Chapter Text
Jean had never particularly liked hospitals.
Lately, she'd discovered an entirely new reason to hate them.
Too many minds packed too closely together.
That part was new.
Before, she had to reach. A mind was something she had to consciously seek out.
But now, she didn't have a choice.
Fragments slipped into her mind without invitation. A jumble of thoughts ranging from fear, exhaustion, sadness, half-formed prayers, drug-softened thoughts that wandered with no direction.
None of them were thoughts she wanted.
None of them were hers.
Jean rubbed at the sharp pressure gathering behind her eyes.
Thankfully, nights were more tolerable. Fewer voices and visitors.
Bellevue Hospital never really slept. At night, it only learned to be quieter.
The daytime rush had thinned to the muted rolls of gurneys over linoleum, the occasional chime of an elevator carrying exhausted healthcare workers, low voices at nurses’ stations, most of the corridors were empty. One wasn't.
Jean walked toward the ICU looking like someone who had seen better days. Exhaustion clung to her, but she had no intention of sleeping, the energy drink in her right hand would see to that. She hated the taste, but it was a necessary evil.
She rubbed her heavy eyes with her left hand as she approached the end of the corridor, her steps slower than they had been a few hours ago.
She reached the door, Peter’s door.
The pressure eased.
Jean barely noticed. Instead, she was listening.
Frank’s snoring drifted through the room, accompanied by the occasional beep of a monitor.
Two days, and still nothing. Her shoulders sank for just a moment. Then she straightened them again and reached for the handle.
The room was spacious, built with enough space to accommodate all the monitors and IV pumps that surrounded the bed. A closed door along one wall led to a private bathroom, while a wide window looked over Manhattan several stories below.
Jean barely noticed any of that.
She walked past Frank, who was slumped awkwardly against a chair in the corner of the room, head tilted back with his mouth slightly agape. Her destination was the chair beside Peter’s bed, the chair that she had been sitting in for the past two days.
Jean took a big sip from the energy drink before putting it down beside her. Her eyes drifted to Peter.
He looked like hell. Not nearly as bad as before, when the doctors worked desperately to repair the catastrophic damage while she used every ounce of her willpower to keep Peter from slipping away.
Fragments of memories flooded Jean.
Peter’s blood. There was so much blood. Blood on the ground, blood in Frank’s van, blood on the sheets, blood on her hands.
Doctors calling out instructions to one another, using medical terminology that evaded her understanding.
The only thing she did understand was Peter.
He was slipping. She felt it happening in her hands, like sand slipping through her fingers.
So she held on.
Harder when doctors were shouting. Harder when the pressure behind her eyes became agonizing. She only let go when she heard “he’s stable.”
That should have reassured her.
It didn’t.
She took another big sip of her drink. Her gaze drifted lower, settling on the bandages covering the place where the bullet tore through him. Her chest tightened, and her stomach dropped. Her vision started to blur and she hastily wiped with her jacket-covered arm.
“You idiot,” Jean said, shakier than she intended. “Why would you do that for someone like me?”
The bullet that nearly ended Peter’s life was meant for her. Frank told her that as they sped to the hospital.
For a second, she wanted to hate Frank. She really wanted to.
He pulled the trigger, firing the bullet that tore through Peter.
It was meant for you.
Jean’s jaw tightened.
That didn’t mean he had to pull the trigger.
Oh really? Are you really going to say that after all that you had done?
Jean had no answer to that. What right did she have to hate Frank for believing she was dangerous when she'd spent the entire week proving him right?
She had invaded people’s minds without regret. She bulldozed through the city with essentially a tank. She destroyed the goodwill Banner had with the city when she forced him to become her battering ram at damage control. She held the entirety of Manhattan hostage.
The anger curdled almost as quickly as it had come.
All of it—the people she'd hurt, the minds she'd invaded, the destruction she'd caused—had been for one thing.
Sara.
And it hadn't mattered.
Because Sara was—
No.
Jean shifted her focus to something, anything but that. She focused on the monitor that showed Peter’s vital signs. Stable, no cause for alarm.
She focused on that.
Now was not the time to grieve, to mourn. There would be a time for that, but not right now.
