Chapter Text
Jean Grey no longer knew what the nauseating pit in her stomach meant. Once, she associated it with feelings she hated: dread, nervousness, regret, or even remorse. That hadn't changed, not one bit; just altered, compressed, to make space for a new addition—the one growing inside of her.
She had no idea how it actually worked on the inside. All she knew was that the vomiting came constantly, the missed period was too telling, and that the exhaustion was too sudden for her to reason with.
It was almost a month after she left New York, and the memory of an intimacy still yet foreign to her scared her too much ever to admit.
So she checked; she bought a cheap over-the-counter test at the grocery store nearest the motel.
Lo and behold...
Pregnant.
Jean would never have imagined it in a million years. But it was happening; those two lines told her everything.
They never meant for that single night in his apartment after the hospital to spiral so far. And now here she was. Sitting on a bed she'd never remember, with two lines tucked between her fingers.
Volleys that would have hit her mind all at once failed even to register.
Whether it was the stench of the motel room or the water dripping down her cheeks. Or maybe even the creaks of the bed under her weight, and the weight of one more who had yet to develop inside her.
Jean could feel none of it, not with the way her breath caught in her throat, not with the way her dizziness seemed to swivel her head back and forth, and not from the lingering taste of her own vomit from one hour ago that nearly sent her over the edge.
His face hazily broke through the visage of emotions poisoning her mind, and she found herself recalling too many things that twisted her heart.
How his touch kissed her legs, pulling them closer to his own.
How his lips grazed the indents of her throat, like he was soothing it.
How his eyes reeled up into hers with a love they'd not yet developed, his head tucked between her thighs.
How his brown hair danced against the pull of her fingers, tangling itself messily beneath her nails.
And how his body lay naked next to hers, his heartbeat wild and free for her ears until the morning when she believed once that she'd never hear it again.
Just like that night, she couldn't find her breath, not with the tears spilling down her cheeks, muddling against her own lips. Her eyes quaked in an anguish she hadn't felt since Sara was taken away from her; since Peter stood in front of that bullet for her.
Now, she didn't know if that pit in her stomach was still dread, or the baby developing inside of her, screaming how alive it is.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Jean knew how reckless she'd been with Peter on that night, how easily they'd tossed themselves into his bed.
Haven't I done enough?
It was cruel enough to take the mind of someone he loved and use it against him.
It was horrible enough that Peter hadn't just promised her his companionship, but taken a bullet for her.
Now she was pregnant, and it was his. On a night she'd intended only for goodbyes and apologies, she'd instead left with his child.
It's her fault; that's exactly how she felt. Maybe a part of that belief muddled the horrible things she'd done to him before. Even acknowledging that as a possibility made her chest twist with guilt, guilt over how she couldn't bring herself to stop before they took things too far.
But now, what was she supposed to do next?
He should know.
Jean dreaded how he'd react, and yet it didn't change the affirmation in her mind. Peter needed to know; he deserved to.
Then what? Peter would know, but what then? What would she do?
The subtle realization started to grow in the back of her head. Jean Grey didn't exist; her records were wiped clean, and she'd discarded all personal information ever since she'd been released from foster care, ever since Sara was taken.
I can't go anywhere.
If she didn't exist, she couldn't find help, especially not when Damage Control was still searching for her. Her mind seemed to process that at the same time.
Damage Control would be looking for her. Jean was good at avoiding detection; hell, she prided herself on it. But moving around, running from place to place all while needing to support an entire extra person?
A baby?
It was suicide in its extended form. No, she couldn't do this by herself; that much she understood. No matter how used to being alone she was, she wasn't stupid. That was the kind of struggle only someone too stubborn for their own good would take, whether it be to avoid burdening others or to avoid having to change the way things were.
It sounded like something Peter would do.
...
"Peter." It was just barely choked out of her lips, escaping her as half a breath. But the moment she heard the sound of his name on her own lips, a familiar memory flooded her thoughts.
