Chapter Text
Walking away from the hospital with a bullet wound feels just as you might expect it to, but if Peter Parker had to describe it, two words come to mind: this sucks.
Every sluggish step was only punctuated by the searing hot pain of his contractile muscles screaming out that they were missing primary components that would make this movement, or any movement for that matter, functional. The radial heat pushed outwards, making him unbearably aware of his own heartbeat pounding against his chest as it heaved all the blood in his body to keep circulating.
He figures that walking back in this state is less than ideal, but another step reminds him that the pockets of his borrowed apparel he was wearing were completely empty. No jingle of loose change or stretch of a fat wallet to be felt, and so public transportation was out of the question. And Frank- well…no phone meant he couldn’t contact him.
So with a shallow sigh, he trudges along down the street, dragging his legs across the pavement.
His left hand absentmindedly drifting towards his injury, hovering over it before dragging the tips of his fingers across where the bandage wrapped.
It wasn’t hard to go back to the moment.
He could still feel the wind being knocked out of him, the ripples sent through his body as the shockwave traveled up his spine and into the back of his skull. He could feel his body reverberating briefly as he steadied it to absorb the blow. Immediately, it felt like someone chose to take a steel bat or a large hammer and slam it into his left ribcage.
The amount of force of a fifty-caliber sniper round was close to twenty-four thousand newtons. When crudely estimated, this meant that Peter felt the force of a small elephant standing specifically on his left abdominal muscle.
The force of an elephant in the size of a paperweight, very reasonably sent him back several feet.
But just as quick as it came, the feeling of mass was replaced with absence.
The absence of air reaching his lungs, of the strength in his legs, of the steel in his composure as endorphins rushed into his brain sending his physiology into shock and panic.
Jean’s expression shifted from breathlessness, to confusion, to horror. The realization of his blood being on her right hand sending her into a panicked frenzy as her eyes followed the path of his falling body onto the ground.
His weight made contact with the pavement, the sound of a low hum mixed with a sickening thud filled his ears completely; he watched as Jean crumpled down next to him. She was saying something, maybe something important but he could hardly hear her over the ringing that was getting louder and louder.
Instinctually, he started trying to think of ways to get out of this, that he was okay, that he was going to survive.
His fists tightened into a ball as he felt his shoulders go rigid, his entire body still trying to contract around the bullet wound.
As he tried to gather himself to sift through mental files of likely probabilities, his mind instead flashed back to the only similar situation he’s ever been in.
May.
Her right cheek smudged with soot and dust from the surrounding area.
Orange light surrounded them, dimly lit, still illuminating her face enough to where he could see her attention completely on him- she was only focused on him.
Laying down in the rubble, dying, but hardly with a care for her own well being.
Peter grabbed her hands that had gone too cold too fast. He was begging and pleading with her to get up.
She spoke softly, reminding him of his purpose, reassuring him with her last breath. With everything she had left, she could try and help her dear nephew.
The last time he ever saw her alive.
Now, laying down in the crumbled remains of the facility on Roosevelt Island, the reason his mind went back to that moment was clear.
It was his turn.
He was dying.
He had to help Jean.
His words came out like choked breaths.
“You’ve gotta get out of here- th-they’ll be looking- for you,” he shuddered out as every breath became quicker and sharper.
He felt the warm pool of blood gather up his body, making it to the back of his head as he watched Jean shake her head. She pushed down on his stomach trying to stop the blood from gushing out.
He tried saying more, but his attention was being split. Moments of his life flashing in front of his eyes as his brain made an effort to forget the pain of the situation.
He could hear Ned laughing, a faint glow surrounding the memory as he could feel the texture of the carpet he sat on.
A flash changed the scene and he saw May’s index finger while she was warning him about something he did, the smell of the apartment filling his psyche- old furniture and the drying lilacs that May had bought earlier that week.