Her eyes fell again to the bandages across Peter’s body. And suddenly she wasn’t looking at clean white gauze anymore. She replayed a memory that had been on repeat countless of times.
She saw him hit the ground.
The sound of his body striking the floor. The crimson spreading beneath him far too quickly. The horrible second where Jean simply stared because her mind refused to accept what had happened.
Then Peter looked at her.
That was the part she kept coming back to.
He should have looked terrified.
He should have been angry.
He should have looked at Jean and seen the reason there was a hole in his body.
Instead, the moment he saw her still standing, something in his expression loosened.
A breath escaped him.
Relief.
Like seeing her alive had answered the only question that mattered.
Why?! Jean couldn’t wrap her head around it, no matter how hard she tried.
Then another memory surfaced. The three words that Jean could not stop thinking about.
You have me.
For the first time that night, Jean felt something that wasn’t akin to anger, fear, or regret.
Hope.
It was small, fleeting even, but still there.
Since Sara-
Jean stopped that thought from fully forming.
Since that, anger was the only thing that could effectively fill the hole in her chest. Anger at Metzger. Anger at the people who experimented on her and her sister. Anger at the world for taking the only person that mattered to her.
But anger could only hold off a startling realization for so long.
She was alone and didn’t know what to do anymore.
The realization frightened her more than she would admit.
There was no Sara waiting for her at the finish line. No home that she could return to. No light at the end of the tunnel.
The tunnel had only one direction.
Forward. Find Sara.
Every injury she caused, every mind she invaded without remorse had a reason.
And now that she arrived at the end, there was no light, only a dead end.
And yet, even as she thought this, Peter’s words kept finding their way back to her.
You have me.
Jean looked back at him again.
What did that even mean?
Did he mean tonight? Until this was over? That he would help her if she needed it?
They barely knew each other. In fact, just until a couple days ago, they were enemies.
He had every reason to want nothing to do with her once he woke up.
Maybe he wouldn’t even remember saying it.
Maybe he didn’t actually mean it, and that he only said it so that she wouldn’t kill everyone under her influence.
Still, some small, stubborn part of Jean hoped he meant exactly what she feared he had.
That she wasn’t alone. That somehow, despite all the horrible things she had done, Peter Parker was offering her something she wasn’t sure she deserved.
Jean swallowed.
She wanted to believe him.
She just didn’t know if she was allowed to.
Her eyes widened.
She could find out right now.
He was unconscious and his mind was right there. The tug toward it was tempting. It would be so easy. Just one hop, slip behind the surface of his mind, and find the memory itself. The moment he stepped in front of the bullet. The reason behind the relief she had seen on his face. What he meant when he told her, you have me.
She could have every answer she wanted in a second…
Jean went still.
No.
She hastily pulled away from that thought.
She had spent too long treating other people’s minds as though they were hers to enter simply because she could.
Peter was unconscious. He couldn’t stop her. Hell, he wouldn’t even know.
And that made the idea feel even worse.
He trusted her.
How could she even think to do that? Repay his undeserved kindness by taking something else?!
If Peter wanted her to know what he meant, he could tell her himself.
Until then, Jean would have to live with not knowing.
Strangely, she found that she could.
Her eyes settled on Peter again.
For now, it was enough that some small part of her wanted to believe him.
Beep…Beep.
Consciousness didn’t return to Peter all at once, it crept back in fragments.
The first thing Peter’s mind processed was this incessant beep.
Steady, rhythmic, and annoying.
Beep…Beep.
Somewhere nearby.
Peter tried opening his eyes and light immediately stabbed through them.
Nope. Peter shut his eyes again.
That hurt, in fact, everything hurt. His head, his chest, his sides, essentially everything that counted as a human body part.
Hospital. That was where he was at.
Confusion sprang forth. Why was he at a hospital? He avoided hospitals like the plague. Too many risks even for a John Doe like him.
The answer came to him in the form of memories.
Damage Control.
The gunshot.
Him falling to the floor.
Jean.
Blood leaking out of him.
Jean, standing over, shock evident in her eyes.
Peter’s eyes snapped open.
