). He stayed in. What truly cemented the decision was when the headache had decided it hadn't been getting enough attention and made him sick to his stomach. He couldn't sleep anyway. The migraine had probably thought he'd be more comfortable on the bathroom floor, forehead cooling against the toilet seat.
Yeah, the migraine was a real bitch.
He let the faucet run with water icy-cold, splashing it across his face, his wrists, his neck, not entirely sure why he was doing it—people always did it movies when they were having a dramatic moment in the bathroom. For Peter, the water thing just left him annoyed at the fact it hadn't helped at all and the movies were lying to him.
On his way from the bathroom to the bedroom, he paused by the doorframe, frozen in his tracks.
A loud sound blasted through the air, like a pounding hammer inches from his ears.
Peter yelped in pain, eyes shutting close. His spider-sense was fine, there were no intruders in the apartment and for a moment he asked himself if he was maybe hallucinating the disproportionately obnoxious sound until he realized—the front door.
Another knock, made of three little quick ones.
"Hang on—I'm coming!"
On his way through the dimmed apartment, he crashed into the wall with his shoulder and nearly fell over a shoe thrown across the floor. He checked himself in the hallway mirror briefly—pale, eyes red, hair tousled. Probably not the worst he'd ever looked. Quickly checking his T-shirt, Peter luckily found no vomiting stains or blood from last night (he'd gotten lightly stabbed by a street mugger).
He swung the door open, expecting anyone but the person standing there. Tall, brown curls neatly thrown behind her shoulders, beige overcoat and hands in her pocket, sweet and fresh scent of her perfume. A walking embodiment of perfection herself—MJ.
"Hi," she greeted him, flashing a bright smile.
Peter blinked a few times, his already slow and foggy mind trying to piece together something that he should have known…
"Hey," he blurted out.
The moment dragged on, MJ's face growing perpetually more confused. And then he remembered—of course! He had invited her a few days ago so they could work on perfecting the inhibitor that he'd made. She even said she'd bring a processor so she could analyze it in a program she'd invented herself in her computation chemistry class—and oh my God, was he an idiot!
For years he had been friendless, MJless, dying for at least one opportunity to be with her again and now that he had gotten it—he forgot.
"Uh, come in," he said, faking brightness in his tone.
She walked in gingerly, surveying the heavily dimmed apartment with a furrowed brow.
"Sorry about the mess," he apologized, flusteredly removing a backpack and a hoodie from a chair before letting MJ sit on it.
She set her bag on the table, clearing some of Peter's old notebooks out of the way. Peter felt his stomach somersaulting, trying to even out his breaths to control the nausea. The subjective feel of his brain expanding and being on fire inside his skull made it nearly impossible to function. Every thought that was occuring to him he perceived like physical pressure, like it was adding to the fire. He should offer her something to drink. To eat? Be nice and kind. But also cool because he liked her… He could barely trust his face not to contort with the pain.
"I like your apartment. It's dark," MJ said, pulling him out of his thoughts. Her gaze was still wandering around until it landed on his couch with a sharp frown. "Is that—blood?"
The quick movement of his head made his pulse even stronger in his ears. "Oh!" He rushed to the couch, grabbing a towel he had used last night to clean his stab wound—it was soaking with blood he'd forgotten to wash off. "It's from last night. Had a mild stab incident. Sorry. It must be pretty gross… and creepy."
He tossed it across the hallway, straight into the bathroom in the dirty-laundry hamper.
"No. I love it," MJ shrugged, sliding her coat off her shoulders and letting Peter take it. "I mean, I don't love that you were bleeding. But it's cool to know that Spider-Man is, y'know, human?"
Peter chuckled breathily, unable to get used to the fact that MJ knew him as Spider-Man first opposed to vice versa when she had her memories. As he took her coat, he paused, eyes unfixed as if he'd wandered somewhere for a moment before snapping back into reality. MJ's gaze was tangible on his turned back as he neatly folded her coat and set it down over the couch armrest.
