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“You really don’t have to come over,” Peter said into the phone, voice thick and miserable, propped against a mountain of pillows he’d arranged specifically to look less pathetic than he currently felt. “It’s just the flu. I’m gonna be gross and useless for like three days.”
“That’s exactly why I’m coming over,” MJ said, entirely unbothered. “I have soup. I have the trashy reality show you pretend not to like. I’m on my way.”
“MJ, seriously, I look terrible right now, I sound like a dying frog, this is not a good-”
“Peter. I’ve been dating you for four months. I’ve seen you get thrown through a window and immediately make a joke about it. I think I can handle you having a cold.”
“It’s not just a cold, it’s the actual flu, there’s a difference, and also this is different than getting thrown through a window because that’s a Spider-Man thing and this is just… me. Regular me. Being gross and unable to do anything about it.”
There was a pause on the line, and when MJ spoke again, her voice had softened slightly, picking up on something Peter hadn’t fully meant to reveal. “Wait. Is this actually about being sick, or is this about me seeing you not be able to handle something?”
Peter didn’t answer immediately, which was, in itself, enough of an answer.
“I’m coming over,” MJ said. “We’re gonna talk about this. Also I’m still bringing the soup.”
She arrived forty minutes later, let herself in with the spare key May had given her weeks ago, and found Peter exactly where he’d said he’d be – buried in blankets, flushed and miserable, hair a genuine disaster, looking about as far from his usual carefully-maintained normal-teenager composure as she’d ever seen him.
“Okay, wow.” MJ said, setting the soup container down and taking a proper look at him. “You weren’t kidding. You look like you got hit by a truck. A regular truck, not a supervillain truck.”
“Thanks, very flattering, exactly what I was going for.”
“I’m serious, you look genuinely miserable.” She sat on the edge of the bed, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead with the same directness she’d used at the restaurant weeks ago. “You’re burning up. Have you taken anything?”
“Some Tylenol earlier. It’s not really touching it.” Peter pulled the blanket up slightly, an instinctive, small notion that MJ clocked immediately, filing it away.
“Why do you keep doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Pulling the blanket up like you’re trying to hide. You didn’t do that when you had a black eye from patrol, or when you showed up to my house with a sprained wrist you tried to pass off as ‘gym class’. What’s different about this?”
Peter was quiet for a long moment, picking at a loose thread on the blanket, the same nervous tic Tony had clocked a dozen times without ever quite naming it. “I don’t know. I think- okay, this is gonna sound stupid, but when I get hurt on patrol, there’s like, a reason for it. A story. I got hurt saving someone, or fighting someone, and even if it’s bad, it’s bad because I did something. This is just… me being sick. There’s no story. I’m just gross and useless and there’s nothing cool or noble about it, and I guess I didn’t want you to see that version, because it’s not- it’s not the impressive version of me.”
MJ was quiet for a second, processing that, and then she did something Peter hadn’t expected – she laughed, not unkindly, just surprised.
“Peter. I’m not dating you because you’re impressive when you’re bleeding artistically after a fight. I mean, that’s a bonus, I guess, in a deeply weird way, but that’s not the actual thing.” She shifted closer, tucking her legs up onto the bed. “I’m dating you because you’re the person who remembered I hate when people touch my sketchbook without asking, and who apologized for three days straight after accidentally spoiling a show I was three episodes behind on, and who once spent forty-five minutes explaining orbital mechanics to me because I asked one question and you got genuinely excited about it. None of that requires you to be impressive. It just requires you to be you, and you being sick and gross and unable to do anything about it is still just… you. It’s not a different, worse version I’m gonna judge.”
“It feels different, though. Like, I’ve spent so long hiding the Spider-Man stuff, and I got kind of good at compartmentalizing what parts of me I let people see. And I guess somewhere along the way I decided ‘sick and needy’ was one of the parts to hide too, even from you, even though logically I know that’s dumb.”
“It’s not dumb, it’s just- it’s a habit that doesn’t actually serve you anymore, if that makes sense. Like, you built this whole system for hiding vulnerability because for a long time it was actually dangerous for people to see the real parts of you. But I’m not May finding out you got a concussion on patrol and having a heart attack about it. I’m not a villain looking for your weak spot. I’m just your girlfriend, who wants to bring you soup and watch bad TV while you’re sick, because that’s what people who care about each other do.” She reached over and gently pulled the blanket back down from where he’d tucked it protectively around his chin. “You don’t have to perform ‘fine’ for me. Ever. Especially not when you’re actually sick.”
Peter’s eyes had gone a little wet, whether from the fever or the conversation or both. “I didn’t realize I was doing that. The hiding thing. Even with you.”
“I figured it was something like that. You get this specific look when you’re minimizing something – kind of a fast, too-casual voice, like you’re hoping if you say it quick enough nobody’ll examine it too closely. You did it with the black eye, you did it just now on the phone.” MJ smiled, soft. “For the record, it doesn’t work on me. I examine everything closely. It’s kind of my whole thing.”
“You’re very intimidating, you know that?”
“I’ve been told. It’s a feature, not a bug.” She got up, retrieving the soup, settling it on the nightstand to cool slightly while she pulled the remote closer. “Now. We’re gonna watch bad TV, you’re gonna eat soup even if it tastes like nothing right now because your sinuses are useless, and you’re gonna let me see you be gross and needy and completely unimpressive for the next several hours, and I promise the relationship will survive it.”
“Is this a whole thing now? Are we having a whole moment about vulnerability while I have a hundred-and-one fever?”
“We’re having a whole moment about vulnerability because you have a hundred-and-one fever, that’s usually how these things sneak up on people. Very sneaky, vulnerability. Ambushes you when you’re too tired to keep your guard up.” MJ settled against the headboard beside him, careful but unbothered by the fever radiating off him. “Speaking of which- does Mr. Stark know you’re sick, or are you doing the thing where you don’t tell him either until it gets dramatic?”
“I texted May. She’s gonna tell him, probably.”
“Probably? Peter.”
“Okay, fine, I’ll text him myself.” Peter fumbled for his phone with theatrical reluctance, and MJ watched, satisfied, as he typed out a short message – have the flu, MJ’s here, not dying, just gross – and got an almost instant reply that made him huff out a small, congested laugh.
“What’d he say?”
“He said, quote, ‘MJ’s clearly a better influence on you than I am, since you actually told someone before it became an emergency. Soup recommendations available on request. Feel better, kid.’” Peter set the phone down, something easing further in his shoulders. “He’s kind of the same way you are, about this stuff. The not-hiding thing. I guess I just have a lot of people trying to teach me the same lesson lately.”
“Sounds like maybe it’s a lesson worth actually learning, then, instead of relearning every single time from scratch.” MJ pulled the blanket up around both of them, setting in properly now, and hit play on the show, the domestic ordinariness of the moment settling over the room like its own kind of comfort. “Now eat your soup. And stop pulling that blanket up like I’m gonna see something scandalous. I’ve already seen the scandalous thing. It’s just you, sniffling, watching bad TV. I can handle it.”
Peter, finally, let the blanket rest where it was instead of tugging it higher, ate the soup even though it tasted like almost nothing, and let himself be seen – fully, unglamorously, gross and needy and entirely unimpressive – for the first time with someone who’d chosen to stay anyway.