“Jean,” his voice came out muffled. He peered down and saw an oxygen mask wrapped around his nose and mouth. He ripped it off and glanced around the room until his eyes landed on Frank.
“Frank? Frank!”
“Huh?!” Frank woke up from his slumber in alarm.
“Where’s Jean?! Is she ok?”
“Easy, kid. Easy,” Frank said with a placating gesture. He walked over to the chair beside Peter’s bed and took a seat. “Easy. Give yourself a damn second.”
Peter listened, taking deep breaths in an effort to calm the panic that threatened to overtake him.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Relax kid, she’s fine.”
She’s ok, she is alright. Peter felt himself relax immediately, sinking back into the bed. His worries of her being taken by Damage Control while he was unconscious disappeared.
“You were out for two days. She helped you get through that with her voodoo magic shit.”
“She helped me?” Peter asked, surprise evident in his voice. Frank nodded.
“Barely left the chair. Had to damn near force her to take naps or breaks.”
She was… worried about me? Peter could not recall a time where somebody was worried about his wellbeing in the past four years.
I’ll have to thank her for saving my life… It was the least that he could do since he practically handed her over to Damage Control gift wrapped. She took a tremendous risk helping him out when he told her to leave him behind.
Peter looked around the room and didn’t spot the telepathic redhead.
“She’s still here,” Frank said, noticing how Peter’s smile slowly faded. “I finally convinced her to go get something to eat.” A low laugh escaped his lips. “Man, she’s gonna be pissed when she finds out you woke up right after she left.”
Peter chuckled at that. A couple seconds of silence passed.
“She couldn’t have saved me all on her own. Did you drive me to the hospital?”
Frank’s demeanor changed, no longer was he the stoic man he always seemed to be, he seemed…small?
“Yeah kid, I did.” He said softly.
Peter looked him in the eyes.
“Thank you.”
Frank visibly recoiled at Peter’s gratitude. “Don’t. Don’t thank me kid.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m the reason you’re lying there.”
“What do you mean by…” Peter’s words trailed off as his mind drifted back to that day. Frank clearly stating he was going to stop her “his way,” the well placed shot, Frank being the only one outside of Jean’s psionic influence.
All the puzzle pieces came together. Peter’s eyes widened in realization.
“You.”
Frank looked at him.
“Yeah.”
“You fired that shot.”
Frank had the decency to look guilty.
“I did.”
Brief anger cut through Peter. “Why did you do that? I was talking to her.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“...”
Whatever argument Peter had planned died upon hearing that. His brief anger took a pause as he thought about it.
Because it was true, how could Frank have known that?
He didn’t see Jean’s conversation in May. He didn’t see the reluctance in her actions. All he saw was a woman who held the entirety of Manhattan hostage and Spiderman standing within arm’s reach of her.
Whatever anger Peter had towards Frank dissipated. “What did you think was happening?”
Frank answered immediately. “I thought she was going to kill you.”
Peter’s eyes widened.
“What was I supposed to think? The whole city's gone crazy, Banner's tearing through Damage Control, she's got God knows how many people in their own heads, and you're standing five feet from her looking like you're about to drop. I… I thought I had seconds…so I took the shot.”
There was a long pause before Peter responded.
“Okay.”
Frank slowly raised an eyebrow.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.” Peter nodded. “I understand why you thought that was your only option. But I still think you were wrong.”
“Yeah...”
Peter hadn’t expected that.
“I thought she was too far gone, kid. After everything she did, everything she was capable of…” He shook his head. “I figured there was only one way it ended.”
Frank paused.
“Then I spent two days watching her sit in this very chair.”
Frank patted the chair he was sitting in. Peter followed his gaze.
“Barely slept. Barely ate. Every time one of those machines made a noise, she was on her feet. And when things got bad…” Frank looked back at him. “She kept you alive.”
Peter swallowed.
“I don’t know what the hell made you believe in her enough to step in front of that bullet… but maybe I’ll wait and see.”
“…So you trust her?” Peter asked, hesitantly. Frank scoffed.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Frank looked at Peter, who had straightened up in his bed.
“She fucked up bad.”
“I agree.”
“Something needs to be done.”
“No arguments from me.”