'You have me.'
Jean remembered his tone, his expression, his demeanor, as if those words he'd told her inside his head were so obvious, as if they were a truth that had always been real.
Sometimes, she still didn't know whether she believed him. Not because he hadn't meant it, but because she hadn't stayed to see it come true.
However.
She could try.
She could tell him; he would know, and then he could help her.
Because, of course, he would.
It didn't take long for the guilt of what she'd done to him to return, but she pushed it back, filing it away to be reopened another day.
Peter was all Jean had left, just him. "You have me..." She repeated.
Fuck that, I need you.
A slip of paper would make do, tucked away in an envelope she may or may not have stolen. It wouldn't have been much, but it would have been enough.
So she wrote, wrote to him; not a question, and not a warning—an understanding.
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'I'm pregnant.'
CRASH!
The glass, held firmly in his fingers, slipped and fell to the floor, shattering into bits. But Peter did not register the minuscule shards that scraped his ankles, nor the splatter of wetness that doused his shins. How could he?
Peter's breath caught in his chest, hitching with a sound that bordered on a gasp and suffocation itself. His lungs pumped, expelling breaths as if it were having a mock panic attack.
The slip of paper in his hand fell just after, descending into the puddle below while his fingers reached for the kitchen countertop behind him.
Stability, it gave him, and he desired as much of that as he could get right now. Processing the truth on that paper made his knees give way, threatening to drop him if not for the countertop's support.
Jean is pregnant.
Peter thought back to the night just after he'd gotten out of the hospital. The memory was too vivid for him to dare forget; not when he'd seen Jean Grey curled up on his couch, waiting for him. And when he'd come, they'd held each other's gaze and spoken; softly, apologetically, freely.
It didn't stop her from demanding he strip off his shirt, wanting to see the bullet wound of a shot meant for her.
It didn't stop her from trailing her hands across said wound before massaging the frame of his back.
It didn't stop him from snapping around and grabbing her from the pain, holding her close enough that their breaths danced between their lips.
It didn't stop them from spiraling thoughtlessly towards his bed, tearing off each other's clothes until nothing but their bare bodies pressed against one another.
Peter didn't like how it had happened.
Kisses shared between two people who didn't love each other.
Tears shed over a unified pleasure between lost souls who were too desperate.
Lust held in the root beneath touches, grabs, and gasps, threatening to spill into a tomorrow they were both not prepared for.
Peter didn't like how it had happened.
It didn't stop him from reveling in the junctures of sweat and exhaustion between them.
It didn't stop him from cradling Jean in his arms when the night overtook them.
It didn't stop him from missing her, wanting to bury his face in her auburn locks and remember the fragrance of her hair.
They took actions that they could never take back, and consequences had finally taken shape.
Jean Grey is pregnant.
And it was because of him.
The words on the slip of paper didn't confirm it, because they didn't need to.
'Peter,
I'm pregnant.
I'm coming.
I need you.
-- Jericho'
"Jericho." The word cracked out from his lips, laced with recognition and understanding. She had to conceal herself, even now, because Damage Control was still out there, and they would not stop looking. But now, she was walking back right into their den, not because she'd given up, but because of him, because of the last three words on the paper that left him frozen upon reading them.
I need you.
"I need you." He whispered them out to himself once more, his muscles relaxing second by second, as if the weight behind those words calmed him.
Jean's pregnant. She's coming here. She needs me.
A single hand rushed back through his hair, pressing down against his scalp ever so slightly as if to force the shock away. It worked, slightly, and Peter's eyes fixated on his apartment, lights dimmed by the afternoon overcast.
...
I need to sit down.
His legs carried themselves, barely, but enough to trudge across the flat wooden floor towards the armchair. His body met the cushion with a loud thud, as if the chair itself pushed back by the sheer gravity holding him down.