Another flash as he felt the tempo of a warm summer night. He laid there on his bed. The sheets slightly crumpled underneath his back while the blanket loosely flattened itself onto his chest. Everything seemed to slow down just ever so slightly as his eyelids became heavier… a smile eased its way onto his face, flattening his lips and pulling his cheeks upwards. He was tired from the day, but so fulfilled-
A jolt pulled him back into his body, slamming him back into the moment.
Jean shook him, almost violently out of desperation as she watched him slip away. She was yelling now, a half muffled noise that he could barely make out but she was trying to get him to listen. Her eyes frantic, shifting attention between the cavity through his torso and his dilated eyes. She was commanding any attention she could get from him. He could barely read the outline of her mouth.
“Look at me!”
“Peter, look at me!”
The air filled with static, his muscles spasmed beyond his control as his lung inflated against his will- forcing air into his body.
A car horn pulls him out of his thoughts as his focus shifts to the pedestrian traffic light flashing in front of him to slow his pace to a halt. New York was busy and bustling as always. People were walking by at a frantic but controlled pace. In the best cases, some citizens only accidentally bumped into the injured hero; and in the worst cases, take out a percentage of their daily frustrations onto the asshole that was eating away at the precious seconds of their afternoon by actually choosing to stop at the light when there was no immediate oncoming traffic.
After a beat the signal gives the go ahead to continue his marathon home.
He took one step and got slapped again with the physical fact that there was a sewn up hole in his torso.
Being turned into the human equivalent of a page for a single-ring binder was definitely not on his bingo card for the things he expected to achieve this year- but now that it happened, it was hard to forget.
====
Peter threw himself onto the couch once he made it back into the apartment. After what felt like an uncountable number of city blocks he walked, the awkward bumps and divots of his structurally precarious couch now felt like a soothing massage to the aches of his body.
The familiar smells blanketed a calm feeling over him, letting him settle into a relaxing rhythm as he closed his eyes, soaking in the ambiance of his home.
It’s just as he left it.
The smell of his unfolded but clean laundry wafting out from the hamper by his door accented with the dusty perfume of his asbestos lined ceiling.
The apartment was warm and humid because who leaves the air conditioning on when they get out of the house in New York? Generally it would be seen as uncomfortable and maybe inhabitable. but it’s home, and for him it’s the only place where he can really loosen the vice grip of tension within his shoulders.
“Welcome home Peter, you have 43 unanswered messages, would you like me to read them out?”
Peter furrowed his brows together, debating for a second whether he could extend his moment of peace, ultimately deciding that he still had a responsibility to respond when he could. Even if “could” was a very loose term at the moment.
He braced himself, pushing up from the couch to sit upright and groaning as his body protested against the action.
“Yeah- E.V. read them out please, thank you,” he responded, bringing up his thumb and index finger up to pinch the bridge of his nose.
“Of course Peter. From Detective DeWolff: Spider-Man, I saw the news that you got out today, welcome back, take your time before getting into things. You need the rest. I promise we can take care of ourselves while you recover”
Peter took a deep breath- as deep as he could without irritating his sewn together ribcage. He absentmindedly listened to each message that went by, most of them were about upcoming bills. Rent, water, electricity, blah blah blah, so on and so forth.
Adding on to the pile of stressors was the realization that he had missed three days of work, and a few additional messages from a less than pleased supervisor confirmed his suspicions.
“... Sorry Peter but we’re gonna have to let you go- best of luck! ~ Sent Tuesday 7:47PM”
If only being Spider-Man paid well.
The sounds of the messages faded away briefly from his attention as a headache started to build within the temples of his skull- as if his torso made an executive decision that if his brain was going to decide things like getting up from a state of rest, it somehow was going to do what it could to inflict pain right back.
A loud cacophony of synaptic firings just prolonging his suffering.
Peter thought about how the entire concept of pain was just so very annoying. By all means, his mind and body should know that everything was healing. So what even was the point of still broadcasting signals of pain out to every nerve ending? It just seems so dumb, probably an evolutionary misfire…
Okay probably not, but he was still gonna be upset about it.