“But that bullet…” Frank looked away. “Wasn’t the right call.”
Peter stayed quiet.
“I made the call. You paid for it. She damn near did too.”
A beat passed.
“I’m sorry, kid. For both.”
Peter studied him for a moment before giving a small nod.
“I forgive you.”
Frank responded with a small smile. One that was still guilt ridden but with relief underneath.
Another beat. A sly grin grew on Peter’s lips.
"Oh by the way Frank…” Frank looked up, eyes tightening at Peter’s mischievous expression. “That was a pretty good shot.”
Frank stared, long and hard.
“Oh, fuck you kid.”
Teeth started to show in Peter’s shit-eating grin. “I’m serious. Clean through-and-through.”
Frank tried not to laugh, and failed.
“Kid, I swear to god…”
Jean let out a yawn as she walked back to Peter’s room, carrying another energy drink in one hand and a massive bag of chips in the other.
She looked at her choice of food with dry amusement.
“You look like shit and you haven’t eaten a god damn thing this entire day. Here. Take this, go downstairs, and get some food.”
Frank had practically shoved her out of Peter’s room while placing a crumpled $20 bill in her hands. She almost resisted, shoving Frank back with a flick of her mind, but the violent grumble in her stomach strengthened his argument.
Downstairs was the hospital cafeteria, probably the place Frank was referring to when he said ‘downstairs.’ What he didn’t seem to realize was right next to the cafeteria entrance was a pristine vending machine.
So she listened.
Kind of.
She went downstairs.
She got food from downstairs.
Chips and an energy drink were a perfect choice. If Frank disagreed, well, he should have been more specific.
His fault, not hers.
Jean was still silently congratulating herself for her airtight logic when she heard something peculiar coming from Peter’s room.
Jean focused and, to her shock, it was…laughter. From…Frank?
It was a deep, throaty laugh, a laugh from someone who probably hadn’t laughed in a long time. The sound was so foreign that Jean felt her mind malfunction for a brief moment.
What could be so funny that it made The Punisher laugh?
Her answer came in the form of another laugh, a laugh that made Jean’s eyes glisten with tears.
It was Peter’s laugh.
It was loud and completely unrestrained, the kind of laugh shared between friends after someone said something particularly stupid.
Not that Jean had much experience to draw from.
It was a surreal contrast to the room she'd left barely five minutes ago.
Jean stepped toward the door slowly, with the precision of a man defusing a bomb.
She listened…
“All I’m saying is ‘shot Spiderman’ would look really good on your resume.”
“Shut the fuck up kid.”
“It’s worth a shot.”
“Kid! I’m actually going to shoot you if you keep this up.”
The howling laughter continued. Jean found her legs glued to the floor, unable to move.
For the past two days, the subtle rise and fall of Peter’s chest was the only indication that he was still alive.
But now, he was awake, and he was laughing. Joking about how he…was shot.
A shaky breath escaped her before she could stop it, and something in her chest that had been wound painfully tight for the last two days finally loosened.
Jean smiled… then frowned.
Her vision had gone blurry, and she felt something slide down her cheek.
Jean quickly wiped it away with her hand.
Absolutely not.
She wiped away her other eye just in case. She was not walking into that room crying. The last thing she wanted was for them to see her crying when Peter was the one that got shot.
Another burst of laughter came from the room, it was Peter.
Her eyes stung again.
Oh fuck off.
She hastily wiped her eyes again, straightened her shoulders, and opened the door.
The laughter ceased immediately. Whatever “confidence” Jean summoned before opening the door disappeared immediately.
He still looked awful. But his eyes were no longer closed. They were open, alert, and staring right at her.
“Hey,” Peter said with a level of nonchalance that was not at all appropriate to Jean.
She had spent the last two days wondering what she would say when he woke up.
Apparently, none of it had survived the moment.
“You’re awake.”
Her voice came out embarrassingly thin. What a dumb thing to say.
“Indeed I am.”
A wet laugh escaped Jean before she could stop it.
And there they were again.
Tears.
Damn it.
She quickly wiped beneath her eyes, as if doing it fast enough might somehow make the last thirty seconds not count.
So much for absolutely not.