"Are you alright? I mean, you were hurt." He loved her voice. The lack of it in his life had made him homesick. But currently? It was too loud, every word like a stab to his brain.
"I'm fine! Definitely fine."
MJ regarded him with a look he didn't quite recognize, the years between them were evident. "Hey, if you're not up for it—"
"I am! I am!" He nodded frantically.
She didn't look convinced. "Be honest, Peter. It looks like you completely forgot about this. If you did, it's cool, I completely understand. I mean, you're Spider-Man. But if you aren't up for it, I don't wanna waste my time." She slid the chair back, prepared to raise from the seat.
Peter felt a wave of heat arising in his cheeks, completely at a loss of words.
He'd been thinking about it all day yesterday. Planning on cleaning the entire apartment, even the windows. Vaccuum each corner, do some laundry, put his good jeans on. Order some food when she arrives. And then he awoke in such agony that he barely realized the day had started. All these hours passing were just some in-between, feverish state.
"Please don't go, I'm so sorry. I just—I just—" his eyes pressed shut before he could stop them, hands flying to his head as a massive wave of pain rolled through him. A strained groan escaped his throat.
"Woah," He heard MJ say, body shifting quickly from the chair. "You alright?" He felt her close in front of him, hands tentatively hovering around him.
He nodded softly, barely able to form words. "It's… headache."
She waited for him to recover.
"You sure? Were you injured badly last night or something?"
"No, no, the injury healed in like, two hours. I'm just having a migraine." There was nothing just about the migraine he was having, but it felt wrong to admit how terrible he was feeling.
MJ's face softened, a wave of sympathy written over it—he almost melted because he knew that look from before. When she would worry for him, care for him, make sure he was having a good time wherever they went. When she had loved him.
"You were right. I forgot about our hang-out," he admitted, gaze fixed on his shoes. "I'm a complete idiot. I just woke up with this stupid migraine and-and it's killing me. I know it's not an excuse, but…" He ran his fingers through his hair, feeling his throat miserably close up. "I can't think even think straight—"
MJ cut him off by placing a hand on his shoulder. "Hey—it looks like you really are in pain." The words of validation nearly made him cry. He took a deep breath in, her touch sending warmth through his chest.
It didn't last long before his hand flew to his stomach. "I think I'm gonna be—just wait here, please."
Rushing away, he slammed the bathroom door shut. Heaving into the toilet he tried to make it as quiet as possible while expelling the contents of his stomach. The straining and bracing of his muscles had made the headache worse, stomach cramping with emptiness and God-knows-how-many Advils. At the end, Peter rested slumped against the seat, negotiating with himself about when to stand back up and endure that painfully awkward social situation.
A light knock came.
"Peter? You okay?"
"Yeah," he replied weakly. "I just need a minute."
"Can I come in?"
"If you're a fan of people hitting rock-bottoms."
The door opened softly with a creak. MJ shuffled closer, a water bottle in her hand.
"Figured this might help," she said. He nodded instead of saying "thanks", watching her as she lowered herself to sit beside him."You know, I'm not scared of people hitting rock-bottoms. I used to—"
"—sketch people in a crisis." Peter chuckled weakly, eyes glistening with a sad stare.
Confusion didn't last long on MJ's face. She was used to it by now, Peter knowing things about her.
"I won't sketch you now. That'd be just sad."
Peter chuckled again, but his laugh was cut-off by a wild churn of his stomach. He tensed up, gripping the toilet seat. "Oh, no."
"Okay, okay," MJ said, voice a little flurried.
Peter's body didn't care about his dignity or about who was witnessing what. He got more contents of his stomach out—which wasn't much because he hadn't been able to eat anything since the morning. He barely registered MJ's hand tenderly set on his back, brushing up and down over his sweat-damp T-shirt.
"Wow," he huffs out when he's done, wiping his mouth with toilet paper. "I did not imagine us hanging out like this." His head was still pulsing, but he felt momentarily relieved.
She considered him for a moment. "You're sick because of the migraine?" Hand never leaving Peter's back.
Peter nodded.