For a few seconds, his breath forgot itself, replaced by the hurricane of emotions that churned his chest inside-out. The channels of his throat squeezed, as if trying their best to let out something, anything, for him to say. But he couldn't bring himself to speak, as the situation unfurled more and more in his head. Thoughts, too many to contain in an orderly fashion, scattered across his mind.
Jean's having a baby.
Disbelief.
It's mine.
Bewilderment.
Why wasn't I more careful?
Disappointment.
How could I let it get that far?
Shame.
I'm gonna be a father.
Pride.
No.
He didn't get to be happy about this.
How could I do that to her?
Belittlement.
Maybe it's not mine?
Denial.
It's mine.
Acceptance.
She's out there, all by herself, on the run. And now, she's got to deal with this.
Understanding.
...
I need to clean.
He couldn't help but strip his own thoughts, his body having finally processed the understanding that the woman he'd gotten pregnant a month ago was now on her way to his home; to him. So instead, Peter buried himself not in pondering, but in action.
I need to prepare.
The memory of Roosevelt Island surged through him, the words that whispered out of his lips echoing in the back of his mind. And now? They were a reminder, a reminder of what he had to do now; for her, just like he promised.
'You have me.'
And now she needed him.
"Hey, E.V.?" A slight whirr and a beep rang from the desk AI; its robotic voice filled the silence, beckoning with his shock.
"Yes, Peter? How may I assist you?" Peter paused, trying to formulate the right question to ask before it came out of his lips.
Search for information regarding situational pregnancy accommodation?
No, too early for that, and too vague for E.V. to filter.
Search for advice regarding early-stage pregnancy care in a woman his age?
No, that was pretty much the same thing he just thought of.
I'm overthinking this...
But how couldn't he?
"Peter?"
"Uhm- E.V., search for female-specific essentials for rooming; things like, uh, shampoo, basic clothing, stuff like that."
"Searching. Would you like to tailor results to a specific individual, Peter?" He perked up with surprise, ever so slightly, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips at his AI companion's intuition.
"Yeah- uhm, Jean Grey, E.V. She should be a registered visitor."
"Acknowledged. Filtering search results for individual suitability."
The monitor flashed with unfamiliar listings: clothing brands and hair products he barely recognized. But that didn't matter; he just had to have something- anything- enough to provide something Jean might like. It could use some ironing out, but at least now he had a basis to go off of.
"E.V., organize product recommendations into an ordered list on Notes. I'm going shopping."
"Purchase history indicates a majority of these products are unknown to you, Peter. Seeking out social assistance is highly recommended."
He froze, not because he'd known how right she really was, but because he knew what it meant to seek out 'social assistance.' It meant turning to the only girl he was actually still close with.
"That's... probably a good idea." Peter begrudgingly admitted, forcing himself off the armchair and towards his hangers. He pulled off his zip-up hoodie and dragged his arms through the sleeves until it fit comfortably around his torso.
"Would you like to send a message to Michelle Jo-?"
"No!" He blurted out, clearing his throat under the self-induced worry that he'd somehow offended his own AI with his tone. "Sorry- no, E.V. There's no need for that. I'll manage on my own." His voice breathed out assurances like it was tired, but really it was still tight from the dilemma of his own consequences.
Peter would've loved to get MJ's help, that is. But there wasn't a universe where he could envision that explanation going well.
Any universe where Peter Parker had to tell his ex-girlfriend that the telepathic woman who invaded her body and kissed him while she was already in a relationship was now pregnant because of him didn't seem like an optimal one to live in.
Even thinking about it right then made him shudder. Peter could never forget that night on the rooftop, what Jean had done to him and MJ both. It was unforgivable, and he stood by that; straight to his core.
Peter couldn't dare forgive her for what she'd done.
But even so, that didn't stop him from swaying her into his bed on the night after the hospital, caressing her body with every bit of tenderness and desire in his chest, and leaving her with one more life inside of her that neither of them expected.