Frank looked between the two of them for a moment before standing up, his chair scrapping against the hospital floor.
“I'm gonna grab something to drink.”
Peter frowned. “Didn't you already—”
Frank looked at Peter, and his mouth closed.
“…Enjoy.”
Frank passed Jean on his way out. He gave her a small nod, said nothing about her red eyes, and pulled the door shut behind him.
For a moment, neither of them said anything.
Jean recalled how to walk again and made her way toward the chair beside the bed, setting the energy drink and bag of chips on the counter, never taking her eyes off of Peter.
Up close, Peter still looked terrible. Bruises decorated his face, there were bandages underneath his gown, and he looked exhausted.
But he was no longer in a coma, he was awake, alert, and staring at her as if she was the only thing that mattered.
Jean swallowed.
Her hand moved as if it had a mind of its own.
She reached down and wrapped her fingers around his.
Warm.
His hand was very warm, not cold back at Damage Control.
Peter glanced at their joined hands, and looked back at her.
Jean immediately realized what she had done.
They barely knew each other. In fact, they were enemies two days ago.
And now she was holding his hand as if…
Heat crept up her face, and she loosened her grip.
“S-Sorry, I…”
Peter’s grip tightened before she could pull away.
He didn’t say anything. In fact, his grip strengthened.
Jean looked at their joined hands, then back at him.
“I’m glad you’re okay.”
Something tightened in Jean’s chest all over again.
“I should be saying that to you. You look awful.”
“Hah, I’ve had worse.”
Jean didn’t laugh, instead, her gaze drifted back to their joined hands.
“I thought you weren’t going to wake up.”
Peter’s countenance softened. “Frank said you barely left.”
Jean scoffed. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t die after doing something so stupid.”
“And you did.” Peter smiled at her. “You saved me.”
Jean looked away, guilt bubbling up inside of her. “You wouldn’t have needed saving if I hadn’t—”
“Jean.”
Jean stopped.
“You are the reason I am still here…thank you.”
Jean didn’t acknowledge the thank you. Not when, in her mind, she was the reason he was bedridden.
“Why did you do it?” She asked quietly.
Peter didn’t need her to elaborate.
“Because I wasn’t going to let Frank decide you were too far gone.”
“You didn’t even know me.”
“Doesn’t mean you deserve to die.”
Jean had no answer to that. Instead, she just stared at their joined hands. There was a brief silence in the hospital room.
“So, what are you going to do now?”
The question that Jean had been dreading. She slowly withdrew her hand from Peter’s, hating how she immediately missed the warmth he provided.
“I’ll figure something out.”
Jean had no idea. All her attention had been keeping Peter alive and now that she had done her job…she had no gameplan. She could board the next bus and go North, but…what awaited her?
She had no goal anymore. No purpose. No reason to endure the awful motels and shitty food. She would just be a vagabond with no sense of direction. Jean shuddered.
Peter looked just as unconvinced as her. “Do you even have a place to stay?”
Jean didn’t answer, but her silence was all he needed. Peter gazed elsewhere with no expression. Jean had no idea what he was thinking. The temptation to take a peek crept up again, but she resisted.
After a few moments of silence, Peter looked at her with an expression of pure certainty.
“You can stay at my place.”
Jean’s mind went blank. She turned to Peter, not believing what she had just heard.
“Come again?”
“I said: You can stay at my place,” Peter said slowly, leaving no room for misinterpretation.
“...You’re really offering me your place? After everything I did-?”
“I know.”
That caught her off guard.
“You know?”
“Yeah.”
“And you still want me to stay in your apartment?”
“Jean, do you have somewhere else to go?”
She didn’t.
“That’s not the point.”
“It kind of is right now.”
Jean’s attempts at redirection were cut through by Peter’s simple bluntness.
“Okay. One night.” That was a good response, Jean reassured herself. It appeased Peter’s persistence, and she wouldn’t be taking advantage of his undeserved kindness.
“Jean.”
“What?”
“I didn't mean one night.”
Jean stilled.
“...Then what exactly are you offering?”
“A place to stay. Until you figure out what you want to do.”
Jean stared at him.
Until she figured things out.