"You often have them?"
"Not that often, but sometimes, yeah."
MJ retracted her hand, flustered because it'd stayed there a little too long.
Peter was too exhausted after two rounds of vomiting. He rested his head on his elbow on the toilet seat, letting MJ flush the water. It was one of those social situations that could survive only with some additional empathy.
"I'm sorry. So sorry," he mumbled, eyes still closed because the white tiles and the harsh light were all hurting his eyes. His voice was listless, barely audible as he spoke into his forearm. "You can leave if you want, MJ… I know I'm not good company right now."
"Peter, you're a wreck." MJ deadpanned. "I'm sure you've taken care of me a lot in all those years."
He opened his eyes curiously. "Well—what's your boyfriend gonna say?" It was so lame of him to bring it up, but he couldn't help himself.
MJ looked down. "We broke up. Last week. You know when we had that party and you went crazy on the gin?"
Peter's face twisted at that memory—it was not helping his nausea.
"We were already on thin ice. And then the next day, I kinda broke it off." Peter was disappointed in himself for feeling a flicker of happiness. "It's been dead for a while now."
"'m sorry it didn't work out."
"No, you aren't." MJ teased.
Peter chuckled guiltily. "No, I'm not. Maybe this is my karma."
MJ's lips tightened, a small sympathetic smile plastered on her face. It made her dimples visible. She offered him water, at which Peter sluggishly shook his head. "Maybe later."
"You wanna go back to bed?"
Peter's forehead wrinkled in thought, pausing for a moment or two to scan his body for any upcoming waves of nausea. He decided, "Yeah, I think so."
She helped him up without asking, following him through the dark apartment into the bedroom. The bedroom was particularly dimmed—blinds closed to the maximum, only a few broken cracks letting some light in. Clothes were thrown over dot-tiny lights piercing from electronic devices such as routers and computers.
"Didn't take you as a crystal person," MJ remarked bemusedly, pointing her head towards the three tiny stones situated on his nightstand.
"I'm not," Peter replied, a sad little chuckle escaping his throat. "My aunt was. I don't really know about that stuff but… I found them in a box from the old apartment recently. Reminds me of her, you know. I kinda feel bad for never believing that stuff she liked. Crystals, incense cones, astrology… Always tried to prove her wrong with science and—sorry. Rambling."
MJ's fingers ghosted over the black dahlia around her neck as Peter was slowly lowering himself towards the bed, trying to avoid any further movement-triggered pulsations in his head.
"People don't believe in stuff because it's true, they believe because it makes them feel good," she said.
Peter's eyes wandered around the room in thought. "Huh, suppose you're right."
MJ lowered herself on the edge of the bed. The closeness she created between them—the one he wasn't used to from the old MJ before their relationship—gave him butterflies. They came with a double-edged sword quality with the way he was feeling, though.
"Do you need something?" She asked, voice quiet and velvety for Peter's sensitive hearing.
"I'm good," he gave a small smile.
"Okay," she mumbled. A moment of silence fell, Peter restraining himself from filling it with his usual rambling that would probably make the silence more awkward.
He did it anyway, blurting out the words. "Do you have a thing?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean—a thing you believe in that doesn't make sense," Peter said, eyes blinking and staring into nothing. "That makes you feel better."
MJ was silent, deep in thought before she decided on her answer. "Shooting stars."
Peter gave a soft chuckle, every breath controlled and limited not to provoke the migraine. "You serious?"
"I love 'em!" MJ protested. "I watch the Perseids every year. I don't even know why I started."
Peter stared at her, wordless and not even caring about another awkward silence between them. His throat closed up with the memories of him and MJ on the rooftop, almost unbearable happiness washing over him and lifting the migraine's hold—MJ had been carrying a part of him all this time. He didn't want to tell her that he was the source if her superstition.
He couldn't stop staring at her, the curves of her face, the dimples appearing and disappearing. He had thought he'd never watch her like this again.
"By the way, if you tell anyone about that, I will kill you."
"Your secret is safe with me." Our secret.