It's his fault; that's exactly how he felt about it. Maybe that belief muddled the horrible thing she'd done before. Even acknowledging that as a possibility made his stomach churn with shame, shame that he didn't bring himself to stop before they took things too far.
And if he couldn't even get that out of his mind, he dreaded how MJ was going to react.
If it were him four years ago, he'd probably misconstrue his own words by accident too many times to count. But in the present, he'd find a time- a right time- to explain it to her.
That just meant doing what he'd done for so long: avoiding the truth.
Unfortunately, nothing changed how right E.V. really was. Managing all the preparations he had in mind for Jean would be a hassle he didn't have the humility to admit.
But he needed to do it. His actions caused this; the recklessness that spurred a woman on the run to seek him out.
Peter had to live up to his words, his promise. Jean needed him, and he was going to be there, no matter how he felt.
Though it would have been nice to have help- support, even- from someone who knew how to walk through this kind of situation, someone who truly had the experience of taking care of someone they'd gotten pregnant.
Someone who knew what it was like to care for a new life that would be on the way, as well as the life that would nurture it.
...
Wait a second!
"Actually, E.V?" He spun around on his heel, taking a few steps back towards the desk.
"Yes, Peter?" The monitor flashed a list of his contacts, as if E.V. was waiting for him to decide, already aware someone would come to mind. "Have you made up your mind?" Peter's lips tilted up at her unintended sass.
"There is someone I'd like you to call..."
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Frank Castle kept to his own, too often for his own liking, sometimes.
He once had a family, before it was taken from him.
A son.
A daughter.
A wife.
He missed having that; people he cared about, around him every step he took. Now? He was sentenced to a lonesome, silent, desolate shipyard. But for now, it was home, and that was enough.
Or it would've been, if a web-swinging brat hadn't interrupted his downtime every other day.
The burner phone on his kitchen counter went off, and it was at that moment that he regretted just how loud he set it to be.
Can't get any rest around here, even in my home.
He waltzed over towards the counter with more droopiness than he cared to acknowledge. An internal groan washed through his entire body at the sight of the number calling him, one that he recognized more often than not.
Frank stared at it, pondering whether he should just let it ring out before shaking his head awake, picking it up and answering anyway.
"Heyy, Frank." Peter's voice cracked through the phone, laced with a recognizable nervousness that told Frank that he'd done something he didn't mean to. "Sorry to bother you at this hour, but- I'm in a bit of a fix."
"What is it now, kid?" His voice croaked back, in a tone that came out softer than he'd intended it to.
Silence, one that lasted for longer than it should have, urging Frank to lean back against the kitchen shelves, as if bracing for whatever bombshell he was about to-
"You had a wife and kids, right?"
Frank flinched, hard enough that Peter noticed through the phone. "Shit, okay, I really could've worded that better. Look.-"
"No, hang on just a second. I don't know whatever bullshit you got going on, but you leave my past and my family out of it, you hear me, kid?"
“No, no, no! It's not like that, Frank! I swear!"
"Really? Then what is it, Parker? What exactly gave you the bright idea to call me this early and start asking me about my family, huh?"
Silence, too long, and now it just irritated the Punisher even more.
“Well- I… uhm.-“
"Spit. It. Out."
"…I just thought- y'know, it meant you'd probably know what to look for if you uh-… went out shopping- for… them."
…
The confusion hit Frank with a sharpness he did not appreciate, just as he didn't appreciate how quickly his anger died down and was replaced with a lingering understanding.
"Kid. You're young; you've got a lot of years ahead of you. And I'm not stupid; as personal as it is, you're asking me this because something's happened, and the only thing I can think of is-."
"I got a girl pregnant."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"Frank?"
"That's... not what I thought you were gonna say." The older man mumbled, not oblivious to the slightest quiver in his own voice, signifying his surprise. "…Stay where you are."
"...Thanks."
"Thank me when I'm done helping you through this shit, kid."
Peter's faint laugh rang out through the phone.
"Sir, yes sir."