Not one night. Not one little favor that she was cashing in.
He was offering her a ho…a place to stay for an undefined period of time.
The offer should have frightened her, but what frightened her more was how she immediately wanted to say yes. She desperately wanted to.
“That could take a while.”
“Okay.”
“Damage Control is still after me.”
“If they do, we will deal with it.”
“You could get in trouble.”
“I’m a vigilante, technically I’m breaking the law everyday.”
“You could get hurt.”
“I’ve fought Thanos.”
Jean stared at him.
“That is not the reassurance you think it is.”
“Still scarier than Damage Control.”
Every single excuse Jean thought of was expertly parried by Peter’s simple reassurances.
“Why…” Jean’s quiet voice trembled. “Why would you do this for someone like me?”
“Because I want to help you.” Peter studied her for a moment. “I meant what I said.”
Jean’s breath caught.
“You have me.”
He remembered.
He actually remembered.
Her throat suddenly tightened and she had to look away. What amazed Jean was the honesty in Peter’s eyes. He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t pulling some malicious prank on her. He meant it. He was actually willing to let her stay at his apartment for whoever knew how long. She wouldn’t have to run anymore.
She knew she should refuse. Taking Peter’s offer was a sign of weakness. An attachment that would serve to hinder her and be used against her. But at the moment, she didn’t care. Because she was certain about one thing.
She was alone, lost, and terrified.
“...Okay.”
Peter’s eyebrows rose.
“Okay?”
“Until I figure things out.”
“Until you figure things out,” Peter parroted.
A quiet, comfortable silence settled between them.
Jean noticed Peter’s gaze shift downward. Jean followed his gaze.
The crumpled remains of her energy drink sat beside the bed.
His gaze shifted again. Jean followed again.
It landed on the unopened energy drink beside her.
Oh no.
“Is that another energy drink?”
“No.”
“You sure? I can clearly see the Monster logo.”
Jean grabbed the energy drink and moved it out of his line of sight. His gaze shifted toward the bag of chips.
“And what’s that?”
“Dinner,” as if to emphasize her point, Jean grabbed the bag and opened it with exaggerated effort. She stuffed a handful of them into her mouth. She met Peter’s gaze as she chewed.
“You bought chips for dinner?”
“Yep.” Another chip went into her mouth.
“I don’t think chips count as dinner.”
“Counts for me.”
“Jean…”
Peter’s gaze shifted back to the crumpled up energy drink then back to her. His gaze narrowed, and Jean suddenly felt like she was being examined.
“Don’t.”
“Have you slept?”
“Peter.”
“Jean.”
A staring contest ensued, one that Jean eventually lost.
“I slept a little.”
“Define ‘little.’”
“...I slept for an hour.”
“Jean…”
“I’m fine.”
“You are about to drink a second Monster and eating chips for dinner.”
“I’m thriving.” Another chip.
Peter was quiet.
“Please.”
Jean paused.
“It’d make me feel better if you slept.”
Peter’s plea finally broke through. Jean set the bag of chips down.
“Fine, but only for a little.”
Peter smiled in victory and reached behind to grab a pillow. He awkwardly held it out to Jean, who made no effort to take it from him.
“You need that.”
“No, you need it.”
“You are the bedridden one.”
“And you are the one who has only slept for one hour.”
Jean reluctantly took the pillow. She stood up and took a seat in the recliner chair Frank sat in earlier. She leaned back in the chair and she felt the exhaustion seep over her. The chair was really comfy.
“Twenty minutes,” she murmured.
“Sure.”
“I mean it..”
“Of course.”
Jean didn’t reply, like a light switch, she was out the moment she closed her eyes.
‘Wow, she must have been exhausted.’
Peter watched her for a moment.
She hadn’t even made it through twenty seconds.
He meant what he’d told her.
He wanted to help.
That just wasn’t the whole truth.
There had been something in the way Jean said she’d figure something out that Peter knew far too well.
No plan. No destination. Just movement.
He’d spent years telling himself that was enough. That being alone was easier. Safer.
It wasn’t.
And maybe Jean would figure that out on her own someday.
Peter just didn’t think she should have to.
“I’ll still be here when you wake up.”