“...and from an unknown number: Hey Peter, glad you’re still alive. Be safe. - Sent 24 minutes ago”
Even while squinting from the pain, he still caught that last message.
“E.V., go back, who sent that last one?” He questioned, now looking back towards his work station.
“No contact information is saved, however messaging records indicate evidence towards the number belonging to Michelle Jones,” E.V. responded.
Peter blinked, the corners of his eyes tightening as he felt his fingers curl into a soft fist, thumb rubbing over the side of his index finger.
MJ?
…
How did she get my number?
He settled back into the couch, facing forward, the dryness of his throat becoming apparent as he looked around his apartment, his eyebrows knitting as his concentration sharpened to solve the puzzle.
Peter rummaged through his mind for likely explanations.
Was there a moment he had told her that he forgot about?
Maybe while he was on the boat she had snuck a peek onto his phone? No, that couldn't be possible, he never had it out at all.
Like a nervous tick he was flicking the nail of his middle finger lightly against his thumb, contemplating the options slowly presenting themselves before him.
Or maybe he told her when he was hanging out at her place with Ned? No, there wasn’t a good time for that, he was still Spider-Man.
Then maybe she saw his number while he was still on call with Black Widow? No, that would have been through a secure line, the number was encrypted.
Eventually, the realization covered his aching head like a hood and gave him a possibility. A possibility that he had always pushed deep down into the caverns of his psyche in fear that it would instill a false sense of hope and longing for what he had lost.
The hope came rushing back, filling his beating heart and weary mind with all the dreams he had these past few years.
His eyes widened, inflating at the possible realization that made itself audible through his lips.
It came out in a whisper.
“She remembered my number?”
Peter scrambled quickly to his feet, ignoring the signals his abs were sending out, his stitches were tightening with every strained movement. He limp-hopped his way to the computer, not even bothering to take a seat, only hunching over and wincing at the sharp pain of his injury as it had started throbbing again. Hands propped himself up as he leaned against the table.
Nothing else mattered, he needed to do this-
“E.V., send a text back to the last message,”
===
Many miles away Jean Grey was staring out the window of a moving bus. Counting the number of interesting trees she saw as she went through the different boroughs of New York.
Mindlessly she sifted through the categories: dead, alive, maybe dying, possibly still alive- it wasn’t a rigorous system but it was sufficient enough to pass the time.
Eventually, as she got further and further away from the city the number of trees had grown enough to where it became difficult to pick out any specific one without getting a headache. The smooth glass pressed against the side of her head as she leaned against the window.
She shifted, turning her attention towards the interior of the bus.
In New York, it was rare to see any mode of public transportation that was not completely maxed out in capacity, especially when the ticket was bought midday. But by some exponentially impossible odds, the cabin area was almost completely empty. The only ones taking a voyage were her and what seemed like a young couple getting away together for the weekend.
“I love you more-”
“No I love you more”
“No I love YOU more”
“No I love-”
Barf.
Maybe they didn’t realize they weren’t the only ones on the bus, but if the mode of transportation wasn’t going to make her feel nauseous, Jean was sure that listening to any more of their flirting would.
So she shifted back, inhaled and fixed her gaze forward to the seat in front of her, leaning back while exhaling and resting her eyes to take solace in the one safe haven she had: her mind.
As her vision darkened, her awareness did not.
After leaving the hospital grounds and Peter behind, Jean realized that with her newfound ability of telekinesis, that she also developed an interesting sub-ability with it. Call it an add-on or whatever, she didn’t care. But she could now sense all the objects nearby that she would be able to control. This meant, spatially, she knew where everything was and when she focused, she could visualize them too.
She saw the chambers of the engine pumping up and down as the combustion forced the drive shaft to spin and bring torque to the wheels. The alternator twisting rapidly to power the bus and all of its necessary components outside the engine. She could even feel the compressor pushing air into the condenser as it blew a cold breeze into the cabin.
It made for an interesting experience.
Made some moments distracting if she was trying to focus on anything else.
Then again, maybe the lack of mental clarity was helpful.
Because when things got quiet, everything would go back to the same thought. The image of an incredibly annoying spider that keeps making his webs in her hair.
Even pondering it sent an image of his face to the forefront of her psyche. Bloodied and bruised, a cut on his left brow, red eyes and cracked lips. Hair pressed down from wearing the mask for far too long.
Her jaw tightened.
He’s a stupid boy that just would not leave her alone or stay out of her business for whatever idiotic reason.
She could see his eyes, glazing over, staring into nothing while frantic, pupils constricting as the adrenaline of everything was taking over his sensory systems.
Where does he even get off with his dumb hero complex, putting himself between her and a bullet. Who does that? If you were blessed with superhuman abilities and you knew the good you could do for others, why would you decide to just throw yourself in harm's way? What good sense does that make?
Irresponsible.
Naive.
Stupid.
…
The guilt stabbed her like a spear.
She opens her eyes again, deciding that she would rather suffer the consequences of counting trees for the rest of the ride instead of thinking about how he must be recovering.
Deep down she knows she’s thankful, she got a second chance now thanks to him and lord willing she won’t blow it doing something she regrets.
Jean knows that Sara would have wanted for her to live, maybe do something good with her powers one day. She wouldn’t have wanted to see her little sister die in the same place she did, Sara would have wanted Jean to grow and blossom far into old age, then make fun of her once she got there.
But Jean would never get the chance to see that happen for Sara.
Her eyes drooped a little bit at the thought, the memories of her sister starting to play back in her mind as the exhaustion of the past few days crept up on her now.
The bus carried on.
===
“No no- that sounds crazy- E.V. forget that message I can’t say that”
“Okay Peter, message deleted,” E.V. responded, “I do need to remind you that this is the 6th rewrite you have decided to do, may I suggest you take a moment to formulate a response instead of keeping the text prompt open?”
Although the tone was completely flat, Peter suddenly felt like he was being sassed by the AI agent of his own design. His expression flattened as he blew out a sigh, head now falling and catching itself as another bolt of pain shot up from his bullet wound.
He was pacing back and forth in front of his computer, balling and unballing his fists as his head was working overtime to ignore the pain.
“May I suggest further, you can simply respond with a thank you message,” E.V. remarked.
Peter slowed his pace “No E.V. you don’t understand this is big, this is MJ remembering something she shouldn’t have known!”
“Your remark has flagged your current mental state from- needy, to- hysterical.”
Peter lets out a frustrated groan as he walks two steps towards his desk chair, pulling it out and taking a seat with all the necessary careful mindfulness of someone in his current physical predicament.
“E.V. that could mean something- she might remember everything from before, or maybe things are coming back! I can’t just say thank you and move on with it, I need to know,” He exclaimed.
“Understood. Then as an updated suggestion, I recommend that you tell her exactly that.”
“What?”
“Suggestion: tell Michelle Jones you wish to know what she knows,”
The apartment felt like it got smaller all of a sudden, the world was closing in as Peter had to confront the possibility.
It’s obvious, yeah, incredibly and painfully obvious that the best thing to do is just to confirm his suspicions and see if the truth really was what he was thinking.
But there was uncertainty in the action. An uncertainty that carried enough weight to shatter his heart if he wasn’t careful.
Every inhale felt intentional as his mind stilled.
He remembered the kiss on the roof. His hope being pushed beyond the borders of wanting into the joy of fulfillment, everything he had ever wanted for the past four years culminating in the one person he craved coming back to him.
Gravity felt cruel as he fell back down to Earth, ripped away from a moment that he would have described as Heaven.
I don’t love you.
The sound of his computer fans blowing made a mechanical whir as E.V. waited for his response.
His jaw tightened as he stood there, staring at his chair while his mind raced.
“Just send her a thank you message please,” he managed to get out eventually, completely unenergetic but not monotonous, fading into a grumble on his last syllable.
“Message sent”